Ladies and gentlemen a new Snack, voilá
Title: Smoky Memories
Author: Arachnethe2
Fandom: HP
Pairing: SS/SB, SS/HP
Rating: R
Summary: How was the godfather, so is the godson
Disclaimer: All characters of the Harry Potter books are creations of J.K. Rowlins.
The inspiration for this story came from the "Severus is courting Harry" challenge by painless_j and "Your exlover is dead" on padfootparadise
Author's notes: This story was finished before HBP came out.
Happy birthday again painless_j and happy birthday ahead kleio_the_muse
Smoky Memories
When Severus seduced Harry, he thought he didn't care about the boy.
Now he wasn't sure anymore.
To get the boy into his bed was laughably easy. Some appreciative words here, some dropped bits of knowledge there, a little mystery, some charm, and Potter was literally eating out of Snape's hand. One couldn’t help but see that the boy had been craving attention, closeness and intimacy so much, he couldn't recognise the difference between manipulative seduction and real affection.
Potter was seventeen.
Snape didn't care about him for at least during the first few weeks of their affair.
Later - and he always sighed at this thought - later he started to be aware of the possible consequences of his seduction. He still managed to keep his poker face at the Death Eaters meetings and look straight into Dumbledore's eyes, even when he had been fucking the damned boy just five minutes before. If his masters had been suspecting anything, Severus didn't give it any thought. The war was lasting too long already, and the weight of responsibility weighed so heavily upon his shoulders. He grew careless. Foolhardy. And he didn't care.
With the war raging around, his every day risks grew more and more dangerous. Each day felt like balancing on the sharp edge of the sword for Snape; however, he actually didn't remember it ever being different. Seducing this brat was hardly more than yet another warning signal, blinking its unnerving WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! in big red letters which Snape ignored thoroughly.
He knew too well that if it came to terms like love, sex and feelings, people just smirked, proclaiming that hell would freeze over sooner than Snape being capable of exhibiting any such behaviour. Snape cultivated this image himself very carefully over the years. In the end, the mix of cynicism, frigidity and cold indifference built a powerful, almost impenetrable shield, saving him where others failed.
Almost. And this was the crucial point of his whole story: Snape's belief that nothing and no one could ever get under his skin. Which unfortunately excluded a certain flea-bitten mutt and his incredible talent of discovering all of Snape's weaknesses and bringing Snape's carefully-constructed defences to fall like the proverbial house of cards. This didn't happen in any spectacular way. Just Snape knew about it and no one else. People around him were much too absorbed in their own sorrows and pointless mourning of Black's sudden, unexpected death.
They couldn’t fathom that behind his almost impenetrable shield, Severus had been grieving as well.
~*~
Harry came to him tonight, as he did so about every second night, if he wasn't prevented by his friends or some silly happenings in the Gryffindor tower. He opened the door to Severus' quarters, murmuring the password, and shedding off the invisibility cloak, he went straight to the room Severus was in. Usually it was his own private lab or his working room, flooded with badly-written essays.
Severus needed just a brief look to see what the boy had been craving. And not for the first time, he asked himself, how this brat should be supposed to save the world, when literally everything he felt was written across his face?
"Sir, good evening sir."
They never spoke about whether to be on a first name basis, or how to call each other in bed. Severus deliberately avoided it, and Potter never dared to start it.
For that, Severus never let him wait too long. Once he was playing with the idea to order the brat to make tea or clean the potion ingredients from the working table, or simply sit down and work on his homework. Potter had to take his N.E.W.T.s after all, didn't he? Yet his body had its own ideas, so Severus put away the quill, or the ladle, or the book or whatever he had been clutching and reached for the boy.
If he was ever sporting any doubts, then they were blown away long time ago. In contrast to how Harry acted in the classroom, the boy was pliable in bed. He let himself be guided easily, learning fast, agreeing to everything and returning the passion with the eagerness of youth. The latest thing was exactly what Severus couldn't resist. And if there was even a tiny doubt in his mind, a shadow of shame at his own weakness, it was swept away by the first touch of the smooth skin, the pale throat, pink mouth, giving eager, sloppy kisses. The contours of the vertebrae in the middle of Harry's arched back as he was kneeling, sprawled out on all fours, while Severus took him from behind.
But however enervating the sex had been, in the end it didn't bring the yearned-for oblivion .
At night, Severus was still lying awake beside the sleeping boy. Powerless against his own mind, which was aroused by the scent of spent bodies and echo of passionate memories, Severus wished they had never happened. At those hours he stood up and went into his small sitting room, where he spent the night smoking cigarettes one after one, until the very morning.
As Black did once, so many times.
~*~
Snape wasn't sure if he had been grieving and therefore he denied this particular thought to the whole universe, to himself and of course to Black, in whichever hell the bastard had been broiling off his sins. Most of all he was convinced that such an undignified response was beneath him. (And Black didn't deserve it anyway.)
So he remembered; he found himself sneering at Molly who cried into Black's shirt which she found accidentally in the laundry, repeating again and again that she didn't mean what she had said to him. And then her husband took her in his arms, and Lupin folded this sodding piece of flannel and brought it into Black's room.
Of course, the werewolf was keeping his usual calm demeanour all the time since.. But following him secretly, Severus saw Lupin slide down in the dusty corner between Black's bed and the worm-eaten wardrobe, just sitting then there on the floor and staring into nothing.
Snape turned on the spot and left the house in disgust. Apparating to Hogwards' grounds he headed straight to his dungeons. There he lit up the fire in the stove, put a cauldron in it and started working on his newest project. But somehow, in the end he found himself sitting behind his desk, sketching Black's tattoos on a piece of parchment.
He remembered them all. Many times he traced their contours with his tongue, or brushed them with his fingers. The magical rune in Black's chest, which every convict got after entering the gates of Azkaban. The Phoenix on Black's right biceps. The stag, wolf, rat and dog tattooed in the small of his back. The words LOVE and HATE on the knuckles of Black's fingers. LOVE on the left hand, HATE on the right. The left one to make gentle caresses, the right one to punch. During his life, Snape had the honour to meet them both.
When Snape finished the sketching, he reached after the brush and the box with colours he still kept from his slightly more happy days. In one hour, this picture shone on the pale parchment in all the in bright red, shiny gold, emerald green and deep black, hurting Severus' eyes.
