Ficlet: The Puppeteer (Snape/Dumbledore) for Lilith_morgana
lilith_morgana, you know your writing blows me away, and I really loved the Snape/Dumbledore pieces you produced a while back. I hope I haven't wrecked them here for you!
Title: The Puppeteer
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Snape/Dumbledore (yes, you read that right)
Wordcount: approx. 750
Notes: Please note the rating. There is sex herein, and it isn't nice sex, either. If that offends you, then don't click on the link. This was written for the lovely lilith_morgana.
Summary: Severus has bad news for Albus. Again.
Feedback (including concrit) is given chocolate bunnies.
Severus is breathing hard when he enters the study. Face averted, he paces first one way and then the other along the desk, as if unsure where to start. Then he takes a deep breath. "I - I believe I have made an error."
Albus looks up into Severus's pale face, and is instantly drawn back twenty years. That same energy pulses inside him, making him quiver and flex his limbs like a marionette. He looks as if he is desperate to ask something, if only he could work out the correct question.
"Tell me what it is this time, my dear boy," Albus says calmly.
He knows that the situation is serious when the epithet is not protested. Severus speaks quickly, tightly, his fingers clenching as he speaks of Bellatrix and Narcissa. Was there ever anything between him and Narcissa? Albus wonders, intrigued by cracks in his voice as he describes her kneeling before him. Or perhaps Severus is merely as susceptible as the next man to Narcissa's chilly beauty.
"You did the right thing, Severus," he says when the younger man runs out of words. A sigh. "Poor Draco. I dread to think what may happen to him if he fails to please Voldemort."
"So does Narcissa," mutters Severus. "So do I." When he looks up, his expression is all doubt and revulsion, quite different from the face with which he generally meets the world.
"For different reasons, I suspect?"
Severus says nothing. Albus pulls out a benevolent smile. "Draco is the important factor here," he says, suppressing a flicker of irritation. Young Malfoy has made matters extremely complicated, where before they had been merely delicate. And yet, this is why Albus does what he does, is it not? To stop boys like Draco slipping through the cracks? He has already failed Lucius; Severus himself is a constant reminder of the fate of those whom he fails. Besides, Albus reminds himself, it is not Draco who is to blame, but Tom.
He Summons a decanter and pours mead to give himself time to think. Severus gives him an are you mad frown as he accepts the glass, but remains silent. Waiting for instructions, just as he did all those years ago.
"I wish to congratulate you, Severus," Albus says at last, "on your new appointment. You will be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts during the forthcoming academic year."
He holds out his glass, but Severus makes no move to clink his own against it. "You intend to throw me to the wolves, then." His voice is bitter.
Albus reaches with his free hand and grasps Severus's where it lies clenched on the desktop. "I have every confidence in you, my dear boy."
Severus glares at him, then at their hands, and downs his drink. When Albus pulls him closer, around the desk and onto it, he neither protests nor moves of his own accord: the marionette and his puppeteer.
Albus stopped noticing Severus's ugliness long ago. What is he, after all, but an old man? Severus is thin, white, haggard, but so is Albus. From an emotional point of view, Severus has only opened to him once, long ago. But it was enough, and it is what Albus remembers as he presses against him, strokes the chilly flesh of his buttocks, feels him quiver slightly when fingers find the base of his cock.
War is terrible, thinks Albus inadequately as he thrusts.
"I have made an error," Severus said all those years ago.
"Come in and tell me all about it," Albus had replied, as if he'd been waiting. He had been waiting, in fact; he was always waiting, although that this particular boy should choose to confide in him came as a surprise.
He repaid the confidence, not with sanctuary, but with danger, and perhaps - Albus sighs and grips Severus's hips a little more urgently - perhaps it was too much. Too much to ask of anyone except himself.
No sound escapes Severus as he comes, even when Albus collapses awkwardly onto him a moment later, crushing his parchment skin to the quill and unfinished note on the desktop.
Albus's fingers close around the quill. Dear Severus, he imagines writing on the other man's belly, I am sorry. Instead, he parts the hair at the nape of the neck and kisses the sweat there. Severus sidles out, pulling his underwear up and his robes down. He does not turn to face Albus until his clothes are as composed as his features.
"Go to Draco," says Albus, as long ago he said, "Go to Voldemort."
Severus nods and leaves with his head high.