Endure - Riley_M00re - Harry Potter (2024)

Harry Potter’s breath hitched, a barely audible gasp lost amidst the hush of the dungeon chamber deep within Hogwarts’ ancient stone walls. The air itself seemed thick with enchantment, the very fabric of the venerable school infused with whispers of secrecy and the heady, intoxicating scent of desire. Beneath the sombre drapes of a silver and green four-poster bed, he lay exposed, arousal undeniable, a hard line of youthful yearning that strained towards the dark canopy above.

“Back again so soon, are we?” Snape’s voice slithered through the darkness, deep and velvety as a nocturne, casting spells older than time itself without uttering a single incantation. The man appeared, an imposing silhouette clad in unyielding black, his presence as commanding as ever.

The shadows danced upon Harry’s skin, caressed by the soft glow as if reaching to draw out the secrets etched into every trembling curve of his body. His pallor was stained with the rosiness of adolescent embarrassment, the flush spreading across his cheeks like spilt potion on parchment. The crimson hue deepened, a testament to the rush of blood as he lay vulnerable, exposed, with his head dangling precariously off the edge of the four-poster bed, the canopy above swimming in his blurred vision.

“Sir,” Harry managed, his voice barely a thread of sound, frayed with the tension that knotted his insides. His eyes, wide and verdant, were pools reflecting the tumultuous storm of his emotions—fear, longing, and an aching need for something he could not yet name.

Snape’s hand, pale and sure, hovered above Harry’s bare chest, the proximity of his touch radiating heat that seared without contact. “You wish to be mine tonight?” he inquired, his tone laced with a dominion that brooked no argument, each word measured and deliberate.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry whispered, his reply punctuated by a shiver that rippled across his flesh, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Then you shall,” Snape decreed, and at last, his fingers descended, tracing the contours of Harry’s torso with a sorcerer’s precision. Every brush against the heated skin was a lesson, a silent command that coaxed Harry into depths of himself unexplored, each tender caress mingling with the potency of magic that hung heavy in the air.

Power thrummed through Snape’s veins, channelled not just through his wand but through the intensity of his gaze, the calculated movements of his hands. Harry’s once innocent body, now marred by the trials of life and the demands of a destiny too great, responded with an eagerness that betrayed his naïveté. It glistened with arousal, a sheen that spoke of the transformative power Snape wielded over him—not merely physical, but alchemical.

“Please,” Harry gasped, his voice fractured by need, a timbre laced with the agony of a soul reaching out for something more—something deeper than mere flesh could offer. His green eyes, usually bright with the fire of youth, now shimmered with a vulnerability that sought anchorage in the tempest that Snape represented.

“Patience, pet,” the Potions Master intoned, each syllable measured like drops of a potent draught, calculated to elicit a precise reaction. “You will find the depth you seek only when you have relinquished all control.”

Harry’s breath hitched as he nodded. Every fibre of his being strained towards Snape, towards the promise etched into every line of the older man’s face—the promise of a connection that transcended the physical plane. It was in the way the older man’s fingers traced the tips of his hardening nipples, a touch both commanding and reverent, as if he were both sculptor and worshipper of the form beneath him.

“Trust me,” Snape whispered, and the words wrapped around Harry like a binding spell, tethering him to this moment, to the man who wielded control with the finesse of a maestro.

Snape’s eyes, black as the endless night that shrouded Hogwarts’ towers, stayed riveted on the supine figure before him. Sun-kissed skin against cream-coloured silk, a tableau of youthful yearning. The boy’s every breath a silent plea for tutelage in the carnal rites Snape was adept in administering. Green eyes alight with a fervour that could only stem from the cauldron of adolescence teetering on the precipice of forbidden ecstasy.

With deliberate slowness, the pall of the room seemed to thicken as Snape reached down, his fingers deftly undoing the buttons at his placket. The fabric parted to reveal the stark contrast of pale skin against the dark cloth, and the undeniable hardness of his co*ck—a sculpture of desire, etched from flesh and need.

His long fingers, those artisans of potion craft, wrapped around the staunch length, stroking with a leisure born of self-control that bordered on sad*stic restraint. A bead of precome, like a dewdrop poised at dawn, emerged as a testament to his body’s eagerness.

Snape, master of both his potions and his passions, collected the viscous pearl upon his fingertip and extended it towards the boy’s parted lips—a sacrament, an invitation to taste the potent brew of what loomed inevitable. “Swallow,” he commanded, and the simplicity of the order left no room for hesitation.

Harry obeyed. His tongue, a flicker of pink, met Snape’s finger with an innocence that bordered on reverence. A contented hum passed his lips as he delighted in the taste, a promise of darker pleasures yet to unfurl within the shadowed confines of the Potions Master’s domain.

“Good boy,” Snape murmured, approval lacing the words as he withdrew his finger, coated now with the evidence of Harry’s compliance.

The boy’s breath hitched, eyes fixed on the older man’s deliberate movements, the dark-clad form of his mentor commanding his full attention.

Snape revelled in the power he wielded, in the unyielding grip he had over Harry’s desires. “Your eagerness is evident, pet, but you will learn to savour the journey,” he said, words like dark velvet threaded upon the night. His lips curled upward in the ghost of a smile, one that never quite reached his eyes. Yet there was a glimmer there, a spark of something that might have been excitement—or perhaps something darker still.

It was a look that promised Harry would be led, wilfully and willingly, onto the path of sweet oblivion that he craved. And Snape, the solitary master of this domain, would be the one to take him there.

“Now it is time,” Snape decided. “Open up, pet.”

Obedient as ever to the command, Harry let his jaw slacken, mouth agape in breathless anticipation beneath the shadow that loomed over him.

Beneath the gaze of raven eyes, the boy’s body presented itself like an offering to the dark arts—a tableau of carnal desire. Harry’s arousal glistened, the pearly trail slick upon his abdomen, a tangible manifestation of his need; proof of his body’s betrayal of its own innocence. With each furtive rub of his thighs—muscles tensing and relaxing in anxious rhythm—the unyielding glass shaft within him shifted, a constant reminder of the boundary crossed, of the forbidden spellwork etched into his flesh by another’s hand.

Snape observed, an austere statue carved from the night itself, his black gaze devouring the sight before him. He knew what the subtle movements meant, the slight squirming that bespoke an impatience to feel more, to be filled anew. The bewitched plug nestled within Harry was a token of possession, a silent sentinel guarding the depths that he had claimed as his own domain.

