When Left Ajar

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Neville can’t take his eyes off Harry. The boy has become a man seemingly overnight, the thin line of his mouth smiling less in these past few months. But he smiles when he’s with Neville. When they’re alone, Neville can see that sparkle in those green eyes and Neville loves the way Harry grins at him impishly two seconds before they kiss.

He wonders if they’re really together, if everything between them has actually been real. He supposes that if it all turns of to have been just a dream then that would be quite alright too. Maybe he can just refuse to wake up. War changes people, his Gran had often said, but Neville didn’t realize just how true that was until that night when Harry had come to Neville, how they had found comfort in each other, how they hadn’t parted since.

Neville realizes he’s been staring, but he can’t help it. Harry is smiling now, just over the brim of his glass, the warm brown of the brandy reflecting in his eyes. His tongue swirls against the ice of the crystal in a way that, done by anyone else, would be seen as a proposition, an offer, but with Harry, it is just a playful tease.

They share glances from across the table. Harry receives congratulations from members of the Ministry, people Neville doesn’t know. They aren’t interested in him, but he’s happy just to watch. Harry’s brow furrows as one hands him a folded piece of parchment – a job offer? Harry frowns, eyes skimming over the paper.

Neville thinks that Harry makes the most wonderful expressions. And there’s one… one that he knows no one else has seen. There’s one that Harry reserves just for Neville. Just for–

Neville can’t believe he’s thinking about that right now, and ducks his head to hide the blush that creeps across his cheeks.

Harry must have noticed because the other boy quickly excuses himself from the room, fading into the crowd of celebrants with only a quick glance back at Neville. But Neville knows that look, and he follows.

Neither boy knows they’re being watched. Perhaps it’s the better that way.

---

Severus Snape is usually fairly reserved, and at parties such as this, he plays the role of wallflower all too well. He’s never liked these so-called ‘momentous’ occasions and supposes they’re generally just occasions for people to get each other drunk. With a smirk, he notes that the Weasley twins are doing a rather good job of that.

He thumbs at the cuffs of his robes idly, thankful that Minerva hasn’t come over to try to strike up some dry conversation yet. He watches, with dark, speculative eyes, as the two Gryffindors pass by unawares, charting a course to one of the bedrooms, no doubt. He studies Potter’s confident gait as he leads, Neville’s loyal step as he follows.

Part of him mocks the pair; A hero deserves more than a common pack animal. But then, he’s seen the way the two look at each other, smiling over pumpkin juice and mince pie at the end of term feast. Perhaps there’s something else there, but it still boggles the mind to see countless girls (and boys) tripping over themselves to just stand in Harry’s shadow, only to be dismissed with a gentle wave of his hand and a charming, yet rejecting, smile.

Severus isn’t sure why it bothers him, or why he would concern himself with the romantic entanglements of a couple of stupid Gryffindors, who happened to just barely pass his class, he adds contemptuously.

Another insipid New Year’s Eve, he thinks, glaring at the shimmering streamers that have been enchanted to float just inches from the ceiling.

Gaze lowering, Severus crosses the room, following unhurriedly after the two boys. Were anyone to ask him, he wouldn’t have been able to say why.

There are paintings on the walls, the figures giggling softly as though sharing a secret or having just witnessed something scandalous. Snape just curls his lip derisively and continues walking.

He pauses when he hears soft smacking sounds, sucking, kissing, he’s sure of it. He can almost hear tongues swiping over one another, and he eyes the door to his right; it’s cracked open just slightly, so that the orchestra of quiet noises eases out into the corridor.

His hand moves to the knob, still warm to the touch – they’ve just begun, he realizes. He stands there like that, the portraits on the walls mocking him as he leans an ear to the wood and listens.

A shirt is unbuttoned. Snape hears it fall to the floor as careless feet step over it, shuffling the material aside. Lips part now. Inhale. Exhale. Ragged breaths.

A figure drops suddenly. Knees hit the floor. A chair slides back, its legs squealing over the floor. Tile, Snape supposes.

Another button. A zipper. And Severus can’t wait another moment. He eases the door open wider now, thankful that the hinges are not rusty.

He stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the light streaming in from the main room and down the hallway. The room is dim, the walls bare, and the furniture sparse. But Snape isn’t concerned with design.

In the middle of the stale room, there is movement. Neville’s brown hair shifts as he bobs his head up and down in Harry’s lap. Snape can see the muscles of Harry’s pale thighs tense and relax in synchronization with Neville’s smooth movements. Neville is gentle, tender even, moving slowly, making small slurpring noises with his mouth as it traces down that length.

