You're James Potter, and you're a ladies' man. You tell tall tales, and some of them just eat it up. A grin from you can make any sweet-eyed girl weak in her perfect knees—how could you not notice? You're James Potter. Of course you noticed.

But, you frown to yourself silently sometimes thinking of her. Lily Evans. What in the seven hells has Snape got that you haven't? Absolutely nothing! (Except a rather large . . . .) You shake your head, thinking that maybe some girls are more insane than others. Then you smile. You like that she's insane.

You like it when she yells at you, because you like making her react. You think it's funny to use Snape as a way to get to her—not good for much else, is he? You think that, if you swung "that way" (and, you kind of do...), you might like Snape for some of the same reasons you like Lily. It warms your heart to be yelled at, cursed at especially. You like showing Snivellus his place, beneath you—not like that. Yet. Anyway . . . .

"James, you're one right sick bastard," you say to yourself, and you smile benignly at your reflection in the boys' loo. You kicked out the last three boys who dared come into your chosen loo, even if that last one looked as if he might piss himself—he had a wand, didn't he? He could just do it and clean it up afterward. They should know who you are by now, you're James bloody Potter, and if you need some quiet alone time away from Sirius, who's always bored, or Peter, who's always ready, or Remus, who's always there, that's perfectly natural.

There's some appeal to Snape. There, you said it. Was it the cock that put yours to shame? Probably. You like to frustrate him and watch him stutter. You fantasize—sometimes, but not often—about assaulting him—nothing very harsh, just a harmless grope or so. Ah, Snape. All that cock wasted on his own hand—or maybe Mulciber's. You shudder at that sudden thought. That's twice the ugly, and half the Snape, and probably no stuttering at all. You shake your head. That wouldn't do!

Sirius would sort of understand. Well, he'd get the liking boys part. Sirius had come out to you, after all. It's the secret you guard the most. You really appreciate your friendship with him. Sirius is just . . . just . . . fun. Maybe not sensible, maybe not rational, but fun. Good old Sirius. He's the fuel to your bullying fire, and vice versa (and . . . so is Snape himself).

Lily has to be falling for you, you think. You grin at your reflection again, and mess up your hair just the way you think the girls like it. James Potter. Sexy stud. Sexy quidditch stud. You've seen Snape and Lily on brooms—sometimes they go out flying together on those old school-issue ones, and you try to be out by the pitch when they do. They're nothing special, but they're awfully cute when they're enjoying themselves like that. Sometimes you watch Snape eat, and you love it when there's something he sees that makes his eyes glint in that way his eyes glint when he's being a greedy, nasty old Slytherin. It makes you smile to yourself. That's one crazy bugger. You wish he'd look at you that way.

You suddenly wonder if Snape and Lily have ever touched each other. That . . . well . . . you don't know if you, you know, like that idea much. One part of you is like Hot, oh hot, oh God, that's groovy! and another part is like Get your slimy paws off of my girl, Sniv!

This second answer is probably much more satisfactory. You're not sure. You know Snape likes girls—what gives that prick the right to do so? You're not sure he'd ever be with you objectively, but with you as you and not just another guy? He'd rather have his eyeteeth pulled out, his hair shampooed, and be hit with Cruciatus, wouldn't he? O Snape, you silly little thing, you. You pretend he's either totally straight or just playing hard to get. Sometimes you picture the encounters being rough. Sometimes you picture it all being slow and sensual and you calling him Severus, of all things. Not Snivellus, not while you're balls-deep inside of him, rocking into him so slowly he moans. Not while his large, large cock is twitching between you and he spurts a gallon of come, and looks as if he might die of the pleasure . . . . You reach a hand down to rub at yourself through your robes. Nope, Snape would probably die before he let you touch him. No matter how much he would end up loving it, the pleasure-whore.

Lily, though, that might be easier to accomplish. There's something in Lily that you can tell wears down, some anti-Potter rock, and that eventually she could be yours. You're well-off. You want an heir. You're against male pregnancy, no matter how many people are getting into it these days. The seventies. You roll your eyes. You're more traditional than a lot of kids your age. You like yourself for not giving in to some of the newer notions. You don't think you're silly enough to, mostly. Even if you do like Severus Snape.