“Please…” Harry’s plea was barely audible, a ghost of sound that trembled on the brink of silence, yet it resonated with the weight of unspoken promises and secret yearnings.

“Patience, my boy,” Snape intoned, his cultured voice laced with the cruel kindness of a maestro poised to extract beauty from pain. “Good things come to those who wait—and obey.”

In the interlude of anticipation, the dance of power wound tighter, coils of control ensnaring them both. For Harry, every second stretched eternal, each heartbeat a drumroll echoing against the walls of the castle that had seen too much, yet never enough.

And Snape, the puppeteer of this intimate theatre, savoured the moment before the descent, relishing the quiver of the flesh beneath him, the palpable hunger in the air as thick as the potions he brewed with meticulous precision. This was alchemy of a different sort—the transmutation of a soul through the crucible of flesh.

“Very well, pet,” Snape murmured, the words laced with desire as intoxicating as any elixir. “Now, remain still.” He positioned himself with deliberate intent, straddling Harry’s upturned visage as he bent his knees, anointing the boy’s parted lips with the weight of his sac.

With a fervour edged by desperation, Harry lavished attention upon the sensitive flesh, tongue dancing and teasing, drawing Snape deeper into the maelstrom of sensation. The reverent suckling, the tender pulling, coerced from the dour Potions Master a guttural groan—a sound dredged from the abyss of his own tightly bound restraint.

Harry, the once untainted paragon of innocence, had been sculpted—moulded by Snape’s exacting hands into this creature of carnal decadence. His touch had stripped away every vestige of naïveté, leaving behind a vessel brimming with lascivious yearning, a seraph fallen from grace to revel in the earthly pleasures of sin.

“Pet,” Snape breathed, the name itself an incantation that conjured images of their clandestine encounters, each one a step on the path to Harry’s utter debasem*nt. “You were born for this… to serve.”

The words unfurled like tendrils of smoke, wrapping around Harry’s consciousness, binding him tighter than any spell. There was no denying the truth that resonated in Snape’s voice; Harry was ravenous, insatiable in his need to be filled, to be claimed. He was indeed a greedy little whor*, and Snape revelled in having awoken this voracious creature from within the Boy Who Lived.

Tilting his pelvis forward, he presented his arsehole to the boy’s eager ministrations. The young Gryffindor didn’t disappoint, devouring the dish on offer with gusto. Beneath him, Snape could see the remnants of the boy he once knew—a spectre now eclipsed by the hedonistic being that writhed above the sheets.

“Enough,” Snape rasped, the command laced with the intoxicating blend of satisfaction and impatience. He withdrew, inch by torturous inch, from the prowess of Harry’s agile tongue, observing the glint of saliva that connected them for a fleeting moment—an ephemeral bridge between Dominant and submissive.

Flickering shadows danced across the room, cast by the candles that stood sentinel upon a rough-hewn table. Harry’s breaths came in ragged gasps, the sound echoing throughout the chamber like a siren’s call to the depths of forbidden ecstasy.

“Please,” Harry’s voice trembled, a blend of desperation and anticipation that sent a thrill coursing through the older man’s veins. “Please, Sir.”

It was a tableau of corruption, a perverse painting where the brushstrokes of dominance sketched out the contours of a soul laid bare. Snape, towering above, observed the transformation with a predator’s keen gaze. Harry’s emerald eyes, once a beacon of resilience, now shimmered with a different sort of courage—the bravery to surrender, to submit to the tempestuous sea of his own desires.

“Absolutely not,” Harry had said once, so certain, so sure-footed in his convictions. But the labyrinth of his mind had been infiltrated, the walls breached by the relentless siege of Snape’s will.

“Never,” he had declared, yet each encounter had chipped away at his resolve, their clandestine liaisons a chisel shaping the marble of his defiance.

“Perhaps,” he had conceded, the word hanging between them like the sword of Damocles, a harbinger of the inevitable fall from grace.

And now, here he was, naked on his back, legs splayed, the hero who had faced down the darkest of wizards, pleading for the touch, the claim, the consummation of his mentor’s dominion. “Sir, please… I need—”

“Silence!” Snape commanded, his voice the embodiment of authority, a sonorous spell that bound Harry’s words to his throat. This game, this dance of Dominant and submissive, had become a cherished ritual, an invocation of power and acquiescence that transcended the mere physicality of their entwined bodies.

“Your pleas,” Snape continued, each syllable a velvet caress against the charged air, “are as superfluous as they are intoxicating.” He circled the quivering form before him, his voluminous black robes whispering secrets with every measured step. “As you well know: your pleasure is secondary to mine, and always it must be earned.”

“Then let me earn it,” Harry pleaded, the raw edge of his voice cutting through the silence with the precision of a blade. “Let me show you how much I crave your command, how deeply I long to be claimed.”

As Snape loomed over his eager submissive, the weight of the moment settled upon them both, heavy as the history etched into the castle stones. Here, in the twilight of their secret world, there were no heroes or villains—only the inexorable pull of flesh and spirit, the undeniable truth that power, once tasted, becomes an insatiable hunger.

“Very well,” Snape whispered, his breath a ghostly touch upon Harry’s ear. With measured deliberation, he repositioned himself until the head of his co*ck hovered at the precipice of Harry’s lips, glistening and insistent.

“Open,” he commanded, his voice low and laced with dark promise, and Harry complied without hesitation. His green eyes—luminescent pools of unspoken need—locked onto the Potions Master’s obsidian stare.

As Snape entered the welcoming warmth of Harry’s mouth, a moan vibrated from the depths of the boy’s throat, sending ripples of pleasure through the older man’s core.

The tenuous balance between letting go and maintaining control played across Snape’s features, his hands threading through the messy locks that crowned Harry’s head. He guided the boy gently but firmly, setting a rhythm that betrayed his craving for dominance yet showcased a restraint born of necessity.

“Slowly,” Snape uttered, the single word a decree, resonating with the authority that came naturally to him. His black eyes never wavered from the sight before him, watching Harry’s cheeks hollow with each pull, his lips stretching around the fullness that claimed him.

“Good boy,” Snape praised, barely above a whisper, though it cut through the thick air like a well-aimed hex. “Just like that.”

