Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7889881.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J.K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Sirius_Black/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Severus_Snape, Remus_Lupin, Sirius_Black, James_Potter, Other_-_Character
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Drama, BDSM
  Collections:
      Ink_Stained_Fingers
  Stats:
      Published: 2005-07-01 Chapters: 9/9 Words: 113247
****** The Miseducation of Severus Snape ******
by Not Exactly Dickens [archived by ISF_Archivist]
Summary
     Sirius Black is obsessed. Severus Snape is confused. Five months that
     will change their lives
Notes
     This story was originally archived at Ink_Stained_Fingers, which was
     created in 2002 as a home for Harry Potter slash fiction. To preserve
     the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an
     Open Doors-approved project in January 2015. We e-mailed all authors
     about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached
     everyone. If you are (or know) this author or artist, please contact
     me using the e-mail address at the Ink_Stained_Fingers_collection
     profile.
     Author's notes: My spells are a joke—I know it, and I apologize in
     advance. For you sticklers, I have also taken appalling poetic
     license with the cycles of the moon, and I gave the kiddies at
     Hogwarts a spring break. They didn’t seem to mind.
***** The Miseducation of Severus Snape *****
The Miseducation of Severus Snape




  Chapter One - Obsession

  Sunday, 26 December, 1976 - Boxing Day

  Sirius Black was an uncomplicated young man.

  This was not to say that he was stupid, or shallow, or even simple. He just
  didn't believe in overanalyzing things. What is, is and what isn't, isn't and to
  hell with all the questions was Sirius Black's motto, and it had served him
  quite well over his young life. He was, even at sixteen, remarkably accepting of
  that which he could neither change nor explain.

  Which was fortunate; otherwise, this thing with Snape - this bizarre, out-of-
  nowhere, I-hate-you-like-poison-but-I-want-to-shag-you-rotten thing that had
  sprung up since the end of last term - would have been driving him mental.

  Not that he wasn't a bit...bemused. Who wouldn't be? It was Snape, for Merlin's
  sake, Severus-fucking-Snape, Slytherin, Dark Arts poster child, and all-around
  class creep. Wicked smart, pureblood but dirt poor, and not overmuch in the
  looks department. Oh, Sirius was willing to admit - to himself - that Snape
  wasn't quite as gouge-out-your-eyes ugly as the Marauders liked to tell him he
  was, but he was no oil painting, either. He was rail-thin and corpse-pale, his
  robes were obvious secondhand trash, and he washed his hair about as often as
  Sirius had a second thought. He had a twitchy walk and a vicious temper and a
  filthy mouth, he was sullen and sneaky and nosy and nasty, and just the fact
  that Sirius Black knew all of this and still wanted to make him squeal like a
  kneazel was enough to give even an uncomplicated boy pause.

  Though not for long. With an equanimity that surprised even him (and a lack of
  resistance he found almost embarrassing), Sirius had come to terms with his new
  feelings. Or perhaps it was not so surprising; perhaps being a Black really had
  prepared him for anything. After all, compared to being the only human being in
  a long line of hex-happy, elitist assholes, a sudden urge to screw the school
  geek was really no big deal.

  And it wasn't as if Snape had nothing to offer. He did have a certain...
  presence? Aura? Whatever it was, it was compelling. It was almost a scent to the
  Padfoot in Sirius, a heady mix of please-don't-hurt-me and go-fuck-yourself,
  always at war, just barely contained. Nor was he entirely lacking in physical
  charms. He had gorgeous eyes, piercing and black. He had nice lips, thin and red
  and bowed like a doll's. He had the strong, slender hands of an artist and a
  voice that had deepened over the last year or so to a silken, mahogany sheen. He
  had a truly massive cock and an ass so tight it was amazing he didn't squeak
  when he walked.

  Sirius had always been an ass man; it pleased him to discover that the gender of
  the ass apparently didn't matter.

  And it was a discovery he owed to James, James and his singularly malicious
  sense of humor.

  Last June, after O.W.L.S. When James had exposed Snape, quite literally and very
  publicly, for Sirius's amusement - that had been the turning point, the trigger
  on this whole mad obsession. Because it hadn't been just for Sirius's amusement,
  had it? Oh, no. James was a bighead and James was a prat, but James wasn't
  stupid. Or blind. He knew what Sirius was about. James was also straight as a
  string, but he was always willing to help out a friend in need...and if Sirius
  needed to see exactly what was stashed under Snape's rather meager selection of
  threadbare black robes, well, what were friends for?

  Last June.

  ********************************************************************************

  "I have to say one thing for the little greaseball, though," James said later
  that night in the Common Room. "He's hung like a fucking hippogriff." He looked
  at Sirius, a sly smile crinkling his eyes. "You say so, Paddy?"

  Sirius tried to bite back his own grin, without much success. He would most
  definitely say so, that grin said...though maybe not in front of Peter and
  Remus. "Well, you know what they say--"

  "Don't you say it, Paddy," James half-threatened, half-groaned.

  "--about blokes with big noses."

  They shared an easy, aren't-we-men-of-the-world laugh. Peter looked up from the
  chess game he was losing rather spectacularly to Remus, his expression eager and
  a bit confused. "What do they say about blokes with big noses?"

  Sirius rolled his eyes. Gods, leave it to Peter. "Don't be thick."

  "I'm not being th--"

  "Thick as a brick."

  "I'm not, I just don't know--"

  "Dumb as a stump?" James offered.

  "Just tell me what they say!" Peter was getting flustered. Whiny, with that
  shrill little edge to his voice that always made Sirius itch to slap him.

  "Supposedly, the size of a man's nose is directly proportionate to the size of
  his penis," Remus interjected quietly. He didn't sound particularly interested,
  nor did he even look up from the board, though by the tightening of his jaw,
  Sirius guessed he was still pretty upset with them. "There's a Muggle saying
  about it...some kind of joke, I think..."

  "'Big nose, big hose.'" James waggled his eyebrows at Sirius, a "go-for-it"
  gesture if Sirius had ever seen one. "Looks like it's no joke, eh, Padfoot? You
  dog, you."

  They laughed again, and Peter looked at them curiously, the shared subtext too
  much for even him to miss. "What's so funny?"

  Still chuckling, James waved a hand. "Nothing you'd...Nothing, Peter. Forget
  it."

  "Oh, come on," Peter wheedled. "You can tell us. What are you two getting up to
  now?"

  More brayed laughter was the only answer.

  "It's your move, Peter," Remus said.

  Peter ignored him. His eyes were narrowed, moving between James and Sirius with
  an avid, almost hungry gleam. "Oh, I get it. You're planning another joke on
  Snivellus, aren't you? Oh, man, that's great! Boy, I hate that creepy bastard,
  don't you? Bloody Slytherins. What are you gonna do to him this time?"

  Wouldn't you just shit if you knew, Sirius thought. "Wormy, what are you, deaf?
  James told you, it's nothing. Go back to your game."

  "Doesn't look like nothing," he pouted. "Looks like you're planning something.
  Something funny."

  Sirius gritted his teeth. First the whine, now the pout. What a vast repertoire
  Wormtail had. "For Merlin's sake, Wormy, will you give it a rest? Moony says
  it's your move, so shut up and move."

  Peter flushed, ducked his head, and snarled at a bishop, which promptly obeyed
  and was just as promptly clobbered by Remus's queen. Peter glared at it. "Don't
  know why you can't let me and Remus in on it," he mumbled, brushing bishop
  crumbs from his lap. "We're your mates, too, you know."

  Sirius looked at James. James looked at Sirius. Sirius sighed.

  "I'm planning to fuck him, Wormy." Peter goggled - hell, even Remus looked up at
  that - and Sirius felt a stab of small, mean pleasure. "More than once, if I can
  manage it. I'm gonna fuck him and then fuck him again and then fuck him one more
  time, just for general jollies, and if you're nice to me, I'll give ol' Snivvy a
  right big old hump from you too, just to 'let you in on it,' and now that you
  know all this, will you please stop the bloody whining and shut up and leave us
  alone?"

  Peter was ashen. One corner of his mouth twitched. He made several attempts at
  speaking before one finally worked. "That's not even a bit funny, Sirius."

  "Wasn't meant to be funny, Worm. Was meant to shut you up."

  "Then it's not true." Relieved.

  "What, that I want to shag Snape? Of course it's true." Sirius's voice was
  perfectly reasonable. "Why else would I care that he's got a great big prick? I
  don't go on about pricks as a rule, you know. I don't just walk into the Great
  Hall with 'Hey, everyone, James isn't cut and Moony's is bent and Peter's a
  pathetic little needle-dick,' now, do I?"

  Peter blushed, but held his ground. "But that's...that's disgusting."

  "No. Sad, maybe, but it's not like you can help it."

  "Help--?" Peter blinked. "Help what?"

  "Being hung like a house elf."

  Peter blushed harder. "That's not what I'm talking about! I'm talking
  about...about Snape. You and Snape. Blimey, the whole idea...I know you're
  joking about this, Sirius. You must be joking, 'cause you like girls, I know you
  like girls-"

  "Love girls," Sirius agreed. "Love, love, love 'em. But I think I want to give
  blokes a shot. Broaden my horizons and all that." He grinned, that big,
  careless, dazzling grin that dropped the birds on their backs like dominoes.
  "Hey, a hole's a hole, right, mate?"

  Peter looked almost ill. "You're saying you're a...a poof."

  Sirius shrugged. "Looks like it."

  "A poof who wants to...who wants Snape."

  He seemed torn between bewilderment and utter revulsion, and Sirius again had
  the urge to slap him. Or to laugh in his face. So nancy little Peter Pettigrew,
  the ponciest, prissiest fucking mama's boy Sirius had ever known, didn't like
  "poofs," eh? The sleazy little shit would probably be suffering from permanent,
  wank-induced blindness by the time he graduated, and he had enough back issues
  of Wet & Wild Witches to choke a mountain troll, but apparently his broad-
  mindedness did not encompass homosexuality. What a nauseating little hypocrite.

  Nor did he seem to think much of Sirius's taste in men, and that was really
  pushing it. It was one thing for Sirius or even James to sneer at Snape, but,
  Wormtail? Bleeding Christ! Snape on his greasiest, twitchiest, most cadaverous
  day was ten times sexier than Wormtail would ever be - Wormtail, who was soft
  and pink and somehow floppy, with a head like an overripe peach. "Yeah, why not?
  He's got his good points."

  "Sure," James said. "Like, he doesn't need a Locating Charm every time he takes
  a piss."

  This time Peter blushed to the roots of his fuzzy blond hair, and James and
  Sirius rocked with laughter.

  "Stop it, James." Remus's voice was soft but firm. "Leave him alone."

  James shot him a look. "You say something, Moony?"

  "You heard me. Leave him alone. Haven't you had enough fun for today?"

  "Oh, I don't know." James's voice was pleasant, his smile less so. "I'm of a
  mind that you can never have enough fun."

  "Yes, I know," Remus agreed sarcastically. "And you're such a fun-loving fellow,
  aren't you, James?"

  The smile faded. "You know, you've been chewing on something all day, Remus, and
  you've been a drag all day. A dead drag. If you've got something to say to me,
  say it. Otherwise, it's your move."

  "If I need to say it, Jamie, you're blinder than I thought."

  "If you can't say it, you're a bloody coward."

  Remus's eyes flashed, and for a moment - a long moment - Sirius thought he was
  going to hit James. Then the tensed hands unclenched and the eyes faded back to
  their normal, gentle brown, and Remus nodded, almost to himself. "All right.
  I'll say it. I thought what you did to Snape today was the lowest, meanest,
  flat-out shittiest thing I've ever seen. I don't think you even realize what a
  really shitty thing it was."

  "Oh, bollocks," James scoffed. "Is that what you're still on about? It was a
  joke, Moony. I was having a bit of fun with the little git, is all."

  "You think it was fun for him?"

  "No, but that was the whole point." James tried a real smile. "Oh, come on,
  Moony! Lighten up! It's not like I hurt him. Hell, I probably helped him line up
  a few dates for next term. If Snivvy ditched those dingy knickers and learned
  how to walk on his hands, he'd be the best-looking bloke in school."

  Sirius choked, James chuckled, even Peter managed the obligatory snicker. Remus
  gave all three of them a cold look. "That line's about as funny now as it was
  this afternoon."

  "It's not mine," James shrugged. Which was perfectly true. It had actually been
  a Slytherin - Sirius's cousin Bellatrix, in fact - who had made this cruel,
  though not entirely inaccurate, observation, much to the amusement of the thirty
  or forty fellow students also enjoying the show.

  "Of course, I didn't think any of it was especially funny," Remus continued, as
  if James had not spoken at all. "I guess I don't have much of a sense of humor,
  because I just thought it was cruel. Gods, James! Lily Evans was right. What did
  that sorry little bastard ever do to you?"

