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The sluggish satisfaction of the afterglow was more like the calm before the storm. That predatory gleam in the younger one's eye? No wicked plot to arouse his companion into action once more; at least, not the pleasant type of arousal.

Snape groaned when he felt the familiar tug on the forest green comforter that covered both himself and The Boy Who Lived. "Not now, Potter." The teacher rolled over, away from his young lover, and studiously closed his eyes.

"'S'cold." retorted the one named Potter, the very same who was trying to take more than his fair share of the covers. He tightened an iron grip on the fabric and yanked on it rather rudely.

"Goddammit!" Snape jerked the comforter back, shooting a nasty look at his student over his shoulder. "I swear to God I will start taking points from you."

A rather unbecoming snort came from Potter. "And that'll look lovely on the report you have to fill out, I'm sure. 'Dated August the Fifteenth, eleven-forty pm. Took twenty points from Gryffindor because Potter, Harry James, refused to share the covers with me after we shagged three times in a row.' I imagine Dumbledore'd choke on a lemon drop when he read that." Satisfied that he wasn't in any current danger of losing his House points, he settled back into the old game of trying to win more blanket from Snape. He tried a more subtle tactic, inching bit by bit of the cloth away from Snape, who snarled after a moment and undid all his patient work with a firm tug.

"I'm going to perform a body bind on you if you don't stop, you insufferable brat."

"Your wand's on my side of the bed."

"Fuck."

Giggling madly (it was a little known fact that Harry Potter was half-mad anyway), Potter bundled up in his share of the covers and started rolling, gathering more of them up as he went and tucking them all around himself. Potter found himself encased in a snug, toasty cocoon of sheet and blanket and comforter. He was quite pleased with this turn of events, and told Snape as much.

"How charming," snapped the Potions master, though the look on his face said very much otherwise. With a long-suffering sigh, he set about the task of disentangling the boy and trying to get some semblance of comfort for himself. That sort of comfort did not involve his student pressed up against him in any way, shape, or form. While Potter might have been quite warm, and Snape wouldn't have been bothered in the least having something to wrap his arms around (loathe as he was to admit it), Potter had... a slight problem. The very same problem that had added to Snape's grey hairs in Potions class.

Harry Potter didn't know when the hell to lay off.

Being the lover of a hormonal, stubborn sixteen-year-old was not something Snape had envisioned when he'd agreed to teach Potions. Nonetheless, here he was, and there Potter was, all mussed black hair and green eyes like gems. Like very perverted gems that liked to be aimed at his arse a lot.

Yes, he did care for Potter. And yes, he'd lay down his life for him if the need ever arose. But damned if he was going to let the boy keep him awake past midnight, which he'd surely do if their skin came into close contact again.

Finally, Snape had enough covers to keep warm with, and he flopped back. Not only could the sex with Potter be utterly exhausting (though yes, very enjoyable), but the struggle that came afterwards was particularly draining in of itself. One forearm came to rest over his eyes, and he slurred, "Good night, Harry."

For a few blissful moments, silence. Then, "You said my first name."

Oh, /shit/. Cried out in passion, the "H" word was easily overlooked, but Potter still seemed thrilled with the novelty of Snape casually slinging his name out. Snape tensed for the physical onslaught that he knew to be approaching; the hot, insistent mouth that would slide over his skin, the wet tongue tasting him like a dessert. (Well, there had been that one incident with the ice cream, but Snape pretended not to remember it whenever Potter brought it up.)

Instead, he felt the warm slide of skin on skin as Potter wrapped his arms around him, lips only briefly touching his bare shoulder. "Good night, Severus."

Snape closed his eyes and let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding when he heard Potter's breathing turn soft and steady. No cajoling, no sexual innuendo, no begging to be taken again right then and there. Snape was relieved, subdued, comforted by the fact that there would be no last-minute tryst. And vaguely disappointed.

"Fuck." he repeated.

"Mmph, t'morrow." came a sleepy voice, muffled against his shoulder.




-End








Deleted Scene:

Giggling madly (it was a little-known fact that Harry Potter was half mad anyway), Potter bundled up in his share of the covers and started rolling, gathering more of them up as he went and tucking them all around himself. "I'm a burrito!" he said at last.

"You are not a Mexican food, Potter."