The power dynamics between them were as complex as any potion formula, each action and reaction meticulously calculated for maximum effect. In this room, their roles were defined by desire and the silent agreement to push boundaries while respecting the fragile line that separated pleasure from harm.

Harry, ever the brave Gryffindor, met Snape’s demands with a fervour that spoke volumes of his trust. He was the embodiment of temerity, yet beneath the older man’s tutelage, he surrendered to a vulnerability that few had ever witnessed. And Snape, the enigmatic Slytherin, wielded his control with the precision of a Dominant, ensuring their mutual destruction would be nothing less than exquisite.

“Relax your throat,” Snape intoned, his voice a sombre melody against the backdrop of silence, as he flexed his fingers, guiding himself to the back of Harry’s mouth and pushing further still. The warmth emanating from the boy was almost palpable, a heat that seemed to seep into the very marrow of his ageing bones.

With the slightest pressure, Snape nudged the tender flesh at the entrance of Harry’s throat, and the boy instinctively complied, his breath hitching as cool air rushed in around the intrusion. A thrill of power surged through him as he watched his submissive’s Adam’s apple bob in a silent display of obedience. He could sense the boy’s efforts, the tight swallow that rippled along the length of him, a singularly exquisite sensation.

“Good,” Snape murmured, his tone laced with dark approval. And then, with the measured deliberation of a man accustomed to exacting control, he pushed deeper, claiming the space with an insistence that bordered on reverence. The tight constriction, the rhythmic clenching—it was an affirmation of their twisted union.

Snape was fully sheathed now, enveloped by the heat and desperation of Harry’s mouth. It was, indeed, glorious—the forbidden intimacy of it, the sheer decadence that pervaded every drawn breath and stifled moan.

He remained still for a heartbeat, savouring the moment as only a connoisseur of the dark arts might cherish a particularly potent potion. The knowledge that he held sway over Harry’s life, that he could push the boy to the very precipice of awareness straight into unconsciousness—it was intoxicating.

“Harry,” Snape whispered, the name falling from his lips like a sacred incantation.

There was no response, not in words. Harry’s eyes, however, spoke volumes; they were pools of trust and yearning, glistening with unshed tears that refracted the candlelight into shards of jade. Snape felt the boy’s surrender, a yielding more potent than any verbal acquiescence.

For a time, they simply existed within that cocoon of heat and compliance, allowing the world outside their clandestine haven to fade until there was nothing but the thrumming pulse of desire between them. In this place, where the echoes of a war-torn past met the fragile hope of an uncertain future, they found solace in the shadows.

Snape pulled back, at last, allowing the boy to breathe again. “Deep breath,” he instructed, his hand threading through Harry’s untamed locks, a gesture that belied the tenderness beneath his austere exterior.

Harry obeyed, his chest expanding with the effort as Snape began to move again, setting a rhythm as old as time itself, primal and inexorable. With each careful thrust, he was writing a new chapter in the annals of their secret lore, inscribing tales of passion and dominance upon the canvas of Harry’s willing flesh.

Harry’s body was a battleground of sensation and surrender, every nerve ending alight with the searing touch of his Dominant’s presence. The room was thick with the musk of their exertion, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the prying eyes of the merepeople.

“Come if you want, but do not dare stop sucking me,” Snape murmured, his voice a low thrum of command that resonated deep within Harry’s chest. There was an undercurrent of dark promise in those words, an unspoken vow of pleasure and punishment entwined.

Harry’s response was immediate, a visceral reaction that had his hands clenching into the bedclothes, his fingers twisting the fabric in a silent plea for more. His body twitched, a dance of need and anticipation, as if every fibre of his being sought to close the distance between them, to merge into one entity ruled by Snape’s iron will.

And then, the exquisite torture of waiting ended. Snape guided himself with a precision borne of experience, finding the perfect angle, the perfect depth. Harry settled beneath him, a quiver of acceptance running through his frame as he relinquished himself to the moment, to the man who commanded him so thoroughly.

Tears, unbidden yet unashamed, traced their way down Harry’s flushed cheeks, leaving damp trails on his skin. They were the silent testament to the intensity of their union, to the sacrifices and secrets that bound them together. Snape could feel the wetness against his thighs, a poignant reminder of the vulnerability and trust Harry offered so freely.

“Good boy,” he whispered, the endearment slipping from his lips like a benediction. The praise was not just for Harry’s obedience but for his courage—the bravery it took to bare his soul, to seek solace in the forbidden embrace of his once-tormentor-turned-protector.

In this solemn chamber of whispered confessions and shadowed desire, they found a refuge from the world outside—a world that would never understand the complexities of their bond. Here, in the stillness punctuated only by the sound of ragged breaths and the slurping of co*ck sucking, Snape and Harry existed in a reality crafted from their darkest dreams and deepest needs.

“Let it all go, my brave boy,” Snape coaxed, the words laced with an intimacy that reached beyond the physical realm. In the depths of Harry’s green eyes, there flickered the unspoken acknowledgment of their shared truth: there wasn’t a single thing the boy wouldn’t let his Dominant do. And in that realisation, they both found their absolution.

With practised ease, Snape withdrew, granting Harry a fleeting respite. The room was thick with the musk of their transgressions, the air trembling alongside Harry’s uneven breaths—sharp, shuddering gasps that filled the silence. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his torso, each droplet a testament to the fervent heat between them.

“Deep breath, pet,” Snape commanded, his voice a low rumble echoing off the stone walls of the chamber.

Harry complied, chest heaving as he gulped down the cool dungeon air, a stark contrast to the warmth enveloping them. Snape watched his ribcage expand and then slowly collapse, an intimate display of vulnerability that did not escape him.

Then, with a swift motion borne from a mingling of urgency and calculated control, Snape reclaimed the space he had momentarily vacated, plunging into the tightness once again. The sensation bordered on overwhelming; the velvet vice of Harry’s throat constricting with a swallow that nearly undid him. It was a perilous edge upon which they teetered—one of exquisite pleasure and torturous intensity.

He repeated the action, a rhythmic invasion that tested the boundaries of endurance. Snape could sense Harry’s struggle, the adolescent heroism that had always defined him now channelled into this illicit act of submission. Each entry was met with a brave tilt of Harry’s head, his messy hair a dark halo against the cream sheets.