  "Why do people keep asking me that?" Now James sounded genuinely annoyed - put-
  upon, almost - and this time it was Remus who rolled his eyes. "He's a little
  git. All right? He doesn't need to do anything. He's nasty and dirty and vicious
  and he'd hex his own mother into next week if she looked at him cross-eyed, and-
  -"

  "And aside from 'dirty', how does any of that make him any different from you?"

  Peter's jaw dropped. Sirius winced. James flushed, his own fists clenching.
  "Well, I reckon I'm just not as noble as you are," he said softly. "But tell me,
  Mr. Prefect, where was all this self-righteous shit under the tree this
  afternoon?"

  Remus flushed, too, but he didn't drop his gaze. "Don't know, James. I've been
  asking myself that question all day."

  They stared at each other. It was Remus who finally broke the contest, though it
  did not look like concession so much as disgust. He stood, clearing his throat,
  and motioned to Peter. "Come on, Peter, let's go to bed. I'm tired."

  "But--" Peter was looking from James to Remus and back again, his color still
  high, his expression oddly intense. It was, Sirius noted, the same look he had
  worn that afternoon, when James and Sirius had been humiliating Snape. "I'm not
  tired, I don't want--"

  "Remus is tired, Wormtail." James's voice was hard and cold, his eyes still
  fixed on Remus's face. "And so are you."

  Reluctantly, Peter rose, and he and Remus headed for the stairs. Sirius saw
  James open his mouth, as if he wanted to say something to Moony, maybe call him
  back, maybe apologize, maybe - it was possible, knowing James - make matters
  even worse. But Remus climbed the staircase and disappeared into their room
  without a look back.

  James sighed. He opened another butterbeer and handed it wordlessly to Sirius
  before taking one for himself.

  "Well." Sirius shifted. "That was...not good."

  "Ah." James waved a hand. "He'll get over it. It's just Moony being Moony. He's
  so bloody nice all the time, you ever notice that?"

  "Yeah. But I like him anyway."

  They grinned at each other.

  "You don't think I went too far with Snape, do you?"

  "'Course not. He pretty much deserves whatever he gets." Sirius looked carefully
  into his butterbeer. "Besides...I think I know why you did it."

  "Well, sure. Even you're not that thick." Another grin.

  They drank in silence for a few moments, watching the fire.

  "It really doesn't bother you, then?" Sirius said at last.

  James looked puzzled. "Merlin, Paddy, I don't care. If blokes get you off, so
  what? A lot of wizards fly both sides of the pitch."

  "I mean...him. Snape."

  James's mouth twitched. "Yeah, well...it's weird. Can't lie to you there."

  "I want to hurt him, I think."

  James nodded serenely, as if this was precisely what he had expected to hear.
  "He could use hurting, that one." A pause. "Is that it, then?"

  Sirius raised an eyebrow.

  "I mean, do you actually fancy him - the arse or the cock or whatever it is you
  see in him - or do you just want to fuck him because he's Snape?"

  Sirius considered the question carefully - for him - and in that moment he
  realized what "it" was. What power Snape had on him and over him, what was
  really drawing Sirius Black to him, and had been even before the Slytherin's
  voice had changed, or Sirius had gotten a look at his bits or his bum. The
  something that was more important than all the rest, more powerful than even the
  sudden, raw physical attraction surging from teenage hormones. Something so
  simple Sirius couldn't believe he'd never thought of it before.

  Snape hated him.

  Snape hated him, and Sirius couldn't stand that, because - well, because he was
  Sirius Black. He was the Adonis, the playboy, the school stud, and nobody hated
  him. Everybody liked him. Hell, everybody loved him, and why not? He was damned
  lovable. He was charming, smart, funny, handsome; his was the face that nightly
  launched a hundred sex-sweaty dreams, the smile that made the girls wet and the
  boys hard.

  But not all the boys. Certainly not Severus Snape. And it was unthinkable that
  this little nobody, this shabby, friendless, Dark Arts-loving weirdo, should be
  so indifferent to his substantial personal charms when the rest of the school
  swooned. It was more than unthinkable - it was untenable. Unacceptable.
  Infuriating. Just who the hell did Severus Snape think he was?

  It was a question, Sirius realized now, that he'd been asking himself, on some
  level, for five-and-a-half years. A question that Snape was going to answer,
  soon...preferably whilst flat on his back, moaning like a slut, with Sirius's
  cock stuffed so far up his ass he couldn't swallow.

  "Because he's Snape," Sirius nodded. "And I want him to know it."

  ********************************************************************************

  Because he's Snape.

  Snape...

  His prey entered the room almost silently, the only sounds the faint creak and
  click of the door, but even these were enough to bring Sirius back to the
  present and instantly awake. He had a moment's disoriented panic, eyes sweeping
  the room before he'd seen enough - leather sofas, a green and silver rug, the
  fireplace with its huge, slightly tarnished serpent andirons - to remember
  where, and when, he was. The Slytherin common room. Heretofore uncharted
  territory, and, ordinarily, not a particularly advisable place for a Gryffindor
  to be caught napping.

  Then he saw Snape, and remembered why he was here, and his heart began to hammer
  in his throat.

  Sirius drew back even further into the shadows, but he needn't have bothered;
  Snape had his head down, glancing neither left nor right as he headed for the
  stairs to the dorms above. Sirius watched him all the way up, noting, without
  any conscious effort to do so, that the third step from the bottom squeaked
  slightly. Better give that a miss, then. When the Slytherin had disappeared into
  his room, Sirius uncoiled. He shook the pins and needles from his long limbs and
  swiftly crossed the room, mounting the staircase as softly as a shadow.

  Large chamber. Stone walls, no windows. Fireplace, chairs. Five green-curtained
  beds. Snape stood beside one of them, apparently undressing, his back to the
  door when Sirius eased it open. Thanking whatever gods were in charge of
  protecting children and horny Gryffindors, Sirius pointed his wand at the bed
  stand and whispered, "Accio!"

  "What the--?" Snape spun around just in time to see his own wand sail past and
  land neatly in Sirius's hand.

  "Hey, Snivellus." It was an effort to keep his voice calm; his insides were
  wild, jumping. "Want to play?"

  Snape's lips moved, but no sound came out. A myriad of emotions cascaded over
  his face: surprise, rage, hate, and - Sirius felt his groin tighten - fear. Fear
  looked so good on Snivvy. Damned if it didn't make him almost pretty.

  "What's the matter, Sniv? You don't seem very happy to see me." He took a few
  steps into the room, his eyes trying to adjust to the dimmer light. The other
  boy came into focus gradually, in bits and pieces. Pale face, cheeks a bit
  flushed; worn, faded green robe, unbuttoned to the waist; long black hair damp
  and curling slightly at the ends. A few strands clung to his chest, playing
  hide-and-seek with a sharp nipple, and Sirius wet his lips as a droplet fell
  free, sliding down the slender torso into the shadowy V of the robe. "You had a
  bath, I see. And didn't melt," he added with a dark chuckle. "But what's the
  occasion? Did you get a bar of soap for Christmas? Or were you expecting me all
  along?"

  Snape hissed like a cat. "Get out."

  "Not likely. In fact, I plan on staying awhile. Keep you company." He tossed
  Snape's wand onto the nearest armchair, keeping his own trained on the
  Slytherin. "I figured since you're the only little snake left in the nest, you
  might be getting lonesome."

  "The fuck! You 'figured' I'd be an easy target."

  "That, too."

  Snape shifted slightly. He glanced at the door. "How did you get in here?"

  "Sorry. That's my secret."

  "But the password--"

  "Bollocks, the password." Sirius was not in the mood for talk. He was, in fact,
  hard as a bargepole and nearly dizzy from all the blood pooling in his groin.
  "And stop stalling, I didn't come here to chat."

  Desperation flared in the dark eyes. "What do you want, Black?"

  "Take off that rag you're wearing, and I'll show you." His grin widened at the
  horror on Snape's face, a frozen, big-eyed shock that warmed the Gryffindor to
  his toes. "Oh, yeah, Snivvy. We're going to have some fun, you and me. Just you
  and me, for once. But first, you have to be naked, so be a good lad now and
  chuck the robe."

  Snape didn't move.

  "Did you hear me? Can you hear anything through that great greasy mop on your
  head? Take. It. Off. Now."

  Snape shook his head.

  "Okay," Sirius shrugged. "We'll do it the hard way. Dishabilles!"

  Cloth ripped and sailed; buttons flew. Snape snarled a protest, but the force of
  the spell knocked him back onto the bed, bare-assed and flailing and suddenly
  with much more pressing concerns than his ratty old dressing gown. He clawed at
  the coverlet, trying to get up, but Sirius brought his wand to bear once more
  and soft cords shot from the tip, wrapping around Snape's ankles and yanking his
  legs apart, tying them to the bedposts. His wrists were bound together, drawn up
  high above his head, and secured to a stone sconce on the wall. Start to finish,
  the entire attack took less than a minute.

  Sirius moved closer, humming his approval. It wasn't for effect; he'd been
  dreaming of this moment for months, ever since that day by the lake last summer.
  The moment when he, not James, would be wielding this kind of power over Snape,
  controlling him, stripping him bare, stamping shame and fear in those
  impenetrable black eyes. The moment when it would be just the two of them,
  master and slave, and Snape would be debased for the private viewing pleasure of
  Sirius Black alone.

  Sweet Merlin! If Severus Snape wasn't born to be thrown down, trussed up, and
  forcibly fucked, old Lord Voldemort was a harmless political hack. Limbs
  stretched taut, back slightly arched, eyes shooting flames through the messy
  fall of hair, he looked even better than Sirius had imagined he would. He had
  even put a little meat on his bones since last summer; his legs were still too
  skinny, but the rest of him was pleasantly lean, the muscles beneath the
  startlingly white skin long and just barely defined.

  And that cock - even soft, it was quite an eyeful. Sirius knew that he was
  beautiful and Snape was not, but he would have honestly considered trading faces
  with the Slytherin if only he could have that gorgeous monster cock in the
  bargain.

  "What the bloody fuck?"

  It was nearly a shriek. The realization that he couldn't move had pushed Snape
  past fear into full-blown panic, and he reacted like a wild thing, struggling
  against the cords so violently that the bed rocked. Sirius watched the show
  intently - muscles shifting under sweat-glossy skin, hips twisting, cock
  bouncing - and nothing short of a Castrato Curse could have driven him from the
  room.

  He crossed the chamber as quickly as his erection would allow and sat on the
  edge of the bed, putting a hand on Snape's chest and stopping his struggles
  dead.

  "You know, that's an interesting choice of words, Snape. 'Bloody fuck'. Are you
  suggesting something there? Should I actually fuck you bloody, right here in
  your own bed? I could, you know. I mean, there's nothing to stop me. All of your
  House mates are gone, and I've sound-warded the walls...you can scream yourself
  silly and there's no one to hear."

  Snape was trembling. "Don't you fucking touch me, you--"

  "Oh, shut your gob." Sirius leaned down and kissed him. Snape made a muffled
  sound of protest and tried to turn his head away, but Sirius grabbed his jaw in
  digging fingers, holding him still. He forced Snape's mouth open and pushed his
  tongue deep, so deep it had Snape bucking beneath him, straining for air. By the
  time Sirius released him, both of them were licking at bruised, stinging lips
  and Snape was panting like Padfoot on a hot day.

  "What...do you...want?" Snape whispered again. There was no sneer, no
  obscenities, no attempt at bravado now. He was in trouble here, real trouble,
  the kind he couldn't scheme or lie or hex his way out of, and he clearly knew
  it. Jesus, he really is scared, Sirius realized, and he didn't know if that
  thought made him feel guilty or glad or just hornier than ever.

  "I want you to like me, Severus." He ran a fingertip along Snape's mouth. "I
  just want you to like me." The finger continued down, over throat and chest and
  heaving belly, tickling through dark curls and over the soft shaft of the
  Slytherin's cock. He wrapped his hand around it and gave it a firm stroke, base
  to tip, and Snape grunted, hips jerking hard. "I'm going to make you like me."

  He tightened his grip and moved in for another kiss. Again Snape pulled his head
  away, snarling, baring his teeth, but a sudden blinding pressure at his groin
  made him freeze. He trembled harder as Sirius put warm lips to his ear and
  whispered, "Do you really want to bite me, Sniv, or do you like your balls where
  they are?"

  Silence.

  "You bite me, and I'll hurt you, Snivvy. I'll really hurt you. You can fight me
  all you want - actually, I think I'd enjoy it if you did - but if you draw one
  fucking drop of my blood, I'll rip your bits off." His hand tightened
  fractionally on Snape's sac, eliciting a soft gasp. He knew he wasn't causing
  Snape any real pain, but he also knew, if he closed his fingers even another
  half-inch, he would be. "Understand?"