He shut his eyes, his hand crumpling the parchment.
Any sane person would now turn and throw these pictures into the fire. But being out of his mind - just temporarily mind you! - Severus decided to keep them all in the end.
And then he started smoking. He had never done it before. Yet somehow his students grew unbearable, their behaviour finally crossing the thin line of his patience. On those occasions Snape showed himself at his worst, yelling at the brats, swiping their cauldrons from the work tables, taking the house points off and giving long and unfair detentions. Thereafter his hands shook, his heart raced and icy sweat was covering his body. Some drinks later managed to calm him down, but the hangovers in the next morning were unpleasant. So he choose the cigarettes, remembering Black telling Lupin or Arthur that smoking always relaxed him.
Snape could still hear Black's voice saying this one and only piece of valid information in the mongrel's utterly wasted life. And Snape still could see Black's yellowish fingers of his HATE-hand fetching a cigarette out of the one of these many half-squashed boxes to put it to his mouth with the careless nonchalance of long experience. Or this thing just hung between his lips every time he appeared in the door of every possible room of his house at the Grimmauld Place- the personification of cocky indifference and bad example to the youth, much to Molly Weasley's anger.
This was what Severus remembered the most: the cigarettes, Black's lips, Black's fingers holding those sodding things, and Black's full ash trays scattered everywhere. Since Severus started smoking., he bought himself one at Hogsmeade. The ashtray was charmed to clean itself after every extinguished fag, but somehow it was lacking the obligatory nihilistic touch.
Only once Black got the idea to offer Severus a cigarette. Probably the post-coital haze lasted a bit longer in his brain. Severus accepted it. He even allowed the mutt to light it up for him. Then he took the first breath, and in the next moment he thought he would cough his lungs inside out. Black just smirked the sort of smirk only he was capable of, then slid into his chair and started his nightly routine in sulking over his past, the universe and similar failures.
Severus left him to it. He dressed himself quickly and departed without saying good-bye or any such thing in farewell. He preferred it to be in this way, for it was just Black he had been shagging and because once, Severus made the mistake of approaching him, with the urge to tell him something sarcastic and nasty. But Black just looked up at him as if Severus would be a complete stranger from another universe. ‘What do you want?' Black's look has been saying. 'You already had your shag. Get out! Leave me alone!'
Severus did.
~*~
Oh yes, and there was this thing with the collar.
Severus kept it in his drawer, just next to the latest pictures of Black's tattoos. Sometimes he wondered what Potter would say if he discovered them. The brat was so damm nosy. But developing a fatalistic attitude, Severus left the drawer causally warded with just an easy spell., should the twit figure it out and deal with it on his own.
The collar didn't belong to Black. Black's one was plain, made from cotton. A cheap Muggle thing, found somewhere in a rubbish bin. Probably Lupin's reunion gift. Or so it seemed. The single white threads stood out and the D-ring was covered in rust, but the way Black wore it visibly in the V of his shirt made Tonks blush, Ginny Weasley turn deep red and her mother grow white around her nostrils.
Snape discovered his collar during the routine visit in Hogsmeade. He kept his shopping time as short as possible. It always contained hardly more than arrive, purchase and disappear. The collar he spotted in behind the glass pane of the shop with magical animals and the things one needed for their keeping.
The next thing Snape remembered was himself standing in the street again, holding the collar in his hand,. No, he didn't steal it. The bill confirmed him that he wasted whole five precious Galleons for this sodding thing. Disgusted with himself, Snape threw the collar away and went home.
Yet the next week he stood in front of the shop again, clutching the boxes with purchases in his arms and cursing himself to the deepest hell. The collar - he could swear - literally called him. It was for sure a bad joke! This thing was surely hexed to... to... whatever bad and nasty things someone wanted to do to Snape.
Finally the battle of will was decided by a group of students crossing the corner of the street. Since Snape preferred to not deal wit these snotty brats even in his spare free time, he decided to enter he shop. Five minutes later he stood in the street again, poorer of five Galleons but a proud owner of a brand -new dog collar. A spare one, as he explained to the puzzled shopkeeper.
In the deepest privacy of his dungeons, Snape dropped his precious purchases of potion ingredients and books onto the table, sank into his chair and pulled the collar out of the pocket of his cloak.
The black leather felt smooth under his fingers. Pliable, bending, nice to the touch. The iron D-ring cool and hard; the same went for the studs and the fastening. Staring at the tiny holes Snape suffered an unexpected flash of memory - a brief blur of white skin, head thrown back and sweaty strands of black hair keeping stuck to the arched throat...
Snape closed his eyes and brought the collar to his mouth. For a moment his hands trembled, for a short minute he inhaled the scent of leather and this all made him hard for the first time since Black's death.
At first it shocked him. And later he was sure that if he would just throw the thing into the drawer with the sketches, he would be able to stop right there! But the scent of the leather and the suddenly vivid memory of Black's trembling body caused Snape to throw caution to the wind. Blindingly he reached for his wand, spelled an additional hole into the collar and unfastened his trousers.
The collar fitted perfectly around his cock and balls. The leather embraced the genitals like Black's hand did once; squeezing them tightly, just right on the edge to pleasant pain, which drew tears in Snape's eyes and a loud moan out of his mouth. He always felt ashamed by the unexpected slip of his own control and hated Black's victorious grin. But now sitting alone in his dungeons there was no one here around to hear him.
Taking a deep breath he looked down at his swollen genitals. His cock was arching proudly, its tip leaking. Snape touched it, then grabbed himself at the base and the pleasure overwhelmed him anew.
He started stroking himself in unhurried tempo, for he still liked the feeling of holding himself in check. Undisciplined recklessness belonged to Black - the dog, the hedonistic mutt, who had been ready for sex, every time Snape reached between his legs.
Yes, like this, bracing himself against the kitchen counter . Or - oh, that's better! - against the nearest wall, his jeans tangled along his feet, his head drooping forward, black hair hiding his face. But not the shallow breath, the whining noises escaping his mouth while Snape's hand had been cradling his balls and his thumb slid into the hole of Black's arse.
