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Feast & Famine

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Years spent half-smothered in childish hands and stuffy coat pockets, squeezed and stroked and held up to huge, curious faces. Peter never knew cold, nor loneliness.

Snape is stick-thin and hateful, but he's warm. Peter clumsily tries to sit down too close to him, to accidentally brush against him in the kitchen. Snape sneers, sidles away, protectively cradling his teacup.

As Peter lies rhythmically rubbing himself in Snape's childhood bed, he thinks about running his hands down his back, face buried in his shoulder, being petted and caressed in return. In his dreams, Snape's hands are not so cruelly hard.