  Snape nodded, immediately and vigorously.

  Sirius loosened his grip, giving the balls a forgiving little pat before letting
  go. "Good boy." He claimed the Slytherin's lips once more, even harder than
  before, tacitly daring Snape to resist him again. Snape did not fight this time,
  and when he was satisfied he had the Slytherin's obedience, Sirius drew back and
  studied his face. It was soft, slack, completely blank save for a slightly
  furrowed brow. His eyes were closed. Sirius traced the curve of one long black
  lash with his thumb and whispered, "Look at me."

  The dark eyes fluttered open, a bit dazed and blacker than ever; a pink tongue
  snaked out to lick the swollen lips. He's tasting me, Sirius thought, and if he
  had believed his cock couldn't possibly get any harder, he'd believed wrong. Oh,
  gods, he's tasting me on his mouth.

  "Jesus, look at you," he murmured. "You like this. All of it, just like I knew
  you would. You're such a hot little bitch down deep, aren't you, Snivvy? I knew
  you would be. I told James you'd be my bitch before the night was through. Told
  him it wouldn't take much, either, and look at you. A few ropes, a bit of
  tongue, and you're hot as a Knockturn whore, just a hot little begging slut--"

  Snape spat in his face.

  Sirius blinked at him in utter astonishment. Snape's face was dark, twisted with
  hate and sick fury, and Sirius had a second to be thankful the bastard couldn't
  reach his wand: that look alone was enough to reduce Sirius Black to a belt
  buckle and a clump of protoplasmic goo.

  Then his own rage swept through him and he backhanded the smaller boy, hard.
  Snape cried out, yanking at his restraints, panic flooding his eyes. Sirius
  rolled over on top of him, straddling him, hands grabbing for throat before a
  modicum of rational thought returned and they dropped, still hooked into claws,
  onto thin shoulders instead. He squeezed, squeezed until he felt the fine bones
  grind and heard Snape cry out again, and all he could think was the same thing
  he'd been thinking for the past six months: What the hell is wrong with you? Why
  don't you get it? Who do you think you are?

  "You sorry little prick!" he growled. "I should beat you fucking bloody for
  that!"

  "You...told...me...to fight...fight you," Snape managed to gasp. His lip was
  bleeding, a bruise was already blooming on his cheek, and he looked quite
  properly frightened, but Sirius could have sworn there was a smirk lurking in
  his eyes. Buck-naked and flat on his back, trussed up like the turkey they had
  all shared yesterday afternoon, wearing Sirius's handprint across half his
  face...and he was smirking. Maybe James was right about him, Sirius thought.
  Maybe Snape really was not just weird, or different, or difficult, but
  completely mental.

  He took another look. No, he decided; mental like a fox, more like. Snape knew
  exactly what he was doing, and he knew exactly what it was doing to Sirius. What
  it always did to Sirius. Snape had spit in his face for a reason; Snape had told
  him, Sirius Black, who could have had half the school in his bed with a snap of
  his fingers, to take his ropes and his tongue and anything else he might have to
  offer and shove them up his ass.

  It was maddening. It was absurd. It was so perverse Sirius could almost like him
  for it.

  "Yes...Yes, I did say that, didn't I?" He forced himself to let go of Snape's
  shoulders; he sat back on Snape's thighs, trying to get his breathing under
  control. He swiped his face with his sleeve and looked at Snape darkly,
  thoughtfully. "I did."

  Keeping his eyes on the boy pinned beneath him, he reached behind him for his
  wand. Snape looked startled, then scared, and he flinched as the wand's tip
  touched his face. Sirius resisted the urge to laugh. "Oh, don't worry, Snape.
  I'm not going to curse you. If I had wanted to kill you, I would have strangled
  you. You don't know how tempting that was, having your throat so close to my
  hands."

  Even as he threatened, his actions were gentle, the wand barely grazing the
  livid bruise already forming along the cheekbone. He chanted a simple healing
  spell, watching the bruise and the cut on Snape's lip disappear, and Snape eyed
  him with a troubled frown. He seemed confused at this unexpected solicitude, and
  Sirius had to hide a smirk of his own. Can't figure it out, eh, Sniv? Wondering
  what I'm up to? Well, too bloody bad. You were the little arsehole who wanted to
  play games.

  "So perhaps I shouldn't have hit you," Sirius continued in that same calm, dry
  tone. "Perhaps I shouldn't have lost control. But you do need to be punished, I
  think. Because it isn't nice to spit in someone's face, Snivvy. It isn't nice at
  all."

  He lifted himself up on his knees again, still straddling Snape's body, and
  unbuckled his belt. The look on Snape's face as it slid free was almost comical.


  "What...what are you doing?"

  Sirius ignored him. Snape knew very well what he was doing: mental or not, no
  one had ever accused him of being stupid. Pretending not to notice Snape's
  scrutiny, Sirius doubled the belt in his hand and tested it lightly against his
  palm. Snape flinched again at the sound, and Sirius felt a fresh surge of heat
  between his legs.

  "Still too long, I think," he mused. "Too awkward for such close range. But
  maybe a shrinking spell..." He picked up his wand again and intoned, "Reducio,"
  and the belt began to writhe in his hand, shrinking to a length of about eight
  inches. Sirius was pleased to note that neither the width nor the thickness were
  affected at all, and he hoped that Snape, watching with the unblinking attention
  of the truly terrified, noticed as well.

  Sirius shifted to one side. Another spell released Snape's ankles, and even as
  the Slytherin drew his legs together protectively, Sirius pulled and pushed and
  rolled him until he had the smaller boy stretched face down across his lap. It
  was quite a view, and he spared just a moment to run a hand over the twitching
  buttocks. So pretty, they were. The skin was butter-soft, the flesh firm yet
  yielding, and they clenched under his touch as if embarrassed. Or afraid.

  Should be, Sirius thought, as he raised his transfigured strap. Snape, who had
  been oddly compliant as Sirius maneuvered him into position, felt the movement
  and he stiffened, twisting his body, trying to turn his head.

  "No...wait...!!!"

  His protest was lost as the strap made a slight whistling noise, cutting air
  before slicing sharply across his ass. He shrieked, writhing and squirming, but
  his still-bound wrists and Sirius's strong arm around his waist kept him well in
  place.

  "Does that hurt?" Sirius whispered. He raised the strap again and brought it
  down again, this second blow even harder than the first, and Snape cried out
  again, a gasp breaking his voice. "Well, it's supposed to hurt, Snivvy. This is
  punishment. Try to take it like a man."

  "Fuck you, you - Oww!"

  Sirius clucked his tongue. "Now, there, you see that? 'Fuck you.' What kind of
  language is that from a Hogwarts student? You foul-mouthed little thing, you."

  He brought the strap down again, high across both thighs, painting a wide red
  stripe on the pale flesh. He thought it looked very sexy. He hit the same place
  again, trying to make it darker. Oh, yes, that got quite a reaction, didn't it?
  Made him jump and hiss like a scalded cat, it did.

  Sirius gave him a third stroke, and a fourth and a fifth, never straying from
  that one spot; on the ninth or tenth stroke Snape's broken curses gave way to an
  actual scream, and it was all Sirius could do not to come in his pants right
  then and there.

  Oh, gods, this was...this was brilliant. He had never done this before, never
 even thought about it until a few weeks ago, and he was completely unprepared     
  for how arousing it was. The sound the leather made when it struck was electric,
  exciting, and the sounds Snape made were even better. The gorgeous red sheen he
  was painting on that white flesh - and what Gryffindor could not love that
  color, especially on a Slytherin? - made his mouth water, as did the deliciously
  wanton picture Snape made, struggling and sobbing and trying so hard not to,
  draped like a rag doll over his worst enemy's lap, hot little tail wagging in
  the air.

  I'm good at this, Sirius realized; damned good. He had never spanked anyone
  before, but he'd been on the wrong side of his old man's belt a few times, and
  he knew what to do. He knew just how hard to hit, how to burn the skin without
  breaking it, how to space the blows for maximum effect. He knew where to find
  all the most exquisitely sensitive spots, spots that made even the stubborn
  Slytherin whimper like a puppy and thrash like a hooked fish: the thighs, the
  crease where long legs became tight ass, even between the cheeks themselves. He
  didn't bother to count the blows, or to make Snape do so; he had no intention of
  stopping until Snape was literally begging for mercy.

  He wondered how long it would take. Harsh sobs now shook Snape's whole body, and
  he was a bright, hot red from the top of his crack to the backs of his knees,
  but he still wasn't at the pleading stage yet. As much as Sirius was loath to
  admit it, the little bugger was tougher than he'd thought. His tolerance for
  pain was quite remarkable, and for the first time Sirius wondered if Snape's
  father was indeed the abusive prick rumor made him out to be.

  "Had enough, Snivvy?" he asked. "Want me to stop?"

  Whatever Snape said was lost in the linens.

  "Couldn't quite catch that, mate, sorry. Spit out the pillow and try again."
  Sirius's tone was quite cheerful. His arm moved steadily, relentlessly, as he
  spoke; his cock ached and wept. Gods, he was close, so bloody close... "Come on,
  Snape, you're a bright boy. You know what I want to hear."

  "Go...to...hell," Snape ground out between gasps.

  A stripe, low across his ass. He yelped. Sirius sighed. "Say it, Snape."

  Nothing.

  Another stripe, same place. Another yelp, again muffled in the bedding. "Say
  it!"

  "NO!"

  Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! A lot of noise, a few choked words, but none of
  them the ones Sirius wanted to hear. He felt his own temper rising at Snape's
  stubbornness. Damn him anyway! This was just another slap in the face, it was
  more spit in the eye, it was Snape making him feel the way Snape always made him
  feel, sooner or later. Rejected. Challenged. Dismissed. Defied.

  Defied.

  The strap rose and fell faster now, one slashing blow right atop the last. His
  earlier, deliberate pace was gone, lost to his growing rage and his need, the
  need to end this, the need to come...the need to win. "Say it!" he hissed. "Gods
  damn you, say it!"

  "Fuck you!"

  Thwack!

  The rage broke. His focus narrowed pinpoint-fine. Red was all he could see. Pain
  was all he could hear. His breathing was almost as ragged as Snape's. His heart
  raced and his cock pulsed. Snape's struggles became violent, his cries frantic,
  and still, Sirius spared him nothing. He didn't care now. He didn't care if
  Snape screamed his throat raw, he didn't care if Snape yanked on his restraints
  until his wrists were bloody and his arms were broken and the sconce ripped
  right off the fucking wall, he didn't care if he had to beat a fucking groove in
  Snape's ass, he wouldn't stop now until the sneering, spitting, stubborn little
  fuck was not just beaten but broken, crushed like a bug underfoot. Show me your
  belly, he thought, his lips drawn back from his teeth in an unconscious snarl.
  Roll over and show me your belly, you bitch.

  "...p-please..."

  The word escaped on a shuddery breath, so low that Sirius barely heard it. He
  paused, breathing hard, strap poised shoulder-high. "What did you say?"

  Muffled sobs.

  "What did you say?" Sirius landed what he hoped was the final blow, brisk and
  snapping, and Snape nearly flew off his lap.

  "PLEASE!" Snape snarled. "Please, I said please, you fucking bastard, all right,
  you piece of shit, I said it, I said it, now will you please just stop!"

  He sounded furious and shrill and anguished and ashamed and oh, it was a
  symphony to Sirius Black's ears, and it sent him shooting deliriously in his
  pants, coming so hard his vision greyed out at the edges. The strap slipped from
  his fingers unnoticed, and Snape's body collapsed across his, as limp and spent
  as his own.

  Panting, shivering, Sirius tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He was
  trying to recover from shock as much as pleasure - he had had an orgasm without
  fucking and without being touched, and that was something he had never believed
  possible, no matter how many of Peter's wank books said otherwise. And no run-
  of-the-mill, ho-hum, vanilla-type orgasm, either, but the most intense climax of
  his entire life. Sirius didn't know if it was Snape, or the spanking, or just a
  natural culmination of five-and-a-half years of verbal foreplay, but he did know
  he couldn't come much harder than that without dying.

  Though he was certainly willing to try.

  When the room stopped spinning, he opened his eyes. He looked down. And winced.
  Merlin! Did I do that? Perhaps he had gotten a bit carried away: Snape's ass
  looked like a sunset, not an inch of creamy flesh anywhere. Sirius was both
  surprised and relieved to note that there was very little bruising, but there
  was no doubt Snape was going to be sitting rather daintily for the next few
  days. And sleeping on his belly for the next few nights.

