Despoiling Harry

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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is being made from the use of these characters and situations; these written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.

The Hawthorne Detention
by Amanuensis

Pairings: Harry/Snape
Categories: Non-con [Non-con water sports. (No urophagia if you're worried.)]
A/N: Written for wave 3 of the pornish_pixies 2005 Fantasy Fest for jjtaylor, who requested: "Snape forcing Harry to delay urinating (possibly using magic) and delighting in Harry's shame. Harry watching Snape touch hismelf, Snape then bringing Harry to orgasm before allowing him to use the toilet."  I did ask JJ if it was all right to take this one beyond bladder-holding and she said okay, so, ya been warned. Thanks to betas harvest_blue, silentauror, florahart, and fabularasa.


"Do you think," said Snape, "that I have all night?"

"No, sir." The boy's voice was tight. Good. Much better than his usual sullen pronouncements. He had to be feeling the effects badly by now.

"Then get it right this time." Snape was in his element, and his bliss. Potter was one of those whose performance suffered under scrutiny, Snape's scrutiny in particular. He hardly had to feign dissatisfaction with Potter's continued results; had the concoction detailed upon the blackboard actually been a potion, he still doubted Potter would have been capable of crafting it correctly.

He heard the boy counting beneath his breath with every clockwise turn of the stirring rod. "...twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine. Thirty. Done, sir." This last was spoken aloud before the solution had even finished spinning in its flask, before the rod had even been set onto the table. Oh, yes. Definitely feeling the effects.

"You believe it has cooled sufficiently?"

"Yes, sir."

Such haste. Snape hid his smile. "Proceed."

Potter lifted the flask and set it to his lips, eyes fluttering shut--had he any idea what a coquette that made him look?--as he tilted his head back, draining it to the dregs, as he had done with six similar flasks that evening. Snape watched the boy's throat move with every swallow.

Potter set the empty flask upon desk--upside down, to demonstrate its emptiness, as instructed. Snape watched with concealed glee as Potter placed his fingertips upon the desk, steadying himself for the potion's supposed effects, and waited, uncertainty fading to--not mere puzzlement this time, but open dismay, as the moments ticked by and no changes were forthcoming.

Snape graced the boy with his best scowl. "Not again, you idiot."

"What's it supposed to do?" Potter protested, frustration and distress bursting from him.

"As I told you: when you've made it properly, you'll know. Start again."

"I did it right! I know I did it right that time!"

"Your repeated failure makes a liar out of you. I don't care for arrogant liars, Potter. Start. Again."

Potter opened his mouth to bark another protest. Shut it.

Went to the storage canisters to fetch another round of ingredients. Moving quickly.

Snape didn't bother to keep his attention on his paper grading this time. It was too good. Potter was so determined. And none of it mattered. It didn't matter if Potter remembered that the hawthorne flowers came before the dandelion leaves, or if he'd added five or six pipettes of serratifolia, or whether the infusion boiled for two minutes or one, or the stirring went clockwise or counter-.

Snape reserved the hawthorne detention for a very special few. Potter rated. Oh, how he rated.

With every step in his eighth preparation of the mixture, Potter, despite his haste, fixed his eyes on the blackboard instructions. Hawthorne, dandelion, six pipettes...The heating he could not hurry, and he actually slowed himself during the stirring steps, counting aloud all the while and not even trying to keep it under his breath. Snape did not detect a single error. Not that it mattered.

"Done, sir." This time the brat did not even wait for permission. The flask, lifted. Drained. Gasped over, and set down.

And, as expected, nothing. This time Snape imagined Potter might be close to tears. Rapture.

"Do it again, Potter."

Potter struggled to control his face, his breathing. "Professor, I did it. I swear to God I did it right."


"Professor, please. Check the blackboard. I'm telling you."

Oh, this he could draw out, yes. "Are you asking me to humor you, Potter? Waste more of my evening so that your incompetence can be driven home even further? Such a wretch you are."

"Sir. I--" Snape could see how much it cost the boy to keep his tone respectful, and it was delicious. "I'm only asking you to check."

