Title: The Enchantment (1/10)
Warning (highlight to view): For slight HBP spoilers.
Word Count: 3565 (40,600 total)
Summary: Harry finds herself enchanted and in need of correction that only Snape can provide.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Written to celebrate my 300th friending. Thank you, caligryphy, calmingshoggoth, eaivalefay, justjayj, and stasia, for beta'ing. You may find all parts of this story by clicking the The Enchantment tag.
Severus Snape was not a gentleman, so when Harry Potter showed up at his door and reported the astonishing intelligence that he was sans bollocks and in need of assistance—a claim rather more supported than not by the peaking pair of breasts Harry had half-hidden behind his crossed arms—Snape laughed.
"Sod you, you greasy prat," Hogwarts' current Defense Against the Dark Arts professor muttered, pushing past the retired Potions-master-cum-double-agent-cum-hero and entering Spinner's End. "Great—more books," the indignant instructor spat, looking around while Snape's door closed itself against the cold. "You'd best have one that will explain how to undo this . . . this disaster!"
Snape, who had been far from sober even before his guest's arrival, almost doubled over from the force of his laughter as Harry tossed back her head in a decidedly furious, clearly impatient, intriguingly feminine gesture and accused, "This is your fault!"
"Ho—how . . . is it . . . my fault?"
"Stop laughing at me, you great arse. It was your spell that caused this!"
"You . . . think . . . so?"
"I know so. I gave Gordon the book myself. He was having difficulty in Potions, and I thought—"
"Ah," Snape replied, righting himself and wiping his eyes while he attempted to still his chuckling, "you kept . . . my old . . . textbook? How . . . how stupid of you."
"Are you going to fix me or not? I have classes tomorrow!" Harry exclaimed, throwing out her arms in horrified emphasis of her condition.
Sweeping his eyes over Harry's altered body with an appreciative leer, the wizard stepped closer to the gesticulating witch and huskily suggested, "Call me Severus."
Harry stepped backward. "You're not serious."
"Lucky for you, that," Snape replied slowly, "but I did intend the spell that has so charmingly affected you for your godfather. I'm rather pleased I never got around to casting it on him—you make a much better witch than he ever would have done."
"You miserable bastard."
"You poor, sadly misinformed dear," Snape mocked, leisurely pulling off his open frock coat and casting it aside as Harry spluttered in outrage before asking, "Tell me something."
"Did you mean what you just said?" Snape asked, one hand rising to the buttons closest to his throat and unbuttoning them.
"Oh for—no, of course not. I know you're not a bas—"
"I was not speaking of your insult," Snape interrupted, all traces of humor vanishing from his face as his gaze darkened.
Flushing under his scrutiny, Harry dropped her gaze to the Potions master's mouth, which seemed oddly . . . soft and kissable after his outburst. Horrified that she could think such a thing about Snape of all people, she looked up again—and found that the wizard's attention had wandered.
"I have eyes, you know."
"And they're qui—quite enchanting," Snape almost slurred, pulling the tails of his shirt out of his trousers as he advanced on the increasingly aghast Harry.
"H—how much have you been drinking?"
Continuing to enunciate his words carefully, Snape replied, "Not enough that I don't realize you haven't answered my question."
"You weren't particularly clear," Harry said, growing wary. "What do you want? To know, I mean?"
Snape smiled in an unmistakably predatory manner and toed off his shoes as Harry instinctively backed herself up into the door. "What I want," he told her, taking another step forward, "is to know whether or not you meant the compliment you just paid me."
"The one," Snape explained, raising a hand and grasping the lintel to loom over the young woman, "about my arse."
"That wasn't a compli—hey!" Harry exclaimed, as Snape began to card his fingers through her hair, "what do you think you're doing?"
"I'm giving you what you came here for," he said, leaning down to kiss her.
Utterly infuriated, Harry drew back a fist and then swung.
Snape caught it easily, sliding his hand over Harry's fist to her wrist with one hand and seizing her other wrist with his free hand to yank her arms above her head and pin her to the door.
"Let go of me!"
Leaning his full weight against Harry's diminutive, thrashing form and almost sighing into her ear, Snape drawled, "I. Think. Not."
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Why, I'm protecting myself, Miss Potter," Snape teased. "You did," he continued, drawing his nose along Harry's neck in a caress that he was pleased to feel caused her to shudder, "just attack me without cause. I must say I'm surprised you go in for that sort of thing, but if you like it rough, who am I to—"
Abruptly, Harry stopped struggling and brought her knee up toward Snape' groin, but the man spun out of the way as if he had been expecting it, jerking her away from the door and propelling her toward the sofa.