Usually Snape liked to lean closer, licking at Black's ear, biting Black's earlobe, making Black beg with his whole body for a hard fuck. The whinging noises got louder, and Snape's own cock seemed to be bursting through the fly of his trousers.
Snape never let Black wait too long. The moment for pulling himself out, spitting in his hand and shoving himself into Black's arse has been always mercifully short.
The rest was a blissful blur of released tension, Black's tight arse, Black's scent of sweat and arousal, Black's shameless pleasure, and Snape's whispered obscenities.
"Ready like a bitch in heat, aren't you? How do you like it, whoring yourself for me? Being split by my cock, greedy for more. You like it, being fucked hard, aren't you? Like this, yessss, like this..."
The white pain of the collar-induced orgasm, was like the most drenching, emptying, oblivion- besides Cruciatus.
Snape cleaned himself up, put the collar into the drawer and lit himself a cigarette.
It felt almost like in those times with Black. Except now, Snape smelled just his own scent on his skin.
~*~
Yes, one day he sneaked upstairs into Black's room and stole his sodding shirt. He was that pathetic.
~*~
They reassured each other about their mutual hatred. They never left out any opportunity to give offence. Even their fierce fucking was a way of fighting each other. The shag was quick, rough, without any unnecessary prelude or useless aftermath. But for Snape, it felt great. A welcomed outlet for his nerves, which were strained more and more with every accomplished mission for the Order. In the end, the sex proved to be far better than Lupin's annoying chocolate or Molly's cuppas of tea. Or even better than all the bottles of the good ol' Ogdens.
At times he felt even thrilled, when Black's back arched beneath him, while he fucked the mutt from behind. These were the incredible, indescribable, unimaginable moments of ecstasy, of triumph, when Snape slammed into Black's arse, being aware that it was indeed *him*! Him - the wretched Snivellus - doing it to Black of all people!
But regardless of how much Snape tried to dominate Black in bed, humiliate him in his own pleasure and weakness of his own body, he never came further than scratching the surface of the man’s psyche.
During sex, Black hid nothing, didn't pretend anything and always returned everything back. Yet thereafter, while Snape had been still lying sprawled between the sheets, Black stood up, sat into his chair and lit up the first of his many cigarettes, losing any interest in Snape and in the rest of the world.
He never looked up as Snape left.
~*~
Just once, just this one time, things were different between them.
It was during one night, when Snape, in a haze of the after-effects of several Cruciates, confused the co-ordinates and apparated at the Grimmauld Place instead at Hogwards. Every inch of his body felt on fire and, not being able to keep his balance, Snape swayed against the door and set off the alarm. In the next moment, he dropped straight into Black's arms and the rest was just a handful of foggy memories about Black's cursing, a potion being poured into Snape's mouth, then the hot water of a shower... the bed he didn't even remember Black placing him in.
He woke up at dawn with Black draped around his back.
Snape didn't turn to look at him, neither did he make any attempt to get out of the bed. Black's body felt warm, Black's arms strong, Black's LOVE-hand just nice, stroking his stomach, hips and... cock.
Black was kissing his shoulders and neck, Black's breath felt hot against Snape's ear.
"Let me... let me, let me, let me..."
Captured in his pleasant confusion, Snap didn't register when the 'Lubricus' spell occurred. From one moment to the next, he found his leg bent up and Black's cock pushing into his arse.
Later, after Black came, Snape regretted his weakness, his inability to shake off Black's body, jump out of the bed, yell at the bastard, hex him, or both. For bottoming for Black was against Snape's rules! It was something, that simply was not done! Regardless of how nice it felt and how perfectly their bodies fitted together. As if Snape's arse had been made for Black's cock. And Black's cock knew too well how to hit Snape's prostate, and Black's hands knew where to find all the sensitive places on Snape's balls and prick and how to make Snape all these loud noises, which caused him to blush deeply afterwards.
Unfortunately the worst was yet to come. Black suddenly switched Snape onto his back and started kissing him as if it would be for the last time in his life. Tender, gently, passionately, then slowly in a way that penetrated all the layers of Snape‘s defences and broke something at the core of Snape‘s self-being.
Freaked out, disgusted with himself, Snape pushed Black aside and before Black could react, Snape grabbed his wand and shoved it under Black‘s nose.
“Don‘t! Move!” He hissed.
Black didn‘t. He watched, rather perplexed, as Snape murmured a dressing-up spell. Leaving the room then, slamming the door behind him.
In this morning, Snape swore to himself that he would never let Black touch him again. And some wicked deity heard his wish.
The next time he had seen Black, the whole house was full of people. The last plans had been made, the last orders given. The men and women were clutching their wands tightly, wearing looks of determination in their faces.
Snape found himself at the centre of the group, yelling at Black, arguing that he was the most incompetent and unsuitable person for a rescue party. And besides, someone had to remain there to report to Albus, so there is no point of joining the group, while there are enough people who are going to risk their lives for the little wretch and his cronies.
The whole time Black stood calm and motionless, although Snape was literally spitting in his face and the people around them were shuffling their feet, growing impatient. Until all of a sudden Black lifted up his hand, cutting off Snape's tirade with a single movement.
“ I‘m responsible for my godson.” He said in this soft voice of an arrogant, pure-blooded Black, who wasn‘t taking orders from anyone.
Then he turned and left.
Forever.
~*~
When Snape seduced Potter, he thought he didn‘t care for the boy.
He just needed something to move onto when the cigarettes, the sketches and the occasional collar-induced wanking weren‘t enough. So the boy seemed to be the next logical move, because through the years he somehow turned out to be less the son of James Potter and more the godson of Sirius Black.
Prowling the corridors of Hogwards, Snape noticed Potter‘s hands caressing his Firebold or Weasley‘s little owl. He couldn't oversee Potter‘s sulking face, or hung shoulders as the boy sat on the shore of the lake staring at the water surface, squeezing a tiny mirror between his palms. Snape recognised it. He remembered too well Potter‘s father possessing exactly such a thing. As Black did.
From time to time, Potter‘s friends joined him, just sitting next to him in silent company. Sometimes their presence was enough for Potter to get up and go back with them to the castle. But mostly he remained there, sitting alone, ignoring his friends, the whole world, the Headmaster watching him from the tower‘s balcony, and Snape from behind a bush, smoking one cigarette after another.