Snape let the moment go until Potter was biting his lips, and then, with a light cluck of his tongue, rose. Crossing to the bookshelf, he selected a volume, then made a show of turning pages one by one--certainly excruciatingly slowly to Potter--until he felt he'd used up enough time. Consulting the blackboard and text both, he compared the two with liftings of his eyes and noddings of his head until at last he snapped the volume shut. "Satisfied?"

The boy had one hand lifted, as though he had been about to reach for the text. He swallowed, dropped his hand. "I'll do it again, sir. Can I...may I, sir, may I leave the room for a moment?"

And at last, he'd asked. Which meant the boy had to be in true misery. Eight infusions of hawthorne flower, dandelion leaves, serratifolia, and concentrated five hundred cc's each. Snape would have bet the boy would have broken at six.

"Leave? Certainly not."

"Only for a moment, sir." The sweat was fairly beading on the boy's skin. "I'll come back straight away."

"To do what? To run to the library, perhaps? Or to know-it-all Miss Granger, to consult her as to the properties of this potion, so that when you return you may feign the symptoms and end this detention prematurely? I think not, Potter." Oh, it was so hard not to smile.

"No! I-- I only--"

"Only what?"

Potter sucked in breath. "Nothing, sir. I'll do it again." And he was off to the storage canisters, moving as if he'd been told the room would go up in flames in ten minutes.

He'd got no further than back to the desk, dumping the ingredients there with a gasp as he grabbed the edge of the desk in an effort not to double over. "Professor Snape, please. I--please let me leave for a moment. I--I have to go." The blush that shot up his face was pink as a camellia.

"Go?" Snape put all the enunciation he could into that word.

"To the loo. Sir." Pinker. As milkweed.

"Nonsense. You're going nowhere until you've finished."


Oh, the desperation in that word. Snape almost hated to cut him off. "A potions crafter may have to spend hours with a solution, in constant attention. You will have to conquer a little discomfort for tonight, Potter."

Potter swayed. Actually swayed on his feet. Merlin, the boy truly was loath to ask him for a single favor, wasn't he, if he'd left it til this long. "I did it right," he said through gritted teeth.

"I will not hear any more excuses."

"What's it supposed to do?" The boy shouted it as though that could save it from being a plea. "Tell me that!"

He pretended to examine his nails. "Believe me, Potter, you would know."

"Maybe I'm immune to it! Or something! Maybe your bloody leaves are dead! But I did it right."

Snape let his lips part, preparatory to a soft incredulous laugh. "Immune? Immune to one of the strongest aphrodisiacs known to wizardkind?"

The brat's eyes widened, if that were possible. Snape continued. "Your arrogance really knows no bounds, does it not? For you to imagine that you could be immune to this infusion. The nameless potion that produces unbearable arousal, guaranteed to be unsatisfiable by any, shall we say, solo measures. Wizards have been using it on young people your age for disciplinary treatment for hundreds of years, and you--" he rose, but did not yet advance-- "assume it cannot be because you have not the skill to assemble it; it must be because you are immune?"

Now he pulled open the cabinet beneath his desk, took out the flask he had stored there. The flask containing the same infusion Potter had been concocting all night--not a potion, no magical properties at all, nothing save a little...medicinal effect. Now he did advance upon Potter, flask in hand. "This, Mr. Potter. If you have brewed it as you say, you would be feeling its effects within seconds. You would know and then I would know. And I should then send you back to your dormitory, secure in knowing that its effects would keep you appropriately miserable all night, with no relief from your own hand or own efforts available to you--and, from what I know of boys your age, no likely other outlet for you either. That, Mr. Potter, is what I consider suitable detention. Pity I am not permitted to use it on younger boys here at Hogwarts, or you would have had this in previous years, I can assure you." He slammed the flask down on the desk between himself and Potter, folding his arms as it sloshed, giving the boy and the deception a moment before he played his next hand.

Potter's face was stricken. All it took was suggestion at this point. Snape drew his brows down in suspicion as he studied that tormented look. "Or...? Ah." He smiled slowly, tightly. "Typical. You did fail to make it correctly, so that the effects were not immediate. But you came close enough on one of those tries, didn't you? Starting to feel it now, aren't you?"

