Challenge: #12 Snape is helping out with the infirmary. For some reason Madam Pomfrey is unavailable. (Any child) gets hurt or becomes ill. During an examination the child becomes somewhat erect. Snape gets turned on and under the guise of medical treatment molests the child. But the child does not get that Snape is knowingly and deliberately doing anything to cause these sensations and is embarrassed and feels guilty. (Tanya)
"Professor Snape?"
He did not look away from his book, unnatural light from the suddenly green fire tainting the pages. "Yes, Pomfrey?"
"You've a fourth-class mediwizardry license, haven't you?"
"It's required of Potions masters."
"I'll interpret that as a yes. I was wondering if you could assist me. Between the awful weather and those horrid creatures wandering about, I'm swamped with colds and requests for anti-depressant potions. I'd ask Professor Sprout, but she can't leave the fourth years' creeping chokedrops for more than an hour or they'll all kill each other, and no one else has enough medical training."
"Brilliant plan to solicit my help, telling me I'm your last resort." Snape turned the page.
"Don't be an ass, Severus. Trelawny is my last resort. You're my second-last. Are you coming to the infirmary or am I going to be clearing patchouli out of the air for the next week?"
He sniffed, and shut the book. "Very well. But keep the suicidal ones away from me."
"Thank you. And don't worry; you can look after the regular patients. I'll handle the influx."
The fire died down to embers once more, and Snape tucked the book away on the shelf, one worn titleless spine among many. He was halfway to the infirmary before he remembered the Potter brat's accident.
The infirmary smelled damp and smoky, and sounded like the emergency ward at St Mungo's.
"There are six," Pomfrey said, measuring pepper-up potion into a long row of tiny paper cups. "I've put them all into private rooms until it calms down out here, except for Mr Pei, who will be leaving once you check that the swelling in his ankle is gone. The charts are on the d-- Granger, Weasley, now is not a good time. You can visit Mr Potter later. Severus, Pei is just over there. Thank you."
Ignoring the two glaring Gryffindors, Snape performed his examination of Pei by the simple expedient of squeezing the boy's ankle and measuring the volume of his yelp. "Get back to your common room. And stay away from Peeves from now on." The boy limped off, and Snape escaped the hacking and sniffling and sneezing and crying and the nails-on-chalkboard sound of Granger and Weasley arguing with Pomfrey.
The secondary exit to the infirmary led to a short and mercifully quiet hall lined with living quarters, one of which belonged to Pomfrey; the others were pressed into service whenever the infirmary proper overflowed. The first room held a pair of Hufflepuffs with a late case of the pliffets. Snape refused to bathe their purple-striped skin, but changed the solution in the basin so they could do it themselves. Both girls were nearly recovered, and he left them to wash each other's backs.
The next room held a Slytherin with fire-flower burns and a Hufflepuff with severe asthma. He slathered the first's arm with a new coat of burn slave, and changed the sylph in the second's respiratory charm.
Behind door number three was Potter, who naturally had the room to himself. Snape plucked the chart from the door, and rifled through it, lazily hunting for dirt. Severe bruising and twisted knee: healed with Parsimmon's Potion. Residual bruising and stiffness: one dose of whomping-willow bark extract every four hours. Extreme reaction to Dementor-induced melancholia: observe for signs of depression; treat with chocolate.
Snape grunted and dropped the chart back into its slot. Prima donna syndrome: treat for hypochondria, indolence, and vainglory. A smirk stole onto his face. Potter's free ride had just derailed. He slammed the door open and swept inside.
"Well, Mr Potter, back here again, are we?"
Potter jumped, and dropped what looked like a handful of splinters, and Snape recalled the highly amusing show the Whomping Willow put on as it destroyed the brat's broom. "W-what are you doing here?"
"Five points from Gryffindor for insolence. But to answer your question, I am assisting Madam Pomfrey in the infirmary while she is overwhelmed by your fellow urchins. I shall be providing your care." He didn't bother to mention it would only be for the afternoon, and instead savoured the look of horror. "So, what seems to be the problem? Oh, dear me, that's right. You fell off your broom in the middle of a match. Can't seem to stay out of the spotlight, can you, Potter?"