‚Serves you right.‘Snape thought bitterly ‚He died for you, because you had to play the hero yet again. He went out because he was your bloody godfather and you were the one and only reason for him to act responsibly for the first time in his life.
The pile of fags and ashes grew under Snape‘s shoes. The collar formed a bulge in the pocket of his robe, and Black‘s shirt clung to his body like his second skin.
Snape knew that he could be discovered. One day Potter might look back, or the Headmaster bent lower, or the Dark Lord might get carried away by his Cruciatus, and Snape would wake up in the infirmary to the unpleasant fact that now Pomfrey and the rest of the staff now knew about Snape‘s choice of underwear.
In dismay, Snape groped after the next cigarette and found the box empty. He threw it into the grass after the other fags, murmured “Inscendio” and returned back to the castle.
On the way to his dungeons, he told himself for the umpteenth time that he couldn’t continue like this.
~*~
In the end, he seduced Potter. The brat who lived, everybody‘s darling and Black‘s precious godson.
It was as if the universe finally heard Snape's prayers, and things turned perfect for the first time in his life. With Potter, everything seemed to be back again. The hateful looks in the classroom, the snark, cauldrons being swept off the tables, potion ingredients scattered all over, points taken and detentions given in return.
And then the sex in Snape‘s office; over the working table, in the chair or onto the rug. Sometimes they couldn't make it into the privacy of Snape‘s rooms. So Snape shoved Potter against the wall in the nearest possible dark corner and fucked him hard, keeping his hand over Potter‘s mouth. With every thrust, he felt Potter‘s sharp teeth biting his palm. Himself, Snape had to bury his face into the hair in Potter‘s neck, so his ragged breath couldn‘t be heard by the group of Slytherins standing just a few meters away. Or by Filch, prowling the corridors after the curfew.
But the danger of getting caught increased Snape‘s hunger for the boy even more. The messy hair, smooth skin and these wet, sloppy kisses, which got Snape hard again, ready for the second round.
The first time Snape gave Potter the password to his rooms, he spend the evening just hanging idly around, waiting, wiping his sweaty palms against his robes, like a bloody teenager on his first date.
Technically, it was his first date.
And when Potter arrived and shed his invisibility cloak, Snape finally believed that this was the moment, he had been waiting for his whole life.
Later when he was laying in his bed - Potter clutching Snape's ribcage between his knobby knees, riding Snape's cock, Potter's head thrown back in passion - Snape relived his private triumph. Yes, it was *him* - the slimy Snivellus - doing it to Potter of all people! And the part of his sex-besotted mind assured him that right in that moment Black had been watching them as well.
Yet as everything else in Snape's life even this unexpected luck had its own price which had to be paid.
Snape should have known that. Unfortunately, too drunk on his own greediness, he remembered too late.
For if Black was as irresistible as a drug, Potter worked like the sweetest poison, contaminating Snape's body slowly but steadily, finding the crack in the core of Snape's soul, seeping inside and filling the hollow entirely.
Suddenly Snape found himself thinking about Potter in the middle of the day. Or walking through the corridors to catch just a glimpse of him among his fellows. In the Great Hall he had to restrain himself to not stare fixedly at the boy, to remain sitting when Potter arose and left.
Later, in his quarters, when Potter couldn't come for some reason, the evenings felt more than lonely. The hours stretched and Snape found himself almost wishing that the Dark Lord would summon him. At least something would turn his mind towards another direction that didn't contain Potter's mouth, Potter's cock or arse. Or any other part of Potter's body.
Not that he let the brat know. Or at least he believed, Potter didn’t suspect anything - the brainless, reckless, hot - headed idiot that he was.
Yet Snape was more often searching for Potter's mouth during the sex and even after. Snape's caresses grew gentle, the foreplay prolonged and many times he woke up during the night, wrapped around the boy like an ivy.
The first time it happened , he freaked out. He got out of the bed, went to his office and spent the rest of the night there, sitting in the chair, smoking his cigarettes, thinking.
He did it one time, two times, three... In the end, each night. Yes, like Black once did.
Was it already a year and a half since he died?
Snape just needed to close his eyes to see Black's sulking face. The hard lines of the mouth and jaw, eyes unmoving, focused at an imaginary spot somewhere beyond the walls of his room and time.
From the chair Snape has been sitting in, he could see his own bed behind the opened door to his bedroom. The dark hair was peaking out from beneath the white sheets . Potter - sleeping the undisturbed sleep of innocent youth.
Sometimes Snape wondered what would happen if Potter found out about him and Black. Nosy as the boy was, it would be not too difficult to break the wards on the drawer to find the sketches and collar. Or just snooping through his wardrobe to find Black's shirt. Or Snape should just show him the things, literally shoving them under Potter's nose, telling him a bit proudly; a bit spitefully: "See? I fucked your godfather and the bastard broke my heart, shortly before he died to save your wretched little hide."
At least, he would finally tell the truth. To Potter, to himself and perhaps to any uninterested third party, eavesdropping accidentally behind the corner. And Potter would run away, screaming or otherwise horrified, and Snape would light up a cigarette, empty a bottle of Firewhisky, then collapse drunk onto his bed. In the next day, he would wake up with a hangover but feeling relieved.
The result would probably be that Potter would break off with him, which would be far better than Potter leaving him in the way Black did. And all Snape would have in the end would be a Weasley jumper, a torn sock, and pain he had no idea how to deal with.
Or perhaps it would be Snape who would die in the end. It was a wonder that he still wasn't discovered and slowly tortured to death. His Dark Lord would then be informed of all his sordid secrets, regardless of how Snape would try to resist him.
Or perhaps Snape would remain in his role as spy and die in the last battle. Because there is always a last battle.. And it would be up to Potter to live and tell the tale about a teacher who needed someone at his most desperate time.
Regardless where his thoughts carried him, Severus liked the last option the best.
~*~
In Snape's bed, Harry shifted in his sleep.
The pile of ashes onto the tip of the cigarette collapsed and fell on Snape's fingers, burning them. Snape swore and extinguished it, crawling under the sheets and taking Harry in his arms.
The residual cigarette smoke rose up in the air, and for a moment its curves took on the form of Sirius' face.