Harry’s eyes are closed, and he looks like he’s in some strange place between pain and ecstasy. He’s making little panting noises, gasping and biting his lip to stifle down moans. Severus wonders what it would be like to hear Harry Potter scream.

“N-Neville…” It comes out as a half-whine, half-whimper, and Snape realizes that the Gryffindor Golden Boy is, for once, not in control. Longbottom determines the pace, his mouth pulling back and his tongue swiping a clean line down from the base to head, lingering over a vein, as if to tempt that pulsing blood to pump faster.

Snape wonders how long he’s been watching. He must look rather dazed, eyes following that neck as it bends, ears listening to each sound both boys are making, the sounds of Neville’s swollen lips pressing around that rippling muscle, and the helpless spurts of sound coming from Harry.

Then green eyes dart up to meet his own. Snape freezes. Harry does too. The only thing moving in the room is Neville; his eyes must be closed, he must not notice that Harry’s legs have gone all stiff, but not out of fear. No, there’s a look on Harry’s face that’s so smug it could be made of stone.

His lip curls and suddenly Snape feels like he’s the one who’s just been caught in the act. Harry always did have a way of doing that, turning the tables with a single look.

Snape’s first instinct is to leave the room, bolt down the hallway back to the party and forget what he’s seen. But somehow his eyes refuse to drop their gaze, continuing to stare fixedly into Harry’s, as if he’s trying to melt that green, green that is darker and more vibrant than sea glass but just as wave-roughened.

Then Harry opens his mouth, parts those perfect peach lips, and mouths something. He doesn’t speak, and Severus wonders why this secret must remain between just the two of them. Neville continues unaware and Harry’s adam’s apple bobs as his breath hitches.

C’mere. Snape can almost taste the seduction dripping over that imagined tone. Husky, rough, needy, he supposes, letting the voiceless phrase linger in his ears.

And then he moves, forging a path across the tile, feeling himself drawn until he is pressed flush against Neville’s back. Only then does the Gryffindor draw back, leaving Harry’s cock unattended and anxious. He turns, glancing back over his shoulder as he rises, Harry standing with him. Severus wonders why Neville doesn’t look surprised, wonders if the two have talked about this, if it is all some elaborate ruse.

But then Harry leans forward, sandwiching Neville between the two of them and Snape swears he can feel the heat where their cocks collide.

“It’s okay,” he whispers in a would-be innocent tone, “We want you, don’t we?”

Neville nods fervently.

They move in tandem, Harry stepping back with the command of a Ministry official, despite the fact that he’s just stepped out of his trousers and is naked and sweaty. Neville looks at him with a sort of hazy admiration, like he’s just seen something beautiful and can’t take his eyes off it.

Harry saunters backwards into the shadowy corner with confidence and grace. Severus and Neville are both mesmerized. Harry Potter is all taut muscle and smooth skin, his hair inky and jutting out from his head in spiky tips like a crown.

He beckons, his fingers curling into his palm slowly, then out again, drawing them closer on an invisible string as he walks back until his back is against the wall. His eyes flash a dangerous green.

When Neville and Snape reach him, Harry is leaning back, practically melting his sweaty skin into the molded plaster of the wall. His legs are spread, and his gaze shifts between the other two men expectantly.

Neville steps forward and kisses Harry gently, eyes closed and lips admiring. Severus smirks, thinking Longbottom a fool. Such unconditional devotion will get him nowhere with this one. Potter is simply an egotistical prat; that’s all there is to it.

But Harry is kissing back. His lips look soft and red, as they press to Neville’s. They kiss languidly for what seems to Snape like hours, but he can’t seem to turn away or speak up. He wonders if they remember he’s still here; maybe they’re kissing for him.

Snape watches as Harry trails his hands up under Neville’s shirt, pulling it up over the other boy’s head and throwing it, perhaps unwittingly, at Severus’ feet. Snape looks down at it the rippling pattern of the fabric, then back up at Neville’s now-naked back. Neville isn’t a skinny boy, but his shoulders look war-worn, weary now, and whatever baby fat he may have had in school has disappeared.

When Harry moves to trace his fingers lazily down to Neville’s belt buckle, Snape’s hands follow suit, and before he knows it, he has undressed himself as well and the three of them are naked in the dim room; they are all pale flesh accented with eager eyes and waiting hands.

“Professor?” Harry’s tongue slides over the title, and his eyes flick up to meet Snape’s.

Severus tries to look nonchalant, stepping forward and trailing a careful hand down Neville’s shoulder. His eyes are locked on Harry’s, that beetle-black boring into green.

Harry leans into Neville, his wicked parseltongue whisperings sliding across the other boy’s neck as his face inches towards Snape’s.