  Sirius brushed his fingertips over the fevered flesh. So hot, he marveled.
  Almost too hot to touch, and he wondered, with a thrill, if the spanking had
  made Snape's ass that hot inside as well. He couldn't wait to find out.

  He stroked it again. And again. He liked the way it felt, so soft and warm; he
  liked even more the way it made Snape squirm and wriggle across his lap. A light
  caress of one shiny globe made Snape catch his breath; a squeeze made him groan
  and thrust hard into Sirius's thighs, and Sirius stopped, eyes widening, before
  a truly evil grin spread across his face.

  Well, well, well. It seemed not all of little Snivvy was limp, was it? Indeed,
  it appeared at least one part of little Snivvy was as excited by all this as
  Sirius himself was. Oh, his sobs and tears were no doubt real enough, as was his
  pain, but the hard cock digging into Sirius's lap felt much more real. Not even
  a Slytherin could hide a secret that big.

  "Merlin, you really are a little Snivellus, aren't you, Snape?" he murmured, his
  tone easy and almost affectionate in spite of the words. "All that fuss over a
  little spanking." He stroked the inflamed flesh again, gently, soothingly. "Poor
  baby. Would you like nasty old Sirius to make it all better?"

  "You go to hell, you fucking arsehole, I--uh!" Snape choked off his words as
  Sirius pressed a warm, wet mouth to his ass. "Wh-wh--?"

  "'Wha, wha' yourself," Sirius mocked, but with no real rancor. "Just be quiet."
  He suckled softly at a fat red welt, nipping at it before licking away the
  sting. "Looks so good...so bloody good...so red...like a little candy apple..."

  Snape flushed with fresh humiliation. "Gods, you're sick," he blurted out.

  "Am I?" Sirius laughed outright, still kissing and licking and suckling. "Well,
  you'd know, I guess. But you seem to be enjoying it. Shit, Snape, haven't you
  always wanted this? Dreamed about this? A Gryffindor kissing your arse?"

  "Black--"

  "Quiet, I said. Or I'll spank you again."

  He continued to mouth the soft ass cheeks, working his way over them toward the
  dark cleft between. He snagged his wand without looking and murmured the
  cleansing spell he had diligently practiced - when his heart was in it, Sirius
  Black was as swotty a little book-grind as Snape himself - then tongued the
  length of the crease. Snape went stiff and shaking across his lap, and Sirius
  laughed his barking laugh again. "You like that, Sniv?" he whispered between
  licks. "You like that, you horny twisted sexy little bitch?"

  "Oh...ah...mm..." Snape gasped. Sirius took that as a "yes."

  He continued to explore. The crisp lime scent of whatever soap Snape had used
  was getting fainter; the musky arousal smell, his male heat smell, was getting
  stronger. Sirius licked and nibbled his way up from Snape's sac to the tight
  pink pucker just above, and the touch of his lips so near to the trembling hole
  made Snape shudder and moan.

  Encouraged, Sirius took a tentative lick. Snape spat out some short piece of
  gibberish and arched his back, pressing hard into Sirius's lap. Sirius stopped;
  Snape subsided. Sirius leaned down and did it again, slower this time, making a
  hot wet circle around the hole, and Snape twitched and humped and babbled/
  sobbed/whimpered again.

  "Black...p-please..."

  "Please what, Sniv?" Sirius teased. "'Please more'? 'Please don't stop'?
  'Please, Sirius, please keep licking my little fuckhole?' Gods, you're such a
  whore." He parted the buttocks with both hands and licked all around and over
  the puckered flesh, tongue moving in slow, firm strokes, coaxing it open. Soon
  he was fucking the hole hard and fast, relishing the helpless way Snape's whole
  body jerked in time with the thrusts of the tongue inside him.

  Then he had an inspiration, and he closed his mouth over the hole and sucked,
  sucked as hard as he could, wiggling and twisting his buried tongue at the same
  time. Snape spasmed violently, shoving his ass up into Sirius's face, and he
  would have come all over them both if Sirius hadn't grabbed his balls and held
  on as if for dear life.

  Sirius laughed delightedly. By his reckoning, that was most definitely a "yes."

  He continued to squeeze the balls caught in his fist, his other hand stroking
  Snape's ass in slow circles, until Snape's shuddering ceased. When the
  Slytherin's orgasm no longer seemed imminent, Sirius let him go. He pushed Snape
  from his lap and onto his back once more, noting how even the soft touch of the
  coverlet made the Slytherin hiss and arch again. Snape's cock, harder than ever
  from his aborted climax and wet and purple and looking utterly delicious, waved
  in the air less than two inches from Sirius's face.

  Was it delicious? Sirius was curious. He leaned over and licked the head, a
  deliberate stroke with the flat of his tongue, the same technique he'd used on
  Snape's hole. Snape hissed again. Sirius took the head in his mouth and rolled
  it around, sucking gently, careful not to scrape or bite. Snape muttered a soft
  "Fuck!" and his hips tried to buck up again, but Sirius grabbed them and pushed
  them right back down.

  Not bad, he thought. He'd never tasted a cock before. The fluid was a bit salty,
  the overall flavor less musky than his asshole, but otherwise it tasted no
  different than other flesh he'd sampled. Necks. Shoulders. Tits. Tasted rather
  good, actually. And the sounds Snape was making...! Whatever Sirius was doing,
  despite no experience, he must have been doing it right. He wondered how it
  felt. For all of his conquests, Sirius had yet to find a girl willing to go down
  on him, but Snape's reactions made him long to try it from the other side, and
  he found himself eying Snape's pretty, painted-dolly mouth with new interest.

  Well, maybe later, if they had time. Or maybe another night, for he had already
  determined there would be other nights, as many as he could manage. But for now,
  his own cock was making a record comeback, and it wanted in on the fun.

  He clambered off the bed and waved his wand, and Snape's legs were once again
  bound to the foot posts. Sirius took a good long look. Ankles high, thighs
  spread wide, cock swaying and streaming above an ass like a red satin heart. No
  one in the history of sex had ever looked so good.

  "You're going to leave me like this," Snape said. His voice was low and flat.

  Sirius was startled. It was not a plea. Had it been, Sirius might have done
  exactly that, and his own desires be damned - the dark part of him, the cruel,
  playground-bully part of him, would have found it both hilarious and deeply
  satisfying. But it was not a plea, just a statement, an observation, an
  expression of determined mistrust...a mistrust, Sirius had to admit, that was
  hardly misplaced.

  "No. No, I'm not." Sirius gave Snape's balls a last reassuring squeeze, then
  stripped off his jumper and jeans, kicking them aside. He climbed back on the
  bed and got between Snape's legs again, leaning forward for another biting kiss,
  grinding their cocks together until they moaned into each other's mouths.

  Then he knelt back and fingered the little hole. It was pink and still wet from
  his deep kisses, twitching as he tickled it, pouting as he rubbed. He pushed
  just the tip of his finger in and twisted it slowly, testing the texture inside.
  Oh. Oh. Gods. Hot. Hot, and soft as fresh moss, and so tight - gods, it was
  actually sucking on his finger.

  Suddenly shaking with impatience, Sirius cast a final spell, another he had
  learned specifically for this night. Snape jumped a bit at the tingle, and the
  sudden slide of warm oil filling him made him squirm, tightening around the
  probing finger even harder. Sirius pushed the finger in deep and more oil slid
  out, into his palm, and he greased his own cock eagerly and lined himself up.

  "Let's fuck, Sniv," he whispered, and pushed in.

  His prick looked impossibly big sliding into that tiny pucker, like fake magic,
  like some particularly clever Muggle illusion. Was Snape a virgin? he wondered,
  watching with equal parts fascination and lust as the flesh stretched and
  reluctantly swallowed him in. One inch, two inches, three...He pushed with
  agonizing slowness until he was completely sheathed and then just knelt there,
  panting, fingers digging into Snape's hips, forehead dripping sweat onto Snape's
  chest.

  Oh, gods, it was tight, far tighter than any girl he'd ever been with, and
  smoother, and alive in a way he had not in his wildest dreams anticipated. Every
  inch of the silky passage was clutching at him, flexing and pulsing around him,
  and he thanked Merlin for his earlier orgasm and the small semblance of control
  it gave him, or else he would have come immediately at that first ecstatic
  thrust.

  Snape was sobbing again, almost silently, his breath hitching around words
  Sirius could just barely make out. "Stop...hate you...you bastard...don't...
  don't want..."

  Sirius leaned over again and hushed him with another kiss. He withdrew as slowly
  as he had entered, until just the head of his prick was buried in Snape's body,
  and Snape shuddered, his hole clenching hard enough to rip an answering spasm
  from Sirius. Whether he was trying to expel the intruder or hold it within
  himself, Sirius didn't know, nor did he care. Whatever the reason, it felt like
  heaven.

  He gave himself a moment to savor the sensation before shifting his hips and
  pushing back in. Still slow, still careful, but changing his angle slightly,
  trying to find...well, trying to find something. From what he had read (and he
  had read everything he could get his hands on), there was supposed to be
  something up inside there that would drive Snape wild, that would make him
  forget all about the burn and the stretch and the fact that it was the hated
  Sirius Black who was lost to the balls in his ass. Something so sensitive and...
  He shifted again, felt his shaft slide hard across a fleshy little nub inside
  the other boy, and Snape jackknifed beneath him, nearly throwing him off.
  "Fuck!"

  Sirius smiled against his lips. That's got it, then. He repeated the thrust,
  same angle, just a bit harder, and Snape bucked up again with a wordless sob.

  Bloody hell! Like a little magic button, it was. He rubbed it on every stroke,
  and on every stroke Snape arched until it looked like his spine would snap, and
  made hot, helpless, barely-human noises that sent chills down Sirius's spine,
  and tightened around Sirius as if his ass wanted to suck the Gryffindor's prick
  right off. Sirius was almost jealous. If getting buggered was even half as much
  fun as Snape made it look, he was definitely going to have a go on the bottom.

  They fell into a hard, slow rhythm, flat bellies clapping, mouths meeting around
  measured little breaths. Sirius was proud of his skill, proud of the smooth,
  even, precisely-placed thrusts and deep kisses, and proud of his control, but he
  knew he was getting close. As was Snape; the pulsing inside him was fierce now,
  and the cock trapped between them was hard as a pestle. But neither of them
  could come just yet. Sirius had promised himself two things: that Snape was
  going to come first, and that he was going to ask nicely - very, very nicely -
  for the privilege.

  Sirius unspelled the ankle restraints. The long legs came down and immediately
  tried to curl around his waist, but Sirius grabbed them and pulled them up over
  his shoulders. He leaned forward, putting their bodies flush, supporting his
  weight on his arms and folding the frantic Snape nearly in half beneath him. He
  plunged in as far as he could and held perfectly still, his greater weight
  pinning Snape to the bed. Snape's cock was caught between their bellies; their
  faces were inches apart.

  "You want to come, Snape?" Sirius whispered. He gazed into those black, black
  eyes and saw lust, and confusion, and frustration, but he didn't see what he
  wanted to see. What he needed to see. "If you want to come, you tell me. I need
  to hear it. You tell me what you want."

  Snape twisted in response, moving as much as he could, clawing at the cords
  holding his arms above his head and trying to get some leverage. He was not
  fighting, Sirius knew, to get the Gryffindor off of him; he was fighting to get
  him to move. His knees were tight against Sirius's neck, his cock leaking in
  sticky, steady pulses, and his face, tense and flushed and desperate, said he
  wanted to come so badly he could taste it.

  "No," Sirius chided, holding him still. "You're not in control here, Severus.
  You don't demand anything." He nipped hard at Snape's lower lip, bit his
  earlobe, sucked on his long white throat. Snape shivered, raw desire and
  stubborn shreds of pride fighting in his eyes. "But you can always ask. All you
  have to say is 'Fuck me, Sirius. Please, please fuck me. Please, Sirius, please
  make me come.'"

  He withdrew slowly and thrust in hard, rotating his hips, grinding into Snape.
  Snape groaned with relief and pushed up as hard as he could. Sirius withdrew
  again; Snape fell back with a curse. "It's what we both want." Another grinding
  thrust. "What we both need." Another lazy withdrawal. "Why fight it?"

  More shivers. More slick little bursts against their bellies. That spot inside
  Snape was quivering wildly. His body was begging already.

  Withdrawal. Thrust. Withdrawal. Thrust. Again and again, a slow, building cycle
  of pleasure granted and pleasure denied, until Snape's gasps and low cries came
  in an unbroken stream and he was tossing his head restlessly back and forth on
  the pillows.

  "Yes..." he whispered. "Yes...oh, gods, yes..."

  "Yes, what?" Sirius demanded. His teeth were gritted, his face taut with strain.
  He couldn't hold out much longer. "What do you want?"

  "Want...oh!...come...want to c-come..."

  "Tell me."