Potter would never know. They never did. Never knew whether their imagined arousal--which was shortly their real arousal; wasn't the human body a wondrous thing--began before or after Snape suggested it. As Potter's face grew ever more anguished, Snape chuckled. "Yes, you must have come close enough to see something of what I mean. As it is, I am tired of this farce." A better word than Potter knew. "Since you have failed to make it correctly tonight, you will drink this one."

Potter was panting. "Sir, no. Please. I--I can't drink any more. I'm...I made it right, I can tell--" oh, Snape would just bet he could-- "only I can't drink anything else if I don't--don't--"

"You idiot boy, do you think I plan to poison you? Nonsense." And while Potter was still off-guard, before he could think to make sense of Snape's next actions, Snape dipped a finger into the flask and touched it to his own tongue. "I'll not poison you, boy. I'll be subtler than that if I want you gone. Now taste. This one is concentrated; you only need take a drop." By the time he'd finished, Snape had dipped his finger again and had it hovering in front of the boy's mouth. "Do it." And he gave Potter no more time to think or refuse; he pushed the fingertip between the boy's lips, anointing them with the drop as it entered. "Lick it off, or I shall give you the entire flask to ingest."

And Potter, who would certainly have bitten under any other circumstances, heard that threat and touched Snape's fingertip with the very tip of his tongue.

The little slut.

At his leisure, Snape drew his finger back. "You feel it now, don't you?" At this point he knew it didn't matter. Between Potter's full-to-bursting bladder and the seeds of suggestion he'd sown, Potter wouldn't know how to read the signals from his own painful groin. "I feel it, boy. Just from that taste." He rounded the desk. Now there was nowhere for Potter to retreat. Snape stroked his hand deliberately down the front of his own robes, caressing his cock through the fabric. Potter didn't have to know he'd been erect for nearly all of this detention; lovely thing about how robes concealed. Potter, who had been in his shirtsleeves since his third attempt at the potion, had no such privacy; Snape could see the tent of his young erection lifting the flies of his trousers--even as Potter's eyes bulged, riveted on Snape's flagrant fondling of his own cock. "Try as I may, I'll not satisfy myself tonight. Perhaps, Potter, I'll have a bedmate who might oblige me--or I might have an antidote for this, for all you know. You, however, have no antidote, nor will you have the freedom of the girls' dormitories at this late hour. Unless you decide your roommates are the accommodating sort, and solicit their assistance. Truly, I should love to see that--Harry Potter, beseeching his best friends for a bit of a wank so that he can get some sleep."

Potter gasped and Snape pounced. He seized the boy's shoulders and shoved his back against the edge of the desk. "Yes, how would it go, hmm? Are your roommates the understanding type? Or are they even better than that? Are they dazzled by your celebrity, my arrogant pup?" He moved his hand over the tented trousers, stroking his palm over the trapped, helpless erection. Potter's struggles were feeble as a ghost. "Would they fall over themselves in their eagerness to touch the great Harry Potter, say that they'd had the pleasure of his cock? Would they use their mouths? Would they thank you, after?"

Potter cried out. If he came, Snape never knew. Not when the flood of wetness suddenly made a dark blotch of Potter's groin, not when the better part of four quarts of diuretic-laced infusion surged from the boy's bladder, running down his trouser legs even faster than they could soak through, pooling around his feet with a pattery splashing, the sound of which almost pushed Snape over the edge into orgasm himself. Potter's shoes--and his--were drenched. So was Snape's hand, but he made no attempt to remove it, caressing the boy's prick through the soaked layers of fabric as Potter pissed himself empty.

A good minute went by, and the splashing was down to a trickle. Snape wondered if Potter had tried to clamp down on the flow. That rarely worked, when such quantities were behind it.

Potter had not tried to get away. A sublime sound came from the boy--whimper and sob and snivel all in one. "Oh, fuck." His voice cracked.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor for using profanity in front of a professor, " said Snape, lifting his hand and wiping it across Potter's face. "And you don't go until you've cleaned this floor." He let Potter wait, long enough that the boy just might wonder if he'd be forced to do it with his tongue. Then he smiled and conceded, "Use your robes."


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