And then he hisses against the whorl of Severus’ ear, “C’mon, Professor…” as he grinds his cock hard against Neville’s thigh.

All three seem to moan in unison.

Snape whispers a spell, barely audible, and trails his hand down Neville’s back. Neville is tense, goosebumps rising over his spine as that clever hand draws lazily down and settles dangerously near that tight ring of muscle.

“Relax…” Harry coaxes, kissing the side of Neville’s mouth tenderly before looking up and nodding for Snape to continue.

Snape teases another moment before slipping a finger in and Neville winces, eyes searching helplessly at Harry’s. But Harry isn’t looking at him. He’s watching Snape, who has the care of one mixing a delicate potion. His finger kneads at Neville, making the boy moan in a high-pitched gasp.

A second finger, Neville is writhing back against him now, seemingly unsure which direction to pull, away from the growing pressure or back into it. He looks torn, Severus sees it reflected in the green of Harry’s eyes.

Harry wants to be fucked too.

Snape pauses, raising his eyebrows in question. ‘Are you just going to watch?’ he seems to ask. The Gryffindor Golden Boy says nothing, but his hands hover over his stomach for a moment, as though they are acting on their own volition and he has to fight to keep them from reaching lower to stroke himself.

But Neville can take a hint. He knows the look that’s painted across Harry’s face right now. It’s that look, the one that Snape is having trouble deciphering but is somehow crystal clear in Neville’s mind. Harry never has to say anything. His green eyes can sparkle in a way that speaks volumes.

And so, still gasping at the feeling of Snape’s fingers fucking him, Neville places his palms on Harry’s chest, then wriggles them lower with the gracelessness of a young child.

Snape slips in another finger just as Neville’s hands come to rest over Harry’s hips and they both rock forward instinctively, pinning Harry momentarily against the wall.

This time Harry is the one to murmur the spell. It sounds familiar on his lips and Snape wonders just how many times he’s used it.

When Neville slides his fingers into Harry though, it’s slow, worshipping him like the boy is on that pedestal of heroism once again. Neville is quiet though, letting Harry’s mouth form the syllables of strings of breathless profanities.

Snape watches Neville’s hand, the fingers slipping in and out between Harry’s spread legs.

It’s almost too much for him to bear.

When he draws his fingers out, Neville understands. They are ready.

Harry whimpers impatiently and Snape has the casual idea of trying to capture that sound, bottle it up and show it to the boy’s adoring fans, show them that sex can reduce Potter to a whinging fool. But his own voice betrays him, coming out in a guttural groan that turns everything upside-down and he can’t think about anything except the prospect of being inside Neville Longbottom, and seeing Neville fuck Harry Potter into the wall.

Harry cranes his neck back, and Neville grips the boy’s legs as he raises them off the wood floor and to wrap around Neville’s body.

“Fuck me,” he whispers, and Snape takes it as directed to him as much as it is to Longbottom.

How it is that they both manage to thrust in at the same time is mysterious, some inexplicable and unplanned coincidence.

But none of it matters because soon all three are groaning and gasping and someone is breathing Snape’s name like it’s a wonderfully wicked curse.

Harry is straddling Neville’s body, back supported by hard plaster and Neville kisses him languidly, whispering possessives each time their lips pull apart.

“I… l-love you, I love you, loveyouyouyou …” Neville’s words are ragged, but Snape can hear their sincerity.

Harry just breathes obscenities. They catch on his tongue and spill into Neville’s mouth, muffled and incoherent.

Snape is silent, save for his breaths, which come ever heavier with each pulsing thrust of his cock into the warm heat of Neville’s body.

Snape can feel Neville shudder each time he hits his prostate, the muscles ripple around his hard length and Neville moans into Harry’s mouth just a little louder.

They fit together, the three of them, pace quickening as their bodies come together and apart. They are all shadowy reflections on the wall and shallow breaths.

As the noise of the party rises, counting down, Snape suspects, the three figures move faster, harder than before. Neville looks jolted; he isn’t used to quick, hard fucking. But when he looks up and sees Harry’s eyes flash with that wicked lightning bolt of satisfaction, he feels alright about it.

The clock strikes midnight, and down the hallway there is cheering, and magically charmed crackers explode, and Snape can hear them all smiling out there.

Neville shudders, cock thrusting a final time into Harry before releasing in orgasm at the same moment his muscles contract around Snape’s cock.

Harry and Severus come simultaneously. Harry’s head snaps up in recognition and their eyes meet. They can see it written over each other’s eyes; Snape sees Harry’s heart trapped in those green irises and he comes silently, mouthing a name. No, not Harry’s. That heart isn’t Harry’s now.

Neville. Two silent and lingering syllables.

And then it is over.

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