After several deep thrusts, Snape retreated completely, stepping back to observe the boy beneath him. He noted the flush on Harry’s cheeks, his heaving chest topped with hardened nipples, the tremble of his thighs, and the dilation of those emerald eyes that had witnessed so much yet craved still more. It was a sight to behold—the Chosen One laid bare and yearning, the youthful contours of his body marked by the passage of Snape’s possessive touch.

“Colour?” Snape questioned, his eyes fixed on Harry, intense and expectant.

Harry’s voice, when it emerged, was quiet and rough, each syllable laced with the raw aftermath of their encounter. “Green, Sir. It felt so good… Like you held control over my very life.”

There was truth in his confession. The boyish innocence that had once clung to Harry’s frame like a second skin had been stripped away, revealing the primal core beneath.

“Indeed,” Snape said simply, his voice a low rumble. There was no need for further words; the silence spoke volumes, filled with the echoes of their forbidden dance.

Harry lay there, a beautiful disarray of tousled hair and flushed skin, the evidence of his release still clinging to his toned abdomen. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, the aftermath of their exertions playing out across his sculpted form.

The room around them seemed to hold its breath, the walls bearing mute witness to the tableau of desire and domination that unfolded within. It was a sacred space, a sanctum where the rules of the outside world held no sway, where the only law was the one imposed by the man who now surveyed his submissive with an inscrutable gaze.

In the stillness, the power dynamics that defined their liaison were laid bare, as tangible as the magic that coursed through the very foundations of Hogwarts. Here, in this moment, Harry was not the Boy Who Lived, the destined hero of prophecy, but simply a young man ensnared by the gravity of his own needs, seeking solace in the embrace of authority.

And Snape, the austere Potions Master, the man of control and cunning, found himself uncharacteristically tethered to the vulnerability reflected in those verdant eyes. It was a connection wrought from the darkest threads of their beings, a bond as unspoken as it was undeniable.

“Remember this feeling,” Snape instructed, his tone imbued with the solemnity of a sacred rite. “Let it remind you of your place, of what you are to me.”

Harry nodded, his expression one of dazed acquiescence, the glimmer of adoration in his eyes belying the complex tumult of emotions churning within.

“Rest now,” Snape murmured, offering a rare gesture of tenderness as he brushed a stray lock from Harry’s forehead. “I will take care of everything.”

And as Harry closed his eyes, surrendering to the encroaching tide of darkness, he believed him.

***

Later that night, the air hung thick with the musk of spent desire, a tempestuous symphony played out on flesh and whispered incantations. Shadows clung to the walls like spectres, bearing silent witness to the tableau unfolding within their realm. Snape sat, perched imperiously upon the edge of the bed. His gaze, dark and fathomless, bore into the naked younger man splayed on the bed, bronze skin and toned limbs temptation personified.

Snape had shed his clothes while his pet slept, but now that he had stirred back to wakefulness, he hungered for the main course. “Tell me,” he said, his voice a low growl that resonated with authority, “do you crave the sanctity of my presence within you?”

Harry’s lips parted, and a shiver coursed through him, betraying the fervent need that clawed at his insides. His response was a barely audible whisper, laced with reverence and raw hunger. “Merlin… yes.”

The words unfurled in the space between them, sinuous and potent, like a forbidden incantation that bound their souls in the shadow of unspoken pacts. Snape regarded Harry with an intensity that bordered on predatory, his every sense attuned to the palpable yearning emanating from the boy.

“Your submission is a sacrament,” Snape intoned, his voice a sonorous timbre that seemed to vibrate through the very stones beneath them. “And I am its devout keeper.”

Harry, caught in the gravity of Snape’s dominion, felt the weight of his own vulnerability like never before. The echoes of past tribulations seemed to fade into the periphery, overshadowed by the immediacy of this singular connection. He was no longer the orphaned child, the hero burdened by prophecy, but rather a vessel for Snape’s dark desires.

At the older man’s touch, Harry arched, a silent plea etched into the curve of his spine. It was an invocation, a supplication for the consummation of their clandestine communion. In the depths of Harry’s verdant eyes, Snape glimpsed the fractured reflections of his own solitude, and it steeled his resolve.

“Say it, pet,” Snape’s voice was a low drawl, thick with the heady scent of command and the underlying notes of raw need.

“I want you, Sir. Inside…” The words came from Harry like a sacred incantation, his voice tinged with a timorous edge that bespoke volumes of his internal struggle—a battle between a young man’s pride and the yearning to yield.

Snape surveyed him with an intensity that seemed to strip Harry down to his very soul. The authority exuded by the Potions Master was absolute, his presence filling the room with a tangible force that could bend wills and shatter inhibitions.

The shadows in the chamber danced as if alive, cast by flickering candlelight that draped itself across the contours of Harry’s toned body. They played upon muscles tense with anticipation, accentuating the stark contrast between light and dark, innocence and corruption.

“Again,” Snape ordered, the sound of his voice resonating through the still air, “let me hear the hunger in your voice.”

“Y-yes, Sir,” Harry stuttered, the admission pulling at the threads of his self-restraint. “I want you. I want your thick co*ck inside of me. f*ck me, please.”

It was a dichotomy of sensations: the embarrassment of articulation against the thrill of obedience. A smirk ghosted across Snape’s angular features—a spectre of satisfaction at the dismantling of the boy’s defences. He was a maestro conducting an orchestra of sighs and gasps, each note a deliberate choice in the symphony of their forbidden liaison.

“Look at you,” Snape murmured, his tone laced with a possessive cadence, “so ready to be devoured by the darkness I offer. You crave the obliteration of self, don’t you?”

Harry’s breath hitched, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a snitch caught in the palm of a seeker. In Snape’s shadow, he found a perverse sort of sanctuary, a place where the burdens of his past could be momentarily forgotten, replaced by the singularity of purpose—to please and be claimed.

“Answer me,” Snape demanded, the sharpness in his voice slicing through the haze that enveloped Harry’s mind.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry conceded, the acknowledgment an admission of his own intrinsic needs, a whisper to the void where only Snape could hear and absolve him.

“Tell me how you want it, pet?” Snape asked, even though he had an inkling of what the answer would be.

“Hard… please f*ck me hard, Sir,” Harry pleaded, his fully-erect co*ck twitching in anticipation of delights to come.

A flicker of satisfaction ignited in the depths of Snape’s obsidian gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the power he wielded over the young wizard before him. This raw display of submission, the quiver in Harry’s voice—it was intoxicating, a potent draught that threatened to unravel even the most disciplined of minds.