  Snape shuddered.

  "Tell me."

  Snape was biting his lip. So was Sirius. Snape's eyes locked on his, wide and
  blank and dazed. "Fuck me," he panted.

  Sirius squeezed his bottom, hard. "'Please fuck me.'"

  Snape closed his eyes. Sirius moved his hips again, grinding their loins
  together again, rubbing his cock into every inch of that smooth, shuddering
  passage. Gooseflesh rose all over the Slytherin's body, and for a moment, he
  seemed to stop breathing altogether.

  "Oh...! P-please...ah!...please f-fuck me..."

  "'Please, Sirius, please make me come,'" Sirius urged. The look on Snape's face,
  a kind of defiant, miserable hunger, was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.

  "Fucking...Merlin!...fucking prick...hate...you..."

  Another slow rotation, and another, and another, and Sirius could feel Snape
  crumbling even before he heard it, could feel the tremors building against his
  belly, under his hands, around his own cock.

  "Yes...You...fuck...oh...Make me...come...bastard...want to...need to c--OH!"

  The last word was ripped away as Sirius was suddenly pumping hard, short strokes
  that stabbed That Spot with every thrust and made Snape scream and throw his
  head back, limbs stiff and jerking, balls drawing up tight--

  "Call me names...if you want to...Snape," Sirius panted. "Doesn't matter. I win.
  You want...this. You begged for this, you...you little...whore..."

  --and Snape came with a low, throaty cry. His body tried to arch again and his
  legs squeezed around Sirius's neck until the Gryffindor saw stars. His ass
  rippled around Sirius and ripped away the last of his self-control, and Sirius
  came with his own shout, pumping into the slender body pinned beneath him even
  after it stopped moving. Then he collapsed.

  They lay together in a sweet haze of slowing breath and calming pulses, of sweat
  drying on cooling skin, of tortured muscles still twitching with strain. Sirius
  was surprised that it was not at all unpleasant to have Snape under him, his
  arms around the Slytherin's back, his own head resting on the narrow, hairless
  chest. It was comfortable, so comfortable that Sirius began to feel drowsy.
  Perhaps he could close his eyes for just a moment. Surely a moment wouldn't
  hurt, and he was so tired, so slack and sated and...

  He jerked himself awake. Not bloody likely. It would not do to be found here. It
  would do even less to have Snape somehow get free and be the one to do the
  finding. He didn't know how Snape would react to this whole thing come sunrise,
  but if he did decide to be pissed, he would retaliate. Probably in some
  painfully creative and exotic way that involved the removal of a certain
  Gryffindor's special parts. For a potion, perhaps. Or as a snack for the giant
  squid.

  How was Snape reacting to this? Sirius lifted his head from Snape's chest and
  peered at his face. It was dead pale except for two faint brushes of color along
  his cheekbones, and half-hidden by his long black hair. His eyes were closed, no
  flutters. His breathing was even, and so quiet that Sirius would have been
  alarmed if he hadn't felt the strong heartbeat beneath his own cheek just
  seconds before.

  Out cold. I'll be damned, Paddy. The voice in his head was not his own, but
  James's, James at his most coolly amused. You nailed the little git, mate. You
  actually fucked him senseless.

  He traced a fingertip over the curves and planes of Snape's face. Such an odd
  face. Some of his features were so fine and even, others so homely, so harsh.
  Forehead a little too high, with a slight widow's peak; jaw a little too square
  for such a sharp chin, nose too long and hooked for such delicate cheekbones and
  lips. Yes, it was the nose, especially, that marred his looks, that kept him
  from being...well, quite pretty, actually. The rest of his face was very
  effeminate: large eyes, thin brows, long lashes...and, of course, all that hair,
  which would probably be Muggle-disco-queen gorgeous if he ever took care of it.
  Sirius snorted a sudden laugh. Was that why Snape never washed it? Did he know
  how pretty he'd look, how girly and soft?

  "If you cut it, you wouldn't have that problem, would you, Sniv?" Sirius
  murmured. He reached up and brushed the hair from Snape's face, letting a few
  strands slide through his fingers. It was clean for once, praise Merlin, thicker
  than it looked, and soft. He touched it again, carding his whole hand through it
  this time. Oh, yes, very soft - and, suddenly, very promising. How nice would it
  feel, he wondered, to rub that silky mess all over his balls while Snape sucked
  him off? To bury his face in it as he took Snape roughly from behind, or to sink
  his hands in it and yank Snape's head back, exposing the long taut line of his
  throat to lips and teeth and tongue?

  Oh, yes, Sirius decided. Snape was going to keep right on washing his hair. Even
  if it made him look like Share. Or Cher. Or whatever that caterwauling Muggle's
  name was.

  He smoothed the dark tresses one last time, kissed the slack lips slow and deep.
  He untangled himself from Snape's limp legs and rose very slowly, muscles he
  didn't know he had complaining all the while. He found the strap that was
  actually his belt and transfigured it back, then loosened the ropes on Snape's
  wrists, so that he'd be able to escape them shortly after he came around. He
  found the heap of pants and shirt and shorts half under the bed and pulled them
  on, conjuring a robe to hide the missing buttons and the gaping fly front of his
  jeans. He'd apparently destroyed the zipper in his haste to get naked. Oh, well.
  It was fixed easily enough.

  And, gods! had it been worth it.

  With a final affectionate pat to Snape's prick, Sirius slipped from the room and
  began the long and - without the Cloak - rather perilous journey back to
  Gryffindor Tower.

  ********************************************************************************

  It must have been even later than he thought; the Fat Lady was deeply asleep,
  soft snores shivering her frame. She awoke fast and mean, giving him the hairy
  eyeball, and he gave it right back, along with the current password. "Snitch-
  Snatcher, and don't give me any jib, you old cow. I'm on holiday."

  She opened up with an insulted snort, but said nothing as he crawled through the
  portal and crept quietly past the dying fire.

  "Sirius."

  The whisper startled him, but he was too tired even to jump. He turned and
  squinted into the shadows instead. "Moony?"

  The room was dim, but not dark; still, he couldn't see anyone. Then there was a
  slight shimmer in the air over the sofa and Remus appeared, one piece at a time:
  a fluff of tawny hair, two light brown eyes, a snub nose, a frowning mouth.
  Sirius blinked. He was quite familiar with James Potter's Invisibility Cloak -
  indeed, intimately familiar - but it was always a bit disconcerting to see its
  effects from the outside in. "Yes, it's me. Did I scare you?"

  Sirius smirked at him. "'Course you scared me, you wanker," he grumbled. "What
  the hell are you doing, anyway, just sitting there under that thing?"

  "Waiting for you."

  "Well, no shit. Thanks, Mum." He leaned against the banister, one foot on the
  step, hoping Remus would take the hint. He really was exhausted. But Moony
  remained where he was, sitting on the sofa, studying Sirius with his sad, solemn
  amber eyes. With a sigh, Sirius plunked himself down on the bottom step and
  scrubbed a hand over his face. "So. Er. Where did you find the cloak? I looked
  all over hell. Prongs said he'd leave it under his mattress, but it wasn't
  there."

  "It was there. I took it. This morning."

  Sirius squinted a little harder. Moony's voice was strange. Distant. Almost
  cold. "Something on your mind, Remus? 'Cause I'm a bit shagged for playing
  games."

  "I followed you," Remus said, in that same hollow, chilly tone, and Sirius's
  stomach dropped into his shoes. "I knew you were going to the dungeons. I knew
  you were going to Snape. But I never imagined I'd see you - I'd see what I saw."

  Even in the sparse light, Sirius caught the small shudder that worked through
  his friend. "What did you--?" No. That wasn't right. "What do you think you
  saw?"

  Remus gave him a sick look. "I know what I saw, Sirius. I saw everything. Start
  to finish, blow-by-blow ...everything."

  "Everything?" A slideshow of raw images assaulted Sirius - his lips around
  Snape's cock, his tongue buried in Snape's ass - and he was thankful for the
  shadows that hid his sudden blush. "Jesus, Moony! You stood there all that time,
  just, just stood there and watched?"

  "Yes."

  No hesitation. No evasion. No apology, either, and Sirius felt the first
  bewildered stirrings of anger. "Well. Okay. Well, I hope you got your money's
  worth." He grabbed the banister and hauled himself to his feet. "Was it good for
  you, too?"

  "Don't be cute."

  "Cute, my arse! Why wouldn't you enjoy it, Remmy? You're the one who's always
  going on about 'Snape's not so bad', 'maybe we should give him a chance,' 'maybe
  we should try being nice to him'...Well, I was nice to him, all right? Bloody
  nice. So fucking nice he'll be walking bowlegged for the next month." He barked
  a harsh laugh. "Maybe you should give him a chance, Moony, if you lean that way.
  He's no rose, but he's got an arse like melted butter."

  "You think this is funny?" Remus hissed. "This?"

  Sirius's irritation evaporated at the expression on Remus's face; it was not
  disgust or contempt now, but a kind of muted horror. "I...I think you're funny,
  making such a big thing of it. Gods, Moony. I never knew you were such a prude."


  "You raped him, Sirius."

  Sirius gaped at him. "I what?"

  "You raped him!" Remus shouted. "I saw you! I told you, I followed you. I was in
  the room, Sirius. I saw the whole thing."

  Sirius couldn't seem to close his mouth. Raped? Raped? He could still feel the
  urgent press of Snape's legs around his neck, the velvet clutch of Snape's ass
  around his prick; Snape's come was still tacky on his belly. "Remus, what the
  hell are you on about? I didn't rape him. I fucked him. There's a difference."

  "You fucked him without his consent! You took him and he couldn't stop you--"

  "He didn't want to stop me! He fucking loved it! I told you, he came like a
  fucking wildcat, he couldn't get enough--"

  "I don't care if he came or not!" Remus shouted. "It doesn't change what you
  did. You tied him, Sirius, you tied him up and you sp--you beat him, and you
  raped him."

  "Stop saying that!" Sirius snarled. His hands clenched into unconscious fists.
  "He loved it! He loved every minute of it! I didn't do anything he didn't want
  me to do!"

  "'Should I actually fuck you bloody, right here in your own bed?'" Remus quoted
  suddenly, softly, and Sirius winced. He hated having his own words thrown back
  at him, and Remus, who had a memory like a bloody elephant, could throw them
  like no one else. "'There's nothing to stop me. You can scream yourself silly
  and there's no one to hear.' That is what you said to him, isn't it, Sirius?"

  Sirius sat back down, hard.

  "It was a game, Remus," he sighed finally. "A game is all, a bit of kinky sex
  play." Remus was silent. "Look, I pegged Snape for a right little pervert the
  minute I saw him; I knew he'd get off on it. And I was right, he did...but if he
  had really wanted me to stop, I would have."

  Remus shook his head. "You couldn't have stopped. You were...you were...You
  don't know how you looked. How you were. I was actually scared for a bit -
  right, laugh if you want to, but I was. Game or not, Sirius, I thought you were
  really going to hurt Snape this time. That you were finally going to go too
  far."

  "You didn't really believe that."

  "I did."

  "Then why didn't you stop me?"

  It was an honest question, not a rhetorical one. Remus looked at the fire. "The
  same reason I never stop you," he muttered. "You and James and Peter are the
  only friends I've ever had."

  "Then you're not going to do anything?" The words were out before Sirius could
  stop them, and Remus gave a contemptuous snort.

  "What can I do? Report you? Get you expelled? Might as well get us both
  expelled, because I'm just as guilty as you are. I stood there and did nothing."
  His eyes flicked over Sirius's face. "But you needn't look so smug. Just because
  I won't talk doesn't mean Snape won't."

  Sirius waved a hand. "I'm not worried about Snape."

  Remus narrowed his eyes.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!" Sirius blustered. "I didn't do anything to him. I just
  meant he won't dare say anything. He knows I'll call him out. If he tells anyone
  I 'raped' him - which I did not - then I'll just have to tell everyone how much
  he enjoyed it."

  Remus colored slightly, no doubt remembering some graphic detail or other. He
  looked at the fire again and cleared his throat. "Where's Snape now?"

  "In bed, where else? Sleeping like a baby, I'd wager, with visions of handsome
  Gryffindors dancing in his head."

  "Is he all right?"

  Sirius shrugged. "Well, he'll want to stick to soft foods and soft chairs for
  the next few days" - here Lupin gave him a very dark look - "but, yeah, he'll
  live."

  "Did you untie him?"

  "I loosened the ropes." This conversation was getting positively surreal. "Now,
  do you have any other questions, Grand Inquisitor, or can I go to bed? It's hard
  work, this rape stuff."

  "Gods damn it, Sirius, don't joke--"

  Sirius held up a hand. "Okay, okay, okay. I'm sorry. No more jokes. My word as a
  Marauder." He got to his feet once more, waiting expectantly, but Remus didn't
  move. "You coming up?"