As she landed in an ungainly heap on her stomach, Snape moved toward her, chiding, "I'm afraid it may take you some time to grow used to having lost so much of your upper-body strength."
"Get . . . off . . . me," Harry ground out, as Snape covered her body with his own, gasping in mortified excitement as she felt the hard thick length of his prick press itself between her buttocks.
"Thank you, indeed, Miss Potter," Snape purred, thrusting his hips into her.
"That . . . wasn't an . . . invitation," she insisted, moaning in spite of herself as Snape continued his gyrations, but bucking when she felt his hand travel up and under her body to squeeze one of her breasts.
"Wasn't it?" Snape asked, rolling one of Harry's hardened nipples gently between his fingers. "You feel inviting."
Panicking—but more out of fear of her own arousal than Snape's—Harry writhed under his ministrations and whispered, "I . . . I told you to g—get off of me."
"You do play-act well. I'm impressed," Snape said, removing his hand from Harry's breast and sliding it down her body and into her trousers. Pushing his fingers past the elastic of her knickers, he chuckled again when they dipped into the wet heat he had known he would find there.
Harry's breath caught and she stiffened.
"Very nice. You like that, don't you?" Snape asked, rolling his fingertips over Harry's clit in slow circles.
"Y—yes," she stammered, almost lost to the unfamiliar and intense sensations Snape was causing her to feel, but when he plunged two fingers inside of her, Harry remembered herself and yelled, "No! Don't!"
"Come now, Potter, you're not going to tell me that you're scared—or is it that you're not scared enough?" he inquired, his fingers suddenly twisting her clit. "I'm not much for that sort of sport, myself, but anything for a lady."
Harry yelped and then protested, "I'm not a lady," losing her fight not to thrust against Snape' hand for more friction.
"Duly noted," he replied, leaning down to place a trail of bites up her neck.
Harry whimpered and went still. "Stop," she said. "Please stop."
Disappointed by the loss of the witch's movement, Snape taunted, "I don't think you want me to stop. You wouldn't have come here if you did. I know you came here for this—for me."
"I came here for your help. I need you to—oh!" she cried, as Snape thrust hard against her, "I want . . . ."
"I know what you want," Snape replied, before lapping at the bite marks he had just made on Harry's tender flesh, "and I . . . assure you . . . that . . . you shall . . . have it."
"You—you're wrong! I don't want you to rape me!"
The ugliness of the word "rape" ripped through Snape' alcohol-saturated mind and did much to clear it. "You . . . you are scared," he said, confusion plain in his tone.
"Hell yes, I'm scared—you're attacking me!"
Snape threw himself off of Harry at once, backing away from the sofa as she righted herself and drew her wand on him.
"There's no need for that, Potter. I . . . I misunderstood."
"You misunderstood?" Harry demanded, standing, albeit shakily. "In what world is it possible for you to have misunderstood?"
"In mine," Snape said muzzily, pointing to the two empty bottles of Scotch on a nearby side table.
"Soberius!" Harry cast, glaring at the wizard.
Snape closed his eyes in embarrassment. "Thank you for that."
"Oh, you're welcome, you under-sexed git," Harry spat, pocketing her wand and failing to notice how Snape flinched at her words. "I knew you were living like a hermit, but I had no idea you were as pathetic as this!"
It took all of Snape' self-control not to draw his own wand.
"Now then, are you going to help me, or am I going to have to make a report to the Aurors?"
"You do that and we'll both be forced to testify under Veritaserum."
"Why should I care about that? You're the one who—"
"Made you moan," Snape acidly pointed out, as he began to do up his buttons.
Harry jerked as if the wizard's words had burnt her. "God, I hate you."
"You liked my fingers well enough—I wasn't so intoxicated that I didn't realize that—and however maladjusted you believe me to be, I'm not so socially inept that I have to enchant myself as an excuse to find companionship. Accio frock coat!"
"What?" Harry demanded, watching in dismay as Snape quickly dressed himself and not understanding her reaction. Ignoring it, she insisted, "You think I—I told you, Gordon—"
Striding toward the dark pile of fabric that was his robes, Snape leaned down to seize it up. Putting his robes on, he said, "You don't seriously expect me to believe that you gave my old Potions text to a student, do you? Not when I know you're aware that it contains at least one dark spell?"
"I obscured the Sectum—"
"Oh. Dear. Gods. You did. You incompetent fool!"
"Stop insulting me and explain yourself."
"Potter," Snape said, forcing himself not to yell as he rounded on the witch, "the sex-change spell was in the textbook. You are obviously aware of that, as is this student of yours?"