- The End -
Author: Arachnethe2
Fandom: HP
Pairing: SS/SB, SS/HP
Rating: R
Summary: How was the godfather, so is the godson
Disclaimer: All characters of the Harry Potter books are creations of J.K. Rowlins.
The inspiration for this story came from the "Severus is courting Harry" challenge by painless_j and "Your exlover is dead" on padfootparadise
Author's notes: This story was finished before HBP came out.
Happy birthday again painless_j and happy birthday ahead kleio_the_muse
Smoky Memories
When Severus seduced Harry, he thought he didn't care about the boy.
Now he wasn't sure anymore.
To get the boy into his bed was laughably easy. Some appreciative words here, some dropped bits of knowledge there, a little mystery, some charm, and Potter was literally eating out of Snape's hand. One couldn’t help but see that the boy had been craving attention, closeness and intimacy so much, he couldn't recognise the difference between manipulative seduction and real affection.
Potter was seventeen.
Snape didn't care about him for at least during the first few weeks of their affair.
Later - and he always sighed at this thought - later he started to be aware of the possible consequences of his seduction. He still managed to keep his poker face at the Death Eaters meetings and look straight into Dumbledore's eyes, even when he had been fucking the damned boy just five minutes before. If his masters had been suspecting anything, Severus didn't give it any thought. The war was lasting too long already, and the weight of responsibility weighed so heavily upon his shoulders. He grew careless. Foolhardy. And he didn't care.
With the war raging around, his every day risks grew more and more dangerous. Each day felt like balancing on the sharp edge of the sword for Snape; however, he actually didn't remember it ever being different. Seducing this brat was hardly more than yet another warning signal, blinking its unnerving WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! in big red letters which Snape ignored thoroughly.
He knew too well that if it came to terms like love, sex and feelings, people just smirked, proclaiming that hell would freeze over sooner than Snape being capable of exhibiting any such behaviour. Snape cultivated this image himself very carefully over the years. In the end, the mix of cynicism, frigidity and cold indifference built a powerful, almost impenetrable shield, saving him where others failed.
Almost. And this was the crucial point of his whole story: Snape's belief that nothing and no one could ever get under his skin. Which unfortunately excluded a certain flea-bitten mutt and his incredible talent of discovering all of Snape's weaknesses and bringing Snape's carefully-constructed defences to fall like the proverbial house of cards. This didn't happen in any spectacular way. Just Snape knew about it and no one else. People around him were much too absorbed in their own sorrows and pointless mourning of Black's sudden, unexpected death.
They couldn’t fathom that behind his almost impenetrable shield, Severus had been grieving as well.
~*~
Harry came to him tonight, as he did so about every second night, if he wasn't prevented by his friends or some silly happenings in the Gryffindor tower. He opened the door to Severus' quarters, murmuring the password, and shedding off the invisibility cloak, he went straight to the room Severus was in. Usually it was his own private lab or his working room, flooded with badly-written essays.
Severus needed just a brief look to see what the boy had been craving. And not for the first time, he asked himself, how this brat should be supposed to save the world, when literally everything he felt was written across his face?
"Sir, good evening sir."
They never spoke about whether to be on a first name basis, or how to call each other in bed. Severus deliberately avoided it, and Potter never dared to start it.
For that, Severus never let him wait too long. Once he was playing with the idea to order the brat to make tea or clean the potion ingredients from the working table, or simply sit down and work on his homework. Potter had to take his N.E.W.T.s after all, didn't he? Yet his body had its own ideas, so Severus put away the quill, or the ladle, or the book or whatever he had been clutching and reached for the boy.
If he was ever sporting any doubts, then they were blown away long time ago. In contrast to how Harry acted in the classroom, the boy was pliable in bed. He let himself be guided easily, learning fast, agreeing to everything and returning the passion with the eagerness of youth. The latest thing was exactly what Severus couldn't resist. And if there was even a tiny doubt in his mind, a shadow of shame at his own weakness, it was swept away by the first touch of the smooth skin, the pale throat, pink mouth, giving eager, sloppy kisses. The contours of the vertebrae in the middle of Harry's arched back as he was kneeling, sprawled out on all fours, while Severus took him from behind.
But however enervating the sex had been, in the end it didn't bring the yearned-for oblivion .
At night, Severus was still lying awake beside the sleeping boy. Powerless against his own mind, which was aroused by the scent of spent bodies and echo of passionate memories, Severus wished they had never happened. At those hours he stood up and went into his small sitting room, where he spent the night smoking cigarettes one after one, until the very morning.
As Black did once, so many times.
~*~
Snape wasn't sure if he had been grieving and therefore he denied this particular thought to the whole universe, to himself and of course to Black, in whichever hell the bastard had been broiling off his sins. Most of all he was convinced that such an undignified response was beneath him. (And Black didn't deserve it anyway.)
So he remembered; he found himself sneering at Molly who cried into Black's shirt which she found accidentally in the laundry, repeating again and again that she didn't mean what she had said to him. And then her husband took her in his arms, and Lupin folded this sodding piece of flannel and brought it into Black's room.
Of course, the werewolf was keeping his usual calm demeanour all the time since.. But following him secretly, Severus saw Lupin slide down in the dusty corner between Black's bed and the worm-eaten wardrobe, just sitting then there on the floor and staring into nothing.
Snape turned on the spot and left the house in disgust. Apparating to Hogwards' grounds he headed straight to his dungeons. There he lit up the fire in the stove, put a cauldron in it and started working on his newest project. But somehow, in the end he found himself sitting behind his desk, sketching Black's tattoos on a piece of parchment.
He remembered them all. Many times he traced their contours with his tongue, or brushed them with his fingers. The magical rune in Black's chest, which every convict got after entering the gates of Azkaban. The Phoenix on Black's right biceps. The stag, wolf, rat and dog tattooed in the small of his back. The words LOVE and HATE on the knuckles of Black's fingers. LOVE on the left hand, HATE on the right. The left one to make gentle caresses, the right one to punch. During his life, Snape had the honour to meet them both.
When Snape finished the sketching, he reached after the brush and the box with colours he still kept from his slightly more happy days. In one hour, this picture shone on the pale parchment in all the in bright red, shiny gold, emerald green and deep black, hurting Severus' eyes.