  "In a bit."

  "It's pretty late."

  "I know."

  Sirius watched him for a moment. "You haven't...you haven't changed your mind,
  have you?"

  Remus snorted again. "What mind?" he spat, and the shame on his face released
  Sirius on the spot.

  "Moony, I swear to you, it wasn't rape. I swear on my life. No matter how it
  might have looked...Moony, you know me. I'd never do that, not to Snape, not to
  anybody." Silence. "You believe me, don't you?"

  "I do. You're dead wrong - it was rape, no matter what you think - but I believe
  you." He cocked his head, and that odd, closed look was gone; he looked like
  mild, dependable, friendly little Moony Lupin again. "That doesn't make any
  sense, does it?"

  Sirius thought about it. "For you, it does," he said finally, and his heart
  lifted a bit when Remus smiled. But it was a strained smile, and it didn't last
  very long.

  "Go to bed, Sirius," Remus said. "I'll be up soon."

  Sirius hesitated. He wanted to say something else; he didn't dare say anything
  else. Finally, he mumbled an awkward good-night and trudged up the stairs.

  ********************************************************************************

  Ten minutes later, clean and naked and floating between cool, soft sheets, he
  replayed the conversation. Raped him. Raped him? Ridiculous. He was no rapist;
  there were too many people, male and female, who wanted him, and he had too much
  pride to force himself on anyone who didn't. Moony was nuts.

  And Snape had wanted it - his body had made its enthusiastic enjoyment quite
  plain. It wasn't rape when the other party wanted it. Seduction, maybe...Yes.
  Yes, that was it. It had been a seduction, with a bit of necessary force thrown
  in.

  The matter thus settled, Sirius drifted off to untroubled, uncomplicated dreams.


***** The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 2 *****
The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 2




  Chapter Two - Reflection

  Monday, 27 December, 1976

  Severus Snape was a remarkably complicated young man. Even for a teenager, his
  teachers agreed, he had quite a few of what the Muggles liked to call "issues."
  He had anger issues. He had control issues. He had self-esteem issues. To these
  teachers, and indeed, to many of his peers, this made him not so much an enigma
  as an exasperating poseur: a passable-looking boy who deliberately made himself
  ugly; a quiet, rule-abiding boy who resorted to violence and Dark magic at the
  slimmest provocation; a brilliant boy who squandered his intelligence and talent
  on subjects no right-thinking wizard would, or should, ever want to learn. If
  only he could manage his temper, they said. If only he would study Charms or
  Arithmancy with the same hunger as he learned deadly potions and disfigurement
  curses. If only he cared more for friendship and acceptance, they said, and less
  for the shock value of having - and apparently relishing - the worst reputation
  in school.

  Among his peers, the discussion was little different, if slightly lower in tone.
  Did he have to wear black all the time? Would it kill him to wash his hair once
  in awhile? Sure, maybe his folks were hard up for money, and maybe his Dad drank
  and was maybe a bit quick with his fists, but did that mean Snape had to take it
  out on the rest of the world? Everyone had problems; not everyone went slogging
  through life with a crapped-out face and a mouthful of hexes.

  What none of these people - excepting, perhaps, Albus Dumbledore - seemed to
  understand was how little of Snape's "I-hate-the-world" pose was a pose at all.
  And not even Dumbledore realized how fundamentally damaged he was - indeed, how
  damaged he had been even before he had wandered into the headmaster's rather
  eccentric care. Not Dumbledore, who termed his insults clever and his moody
  silences profound, Dumbledore who defended his bouts of curse-flinging temper as
  "high spirits" and his interest in Dark magic as the perfectly normal
  fascination of many a bright young boy for the grotesque and bizarre. Alone of
  all his teachers, Dumbledore neither condescended nor pandered to him; alone of
  the entire school, Dumbledore seemed to genuinely like him.

  Dumbledore, gods bless him, was a fool.

  Dumbledore didn't know Severus at all. Didn't know who he was, what he was, what
  he wanted, where he came from. Whathe came from. His mother was a gifted healer,
  mousy-pretty, deeply intellectual but emotionally frail. His father had been an
  Auror - a very good one, by all accounts - before injury forced him to retire.
  He was a cold man when sober, moralistic and rigidly controlled, but when he
  drank, he could turn violent and vicious, as unpredictable as a wild animal.
  Bred by two people so cataclysmically ill-matched, betrayed by the passivity of
  one and hardened by the abuse of the other, Severus was, like the union that had
  produced him, a volatile, dysfunctional, contrary mess.

  And, certainly, Dumbledore did not know the depth of his hate. Severus Snape all
  but pulsedwith hate, an all-encompassing, uncompromising wall of it. He hated
  his parents, he hated his poverty, he hated his looks. He hated the classmates
  who unfailingly noticed his outdated texts, his outsize robes and second-hand
  wand; he hated even more the teachers who never seemed to notice when those
  books were knocked out of his arms, or the robes used to send him sprawling, or
  the wand snatched away and flung far into lake or tree. These were the same
  teachers who never saw how much he dreaded going home on holiday, the same
  teachers who never saw the occasional limp or bruise his mother was no longer
  around to heal...the same teachers who believed, with such adamant, bewildered
  irritation, that he dressed like a vampire and hexed every Gryffindor who
  crossed his path just to get their attention.

  That was too much irony even for a Slytherin.

  It bothered him, sometimes, though he took great pains not to show it. He knew
  it shouldn't, knew he shouldn't give a damn what any of them thought-these
  people were nothing to him. But it was just so unfair. He hadn't asked for his
  lot in life, damn it, and he was doing the best he could. Who were they to judge
  him? If any of them, anyof them, had had to face the daily horror show that was
  life with Augustus Snape, they'd have likely killed themselves ages ago. Or
  taken the coward's way out and retreated into madness and the relative safety of
  a room at St. Mungo's.

  His mother's way out.

  Not Severus. Severus ground on, as grim as a prisoner counting out the days
  until his release, neither giving nor asking any quarter, going on sheer
  stubbornness, ambition, and a desperate kind of courage no swaggering, jut-jawed
  Gryffindor could ever hope to understand.

  Ambition. Even for a Slytherin, Severus had it in spades; even at sixteen,
  Severus knew exactly what he wanted from life. He wanted to study, work hard,
  get his degree. He wanted to graduate with the highest honors Hogwarts could
  bestow and get the best job he could find. He wanted to grunt and grind in an
  apothecary's by day and do his own research and experiments at night. He wanted
  to bottle and brew anything for anyone at any time if they had enough cold, hard
  cash, he wanted to squirrel away every last knut and sickle, and he wanted to
  fuck everyone who could help him and fuck over anyone who stood in his way. He
  wanted to succeed. More than that, he wanted to escape.

  To that end, he needed Hogwarts, and the fools who mocked and misunderstood him
  at whim were, unfortunately, part of the package. If that made for a lonely and
  joyless existence, then so be it. There would be time enough later to be kind
  and warm and friendly, if that was his inclination. When he was grown. When he
  was free. In the meantime, so long as the fools kept their distance, he could
  ignore the snickers and giggles, the bad jokes and hissed words behind cupped
  hands, the pointing fingers and pointed stares.

  But he couldn't ignore the Marauders.

  The Marauders, that band of self-styled, James Potter-led, vicious Gryffindor
  idiots, did not allow themselves to be ignored, not by anyone, and certainly not
  by the likes of Severus Snape. For five-and-a-half years, Severus had been their
  favorite target, the butt of their worst jokes, the vent for whatever
  frustrations such empty-headed but glorified wastes could have. For five-and-a-
  half years, they had conspired at every turn to make his life at Hogwarts an
  exercise in humiliation, frustration, and pain. No, he couldn't ignore the
  Marauders. Not before, and definitely not now.

  Not after last night.

  Severus put his face in his hands.

  Long after Black had left him, he had laid awake, replaying every word, every
  touch, his thoughts circling and fighting like vicious little animals in a cage.
  He had been raped. He had been raped by Sirius Black. He had been raped by
  Sirius Black until he was shaking with ecstasy and demanding mindlessly to be
  raped some more. Black would tell. Black wouldn't dare tell. Black didn't have
  the brains notto tell. Round and round he went, thinking and rethinking and
  over-thinking, by turns hot with shame and cold with fear, hating Black more
  than ever, hating himself even more.

  He had fallen asleep thinking about it and he had awakened thinking about it,
  and he had been thinking about it all day, but he was no closer to understanding
  than he had been twenty-four hours ago. And the question that plagued him most
  was why?Why Black, why him, why now?

  It gnawed at him, more troubling than the shame or the fear or even the anger.
  Shame he was used to, fear and anger were constant companions, but if there was
  one thing Severus Snape couldn't stand, it was being confused. Not knowing the
  answer to something, to anything, made him feel lost and small and powerless in
  ways Augustus, even at his most brutally creative, never could.

  The hell of it was, he had the answer already. He knew what they were up to;
  he'd been down this road with the Marauders a hundred times before. This was
  just another cheap trick, an elaborate set-up, the granddaddy of all pranks;
  this was a few hours of Black sacrificing his body to the greasy git in exchange
  for hours of enjoyment at the git's expense. Severus could just imagine the
  catcalls and insults, the furtive pinches and gropings and knowing leers. Shit!
  Just the verbal picture Black could draw, for anyone who cared to listen - Snape
  across his lap, ass red and wriggling; Snape's legs wrapped around his neck and
  Snape's hole wrapped around his cock - would have been too tempting for the
  bastards to resist. And it was all so Black, so Potter...so them.

  So why didn't he believe it?

  Because it didn't feel like that,Severus thought, and that was the simple truth.
  Black hadn't acted like it was a prank; he certainly hadn't acted like he was
  doing some dirty job none of his asshole friends wanted to do, just to set up a
  laugh. His lust had felt real, rather frighteningly real, and the small tastes
  Severus had gotten of his thoughts had been a revelation: hate, certainly, and
  anger and disdain, but also flashes of amusement, guilt, pity...even, at some
  points, a quirky sort of affection.

  Affection. Severus cringed at the thought, but he couldn't deny it. He had had
  strong psychic ability - what his mother's mother had called the Reach - since
  his magic had manifested itself at six years old, and he trusted that ability as
  completely as other people trusted their sight. As impossible as it seemed, he
  knew what he had felt from Black's mind had been true. Strange, conflicted, and
  possibly as confusing to Black as it was to Severus - but true.

  And there were outward signs as well. The hungry way Black had looked him up and
  down, his eyes skimming every inch of naked flesh, his mouth twitching as if it
  longed to follow. The way Black had healed his face. The way Black had entered
  him so slowly, so carefully, and prepared him with such warm silken oils - a
  spell that must have taken weeks to find, let alone master. The gentle way
  Black's hands had soothed and stroked him after the spanking, and the way
  (Severus blushed furiously at the memory) he had replaced the hands with the
  starker pleasures of lips and tongue. Even the spanking itself hadn't been that
  bad.

  Well, no. The spanking had been plenty bad, humiliating and painful as hell. It
  was still painful. But Severus was rather an expert on harsh discipline, and he
  knew it hadn't been nearly as bad as it could have been. As it certainly would
  have been, he had to admit, if their positions had been reversed.

  No, there was no way around it. As rapists went, Black had been almost
  considerate.

  Of course he was considerate, you fool! That was the point of the whole joke,
  wasn't it? Hell, it was the punchline. If Black had hurt him, if Black hadn't
  pleasured him, Black couldn't tell everybody what a whore Severus had been. How
  he had begged for it. How he had panted and whined and humped like an animal,
  like the bitch Black had said he was, like--

  No. No, it was no good. Even when he tried to feel it, he didn't feel it. Didn't
  believe it. Why couldn't he believe it?

  Why did Black kiss you? his mind countered immediately, and Severus sighed. Why,
  indeed.

  He had not been unconscious when Black left him last night. Black had obviously
  thought he was, and Severus, his body exhausted, his emotions a hot stew, had
  let him. But he had been awake when Black left him, and fully aware of the
  Gryffindor's explorations. Black's finger, warm and Quidditch-calloused,
  delicately tracing his features. Black's hand running through his hair. Black's
  lips taking his in a soft parting kiss.

  Soft! Soft and slow and thorough and - Severus cringed again - almost tender.

  Why, why, why?

  "Why what, Severus?"

  Startled, Severus raised his head and looked up into the clear, questioning blue
  eyes of Albus Dumbledore. Fuck. Obviously, he had been thinking aloud, and he
  wondered what else the headmaster had overheard. "Sir?"

  "You were talking to yourself," Dumbledore said. "A vastly underrated past time,
  in my view, and one I highly recommend." He cocked his head. "But it is rather
  late, and very cold out here...and you sounded upset."