"Ob—obviously," Harry replied, squaring her jaw but backing away.
"For the love of Merlin," Snape spat, thoroughly disgusted at Harry's lack of bottom, "I'm not going to press my attentions on you now that I understand they're unwelcome."
"Says the man who just tried to—"
"I did not try to rape you, you stupid bo—girl! I thought that you understood the ramifications of the spell. Why else would you have come to me?"
"Why . . . why did I come to you?"
Snape drew himself up in preparation of hurling another insult, but, in the face of Harry's obvious confusion, found that he could not. "You truly don't know, do you? You didn't even read the spell after the . . . incident?"
"No," Harry replied, her tone heavy with chagrin. "I . . . I dismissed class, sent Gordon to Filch for trying to hex another student, and then came straight here."
"This happened during one of your classes? And your first thought was to—oh, sit down, do," Snape urged, turning to one of his shelves and pulling a book out of it before reaching into the empty space that had created and doing something that Harry could not see as she sank into the cushions.
Harry did hate Snape, and she was alarmed by what he had done—by how what he had done had made her feel—but, now that he was himself, she was almost . . . comfortable in his presence.
The shelf opened into a doorway, and the Potions master disappeared into it, returning in moments with a small blue phial.
"You recognize this, I take it?" Snape asked, offering it to Harry.
"Yes—a variant for the treatment of shock. I suggest you avail yourself of its properties."
Somewhat reluctantly, Harry accepted the phial, shivering as Snape' fingers brushed hers when she took it.
"You trust me," he said flatly.
"I am an idiot."
Snape snorted. "That is one of the reasons why you came here."
"One?" Harry asked, drinking the potion.
Sighing, Snape sat down next to Harry on the sofa—far enough away from her that they were in no danger of touching—and replied, "I'm afraid you won't care for the other reason."
"Just tell me."
"As you wish," Snape replied, inclining his head while he collected his thoughts to search Harry's eyes.
She found that she had to lower them.
"Black, as you are well aware, delighted in tormenting me."
Harry looked up again, taking note of the studiously blank expression on the Potions master's face. Imbibing the potion had caused her to feel a rush of wooziness and general unconcern, yet she knew that Snape did not care to discuss his past and felt guilty to remember what she had learned of her godfather's behavior toward Snape.
"He was aware of my . . . tastes, and—"
"I don't understand."
Snape raised a hand to massage the bridge of his nose. "If I hadn't been there to see it, I would never have been able to believe that one so young as yourself could have destroyed the Dark Lord—but I had no idea you were still such an innocent."
"I just turned nineteen, you know."
"And you remain a virgin."
"What does that," Harry began to say, and then blushed at her near-admission before demanding, "I don't see how that's any of your business."
"Perhaps it isn't. I'm simply trying to decide how much to tell you."
"Just get on with it."
"By 'tastes', I mean that I like men as well as women, and that, among other things, Black found impossible to forgive in me."
"What business was it of his?"
"None, of course, but that did not stop him—and the rest of the 'Marauders'—from tormenting me in the most despicable of ways. A more homophobic group I never knew, despite—never mind."
"'Never mind', what?"
"How much do you know about your godfather?"
"You mean, how much do I know about his . . . relationship with Remus? I uh, I kind of figured that out."
"Bully for you. It took Black years before he accepted his sexuality, and in the interim, he took out his frustrations on me. Just before the incident with Lupin, he came to me and . . . worked me up a bit, shall we say, only to spurn me."
Harry was shocked. "He . . . but . . . I didn't know."
"Had you spent more time in the Pensieve, you would have done," Snape said, his expression pained. "Whatever you may think of me, I am not a monster. I sought to hide the worst of my memories where your father and Black were concerned to spare you—but when I was younger, I admit that I thought of revenge."
"That's why you created the spell?"
"Indeed. One can only be called a 'sniveling little girl' so many times before one must act."
"But you didn't."
"No, I did not."
"Why not? I . . . I think I might have."
"No, Potter. I'm certain that you would never have created a spell designed to alter another's sex and compel that person to have sex with the creator of said spell in order to reverse its effect."
Harry's eyes widened in horror. "You mean I'm going to have to shag Gordon in order to get my bollocks back?"
Snape sighed. "You never listen."
"I do! You just said—"
"That you'd have to have sex with the creator of the spell in order to reverse its effect."
"But . . . but you're the creator of the spell."
"Yes, Potter. I believe we have established that fact."
"And you . . . you thought that I—you didn't believe me about Gordon—you thought that I cast it on myself because . . . ."