The brat flushed, dark hectic red spots against the too-pale skin, lips setting into a hard line, blue-tinged. He said nothing, and Snape nodded once sharply to celebrate his victory. If it took a horde of Dementors to quell Potter, perhaps he should look at installing one in his classroom.
Then again, Longbottom's ineptitude would triple.
"Well then, let's check you over and see if you have any real injuries to go along with this psychosis you've developed. We wouldn't want our little celebrity to suffer any damage, would we?" Snape mimed Pomfrey's reassuring smile, well aware it looked homicidal on his sharp features.
"I'm fine," Potter muttered, looking at the white cotton sheet.
"Fine?" Snape poured astonishment into the word. "Why, if you were fine, would you have fainted in front of the entire school and a good many guests? If you were fine, would our resident quidditch star have lost the match to Hufflepuff? No, Potter. You clearly are most gravely ill, perhaps of some exotic and romantic disease which will end your life tragically young."
Vicious with triumph, he laid the back of his hand across the brat's forehead, a grandiose gesture and a mocking statement of concern, and soured at the feel of damp smooth hot strangely unblemished skin. Wasn't Potter supposed to be a teenager? How dare he not have spots? Just like Potter, always perfect, always…
Leaning away. The brat was leaning away from him, and Snape felt a flare in the relentless urge to humiliate the boy, to grind him down and show him his place, and with the door shut and no interruptions in the forecast… A poisoned smirk warped his lips, and he cast a quick locking and silencing spell.
"You feel rather flushed, Potter. I suspect you have a fever."
"I'm fine."
"Don't argue with me. That's another five points. I'll need to take your temperature." Snape paused. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"I don't believe in oral thermometers, Potter. Turn over."
"What? You can't be serious."
"Oh, but I am. Turn over before I call Pomfrey in here, and I shall attend all those children who are really sick."
Looking greener than Longbottom before a practical, Potter obeyed, lying stiffly, jaw clenched.
"Lower your pajama bottoms."
A rebellious pause, and then hands worked the blue and white material past slender hips, baring smooth rounded buttocks. Even his arse was perfect. Snape resisted the urge to smack it until the even skin was mottled purple and red, and instead fetched the thermometer. It was charmed, and only needed to touch the skin to deliver an instant reading, but Potter need not know that.
Snape dipped the slender glass rod into a jar of lubricant, making sure Potter could see him as he swirled it through the thick liquid. Potter shut his eyes quickly. Snape smirked.
The first touch to the round cheek (silk-smooth like his forehead, the little bastard) elicited a violent start followed by a bout of trembling. Snape didn't bother to soothe the boy, but parted the smooth cheeks with one hand and stared down at the small pucker, which twitched under his gaze. Wordless in delight, Snape pressed the thermometer against it, and relished the gasp as it slid in, undoubtedly cold and slimy.
For a moment Snape considered simply walking out and leaving the brat that way -- with any luck his friends would walk in on him -- but he knew Pomfrey would crucify him if she found out. She probably wouldn't be too happy with what he was doing now either, but Pomfrey was fortunately up to her wimple in sniffling urchins.
Five, maybe ten minutes ought to be sufficient humiliation. Snape waited, watching every shift and listening to every caught breath, and finally he was satisfied with the state of Potter's pride, and he turned the rod so he could read it. Potter jumped, so he did it again. Entranced with his new power, Snape twirled the glass rod in his fingers, watching the boy whimper and gasp, hands clutching at the sheets. A little thrust, and Potter yelped, and jerked his hips.
His own breath came a bit faster, and Snape drew the rod in and out as Potter squirmed and made the most satisfying sounds and finally pressed his face into the pillow. Snape discerned a rhythm to the movements, and leaned forward suddenly, sharply, and switched to short, fast strokes, watching… Yes. Potter moved against the motion, increasing the friction rather than avoiding it. The little prat was enjoying it.
Snape altered the strokes again, deep and slow, twisting the rod and watching muscles tremble beneath all that smooth skin, watching a fine sheen of sweat build. Back to short jabs now, and Potter groaned into his pillow.
"Do you have a problem with your bum, Potter? Perhaps an injury you were too embarrassed to tell Madam Pomfrey about?"
"N-no, sir!"
Snape stared at the bare skin between the pajama top and the bottoms, which rode down to mid-thigh. "I don't believe you." Heart rate speeding, mouth suddenly dry, he withdrew the thermometer, and stared at it. "I think… I think I had better examine you."
