June 27th, 2007

Ficlet: Scab (R - Snape/Harry unrequited)

Author: Snapetoy
Title: Scab
Pairing: SS/HP but only in Snape's dirty little fantasies
Summary: Sometimes life is a circle and the act of living a pattern of unbreakable habits.
Note: Unbetaed tinyfic for [info]regan_v, after I was bitten by her desire for unrequited love. Angst all the way!

---

It was like a scab, really, and Snape would pick and pick at it, scratching at the edge of the partly-healed wound until it was red-raw and bleeding again.

Every single time he swore he was going to walk away, force the past into the past, grow up and get over it.

It always happened like this:

Tired, frustrated, waiting for sleep that wouldn't come, he would take his prick in his hand and stroke it, light touches while his mind saw glimpses of pale throat framed by dark robes, of green eyes flashing sideways glances down the staff table. Of what was hidden under the layers of fabric, white skin begging to be licked, bitten, violated.

He'd thrust into his damp hand, imagining the tightness of Potter's arse, of how Potter's hips would feel under his fingers, of the hoarse cries they'd make of "more," of "now," of "Severus."

Then he'd come and lie there, sweaty, satisfied but frustrated, and hate himself for his own weakness, for this pointless, pathetic stupid inability to move on with his life.

Potter, after all, was moving on with his. At forty, Potter had a wife, children, a job he enjoyed.

Fifteen fucking years of going around in circles, of hanging on to his obsessive bitter, twisted hunger.

He'd get up in the morning and go to breakfast, determined that today would be different, and he'd ignore Potter's greeting in the staff room, make his coffee and go back to his dungeons, thinking of research and reading and the brats under his care.

At lunch, he wouldn't listen to the sounds of Potter's cheery talk, refused to allow that laugh to get under his skin.

He'd miss dinner, making elaborate research plans or splaying red swathes of colour across the parchment of what his students thought passed for acceptable standards of work.

And over the coming days, he'd forget his good intentions, would catch a glimpse of all that passion when Potter fired up in a staff meeting, and want again what could never, ever, be his. He'd be helpless in the face of it and start a conversation, greedily snatching small pieces of Potter--the way his eyes brightened and cheeks flushed, how his fingers stretched when he talked, curled in on his hands, or stroked his jaw--and tucking them away into the hidden treasure chest of memories. He'd return Potter's greetings at recess, comment on the coffee, on Filius' strange new obsession with Muggle technology, on recent happenings at the Ministry, propose shared classes that would never be delivered.

Because by then his blood would be stirring, hunger growing and soon, soon he'd be lying in his bed with his hand on his cock, picking at the open wound of his desire.

Fool.

Grow up.

Let go.

But it was all he had, and all he could ever see himself having, and he clung to it, in spite of himself and Minerva's sad and knowing eyes. Potter had been at the centre of everything and sometimes Snape despaired that he always would be.

At other times, it was enough.

"Severus," Minerva would say, "I really think that perhaps a sabbatical would be useful. Perhaps an exchange with Beaubaxtons to refresh your teaching methods?"

And he'd look at her and refuse and cling to the pathetic shadow of his love and be content to stand in the darkness outside the shining circle of Potter's affections.

When Potter's arguments with the Weasley bint made the papers and he left her and moved into Hogwarts, Snape could not tamp down the tendril of hope that pushed him into late night marking in the staff room, an invitation to his rooms to share a drink over a discussion about the destruction of the Veil and the theory of portkeys Potter had proposed more than fourteen months before. The seating arrangements at dinner changed and Snape would spend the meal deep in discussion with Potter, slyly prying details of Potter's hopes and dreams and thoughts from his conversation, clutching after fragments of information that would bring Potter closer to him.

He congratulated himself on not betraying himself when Potter went home to his wife and family and the Daily Prophet announced news of a new baby, and let himself fade back into the background, his conversation again becoming monosyllabic, the acerbic mask sliding back onto his person as if it had never been gone.

And he'd wank in his bed, wank to thoughts and visions of what could never be. He knew it. He hated himself. He hated Potter.

And he loved him, too.

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