“Hard,” Snape murmured, his tone a caress and a command wrapped in one. “Very well, that is how I shall take you. Hard and with little regard for your satisfaction.”

Harry’s breath hitched, anticipation threading through him like a live wire, sparking against his skin. He was an amalgam of contradictions—timid yet brave, innocent yet achingly aware of the carnal dance they performed. His green eyes, twin beacons of emerald fire, sought out Snape’s approval, yearning etched within their depths.

Snape moved on the bed, limbs stretching and conquering. He loomed over Harry, a predator surveying his willing prey, the promise of ecstasy and agony intermingling in the space between them. His fingers traced the contours of the boy’s face with a tenderness that belied the severity of his countenance. The delicate sweep of his thumb grazed the petal-soft flesh, marred by their impassioned fervour earlier in the evening. With practiced precision, he brushed aside the errant locks from Harry’s sweat-dampened brow, revealing the vulnerability etched upon the boy’s features.

“You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” Snape questioned, his voice a low rumble. “My obedient pet, so eager to please…”

A shadow crossed Harry’s face, a flicker of something unspoken passing through his eyes like the ghost of a forbidden thought. But it was gone as swiftly as it appeared, submerged beneath the tide of a need too potent to deny.

“Y-yes,” Harry stammered, his voice quivering like a plucked string, reverberating with the tension of their proximity.

“Remember this,” Snape intoned, his words laced with an undercurrent of dark promise, “you are mine to mould, to discipline, to cherish. I will not abide by half measures. But always, I will see to your needs. You have my promise that I will give you what you need, whether you are aware of it or not. Understood?”

“Understood, Sir,” Harry replied, gaze lowering and thighs parting even as his palm rested upturned along the length of his torso. It was a show of utter submission, and Snape felt himself harden at the sight.

His fingers traced the stark line of Harry’s jaw, felt the tremor of those words seeping into his marrow. He watched as the boy’s lashes fluttered against the high crest of his cheekbones, shuttering the emerald windows to his soul. In the sanctity of this hallowed darkness, Snape found himself teetering on the precipice of a question he dared not voice.

His heart, a cauldron of conflicting elixirs, simmered with the bittersweet tang of this clandestine interlude. Underneath the mantle of control, he grappled with the duality of his role—both guardian and corrupter in this dance macabre they wove with whispers and moans.

“Good boy,” Snape murmured, the words slithering out like a serpent’s hiss, laced with an intimacy that belied their profane covenant. The gesture was a paradoxical balm, soothing yet searing the raw edges of Harry’s need for absolution, for a connection that might anchor him in the tumultuous sea of his existence.

“Yours, Sir,” Harry breathed, his voice a fractured whisper that resonated with the ache of an orphan’s heart. And in that moment, Snape recognised the gravity of their entanglement—not just a convergence of flesh but a communion of fractured spirits, each seeking solace in the shadow of the other’s eclipse.

The room, shrouded in twilight, became a stage set for their ritual, as Snape, ever the puppet master, orchestrated the next act. He reclined against the headboard, a dark silhouette against the white sheets, his lean body a landscape of pale skin and sinew. With deliberate intention, he grabbed hold of his erect shaft, an extension of his command, the embodiment of his desires. It stood, proud and expectant, drops of precome pearling at the tip.

His voice, when it broke the silence, was like the crack of a whip, firm and expectant. “You want my thick, hard co*ck inside you, boy?”

Harry’s response, though not voiced, was etched in every line of his tense frame, in the way his breath hitched and his co*ck twitched. The boy not only wanted to be filled by a thick shaft; he hungered to be taken and owned, until all thoughts left his brain and he surrendered to the void.

“Approach,” Snape commanded, and Harry complied, drawn as if by an unseen force that tethered him irrevocably to the man next to him.

Harry’s breath hitched as he drew closer. His skin prickled with anticipation as he straddled Snape’s hips, his fingers trembling as they sought out the warmth radiating from beneath him. The cool air of the dungeon chamber brushed against his exposed flesh, a stark contrast to the heat flaring from the dark gaze locked onto him.

“I feel so empty,” he confessed, his voice resonating with a vulnerability that was as surprising as it was raw. A flush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks crimson as he reached behind himself, the tips of his fingers grazing the hard co*ck that promised to obliterate the emptiness consuming him.

“Ask for it.” Snape’s voice was a silk-wrapped steel command, laced with an authority that demanded obedience and reverence. It was not merely an instruction—it was an invocation of the ritual they were bound in, a reminder of the power he wielded over the boy.

“Please, may I? Sir, please, can I put it inside me?” Harry’s plea echoed in the chambered silence of the room, his voice tremulous yet thick with unrestrained longing. His gaze, luminescent as the Killing Curse and equally dangerous, locked onto Snape’s obsidian eyes, seeking permission for an act both forbidden and fervently desired.

Snape, the master of shadows and silent spaces between breaths, allowed the tension to unfurl between them like a serpent—sinuous and seductive. The potency of the moment was not lost on him; it was a crucible of their twisted dance, each second stretching into eternity, every heartbeat a drumroll to the inevitable crescendo.

“Patience,” he intoned, the word slicing through the thick air—a single note played on the strings of restraint. It was a lesson hard-learned and oft-repeated, a discipline that Snape enforced with the precision of a Potions Master measuring drops of essence of nightshade. “On my command and not before.”

Harry’s body trembled atop him, a living sculpture of desire wrought in flesh and bone, his eager hole grazing the very tip of Snape’s co*ck with torturous promises. The friction sent a shiver down Snape’s spine, a reminder of the primal urges barely contained beneath his veneer of control.

“Please, Sir.” The words were a whisper against the storm brewing within Harry, a plea from the depths of his soul where innocence once resided, now replaced by a yearning so profound it threatened to consume him whole.

“Very well,” Snape conceded, his voice the embodiment of dark silk, wrapping around Harry’s will, binding him to his command. “Proceed.”

The moment shattered with those words, the spell they had woven together breaking as Harry’s furrowed centre lowered, enveloping the head of Snape’s thick co*ck with a desperate intimacy that bordered on reverence.

Snape’s breath hitched, a rare display of vulnerability as he fought to maintain the façade of impassivity. Yet, even as the Potions Master sought to draw out the moment, to savour the sweet torture of anticipation, he could not deny the magnetic pull of Harry’s need—the way his body beckoned with a promise of oblivion and absolution entwined.