  Severus was silent. He didn't trust himself to say anything intelligent, but
  even startled, it simply wasn't in Severus Snape to stammer.

  Dumbledore pressed gently. "Is something troubling you, Severus? Perhaps I can
  help."

  He almost did it, then. The genuine kindness in the old man's eyes, the warmth
  in his voice, almost broke him. Only his inability to articulate what was
  troubling him stopped him from blurting out the whole story - for what was he
  going to say? "Well, you see, sir, Sirius Black raped me last night, and it was
  horrible, it was, but he made me come, too, made me come so hard I can still
  feel it, and I feel dirty and stupid and used, but then he kissed me and stroked
  my hair and needless to say, sir, I'm rather confused about the whole thing."
  Oh, yes. That wouldn't be embarrassing at all. Perhaps he could add that Black
  had spanked his naughty bare bottom and French-kissed his asshole, just in case
  he hadn't actually expired from humiliation by then. "No. No, sir. There's
  nothing troubling me, sir."

  "Are you certain? 'Why' is a vast and complicated question, Severus. Even for
  minds such as ours."

  Severus forced a dutiful smile. Dumbledore often joked that he and Severus were
  two of a kind, deep thinkers, the school's resident philosophers. At least,
  Severus assumed he was joking, though it was hard to tell with Dumbledore - such
  a genial old fart could probably find common ground with a flobberworm. "I
  suppose so, sir." He rose from the low stone bench, suppressing the pain the
  movement caused him with an ease born of long practice. "I should be going in
  now, sir."

  It was a dismissal, just short of rude, but if Dumbledore recognized it as such,
  he gave no sign. "Very well. I'll walk you back, if that's agreeable to you. I'm
  afraid Mr. Filch is on the prowl for strays."

  Severus gritted his teeth. No, it's NOT agreeable, you barmy old git, so why
  don't you just piss off and leave me alone? "Of course, Headmaster. Thank you."

  They headed up the hill toward the castle. It was a fair distance - Severus had
  walked much farther than he'd realized - but to his relief, Dumbledore made no
  more attempts at conversation. The silence between them was not uncomfortable,
  and for the first time since Black had attacked him, Severus began to feel a
  measure of peace. It was odd, how Dumbledore's mere presence could do that to
  him sometimes, could still his most chaotic thoughts, calm his jangled nerves,
  soothe his smaller hurts and angers. At such times, when he sat across a chess
  board from the man, or they shared a table laden with holiday treats, Severus
  felt how truly perfect the old wizard was. How perfect, and how unique. His
  parents had taught him, largely by example, that people were either powerful or
  kind, but Dumbledore was different. Dumbledore was both.

  It occurred to him that he might actually love the old coot; somehow, the
  thought didn't annoy him nearly as much as it should have.

  Still, as soon as they reached the Great Hall, he tried to make his escape.
  "Thank you for walking with me, sir, but I'd like to go to bed now."

  "Of course, dear boy. You must be exhausted." He didn't venture any theory as to
  why Snape should be exhausted on the fourth day of a holiday fortnight, and
  Severus, wisely, didn't ask. "Perhaps after breakfast, you will join me for a
  game of chess?"

  "Yes, sir. Perhaps." He gave Dumbledore a short nod and turned toward the stairs
  leading down to the dungeons, wondering how far he'd get before--

  "Oh, and Severus?"

  Not even a step. Severus turned back with a sigh, wearing a look that tried very
  hard not to say All right, all right, get on with it, but said it anyway.

  "The answer is in your heart, not your head."

  Severus frowned. He had expected some parting piece of worthless advice; he had
  not expected greeting-card blather. "I...I beg your pardon?"

  "The answer. To your question. To your 'why.' It always lies much more in what
  you feel than what you think." The brilliant blue eyes were narrow and
  thoughtful, and Severus fought a sudden urge to squirm beneath that shrewd gaze.
  "You should learn to trust your instincts, Severus. They are good and true, as
  true as any I have ever seen, and well worthy of your trust - why do you fight
  them so?"

  It was an apt question. It was a bit too apt for Severus's comfort, given what
  he had been wrestling with all this night, but he couldn't have answered it even
  if he'd wanted to. "I don't know what you mean. Sir."

  "Then you're not nearly as bright as your grades would indicate." Severus
  frowned; Dumbledore sighed. "I'm sorry, child, but I know a lie when I hear
  one."

  Snape said nothing.

  "And I know it must be difficult for you," Dumbledore continued. "You are a
  logical young man. You deal in facts, and you disdain fancy. I was much the same
  at your age, believe it or not; I, too, prided myself on my superior intellect,
  my supreme rationality." He swept Severus with that grave, considering gaze once
  more. "Of course, I was not so hard as you are, so cautious, so closed, and so I
  was able to teach myself to feel. You are different, Severus. You have taught
  yourself not to feel. At any cost."

  Severus snorted. "Is that so unusual?"

  "In one so young? Yes. I find it most unusual." That look again. "And
  unspeakably sad."

  Anger stiffened Severus's spine. "I've no need of your pity, Headmaster," he
  spat. "Save it for your Gryffindors."

  "Pity implies contempt, Severus; you will never get pity from me." Severus
  blinked. Was that anger in Dumbledore's tone? "This is concern. This is counsel.
  Sound counsel, I might add, even if it does come from a Gryffindor."

  Severus glared at him. Dumbledore gazed calmly back, not blinking, not speaking,
  until at last Severus looked at the floor. He didn't know what to say, or what
  Dumbledore wanted to hear. He was tired, and he was hurting, and he was so
  confused...and the headmaster's "counsel," sound or not, was only making his
  head spin more.

  "Severus." Dumbledore put a hand under his chin and lifted it. The hand was warm
  and strong and gentle, and for no reason at all Severus felt absurd tears
  threaten. "At least consider what I've said. Please. At least do that much."

  "Yes, sir." At last, a question he could answer. Even if that answer was a lie.
  "But now I...I just want to go to bed. I'm very tired, and..." He trailed off,
  reluctant to be rude under that wonderful touch.

  Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "And...?"

  He took a deep breath. "And I don't want to talk about this anymore."

  Dumbledore nodded, and Severus thought he saw a flicker of approval on the
  ancient face. "As you wish, child. Perhaps you should sleep on it, as the
  Muggles say. We shall talk more in the morning, if you like." And before Severus
  could say Noor Yesor Like hell we will, you old crackpot, Dumbledore did a
  shocking thing, something no one had done to Severus Snape in a dozen years or
  more: he bent and pressed a kiss to the young wizard's brow. "Good night,
  Severus."

  Severus watched him down the hall and out of sight. He hadn't lied; he was
  tired, and he did want to go to bed. And he knew that Argus Filch could pop his
  ugly head around a corner at any moment. Still, he stood, touching his forehead,
  dimly registering that it was warm, and that his fingers were cold. And
  trembling.

  And his sense of peace was gone.

  ********************************************************************************

  There was a house elf in the common room, stoking the roaring fire, and just the
  sight set Severus's nerves further on edge. He hated house elves. They were such
  pathetic creatures, mindless, simpering, obsequious, nauseatingly ugly...and he
  was the only Slytherin in sixth year whose family couldn't afford even one.

  He vaguely recognized this one - enormous blue eyes, enormous persimmon lips,
  greeny-blue skin the color of moldy cheese. And a typically ridiculous name -
  Hanky or Panky or Wanky or some such nonsense. Severus's lip curled. As if he
  needed even one more reason to hate them, did they all have to have names right
  out of Snow Witch and the Seven Orgs?"Bugger off, you nasty little thing."

  The house elf froze, clearly torn between its compulsion to immediately obey and
  its equally-ingrained desire to serve. "May Pucky get young master something
  first, perhaps? Perhaps young master would like a bath? Or a snack? Or--?"

  "No, young master would notlike a bath, or a snack, or a blow-job in the
  Astronomy Tower on New Year's Eve. Young master would like Pucky to get out of
  here. Now. Before young master conjures a live snake up Pucky's arse."

  Pucky Disapparated with a squeak.

  With a certain sullen satisfaction, Severus dragged himself upstairs. He removed
  his winter cloak and flopped down on the bed in his robes, too exhausted even to
  undress. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, and for once it didn't
  fight him at all.

  No, tonight it was his body that wouldn't cooperate.

  Severus sighed. He was exhausted, but he was also sore. The myriad pains and
  strains he had been holding at bay all day long were catching up with him now,
  and he couldn't find a comfortable position. His shoulders ached, his thighs
  ached, and his ass burned and throbbed, inside and out, with every beat of his
  heart. After fifteen minutes of restless turning, he was up again and rummaging
  through the trunk at the end of his bed. His belongings were sparse - his school
  texts, his cauldron, a small picture of his mother and a few of her letters -
  and he found what he was looking for almost immediately.

  He took out the small gold-capped jar and palmed it, warming it in his hands.
  The salve was Magdalena Snape's personal recipe; she had created it especially
  for Severus, she had taught him how to make it, and she had used it on him more
  times than he could count. "Something special, just for our special situation,"
  she had often said, and it certainly was that - Severus would have bet it could
  mend the dead. There were benefits, he supposed, to living with a world-class
  healer. Even a world-class healer who let her husband beat the shit out of their
  son every chance he got and called it "our special situation."

  Get on with it.

  He unscrewed the cap. A familiar scent drifted up, faint and pleasant - almonds
  and rosehips, aloe and a touch of mint - and his stomach clenched. He hated that
  smell. He had never opened this jar without some part of him damaged or hurting,
  battered or bleeding, and for all that he could tell the difference, almonds and
  aloe smelled like sweat and fear and the bitter whiskey-reek of his father's
  breath.

  Get on with it, you idiot.

  "Lumos," he said. Even such a brief lie-down had made him stiffen up alarmingly;
  his movements were a creaky old man's as he stood and stripped down, examining
  his body in the dim torchlight. Some ingredients in the salve could react badly
  to open wounds. He didn't think Black had left any cuts or sores on him - or in
  him - but it was best to be sure...

  Hang it! He just couldn't see. He spelled the torch flames higher. No. Still no
  good. He sighed and glanced across the room, to the full-length mirror against
  the far wall. So far as he knew, it was the only Muggle mirror in all of
  Hogwarts - Slytherins did not take kindly to such taunts as Nice robes; do they
  come in your size?from people, let alone inanimate objects - and for once,
  Severus was grateful for the lack of magic. He didn't need any commentary on the
  embarrassing and intimate examination he was going to have to make right now.

  He walked over to it and stared into it. A gaunt, ghost-eyed boy stared
  impassively back.

  Black didn't look at you like that.

  No, Black hadn't looked at him like that. Black had looked at him as if Severus
  had an apple in his gob and Black hadn't eaten for a month.

  He narrowed his eyes at his reflection, trying to see himself objectively. It
  was almost a surprise to discover that he wasn't repulsive. He was still too
  thin, still growing into his gawky teenager's body, but there was something to
  him now besides skin and bone, a fine layer of muscle overlaying his long frame
  that had not been there before. He had spent the summer apprenticing at an
  apothecary's in Diagon Alley, and it had been mostly elf work, cleaning,
  preparing ingredients, and loading and unloading supplies. At the time, Severus
  had resented the physical labor (he knew damn well they could have allowed him a
  littlemagic, underage restrictions or not) but, looking at himself now, he had
  to admit that it had paid off in unexpected ways. Genes were genes, and no
  amount of hard work would ever give him Black's kind of sculpted, muscle-heavy
  physique, but slogging cauldrons all summer had created a sleek and subtle
  definition that he'd never had. And rather liked.

  Sleek. Yes, all right. He could see that. Not scrawny anymore, but sleek. Slim.
  Firm.

  He ran his palms lightly over his arms, down his chest, along his stomach, all
  of it pleasantly taut beneath the smooth skin. He turned sideways and inspected
  his buttocks, mouth drawn down in a clinical frown. They were smooth as well,
  sweetly rounded, and tight as ever - arse like a little girl,his father
  sometimes snorted - but harder now, higher, more defined. He slid his hands
  behind him and cupped them. The milky flesh was still latticed with faint pink
  welts that prickled to life under his touch, and he squeezed, squeezed until the
  stripes flared into a sweet-sharp throb and his breath caught hard in his chest.
  His cock twitched in appreciation.

  He faced forward again. His cock. That was one place where he knewhe had an
  edge. Not that Black was small, exactly, but--

  Severus almost smiled.