Potter made a small sound that might have been 'please', which Snape ignored. He dipped a bare finger into the jar of lubricant, quickly this time, and parted the boy's cheeks again. The hole twitched even more, and Snape ran a daring finger over it. Potter pressed his face into the pillow.
"Oh, God."
"Stop whining, Potter," he whispered in return, and pressed forward, barely hearing Potter's startled 'Mmph!' as he watched the flesh part around him, swallow his finger. "That's it. Hold still." Heat crept up his finger as he pressed, and he laid a hand on the small of the boy's back to forestall any quick movements, edging closer until his erection -- and where had that come from? -- brushed against the side of the high bed.
Breath shallow, Snape pushed his finger deep, and soaked up Potter's answering whimper as though he'd been thirsting for it for years… which he supposed he had been.
"Have you been putting things up there? Your wand perhaps?"
"No!" Potter yelped. "No, sir, I'd never!"
"But you want to, don't you?" Snape asked, dropping his voice to a purr and pushing deep, twisting, stroking. Potter only moaned. "I think you do. I think you're getting off on a medical examination. Do you think I enjoy stuffing my fingers up your arse?" He crooked his finger as he spoke, and the boy cried out and tried to look over his shoulder. "Eyes front!"
The head dropped to the pillow once more, and Snape cautiously took his free hand from Potter's back, and brought it to the bulge straining his trousers. Buttons popped free with short tugs, the tip of his hard cock escaping his underclothes. He pushed the material down and his erection bounced free, the waistband settling snugly between cock and balls, and then he took it and stroked, both hands matching rhythms.
"You're a dirty… filthy… little… boy," Snape said, each word ending with a stroke and a thrust. and a whiny grunt from Potter. "Just a dirty… dirty whore."
Muscles clamped rhythmically around him, breath like thunder in his ears, sweat beading on his upper lip -- so salty -- sweat and pre-come slicking his cock, and Potter's cheeks flexing and one more nudge in the right spot and they clamped down and the tight little hole crushed his finger, so he obliged and shoved in as far as it would go, knuckles pressing into the slick flushed flesh of one buttock as Potter squirmed and cried out. Snape never broke rhythm, even when the tight muscle relaxed around his finger, but the sight of Potter pliant and mortified sent a jolt through his balls and he climaxed onto the dull-orange infirmary blanket.
Sweaty, weak-kneed, in possession of a dubious victory, Snape withdrew, and turned his back to clean his hands and fasten his trousers. Potter had not moved, his ragged breath jerking his shoulders, face still pressed tightly to the pillow.
"Turn around."
"I'm sorry." Sobbed into the pillow.
"Turn around."
The boy obeyed, slowly, and Snape sneered at the sight of the damp stain on the sheets, the sticky trail leading to the boy's slender cock, but nursed a secret thrill at seeing Potter so reduced, so broken.
Snape made a disgusted sound, and Potter reddened. "Pull up your pants, you filthy boy," he snapped, and the brat scrambled to obey, arching his hips to pull the material past, and barely got them up before there came a loud thump from the corridor.
"Alohomora!" The door burst open and the cavalry, in the form of Weasley and Granger, charged in with wands drawn.
"Don't you know how to knock?" Potter snarled, yanking his top into place, red face darkening.
Granger turned scarlet and looked away, but Weasley plowed ahead. "What did he do to you? Why was the door locked?"
"None of your business," Potter said, and the same Snape drawled, "The door was locked so that the patient's supposed friends would not burst in during a medical exam and humiliate him."
Weasley finally cottoned on, and stammered something unintelligible, and Granger seized his arm. "We're very sorry, Harry. We'll come back later."
Snape turned back to the bed once the other two brats left, and arched an eyebrow as Potter stared down at his lap and plucked at the fuzzy orange blanket. Snape gave a disdainful sniff. "As I suspected, there's nothing wrong with you. Physically. I'm not so sure about mentally, but I've no desire to find out what goes on in that head of yours. Nonetheless, I shall inform Madam Pomfrey of your attempt to skive off classes."
Potter blanched. "Sir…"
"And as I found your humiliation rather enjoyable, I shall not mention your deplorable reaction."
Potter nodded, never looking up, and Snape smirked as he made his exit.