In that instant, as flesh melded with flesh, Snape knew that despite his best efforts, the intensity of the boy’s gaze and the raw honesty etched into every line of his being had breached the battlements of his resistance. And though it pained him to admit, he would not have it any other way.

“f*ck yourself on me, pet. Take it as roughly as you can.”

The command unfurled from Snape’s lips, low and imperious, a sonorous incantation that left no room for disobedience. It resonated within the confines of the darkened chamber, echoing off stone walls steeped in secrecy and shadows. In the dim glow of candlelight, Harry’s form was an amalgam of innocence corrupted, his skin a canvas of candlelight and desire.

He hovered above Snape, the words settling into him like a charm, compelling and irrevocable. With a breath that held the weight of all his unsaid prayers for absolution, Harry allowed gravity to pull him downward, closing the scant distance between yearning and fulfilment.

“Thank you, Sir,” he exhaled, the title slipping from his lips wrapped in the silk of reverence and the velvet of sin. The sigh that followed was one of both relief and surrender, a sound that seemed too sacred for the profane sanctuary they had conjured around themselves.

As he sank down, Harry’s breath hitched, and he felt himself impaled upon the altar of Snape’s body—an offering willingly given, eagerly taken. His flesh enveloped the hardness of Snape’s desire, the sensation a paradox of pain and pleasure that threatened to fracture his composure.

This was one of his favourite positions and one of the most humbling, to be made to do all the work himself. And though Harry was figuratively on top, he felt utterly under Snape’s control as he slowly sank onto the hard co*ck below, his insides stretching to accommodate the intrusion.

A hiss of pain passed his lips at the lack of preparation. There had been no tongue or fingers, only his glass plug that had mysteriously vanished while he’d taken a quick nap. Thankfully it had done its job of sealing Snape’s previous release inside, the only lubricant he would be afforded tonight. The descent burned in the most intoxicating of ways, and Harry’s own co*ck twitched merrily in contentment.

Through the haze of tears and sweat, Harry sought solace in the paradox of pain and pleasure, his surrender a conquest in itself. He began to bounce, faster and faster, the push and pull of Snape’s co*ck in his arse equal parts blessing and torture. He tried to move faster still, thighs burning from the exertion as he lifted himself up only to allow gravity to yank him back down with a severity that expelled all breath from his lungs.

Snape’s hands found purchase on his hips, his touch both anchor and compass, guiding him through the tempestuous sea of his own arousal. There was a rhythm to be found here, a cadence born of whispered commands and unspoken promises that danced across Harry’s synapses like sparks from a wand’s tip.

Each descent was a litany of devotion, every rise a penance for sins unnamed. The room filled with the sounds of ragged breaths and the soft susurrus of skin against skin—a symphony of the forbidden that played upon the edge of morality and magic.

And as Harry moved upon him, Snape could not help but marvel at the paradox before him: the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, now undeniably the submissive who writhed and whimpered above him, seeking solace in the dominion of their shared darkness.

Snape’s fingers, long and adept from years of coaxing secrets from potion cauldrons and reluctant minds alike, wrapped around the heated shaft of Harry’s arousal. Precome, the sweet evidence of the boy’s undoing, eased the path for his deliberate strokes—each one a masterful blend of succour and torment.

“Come on, you can do better, pet,” Snape said, his voice low and resonant in the charged air. The words were not a plea but a command, spoken with the authority of one who knew the depth of the power he wielded. “Move faster. f*ck yourself the way you really want to.”

The response was instant, a testament to the bond of control and surrender they had woven between them. Harry’s movements became a fervent liturgy, each rise and fall punctuated by breathy gasps and the soft slap of flesh—a cacophony of pleasure that echoed off the ancient stones.

Harry’s noises, those artless sounds that escaped his lips, were discordant notes in the symphony of their union. They were not crafted to seduce, nor were they polished by any sense of decorum. Instead, they were raw, unadulterated expressions of need, stripped of all pretence. To Snape, they were the purest form of music, resonating with the truth of Harry’s submission.

“Better,” Snape praised, though there was no warmth in the word—only acknowledgment of obedience met and expectation awaiting fulfilment. “Do not relent. f*ck yourself raw.”

In this hallowed space, where the sacred clashed with the profane, the lines of their realities blurred. Snape could almost believe in the possibility of redemption through corruption, salvation found in the very act of defilement. And Harry, the boy eternally marked by conflict and loss, sought absolution not through the light of his storied past but in the shadows that Snape offered with open hands.

Harry’s head fell back, an arc of abandon etched in the silhouette of his throat. His skin glistened with sweat, and his muscles hardened to tight lines under the exertion. His rhythm had reached a peak, as he impaled himself furiously on his Dominant’s co*ck with all the vigour that his youth and countless hours spent practising Quidditch allowed.

“Merlin, so good!” he cried out, his voice fractured by the intensity of his movements.

Snape’s dark eyes held a glint of the infernal as he watched Harry labour above him. There was no need for spells or incantations; the magic they conjured between them was primal, wrought from flesh and will and the indomitable force of their combined desires.

“Such fervency,” Snape murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through the charged atmosphere. “Do not wane now. Harder boy, f*ck yourself as you would want me to f*ck you.”

The command seemed to hold a magic of its own, or perhaps Harry found some untapped reserve of energy within himself. He redoubled his efforts, his face contorting with the strain of lifting himself before sinking back down. It was a heated dance, each descent marked by the sharp slap of skin against skin and each rise by the wet slurping of his arsehole trying to hold onto its prize.

“Please, Sir,” he managed between gasps and moans. “Please, I—” he slammed himself back down, knocking the wind out of his lungs. “Need, please,” he moaned on the subsequent ascent. “Please.” Another fall, another gasp. “Need to come, please.”

“Not yet,” Snape growled as he redoubled his efforts on his pet’s co*ck. Fingers, calloused from years of potion-making, danced over the boy’s quivering length, orchestrating a crescendo of pleasure and pain that tore an uninhibited shriek from Harry’s throat. He decided he would draw it out, urging the boy to, “f*ck yourself harder!”

And Harry obeyed, nearly mindless now and dangling precariously close to the edge of the precipice. His thighs must have been painful by now, and his lungs burning in his chest, but he didn’t relent and kept f*cking himself with the kind of abandon that Snape expected from him. The Potions Master was getting close himself too; he could feel it. Most of his energy was spent prolonging the moment and delaying the inevitable—an arduous task given the spectacle of the nubile young boy working himself to the edges of sheer madness on his lap solely for his own enjoyment.

