Gilderoy Lockhart still can't believe the other professors aren't clawing at each other to sit next to him at breakfast. Earlier in the term, McGonagall had patted the seat next to her when he came in, but now she averts her eyes when he enters the Great Hall. Just like Minerva to grow shy, Lockhart thinks. Pah. Women.
He takes his usual seat near the middle of the professor's table and helps himself to eggs and bacon. The hall is filled with chattering students, but Lockhart only has eyes for one of them: Harry Potter.
Harry is seated in the middle of the Gryffindor table, and, as usual, he's trading glares with Draco Malfoy across the room. Ah, Harry Potter, Lockhart muses. His only worthy competition in the fame department. Flashing green eyes -- not as brilliant as Lockhart's own blue ones -- and quick grin -- not as winning as Lockhart's own. Still, Harry is a beautiful work-in-progress.
Lockhart, still pouting inwardly at Potter's stubborn refusal of his proffered hand in friendship, watches the boy in question lick his lips -- probably to catch a stray bit of marmalade -- and this simple flash of tongue sends Lockhart off into dreamworld.
Harry knocking at Lockhart's chamber door dressed only in robes of rich scarlet velvet -- with nothing on underneath. Harry sweeping into the room. Lockhart spelling the door locked behind him. Harry turning, green eyes wide, mischievous, and seductive all at once, and asking, "What's your pleasure, Professor?"
Lockhart circling the boy, eyeing him from all angles, and answering, "You are, Harry," earning him a delicious blush from the boy.
Harry, his cheeks flushed, his green eyes blazing in the candlelight, saying, "Kiss me," and Lockhart scooping the boy into his arms and tossing him onto the bed, all the while raining kisses across Harry's cheeks, his forehead, his lips, drawing from Harry delicious whimpers. Lockhart pausing, undressing, reveling in the heat of Harry's gaze. Harry whimpering again as Lockhart pushes the velvet off of Harry's shoulders. Harry moaning, "Yes, Professor. You're perfect."
Lockhart licking his way up Harry's neck to the boy's ear and whispering there what he wants from him. Harry's eyes growing hungry as he eagerly hisses, "Yes."
Harry, eyes ablaze, settling in between Lockhart's thighs. Harry's warm hands sliding up those thighs, Harry's hot mouth closing over the tip of Lockhart's aching cock. Lockhart letting out an earthshaking moan, fighting to keep his eyes open and on Harry, trying not to thrust up into the warm, wet, bliss of Harry's mouth.
Lockhart trying to hold back, hands in Harry's wild dark hair, squealing in pleasure -- and coming coming coming. And Harry swallowing. And licking his lips. And whispering, "You taste good, Professor."
Harry, still kneeling between Lockhart's thighs, looking up at him, all of a sudden shy and innocent and a second-year Gryffindor. Lockhart saying softly, "Harry -- Harry, what do you want?"
Harry's eyes dropping: demure, innocent. "I ... I want ... I want you to ..."
"Let me touch you, Harry."
Harry, innocent eyes hot once more, letting Lockhart's hands go where they would. Lockhart gulping a breath at the shock of the warm silk of Harry's skin -- and at the sound of Harry mewling at each touch.
Lockhart's hands moving lower, slipping up Harry's thigh, cupping and stroking the boy's erection, slower then faster to match Harry's desperate panting. Harry coming with heavy, hitching breaths. Lockhart holding the boy to him while his breathing slows, snuggling close on the soft velvet of Harry's discarded and now-dirty robes.
Harry whispering, "You're brilliant, Professor. Really brilliant."
Lockhart cooing back, "I know."
Lockhart is snapped out of his fantasy
by the scraping of chairs and benches -- time to depart for lessons.
As he sweeps out of the Great Hall, trying to hide his erection, Hermione
Granger catches him with a wink. Not for the first time, Lockhart
wishes it were Harry who had the crush.