He dreamed that night of sitting in an infirmary bed, gluing together Potter's splintered broom. Except there were more pieces than it ever could have fractured into, and some of them were glass and paper, and Potter kept trying to sit on his cock and getting in the way.
The sharp tang of boiling pixie liver filled the dungeon classroom, and Snape breathed in the comforting scent, mixed with that of ten smug Slytherins, nine sullen Gryffindors, and one utterly cowed Potter.
The brat had not looked up from his cauldron once, but despite this unprecedented concentration, had already made three errors, any of which would have ruined his potion by itself. Not that Potter had noticed, for he continued to stir in bubotuber pus despite the fact that his cauldron was smoking purple when everyone else's -- everyone else who was competent -- steamed green.
"Potter!"
The brat jumped, and a beaker crashed to the ground, but he did not lift his eyes. "Sir."
"What, precisely, are you busy concocting while the rest of your classmates do their assignment?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Well, that's a given. Do you think you are special, free to invent … whatever you are inventing… while everyone else makes, or attempts to make--" He shot a glare at Longbottom. "--niffler repellant?"
"No, sir."
Snape slammed his hand down on the desk, making the instruments and sloppily prepared ingredients on it jump. Potter didn't move. "Then why, pray tell, aren't you making niffler repellant?"
"I don't know, sir."
Strangely disappointed, Snape straightened, and strode back up to the blackboard. "Detention with Mr Filch tonight, Potter. As you've chosen not to contribute, you can help him lay the repellant instead."
Weasley muttered something under his breath.
"And five points from Gryffindor for that, Mr Weasley."
At the end of class, the scent of boiling pixie liver faded to the sharp tang of niffler repellant, the third-year students filed out… except for Potter, who dawdled over his supplies.
"Don't be stupid, Harry," Granger hissed. "You'll only give him another excuse to punish you."
Potter flushed, and murmured something that caused his two sidekicks to slink reluctantly from the room.
"Part of what makes Granger so annoying is that she's usually right," Snape drawled as he erased the board with a flick of his wand. Another flick put up the instructions for the next morning's Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw first-years. "Well? Speak up." Despite his sharp tone, his heart sped, and an uncomfortably sick feeling began in his stomach.
Potter's tongue darted out to wet his lower lip. "I'm going to tell Dumbledore."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said, I'm sorry. Please don't tell Dumbledore. I mean, about what I did in the infirmary." Potter fiddled with the front of his robe, hands twisting the clasps. "I know you've got no reason not to… but I'm really very sorry and I know what I did was wrong and please, please don't tell the headmaster. Sir."
A shaky feeling, the kind that came after narrowly dodging a killing curse, settled over Snape. "You want to apologize."
Potter shot him a narrow look. "I know you don't believe me, but it's true! I never meant to-- all over the-- and you were only--" The child fell silent, a blush creeping up his neck.
Snape leaned forward, his knuckles biting into the wood of his desk, lank hair swinging into his face. "Am I to believe you are sorry for getting sexually aroused during a medical exam?"
Potter's mouth opened and closed, but nothing emerged.
Snape straightened, the ill feeling in his stomach changing to tingling tightness that made taking the unexpected gift horse seem like a reasonable thing to do. "I'll give you a choice, Potter. You can serve your detention with Filch, and I can take a stroll up to the headmaster's office for a little chat about your behaviour, or…"
"Or?"
"Or you can serve your detention with me, and… and we shall see if…" His mouth was very dry again. "… if you have learned your lesson."
"Here, sir," Potter said at once. "Just don't tell Dumbledore."
"We shall see. After you have served your detention." Potter looked ready to protest, so Snape cut him off. "Go and close the door."
Potter gave him a wary stare, then slunk off to obey. Snape set the wards from his position behind the desk, and when Potter returned to the clear space between the professor's desk and the first row of worktables, Snape stalked around it, and circled the boy.
"Such a brave little Gryffindor, venturing into the snake's den to repent your sins… because it's the right thing to do, isn't it, Potter? How… noble of you." Another circuit. "I don't believe you are repentant at all. I don't think you've learned anything." His hands trembled, and he could feel the breath in his throat. "I think… I think you need another lesson. A test, if you will."
"Sir?" Potter choked out. Green eyes darted up to meet his, wide and innocent and terribly old.