He shut his eyes, his hand crumpling the parchment.
Any sane person would now turn and throw these pictures into the fire. But being out of his mind - just temporarily mind you! - Severus decided to keep them all in the end.
And then he started smoking. He had never done it before. Yet somehow his students grew unbearable, their behaviour finally crossing the thin line of his patience. On those occasions Snape showed himself at his worst, yelling at the brats, swiping their cauldrons from the work tables, taking the house points off and giving long and unfair detentions. Thereafter his hands shook, his heart raced and icy sweat was covering his body. Some drinks later managed to calm him down, but the hangovers in the next morning were unpleasant. So he choose the cigarettes, remembering Black telling Lupin or Arthur that smoking always relaxed him.
Snape could still hear Black's voice saying this one and only piece of valid information in the mongrel's utterly wasted life. And Snape still could see Black's yellowish fingers of his HATE-hand fetching a cigarette out of the one of these many half-squashed boxes to put it to his mouth with the careless nonchalance of long experience. Or this thing just hung between his lips every time he appeared in the door of every possible room of his house at the Grimmauld Place- the personification of cocky indifference and bad example to the youth, much to Molly Weasley's anger.
This was what Severus remembered the most: the cigarettes, Black's lips, Black's fingers holding those sodding things, and Black's full ash trays scattered everywhere. Since Severus started smoking., he bought himself one at Hogsmeade. The ashtray was charmed to clean itself after every extinguished fag, but somehow it was lacking the obligatory nihilistic touch.
Only once Black got the idea to offer Severus a cigarette. Probably the post-coital haze lasted a bit longer in his brain. Severus accepted it. He even allowed the mutt to light it up for him. Then he took the first breath, and in the next moment he thought he would cough his lungs inside out. Black just smirked the sort of smirk only he was capable of, then slid into his chair and started his nightly routine in sulking over his past, the universe and similar failures.
Severus left him to it. He dressed himself quickly and departed without saying good-bye or any such thing in farewell. He preferred it to be in this way, for it was just Black he had been shagging and because once, Severus made the mistake of approaching him, with the urge to tell him something sarcastic and nasty. But Black just looked up at him as if Severus would be a complete stranger from another universe. ‘What do you want?' Black's look has been saying. 'You already had your shag. Get out! Leave me alone!'
Severus did.
~*~
Oh yes, and there was this thing with the collar.
Severus kept it in his drawer, just next to the latest pictures of Black's tattoos. Sometimes he wondered what Potter would say if he discovered them. The brat was so damm nosy. But developing a fatalistic attitude, Severus left the drawer causally warded with just an easy spell., should the twit figure it out and deal with it on his own.
The collar didn't belong to Black. Black's one was plain, made from cotton. A cheap Muggle thing, found somewhere in a rubbish bin. Probably Lupin's reunion gift. Or so it seemed. The single white threads stood out and the D-ring was covered in rust, but the way Black wore it visibly in the V of his shirt made Tonks blush, Ginny Weasley turn deep red and her mother grow white around her nostrils.
Snape discovered his collar during the routine visit in Hogsmeade. He kept his shopping time as short as possible. It always contained hardly more than arrive, purchase and disappear. The collar he spotted in behind the glass pane of the shop with magical animals and the things one needed for their keeping.
The next thing Snape remembered was himself standing in the street again, holding the collar in his hand,. No, he didn't steal it. The bill confirmed him that he wasted whole five precious Galleons for this sodding thing. Disgusted with himself, Snape threw the collar away and went home.
Yet the next week he stood in front of the shop again, clutching the boxes with purchases in his arms and cursing himself to the deepest hell. The collar - he could swear - literally called him. It was for sure a bad joke! This thing was surely hexed to... to... whatever bad and nasty things someone wanted to do to Snape.
Finally the battle of will was decided by a group of students crossing the corner of the street. Since Snape preferred to not deal wit these snotty brats even in his spare free time, he decided to enter he shop. Five minutes later he stood in the street again, poorer of five Galleons but a proud owner of a brand -new dog collar. A spare one, as he explained to the puzzled shopkeeper.
In the deepest privacy of his dungeons, Snape dropped his precious purchases of potion ingredients and books onto the table, sank into his chair and pulled the collar out of the pocket of his cloak.
The black leather felt smooth under his fingers. Pliable, bending, nice to the touch. The iron D-ring cool and hard; the same went for the studs and the fastening. Staring at the tiny holes Snape suffered an unexpected flash of memory - a brief blur of white skin, head thrown back and sweaty strands of black hair keeping stuck to the arched throat...
Snape closed his eyes and brought the collar to his mouth. For a moment his hands trembled, for a short minute he inhaled the scent of leather and this all made him hard for the first time since Black's death.
At first it shocked him. And later he was sure that if he would just throw the thing into the drawer with the sketches, he would be able to stop right there! But the scent of the leather and the suddenly vivid memory of Black's trembling body caused Snape to throw caution to the wind. Blindingly he reached for his wand, spelled an additional hole into the collar and unfastened his trousers.
The collar fitted perfectly around his cock and balls. The leather embraced the genitals like Black's hand did once; squeezing them tightly, just right on the edge to pleasant pain, which drew tears in Snape's eyes and a loud moan out of his mouth. He always felt ashamed by the unexpected slip of his own control and hated Black's victorious grin. But now sitting alone in his dungeons there was no one here around to hear him.
Taking a deep breath he looked down at his swollen genitals. His cock was arching proudly, its tip leaking. Snape touched it, then grabbed himself at the base and the pleasure overwhelmed him anew.
He started stroking himself in unhurried tempo, for he still liked the feeling of holding himself in check. Undisciplined recklessness belonged to Black - the dog, the hedonistic mutt, who had been ready for sex, every time Snape reached between his legs.
Yes, like this, bracing himself against the kitchen counter . Or - oh, that's better! - against the nearest wall, his jeans tangled along his feet, his head drooping forward, black hair hiding his face. But not the shallow breath, the whining noises escaping his mouth while Snape's hand had been cradling his balls and his thumb slid into the hole of Black's arse.