Even if you were all for male pregnancy, you're not having a kid with Sniv. Just because you have a crush or whatever doesn't mean Snape's suddenly pretty. God, no! He's sick as ever. Maybe he'd be modest out of his low self-esteem . . . all that cock and still a hatred for his body? You grin to yourself again. "O, Snivellus. You're the sexiest little shit I've ever met," you tell the mirror fondly.

You think of Lily. Lily is, well, the prettiest girl you've ever seen. They say you look for someone who looks like one of your parents. Your dad has bright red hair too, though it isn't the same shade, not quite. Your mom is very thin and has rich, black hair, and dark eyes that can see into your soul. Sniv's dark eyes couldn't see anything your mom could. Lily's grand, and he's just . . . not. She's like (she'd hit you if she heard this term, you think fondly) a trophy wife. Snape's like a dirty little secret. Your dirty little secret. O, Sniv. So silly.

You won't give up on Lily. When have you ever settled for less than the best? There's a determined glint in your hazel eyes, and you like the fierceness it gives your appearance. Forget Snivellus. He can only be yours in your dreams. You sit down on the floor and you reach into your robes. This is so familiar to you. You know your own touch by now, surely. You close your eyes and picture more delicious reactions from Snape, who's always so cold and bitter. You could, given the chance, melt the ice in his heart. You moan softly at this thought.

You turn the sweeter fantasy from before into the darker one. Where you tie Sniv up. He begs you to let him go. Ha. As if! He looks pretty well frightened now. "I just want you, Snape," is what you picture yourself saying, stroking a hand down his cheek. In real life, you stroke a hand down your own, like it's his face and not something as beautiful as what you've got. You know full well that being pretty is something one has no control over—just look at yourself. Did you ever wish yourself handsome? You were born that way. Just like Snape was born with a bloody huge pecker.

In the fantasy, you smack him across the face for begging you to let him go. When you pound into him, it's rough. When you grab him in your hand it's rough too. He bleeds. By the end he's professing love, and demanding to know why you never did this sooner. You smile mischievously.

Then, as your hand speeds up and you really start to pant, you picture Snivellus, angry, angry Snivellus, pounding into you—you've never had such thoughts before, and you gasp and think you might die from how perfect a picture that is. And the lines on the face of your fantasy Snape (probably one of the very, very few with one of those, you think to yourself, and consider that to be a wickedly good thing) soften, and he pauses.

"Why did you stop?" you whisper into the air. That's what you would have said to him. And he would get an odd expression on his face.

"I was hurting you," he'd say, and it would almost seem like a question.

"Keep hurting me," you'd say. "Anything."

"No, like this," he'd say after a long and thoughtful pause. He would make nice and even strokes that would hit that thing that you'd touched in yourself before (oh yes, James Potter had had fingers up his arse . . . and liked it). He would be so big you wouldn't even know how to stop writhing and mewling like a kitten under the Cruciatus. You'd groan and spill yourself, and he'd bite his lip as he had no choice but to follow. He'd collapse on top of you.

"Severus," you'd say, and he wouldn't say anything. You'd clench your arse muscles around him, and he'd whimper.

"Don't."

"Look at me, love."

"Love?" his eyes would meet yours in a jerk of his head. "Lily?"

"She's not you, Sev."

He leans down and presses his lips to yours, desperately. You come—very, very hard. Why did that have to be so perfect? You just made your own heart ache with your stupid fantasy. You sigh.

You ignore the last line fantasy you ever said. If you ignore that he's not Lily, ignore that he exists, maybe you can have that perfect life with that little heir who looked like a pretty boy and a pretty girl.

Snape's glittering eyes are of no consequence, nor his fat, long prick that you long to feel inside you, or in your hand, your mouth . . . . You close your eyes. Snape doesn't exist. And if he continues to be a nuisance, you will hex him. You give up on bullying most people. But, like your pal Remus would say years later, it's just different when it comes to Snape. Snape's always different, always unique. There is only one Snape and he doesn't want you. Fine. He can suffer your pranking, then. The asshole . . . er, the prick . . . oh man. You stand up after a moment. You think of Lily instead. Snape? Who's that? He doesn't exist—you know that better than anyone. You're James Potter.