Snape's chest tightened. "Lift your robes," he whispered. "Lean over my desk."
Potter's eyes widened further, huge and round behind his glasses. "Sir, I… we're not…"
Snape turned away. "Have it your way. Mr Filch is behind the greenhouses. I shall see if the headmaster is free after tea--"
"Sir!"
He looked back to see Potter draped over the desk, innocently lewd, skinny legs going for miles before they disappeared into plain white Y-fronts, trembling thighs smooth and pale and slightly parted.
A sickening tension left him, replaced by a far more pleasant variety, and he cast a silencing spell and added a deterrent to the wards before stalking back to the boy, laid out like some obscene apology. An apology he deserved, after all he'd suffered at the entire damn family's hands. He snared a jar of almond oil on the way, and plunked it down next to Potter's face, making him jump.
Potter's breath was an audible rasp in the quiet classroom as Snape leaned over him. "Let's see if you can make it through another examination without embarrassing yourself." The ragged breathing hitched. "Pants down."
Shaking hands released their death-grip on the battered wood of the desk, and thumbs hooked into the waistband of the faded muggle underwear. A small push had them puddled around his bony ankles, the elastic so worn Snape was surprised they hadn't slipped off Potter's slim hips on their own. The exposed flesh was just as he remembered: smooth and lean, and he stroked it to make certain it was still as soft. Potter quivered.
"Be still." Snape's hand moved of its own accord to the plum-coloured balls peeking out from between the pale thighs, and Potter gasped as he cupped them. "Your chances of success are not looking good, Potter," Snape murmured, and the boy pressed his forehead to the desktop.
"Sorry! I'll d-do better."
Snape grunted, as though doubtful, and reached for the jar. Potter squeaked as his balls were released, and Snape could see him watching through slitted eyes as he slicked his fingers. "Let's see if you fare any better this time," Snape said, squeezing one trembling cheek with his dry hand, pushing aside it to expose Potter's entrance. He remembered how tight it had felt around his finger in the infirmary, and felt his trousers grow snug.
Potter sobbed something unintelligible at the first slick touch, and stuffed his knuckles in his mouth to muffle further cries as Snape rubbed his thumb across the pucker again and again, until he could no longer resist, and slipped his finger into the familiar tight heat. Potter bucked back against him, and Snape allowed it, encouraged it with harder thrusts, waiting until the boy was moving in a steady rhythm.
"Turn over."
Potter shook his head, knuckles still muffling cries, and Snape hissed in irritation, and caught one knee and spun the boy around without removing his finger from the tight arse, the Y-fronts slipping off the boy's ankles. Snape caught his breath at the sight of the slender cock, rosy and leaking and very hard, which rose from sparse dark curls.
Potter moaned, and his face flushed even darker. One small trembling hand moved to cover himself, but Snape caught it at the wrist.
Curiosity won at last. "Who told you this was wrong?" He released the hand and ran an idle finger across silky fleshy of the boy's lower abdomen, and Potter shuddered.
"My-- my Aunt Petunia."
"Really?"
"Y-yes. She s-says idle hands are the devil's tools, a-and that's w-why I touch myself, because I h-haven't enough work, and--" Potter stopped, teeth chattering.
"And what?" He let his hand drift lower.
"A-and if…" His voice dropped to a whisper. "If I did it again she'd p-put my hands in lye." His eyes darted up to Snape's face. "Please don't, sir. I..." Potter cast about. "I'd be even worse at Potions."
"We can't have that now," Snape said, numb lips forming words, fighting a strange urge to take Potter to his bed, lay him down on the white cotton sheets and kiss every bit of his body until the child purred under his touch. "I can discipline you without making you more incompetent than you already are."
"Thank you, sir," Potter said, then gasped as Snape flexed his finger. After a moment's thought, Snape added another. He set a slow forceful pace, stroking the boy's belly and flanks and thighs with his free hand, darting up under the rucked-up robe to tweak small nipples, and back down again, until he finally dared take the boy's cock and stroke it, and damn him, it was just as silky-smooth-perfect as the rest of his body.
A vicious curl of the fingers, and Potter was coming, quick translucent white spurts onto his belly, arse clamping around Snape's fingers, gasps and cries and apologies and curses spilling from his mouth.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't tell, please," Potter gasped, limp and sweaty, one arm flung over his eyes.