Usually Snape liked to lean closer, licking at Black's ear, biting Black's earlobe, making Black beg with his whole body for a hard fuck. The whinging noises got louder, and Snape's own cock seemed to be bursting through the fly of his trousers.
Snape never let Black wait too long. The moment for pulling himself out, spitting in his hand and shoving himself into Black's arse has been always mercifully short.
The rest was a blissful blur of released tension, Black's tight arse, Black's scent of sweat and arousal, Black's shameless pleasure, and Snape's whispered obscenities.
"Ready like a bitch in heat, aren't you? How do you like it, whoring yourself for me? Being split by my cock, greedy for more. You like it, being fucked hard, aren't you? Like this, yessss, like this..."
The white pain of the collar-induced orgasm, was like the most drenching, emptying, oblivion- besides Cruciatus.
Snape cleaned himself up, put the collar into the drawer and lit himself a cigarette.
It felt almost like in those times with Black. Except now, Snape smelled just his own scent on his skin.
~*~
Yes, one day he sneaked upstairs into Black's room and stole his sodding shirt. He was that pathetic.
~*~
They reassured each other about their mutual hatred. They never left out any opportunity to give offence. Even their fierce fucking was a way of fighting each other. The shag was quick, rough, without any unnecessary prelude or useless aftermath. But for Snape, it felt great. A welcomed outlet for his nerves, which were strained more and more with every accomplished mission for the Order. In the end, the sex proved to be far better than Lupin's annoying chocolate or Molly's cuppas of tea. Or even better than all the bottles of the good ol' Ogdens.
At times he felt even thrilled, when Black's back arched beneath him, while he fucked the mutt from behind. These were the incredible, indescribable, unimaginable moments of ecstasy, of triumph, when Snape slammed into Black's arse, being aware that it was indeed *him*! Him - the wretched Snivellus - doing it to Black of all people!
But regardless of how much Snape tried to dominate Black in bed, humiliate him in his own pleasure and weakness of his own body, he never came further than scratching the surface of the man’s psyche.
During sex, Black hid nothing, didn't pretend anything and always returned everything back. Yet thereafter, while Snape had been still lying sprawled between the sheets, Black stood up, sat into his chair and lit up the first of his many cigarettes, losing any interest in Snape and in the rest of the world.
He never looked up as Snape left.
~*~
Just once, just this one time, things were different between them.
It was during one night, when Snape, in a haze of the after-effects of several Cruciates, confused the co-ordinates and apparated at the Grimmauld Place instead at Hogwards. Every inch of his body felt on fire and, not being able to keep his balance, Snape swayed against the door and set off the alarm. In the next moment, he dropped straight into Black's arms and the rest was just a handful of foggy memories about Black's cursing, a potion being poured into Snape's mouth, then the hot water of a shower... the bed he didn't even remember Black placing him in.
He woke up at dawn with Black draped around his back.
Snape didn't turn to look at him, neither did he make any attempt to get out of the bed. Black's body felt warm, Black's arms strong, Black's LOVE-hand just nice, stroking his stomach, hips and... cock.
Black was kissing his shoulders and neck, Black's breath felt hot against Snape's ear.
"Let me... let me, let me, let me..."
Captured in his pleasant confusion, Snap didn't register when the 'Lubricus' spell occurred. From one moment to the next, he found his leg bent up and Black's cock pushing into his arse.
Later, after Black came, Snape regretted his weakness, his inability to shake off Black's body, jump out of the bed, yell at the bastard, hex him, or both. For bottoming for Black was against Snape's rules! It was something, that simply was not done! Regardless of how nice it felt and how perfectly their bodies fitted together. As if Snape's arse had been made for Black's cock. And Black's cock knew too well how to hit Snape's prostate, and Black's hands knew where to find all the sensitive places on Snape's balls and prick and how to make Snape all these loud noises, which caused him to blush deeply afterwards.
Unfortunately the worst was yet to come. Black suddenly switched Snape onto his back and started kissing him as if it would be for the last time in his life. Tender, gently, passionately, then slowly in a way that penetrated all the layers of Snape‘s defences and broke something at the core of Snape‘s self-being.
Freaked out, disgusted with himself, Snape pushed Black aside and before Black could react, Snape grabbed his wand and shoved it under Black‘s nose.
“Don‘t! Move!” He hissed.
Black didn‘t. He watched, rather perplexed, as Snape murmured a dressing-up spell. Leaving the room then, slamming the door behind him.
In this morning, Snape swore to himself that he would never let Black touch him again. And some wicked deity heard his wish.
The next time he had seen Black, the whole house was full of people. The last plans had been made, the last orders given. The men and women were clutching their wands tightly, wearing looks of determination in their faces.
Snape found himself at the centre of the group, yelling at Black, arguing that he was the most incompetent and unsuitable person for a rescue party. And besides, someone had to remain there to report to Albus, so there is no point of joining the group, while there are enough people who are going to risk their lives for the little wretch and his cronies.
The whole time Black stood calm and motionless, although Snape was literally spitting in his face and the people around them were shuffling their feet, growing impatient. Until all of a sudden Black lifted up his hand, cutting off Snape's tirade with a single movement.
“ I‘m responsible for my godson.” He said in this soft voice of an arrogant, pure-blooded Black, who wasn‘t taking orders from anyone.
Then he turned and left.
Forever.
~*~
When Snape seduced Potter, he thought he didn‘t care for the boy.
He just needed something to move onto when the cigarettes, the sketches and the occasional collar-induced wanking weren‘t enough. So the boy seemed to be the next logical move, because through the years he somehow turned out to be less the son of James Potter and more the godson of Sirius Black.
Prowling the corridors of Hogwards, Snape noticed Potter‘s hands caressing his Firebold or Weasley‘s little owl. He couldn't oversee Potter‘s sulking face, or hung shoulders as the boy sat on the shore of the lake staring at the water surface, squeezing a tiny mirror between his palms. Snape recognised it. He remembered too well Potter‘s father possessing exactly such a thing. As Black did.
From time to time, Potter‘s friends joined him, just sitting next to him in silent company. Sometimes their presence was enough for Potter to get up and go back with them to the castle. But mostly he remained there, sitting alone, ignoring his friends, the whole world, the Headmaster watching him from the tower‘s balcony, and Snape from behind a bush, smoking one cigarette after another.