Snape’s obsidian eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of control. There was beauty in the strain of Harry’s muscles, in the way his short stature fought against the relentless pull of gravity, only to submit willingly to its demand yet again. “Harder,” he intoned, the single word a wandless spell that drew obedience from the core of Harry’s being. And so, the boy continued, lifting himself upward before allowing the force of his own weight to drive him down again.

“Come,” Snape allowed at last, watching as Harry’s release sprayed out of him. It was a violent bloom of warmth against the cool pallor of Snape’s skin, the visceral evidence of the boy’s abandon splattering across his scarred stomach and chest.

“Ah—!” The cry that escaped Harry was guttural, torn from the depths of his being as he spilled himself in a rush of heat. His movements stuttered into stillness, his entire body tensing around the unyielding hardness within him, his inner walls clamping down in spasmodic waves around Snape’s throbbing co*ck.

And yet, Snape’s ministrations did not cease. He continued to stroke Harry’s twitching co*ck, his touch relentless, drawing out the sensitivity until it bordered on agony. Each movement coaxed short, sharp sobs from the boy’s lips, the sound of them raw and ragged in the charged silence of the room.

Harry writhed beneath the unyielding grasp, the overstimulation rendering him helpless, adrift in a sea of sensation that he had no power to escape—and no desire to. “Please,” he gasped, the word barely more than a whisper, laden with the weight of unchecked need.

“Silence,” Snape commanded, his voice a silken thread laced with steely command. “You will take what I give you, and you will endure.”

Harry’s breath hitched, his sob a testament to the overwhelming intensity of Snape’s domination. Yet, through the haze of his overstimulated state, there was no plea for respite, no word of protest. He yielded to the relentless pursuit of pleasure, the boundaries of his endurance stretched taut by the hands of a Dominant who knew precisely how far to push, how much to demand.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Harry started moving again as he drew in ragged and uneven breaths. Thighs visibly trembling with the effort, he began to lift upwards until he couldn’t hold his own weight anymore, and he let himself fall with no restraint, a slave to gravity’s will.

“Again!” Snape ordered, a command that brooked no defiance.

Harry’s muscles screamed in protest, yet the boy moved with relentless determination, his slender form rising and falling. Each repetition was a testament to his submission, his compliance a gift that fed the growing fire in Snape’s onyx eyes.

Tears rolled down Harry’s cheeks as Snape kept working his oversensitive co*ck that had never been allowed the freedom to soften. It had remained at half-mast since it had erupted, and now it was rising like a phoenix from the ashes of spent desire. The sensation was too much and not enough all at once, overwhelming Harry’s senses as he struggled to find purchase in a world that spun out of control.

“You shall endure,” Snape whispered, his voice a sibilant caress that danced along Harry’s overwrought nerves.

The words were both a benediction and a curse, and Harry obeyed, enduring beyond what he believed possible, carried upon the tide of Snape’s relentless desire—a vessel caught in the storm, yielding to the tempestuous seas that threatened to consume him whole.

“I’m not done f*cking you, boy,” Snape declared, his voice a low growl that cut through the haze clouding Harry’s mind. “Keep moving. Faster.”

Harry’s limbs shook with the strain of obedience, each rise and fall a battle waged against the exhaustion that threatened to claim him. The air in the dungeon chamber was thick with the scent of sweat and spells, a heady mixture that made his head spin with each laboured breath he drew. His movements became a blur, a dance of desperation choreographed by the unyielding demands of the man beneath him.

The friction was relentless, Snape’s girth parting him ruthlessly, a searing reminder of the dominance exerted over him. Harry’s arse burned, the sensation mingling with the raw ache in his thighs as he continued the punishing rhythm. His co*ck, trapped in the Potions Master’s fingers, throbbed with an insistent pulse that seemed to mock his efforts to find release.

“Please…” Harry gasped, the word barely escaping his lips before another descent cut off his plea.

“Silence,” Snape commanded, his hand twisting painfully around Harry’s inflamed co*ckhead, fingers branding him with possessive intent. “Your body speaks for you.”

There was no mercy in Snape’s touch, no reprieve from the relentless pace set by the man who knew every shadow lurking within his soul. This was not about pleasure; this was about Harry proving himself, about enduring whatever Snape saw fit to bestow upon him. A particularly vicious thrust sent a jolt of pain shooting through him, and he bit back a cry, tasting blood where his teeth sank into his lip.

Snape’s eyes, black as the abyss, watched him with an intensity that bordered on reverence. “Good boy,” he murmured, the praise laced with an edge that cut deeper than any blade.

Harry’s world narrowed to the point of singularity, where nothing existed but the overwhelming force of Snape’s will and the undeniable truth that he would endure, would do anything, to remain the focus of that formidable attention. His co*ck, once a symbol of adolescent pride, now felt like an instrument of torture, caught in the vice of Snape’s spellbound grip.

“Keep going,” the Potions Master instructed, his voice the thread by which Harry’s fraying sanity hung.

And Harry did, because to stop was inconceivable, unthinkable in the presence of the man who had become his anchor in the storm of his own mind. With each rise, he clawed for air, lungs burning with the effort to sustain him, and with each fall, he surrendered a little more of himself to the darkness that promised oblivion.

This was their ritual, a sacred rite performed on the altar of Snape’s bed, where Harry was both sacrifice and supplicant, offering up his body to be consecrated by pain and pleasure alike. And as he moved, driven by forces beyond his understanding, Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived—transcended the scars of his past, becoming something else entirely beneath the deft hands of Severus Snape.

“Endure,” Snape murmured again, the word resonating in the shadowed chamber like an incantation, more potent than any spell within his formidable arsenal. It wrapped around Harry, seeping into his very marrow, a command that transcended language and became a visceral truth he could no more disobey than stop the beating of his own heart.

Harry’s thoughts evaporated like morning mist under the glare of a relentless sun, leaving behind only the raw, primal need to obey. His eyelids grew heavy and fell shut, veiling his vivid green eyes from the world as darkness claimed him. The cadence of his breaths became erratic—gasps interspersed with silence—as his body moved in tandem with the rhythm imposed upon it; up and down, a marionette dancing to the tune of an unseen puppeteer.