"You actually wanted me, yes. That is what I thought—more fool I."
"Why would you think that I—there has to be another way!" Harry exclaimed, rising from the sofa and beginning to pace.
"There isn't," Snape snapped, losing his patience. "I was meticulous in crafting that spell, so you must either remain as you are, or . . . or persuade me to sleep with you."
Harry stopped her pacing and turned to gape at Snape. "What do you mean, I have to 'persuade' you? You didn't seem to need persuading a moment ago!"
"That was before you made it plain how rebarbative you find me," Snape replied levelly, "and I don't like the idea of shagging someone who thinks of me as an 'under-sexed git', 'pathetic' as that might seem to you—I have my pride."
"You're joking, Snape."
"I assure you that I am not, Miss Potter."
Harry stood still but for the clenching and unclenching of her fists and considered her predicament. It was bad. No, bad had been finding himself suddenly in need of a brassiere. Worse had been finding herself responding ardently to Severus Snape as he had attacked her. But worst, she knew, would be finding that she had succeeded in offending the only person who could help her become a him again.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have insulted you like I did. I was scared. Wouldn't you have been scared if you'd found yourself in my condition?"
Snape examined Harry's softened features and gracile shape for a long moment and then replied, "Your condition suits you."
Harry felt herself responding to the yearning in the wizard's tone, but shrugged off her reaction in anger at how strangely needful it made her feel and declared, "Damn it, be reasonable! I'm a wizard. I've been one all my life! You can't seriously mean to leave me like—"
"And you cannot expect me to bed an unwilling partner."
"But it's the only way to—"
"I've been many things in my life, but a rapist is not one of them. I did frighten you before when you thought I would take you against your will, and I will not put myself in such a position again. You will remember, please, that I ceased my . . . activity the moment I understood that you did not welcome it."
"Yeah, I do—and thank you for that, but—"
"There is no 'but'. Your own folly caused this situation. If you hadn't have given that completely inappropriate text to a student, you would not have found yourself thus," Snape told her, waving a hand in her general direction.
Harry knew that the wizard was right, yet she protested, "But it was your spell."
"So it was, which is why I find myself disposed to be so accommodating. If you do not wish to remain a witch, you have only to do as I ask."
"What, exactly, are you asking?"
"I want you to persuade me that you desire my touch, Potter, desire it for its own sake and not because you must endure it in order to undo your enchantment."
"And that's your idea of being accommodating?" Harry complained. "You're asking a—I mean—I don't know if—wait! You said that the spell has a compulsion component, so there's no way that I could honestly persuade you that I want you!"
Snape almost allowed himself to smile at Harry's misunderstanding of his semantics; the brat never listened, and it was amusing to note that Harry was explaining away his—no, her, he corrected himself—having responded sexually to him due to a "compulsion component." The naïveté that implied on Harry's part needed careful correction.
"You," he said, beginning to enjoy himself, "are Harry Potter, the hero of the Wizarding world and one who has demonstrated the ability to resist the pull of the Imperius curse on more than one occasion. If you cannot fight the effects of a mild compulsion charm, then who can? I assure you that I will accept your word—when you at last come to give it—that you desire me for my own sake."
Her shoulders slumping in defeat, Harry said, "I really do hate you, you know."
"Yes, which is why I'm certain you'll find the process of your persuasion most difficult, and I, most entertaining. How will you begin? As you see," Snape continued, glancing about his untidy lounge and raising his arms to rest them on the back of the sofa, "I am quite free to be wooed at the moment."
"Who said anything about wooing?"
"I understand that it is more the thing for a wizard to woo a witch, but you did insist not long ago that you were not a lady. I am, however, behaving as a gentleman in allowing you to have your own way."
Harry worried her lower lip between her teeth and wondered how the hell the man could think such a thing as she forced herself, again, not to look at his mouth and then said, "Snape, I—"
"On second thought," Snape interrupted her, shifting restlessly, his hands splayed over his upper thighs, "the hour is late. Perhaps it would be better for you to begin your wooing of me tomorrow. Shall we say noon?"
The door opened behind her then, and suddenly Harry found herself on the outside of it in the cold, blustery air and wondering why she found it so difficult to walk away; she decided that it had to be because of the compulsion component of the enchantment.
Snape, on the other hand, made short work of removing his clothing and grasped his long-denied erection with a firm hand, stroking it rapidly while pondering how the hell he was going to craft an anti-spell to his enchantment.
For if the brat doesn't come to realize she has feelings for me, then I can't—oh, you idiot!—I won't take—yes, like that!—advantage of—