"Perhaps…" Snape leaned closer, breathing only with effort, fingers slipping free. "Perhaps I shan't, but only if I know you've learned your lesson. Do you know what this sort of thing leads to, why your aunt told you not to do it?"
Potter nodded, jerkily, and Snape narrowed his eyes.
"Liar. You haven't a clue."
Potter gave a hiccoughing sob.
"I think I should teach you… silly muggle thinking she could scare you into good behaviour without a demonstration. Doesn't she know how thick you are?"
Potter nodded, then shook his head, then moaned as Snape leaned over him pressed him down into the desk, pressed his hard cock against the boy's warm groin. He rubbed lazily, and Potter clutched Snape's sleeves. He'd never seen the boy so rattled, and it sent tendrils of excitement curling into his belly. He grasped Potter's hips and pulled him closer to the edge of the desk, then bent the boy's legs so his heels rested on the wood. One hand dipped into the lubricant while the other unfastened his trousers, and he quickly slicked himself.
Potter kept his eyes on Snape's face the whole time.
Then he was pressing against the promising heat, and the boy's eyes were huge, and tears gathered in them, and they fell when he made the first short sharp thrust past the tight ring, painting shining streaks from the corners of his eyes to his temples.
"Hurts," Potter whimpered, and Snape grunted, and pressed forward, slow and steady. Potter's whimpering grew louder.
"Bear down. Push against me." Snape leaned closer, hair falling in his eyes, stringy with sweat and the potion fumes he never bothered to wash out. Potter's face screwed up in concentration, and Snape found himself seated snugly against the boy's arse, both of them panting harshly.
He stayed there, feeling the blood pulse in his cock, feeling Potter's muscles twitch around him. He reached for the oil again, and slathered some onto the small limp cock, drawing another string on nonsensical sounds from Potter. Both of them trembled, Potter more so than Snape, but the wait paid off as Potter's cock hardened again.
"Sorry," Potter whispered, closing his eyes. "I'm trying."
"What are you thinking of? Quidditch? Dragon spleen? Arithmancy problems?"
Potter nodded frantically.
"Not working, is it, when you're lying on the teacher's desk with a cock up your arse like a common trollop… Think this will improve your Potions grade, eh?"
Potter shook his head, more tears splashing.
"You're enjoying this, Potter. Aren't you?" Snape gave a small thrust, and the brat shook his head harder. "Don't deny it. I can feel the proof, right here." He squeezed Potter's erection, and drew back at the same time, then thrust back in, shallow but hard. "Tell the truth!"
"Y-yes! Yes, oh more, please, s-sir." Potter clapped both hands over his mouth, and Snape growled and pulled it away.
"Don't try to hide from me." Snape bent low over Potter and mouthed his neck, pumping harder, losing control over pace and rhythm. "Legs around my waist." Hissed into the boy's ear, obeyed at once. Heels dug into his lower back, and knobby knees collided with his elbows and hands too large for the small body beneath him clutched the front of his robe. His fist pumped the hard young cock erratically, until Potter shouted and arched and clamped down and spurted all over himself again, and Snape could only bear a few more strokes before the brat sucked his climax from him, and he deflated, panting, sweaty forehead resting on the thin heaving chest below him.
Snape roused only when he became aware of the soft steady chant, "I'm sorry, don't tell Dumbledore, I'm sorry, don't tell Dumbledore."
He pulled away, cock slipping free. A quick check proved the boy's anus was swollen, but free of tears. He fetched a small vial from the cabinet, and soothed the green ointment over the abused flesh. Potter watched him with a strange statement of shame and longing and awe and hatred.
"Straighten yourself up and get out."
The insolent brat glared at him. "You won't say--"
"I said, get out."
The glare solidified into invisible daggers, and Potter clenched his jaw. He climbed down from the desk, robes falling into place, and quickly stepped into his underwear. Not much could be done about the splotchy face, or the messy hair, or the stiff gait, and in truth Snape didn't want anything to be done about them. He only wished he dared leave other marks…
"Potter."
The boy stopped at the door, but did not turn.
"I don't believe you've learned your lesson. Come back tomorrow."
Potter shuddered, and looked over his shoulder. Snape was certain he saw anticipation there before the door snicked shut behind him.
Idle Hands by nimori
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