Snape’s own breathing hitched, a sound almost lost amidst the quiet symphony of flesh meeting flesh. The endgame loomed close, a precipice that beckoned with the sweet allure of release, yet he found himself teetering on the brink, needing just a shard more of something indefinable to tip him over the edge.

With a surge of will, Snape relinquished his role as observer and reasserted his dominance in the physical realm. His hips lifted in a powerful thrust, calculated with the precision of a potioneer measuring drops of a volatile ingredient.

The force of the impact drew a ragged sob from Harry’s lips, a sound that echoed against the stone walls, imbued with the rawness of his surrender. Snape kept lifting his hips, setting a punishing rhythm of his own and each motion stripped away another layer of Harry’s composure, revealing the vulnerable core that lay beneath the façade of the saviour—the boy who had never asked to be a hero.

In the darkness behind his closed lids, Harry journeyed through a landscape of sensation, each touch a landmark in a terrain defined by pain and pleasure. As Snape continued to guide him, moulding him with the relentless drive of his body, Harry traversed the boundary between two worlds—one of harsh reality and one where only they existed, locked in an eternal dance of domination and submission.

The relentless cadence of flesh against flesh echoed within the stone confines of the chamber, punctuated by the laboured breaths of a boy teetering on the precipice of endurance. Severus Snape, ensnared in his own web of control and desire, gazed at his submissive with eyes darkened by an insatiable hunger. His fingers, slick with the evidence of Harry’s previous surrenders, danced over the boy’s tender shaft with a sorcerer’s precision, fanning the embers of arousal into a blaze that threatened to consume them both.

Harry Potter, the boy who had braved unfathomable darkness, now lay bare and exposed under the ministrations of a man who had once been his adversary. The paradox of their union, wrought from a complex alchemy of need and absolution, pushed him to the very limits of his being. With each thrust, Snape claimed more of him—not just his body, but the fragmented pieces of his spirit that yearned for dominance to give them shape.

His fingers found their rhythm anew, coaxing the burgeoning hardness to an agonising point of tension. Snape observed, with a maestro’s satisfaction, the involuntary writhe of hips seeking a reprieve that would not come. Not yet.

“Yield to me,” Snape instructed, his tone imbued with the gravity of their shared history, the weight of secrets spoken and unspoken between them. “Come!”

A strangled cry escaped Harry’s lips, raw and devoid of the coherent thought that had long since abandoned him. The air around them crackled with the magic of their connection, as tangible as the spells that lingered in the atmosphere of Hogwarts. The dry release, when it came, was a paroxysm of pure submission—a testament to the dominion Snape held over him. It wracked his pet’s body with spasms, each one a silent ode to the man who had drawn it forth from the depths of his soul.

“Beautiful,” Snape murmured, the word a benediction as he witnessed the final surrender of the boy above him. This offering was sacred, a gift born from the crucible of their intertwined fates.

The tremors of Harry’s release had barely subsided when Snape, with a guttural moan that spoke to the depth of his own restraint, found his climax. It was a powerful surge, a tempest unfurling deep within Harry, filling him in a way that transcended the physical. Snape’s essence poured into him, hot and possessive, marking him indelibly as claimed territory.

As the aftershocks of pleasure faded, Snape’s hands, those instruments of torturous delight, steadied Harry’s quivering form. He pulled the spent boy off his lap and laid him down on his side. With a whispered incantation and a flick of his wand, a glass plug materialised and slipped effortlessly into place, ensnaring his sperm inside his pet’s body. It was an intimate binding, an arcane seal of ownership that resonated with the silent vows of dominance and submission exchanged between them.

Under the weight of Snape’s gaze, Harry lay there, spent and pliant. His eyes, once alight with youthful defiance, now glazed and vacant, betrayed his descent into the profound depths of subspace. In this hallowed silence, he floated, unshackled from the burdens that had hitherto defined his existence—the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the reluctant hero burdened by a prophecy.

“Let go… rest,” Snape instructed, his voice low and sonorous, echoing in the sanctuary of their darkened chamber. It wasn’t a command but a permission, a sanction for Harry to relinquish all control, to drift in the liminal space afforded by absolute trust.

Harry’s response was not verbal but visceral; a sigh escaped his lips, a sound of serene capitulation. There, in the stillness that followed the storm, he was liberated from expectation, from the relentless pressure of a world that demanded too much of one so young. He was simply Harry, unencumbered and free.

Snape observed his pet with a critical yet covetous eye. Here lay the culmination of his desires: a willing partner yielding to him with a vulnerability that belied his vaunted strength. A rare gift, forged in the crucible of their shared shadows. He would protect it fiercely, this bond, this delicate balance of power they navigated with such fervour.

“Mine,” Snape murmured, the softness of his voice at odds with the stern set of his features. He reached for the edge of the blankets, drawing them up and over Harry’s prone form with a precision that belied the gentleness of the act.

“Rest now,” he whispered again, the words a silken thread weaving through the air, binding them in an intimacy that transcended the physicality of their bond. It was a rare display of vulnerability, one he afforded no other soul—a glimpse of the man behind the mask of the stoic Potions Master.

With a flicker of his wand, Snape extinguished the remaining candles, allowing darkness to claim the room. Yet it was not a void of absence; it was a presence in itself, a protective cloak that shielded them from the prying eyes of the world beyond these stone walls.

Finally permitting himself the luxury of rest, Snape lay down beside the slumbering figure, his lean body contouring to the curves and angles of Harry’s smaller frame. His arm found its place draped over the boy, possessive yet comforting—a silent oath of guardianship and care.

In this quietude, the boundaries between Dominant and submissive blurred, and for a fleeting moment, they were simply two souls adrift on the tides of fate, bound by the gravity of their unorthodox connection.

Outside, the night pressed against the windows, the glass cool to the touch, but within the confines of the chamber, warmth radiated from their entwined bodies, a beacon of solace against the chill of isolation that so often plagued them both.

As sleep beckoned, Snape allowed himself a rare indulgence—the soft brush of his lips against the crown of Harry’s tousled hair, a benediction whispered into the dark: “Mine.”

With that singular word, charged with dominion and devotion, the Potions Master closed his eyes, yielding to the embrace of slumber, ever vigilant even in repose, as the world outside continued its inexorable march, oblivious to the sanctuary two lonely souls had carved within its very heart.

Endure - Riley_M00re - Harry Potter (2024)
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