‚Serves you right.‘Snape thought bitterly ‚He died for you, because you had to play the hero yet again. He went out because he was your bloody godfather and you were the one and only reason for him to act responsibly for the first time in his life.
The pile of fags and ashes grew under Snape‘s shoes. The collar formed a bulge in the pocket of his robe, and Black‘s shirt clung to his body like his second skin.
Snape knew that he could be discovered. One day Potter might look back, or the Headmaster bent lower, or the Dark Lord might get carried away by his Cruciatus, and Snape would wake up in the infirmary to the unpleasant fact that now Pomfrey and the rest of the staff now knew about Snape‘s choice of underwear.
In dismay, Snape groped after the next cigarette and found the box empty. He threw it into the grass after the other fags, murmured “Inscendio” and returned back to the castle.
On the way to his dungeons, he told himself for the umpteenth time that he couldn’t continue like this.
~*~
In the end, he seduced Potter. The brat who lived, everybody‘s darling and Black‘s precious godson.
It was as if the universe finally heard Snape's prayers, and things turned perfect for the first time in his life. With Potter, everything seemed to be back again. The hateful looks in the classroom, the snark, cauldrons being swept off the tables, potion ingredients scattered all over, points taken and detentions given in return.
And then the sex in Snape‘s office; over the working table, in the chair or onto the rug. Sometimes they couldn't make it into the privacy of Snape‘s rooms. So Snape shoved Potter against the wall in the nearest possible dark corner and fucked him hard, keeping his hand over Potter‘s mouth. With every thrust, he felt Potter‘s sharp teeth biting his palm. Himself, Snape had to bury his face into the hair in Potter‘s neck, so his ragged breath couldn‘t be heard by the group of Slytherins standing just a few meters away. Or by Filch, prowling the corridors after the curfew.
But the danger of getting caught increased Snape‘s hunger for the boy even more. The messy hair, smooth skin and these wet, sloppy kisses, which got Snape hard again, ready for the second round.
The first time Snape gave Potter the password to his rooms, he spend the evening just hanging idly around, waiting, wiping his sweaty palms against his robes, like a bloody teenager on his first date.
Technically, it was his first date.
And when Potter arrived and shed his invisibility cloak, Snape finally believed that this was the moment, he had been waiting for his whole life.
Later when he was laying in his bed - Potter clutching Snape's ribcage between his knobby knees, riding Snape's cock, Potter's head thrown back in passion - Snape relived his private triumph. Yes, it was *him* - the slimy Snivellus - doing it to Potter of all people! And the part of his sex-besotted mind assured him that right in that moment Black had been watching them as well.
Yet as everything else in Snape's life even this unexpected luck had its own price which had to be paid.
Snape should have known that. Unfortunately, too drunk on his own greediness, he remembered too late.
For if Black was as irresistible as a drug, Potter worked like the sweetest poison, contaminating Snape's body slowly but steadily, finding the crack in the core of Snape's soul, seeping inside and filling the hollow entirely.
Suddenly Snape found himself thinking about Potter in the middle of the day. Or walking through the corridors to catch just a glimpse of him among his fellows. In the Great Hall he had to restrain himself to not stare fixedly at the boy, to remain sitting when Potter arose and left.
Later, in his quarters, when Potter couldn't come for some reason, the evenings felt more than lonely. The hours stretched and Snape found himself almost wishing that the Dark Lord would summon him. At least something would turn his mind towards another direction that didn't contain Potter's mouth, Potter's cock or arse. Or any other part of Potter's body.
Not that he let the brat know. Or at least he believed, Potter didn’t suspect anything - the brainless, reckless, hot - headed idiot that he was.
Yet Snape was more often searching for Potter's mouth during the sex and even after. Snape's caresses grew gentle, the foreplay prolonged and many times he woke up during the night, wrapped around the boy like an ivy.
The first time it happened , he freaked out. He got out of the bed, went to his office and spent the rest of the night there, sitting in the chair, smoking his cigarettes, thinking.
He did it one time, two times, three... In the end, each night. Yes, like Black once did.
Was it already a year and a half since he died?
Snape just needed to close his eyes to see Black's sulking face. The hard lines of the mouth and jaw, eyes unmoving, focused at an imaginary spot somewhere beyond the walls of his room and time.
From the chair Snape has been sitting in, he could see his own bed behind the opened door to his bedroom. The dark hair was peaking out from beneath the white sheets . Potter - sleeping the undisturbed sleep of innocent youth.
Sometimes Snape wondered what would happen if Potter found out about him and Black. Nosy as the boy was, it would be not too difficult to break the wards on the drawer to find the sketches and collar. Or just snooping through his wardrobe to find Black's shirt. Or Snape should just show him the things, literally shoving them under Potter's nose, telling him a bit proudly; a bit spitefully: "See? I fucked your godfather and the bastard broke my heart, shortly before he died to save your wretched little hide."
At least, he would finally tell the truth. To Potter, to himself and perhaps to any uninterested third party, eavesdropping accidentally behind the corner. And Potter would run away, screaming or otherwise horrified, and Snape would light up a cigarette, empty a bottle of Firewhisky, then collapse drunk onto his bed. In the next day, he would wake up with a hangover but feeling relieved.
The result would probably be that Potter would break off with him, which would be far better than Potter leaving him in the way Black did. And all Snape would have in the end would be a Weasley jumper, a torn sock, and pain he had no idea how to deal with.
Or perhaps it would be Snape who would die in the end. It was a wonder that he still wasn't discovered and slowly tortured to death. His Dark Lord would then be informed of all his sordid secrets, regardless of how Snape would try to resist him.
Or perhaps Snape would remain in his role as spy and die in the last battle. Because there is always a last battle.. And it would be up to Potter to live and tell the tale about a teacher who needed someone at his most desperate time.
Regardless where his thoughts carried him, Severus liked the last option the best.
~*~
In Snape's bed, Harry shifted in his sleep.
The pile of ashes onto the tip of the cigarette collapsed and fell on Snape's fingers, burning them. Snape swore and extinguished it, crawling under the sheets and taking Harry in his arms.
The residual cigarette smoke rose up in the air, and for a moment its curves took on the form of Sirius' face.
- The End -