  He had realized long ago that he was unusually well-endowed; he had seen enough
  of the other boys, in the showers, in the dorms, to know that. And he had heard
  all the comments, of course. That's some tackle, Snape; too bad about your face.
  Hey, Snape, what you gonna grow into first, the cock or the nose? Merlin, Snape,
  what happened, did your mum shag a centaur? Always, there were the comments. At
  least in this case, Severus realized there was jealousy behind most of the
  taunts, with a smattering of genuine awe; he had seen their jealousy in their
  eyes. But it was still somewhat embarrassing. His member would have been
  impressive on a boy twice his size; on him, on his slender, still-gangling
  teenage frame, it was outlandish. Freakish, almost. When he was nude like this,
  damned if it didn't look like his cock was just going to topple him forward,
  flat on his face.

  Black didn't think it was freakish.

  Severus ignored the voice and continued to touch himself, caressing his bottom,
  his thighs, his belly and chest. He was stroking himself more languidly now,
  largely unaware that somewhere along the line his all-business self-examination
  had become an exercise in self-pleasure.

  Black thought it was gorgeous. "Gorgeous monster cock." That's what he thought;
  you heardhim. That's what he called it.

  Severus closed his eyes. His breathing was getting quicker, his skin vibrating
  with sensation. He ran his palm low along his belly, edging closer and closer to
  the line where white skin became dense black curls. His cock, fully hard now,
  bobbed up eagerly toward the teasing hand, like a dog snuffling for a friendly
  pat, but Severus would not oblige. He'd be damned if he'd wank while thinking of
  Sirius Black.

  Black would wank you, if he were here. Black would grab that gorgeous monster
  cock and just wank away, just stroke you off until you couldn't fucking see
  stra--

  Black! Hang Black! Who cared what that smirking, swaggering, empty-headed
  bastard would or wouldn't do? Who cared what he did or said or thought?

  If he thought you were dinner, Sev, he thought your cock was dessert.

  Severus groaned. He slid his hand down his belly and closed it around his shaft,
  gripping until his head went swimmy and his knees went weak. The hard length
  pulsed protestingly in his fist, demanding more, and he gave it a lingering
  stroke, hips twitching, free hand coming up to toy with his nipples.

  It was the sight of himself in the mirror - flushed face, trembling legs, prick
  jutting obscenely from his closed fist - that caught him up short. No. No, gods
  damn it, no. He was not going to do this, not when Black wouldn't get out of his
  head, not after what Black had done to him. It would be like getting raped all
  over again.

  He released his prick - just the simple act of unclenching his fist required a
  Merlinean effort - and settled resolutely into one of the overstuffed chairs
  behind him. He picked up the jar again and dipped two fingers into the creamy
  salve, smoothing it over his right shoulder, working it into the aching muscle.
  Within seconds the soreness faded, replaced with a pleasant, tingling warmth.
  Yes, Magdalena's balm was indeed wondrous stuff. Once upon a time, he had even
  been grateful for it.

  He rubbed the other shoulder and both arms, trying all the while to ignore the
  erection still screaming up from his groin. It was like trying to ignore a heart
  attack. The stiff shaft bobbed this way and that as he worked; when he started
  on his thighs, his fingers brushed it repeatedly, and each touch sent tiny
  sparks skittering along the flesh. He bit his lip, fighting for control,
  refusing to give in; by the time he was finished, he was panting lightly and
  trembling from head to toe.

  Severus took an unsteady breath. Correction: almostfinished.

  He sat back deeper in the chair and lifted his knees, rubbing the salve into his
  buttocks. The signature tingling sensation raced across his skin, settling deep
  into the flesh; his head went back briefly, and he bit his lip again. Ooh.
  Magda's salve on a well-spanked ass was a forgotten delight, and he found
  himself still rubbing long after the balm was gone.

  He wondered what it would feel like inside him.

  He spread his legs, still bent, and scooped out some more of the cream, smearing
  it over his anus. He coated a shaking finger, pressed it to the hole - then
  hesitated. It was probably safe; despite the intense soreness, there had been no
  bleeding at all. But if he was wrong...

  If you're wrong, you're wrong.That wasn't the reason he was hesitating anyway,
  and he knew it.

  He slid the finger in. The salve was cool on the tender spots, warm on the ache
  and the bruises, creamy-soft on every inch of him. He worked the finger in and
  out slowly, watching in the mirror, fascinated in spite of himself. Merlin, it
  was hot in there, and the hold...No wonder Lucius always went on and on about
  how tight he was. No wonder Black had been so wild.

  "Gods!" Light exploded behind his eyelids; he bucked and the jar fell to the
  floor, thudding on the thick braided rug. What the hell was that? What - oh,
  gods, that was what Black had tortured him with, that was that spot, that
  wonderful spot that Black had found with his prick, over and over again, and had
  used to drive Severus straight out of his mind.

  Prostate, he thought hazily, Lucius says that's my prostate--

  But Lucius had never made it feel like this.

  He touched it again. Inexperience made him clumsy, a bit too rough, and he had
  to bite back a scream, body twisting helplessly out of the chair before he fell
  back, shaken and dazed. His eyes in the mirror were wide and stunned. The
  pleasure was so intense it was almost frightening.

  But, oh, it was sweet. Far too sweet to resist.

  Trust your instincts, Dumbledore had said. Well, all right. Somehow Severus
  doubted this was exactly what he'd had in mind when he had said Severus should
  teach himself to feel, but it was a start - and he simply could not fight the
  pull of his body any longer.

  He closed his hand over his prick again and began stroking, hard and slow,
  keeping time with the finger now steadily reaming his ass. All the waiting and
  ignoring and denying he'd done had him right on the brink, primed to come, and
  after only half a dozen strokes he did, spilling all over his stomach, his
  finger stuffed so far up his hole it felt like his fist was trying to follow.

  "Great gods, what a show. You look like Christmas all over again."

  Severus's eyes flew open. So did his mouth. No. No. It couldn't be. He'd changed
  the password himself, just this evening, and all the wards, too--

  Sirius Black leaned in the doorway. He was applauding slowly, a mocking grin
  stretched ear to ear.

  "You!- How-? What-? Get out!" Maybe it was in him to stammer, Severus thought
  stupidly. At least when he was caught with his finger up his bung and his prick
  still twitching in his hand.

  "Having some trouble talking there, Sniv?" Black's voice was a trifle
  breathless, as if he were having some trouble himself, and there was an enormous
  bulge in the front of his pants. "Maybe you should take that finger out of your
  bum; it seems to be distracting you."

  Severus's face flamed. He slipped his hand free as unobtrusively as possible and
  tried to sneer at Black's erection. "You enjoyed it, you fuck."

  "Bet your arse," Black winked. "Actually, I want an encore." He sauntered over
  with that ridiculous Muggle-gunslinger's walk of his and hunkered down, putting
  himself eye-level with Snape's crotch. "Touch it," he said.

  Severus gave him a wary look. "What?"

  "You heard me. Touch yourself. But don't wank. Just grab your prick and hold it
  in your hand without moving it."

  "I don't think so." Severus wasn't about to take any orders from Sirius Black,
  least of all step-by-step instructions on How To Jack Off For An Audience.

  Still smiling, still squatting, Black brought his wand up and planted the tip
  hard under Severus's jaw. "You want to do what I say, Snivellus."

  Snape twisted his head away. "No! I'm not afraid of you, Black." And he wasn't.
  Not tonight. Not anymore. Whatever else Black wanted here, Black didn't want to
  harm him. Hurt him, maybe, but not harm him. "And it's Severus, you shit-for-
  brains faggot."

 He tried to get out of the chair; Black planted a hand in the center of his       
  chest and shoved him back, hard. "Do you know what a pensieve is, Severus?"

  Severus frowned. Of course he knew what a pensieve was; they'd learned about
  pensieves just this year, in both Charms and Magical Runes. But what did that
  have to do with the price of pumpkin juice?

  Apparently mistaking his silence for ignorance, Black went on. "It's a little
  bowl you put your thoughts into, so you can look at them later. Hell, you can
  even jump in and walk around in them, which is really a trip. Like walking
  around in a dream." He paused, giving his next words a peculiar emphasis. "I
  have one."

  Severus was still staring at him blankly. What the hell was he on about? So he
  had a pensieve. No surprise there. Pensieves were relatively rare and very
  expensive, but the Blacks, like the Potters, were filthy rich, and Black
  probably had many pricey and useless toys. And a pensieve would likely be the
  most useless of all, as Severus couldn't imagine what thoughts a guffawing goon
  like Sirius Black could possibly have that would be worth preserving.

  "And the most brilliant thing about pensieves, Severus," Black continued, "is
  that you're not the only one who can look at them. You can show them to other
  people, too. Let them look at your memories. Let them see everything you've
  seen, just as it was. Everything, Severus. Right down to the last detail." He
  ran a hand up one sticky thigh, thumb just brushing the tip of Severus's cock;
  the Slytherin flinched, and Black's smile returned, jolly and jeering and sly.
  "Do you get it, Sniv? Do you get what I'm telling you, you snarky little git?"

  And just like that, Severus did.

  Oh, shit.

  He looked in the mirror again, where the gaunt, ghost-eyed boy now lay sprawled
  in a sweaty heap. Lips bitten red. Hair all over the place. Legs spread wide,
  one flung over the arm of the chair, everything he had most lewdly on display.
  It was the look of a boy unmistakably and utterly well-fucked - and it was no
  doubt nothing compared to how he'd looked just minutes ago, wanking and
  buggering himself like the world's horniest contortionist, coming all over his
  own belly in a fountain.

  You can show them to other people, too...Let them see everything you've seen,
  just as it was. Everything,Severus. Right down to the last detail.

  He Reached into Black's mind, trying to see if Black really did have a pensieve
  or if it was just a clever lie. He doubted it - Black didn't actually have that
  kind of cleverness - but he dared to hope. He Reached but got no real thoughts,
  just shades of emotional color: small pulses of impatience like winks of red
  light, scornful amusement, a sharp-edged pewter-grey. Overlaying it all was
  lust, thick and velvety and purple. It was the best he could get; he didn't have
  his wand and he was in a highly emotional state, as was Black. The most Severus
  could determine was that Black was willing to share what he had just seen with
  the rest of the school, and Severus had no reason to doubt he could.

  Avoiding Black's eyes, jaw clenched so hard it ached, he slid his hand back down
  and closed his fingers loosely around his cock. He remained still, as he'd been
  instructed, feeling not only humiliated but rather stupid, sitting here holding
  a prick as limp as a dead snake in his warm, sweating grasp.

  His lack of arousal didn't seem to bother Black; the Gryffindor's face was
  intent and well-pleased as he settled forward on his knees between Severus's
  legs and began to play. He stroked up both thighs this time, spreading them
  wider, rubbing his thumbs along the grooves at his groin. He palmed Snape's sac,
  rolling the heavy balls in his fingers, and Severus, still extraordinarily
  sensitive from his orgasm, could not hold back a cry. Black smiled. He thumbed
  the head of Severus's cock again, toying with the slit, and Severus gasped, his
  prick jerking in his hand.

  "Stop that," Black warned. "No squeezing."

  Severus opened his eyes - when had he closed them? - and loosened his grip. He
  eyed Black warily, half-expecting some reprisal, but Black, characteristically,
  was already onto something else.

  "What's this?" He had found the jar and was holding it up, turning it this way
  and that in the dim light.

  "It's a jar, fuckhead, what does it look like?"

  "Oh, you're so cute, Snivvy. All that cock and witty, too." He closed his other
  hand over Severus's, squeezing both sets of fingers on the Slytherin's hardening
  prick until he winced. "What's in the jar, arsehole?"

  "Medicine." Curt. Somewhat strained. "I made it."

  "Medicine?" Black looked at it curiously. "Doesn't look like medicine. It looks
  like lube, or--" His face cleared with sudden understanding. "Oh. Oh, I get it
  now." He grinned and tossed the jar aside, tracing a finger down Snape's crack
  and circling his anus, prompting a squirming little shiver. "Did ickle Snivvy-
  kins have a sore wittle bummy last night?"

  Rage nearly made him blind. "You'd be sore, too, you sick fuck, if some mangy
  Gryffindor raped you!"

  A strange look crossed Black's face. It was at once surprised, puzzled, and
  exasperated - a here-we-go-again look. "I didn't rape you, Snape."

  "Oh, of course not," Severus sneered. "What does a Gryffindor call forced sex?"

  "Forced, my arse." Black laughed. "You wanted it, lovey. You begged for it. You
  came and you came hard, and I never fucked a wilder bitch in my life, so spare
  me the damsel-in-distress bit. You wanted it just as much as I did."

  And he believed it, Severus saw; the dippy prick obviously believed that binding
  someone hand and foot, spanking him raw, and shagging him without so much as a
  "Mother, may I?" was not rape, so long as the attacker was sufficiently
  attractive and the victim was, at some point or other, aroused.

  Or the attacker was a Gryffindor and the victim, a Slytherin.

  "You're deranged," Severus muttered. "You're bloody delusional."

  "Whatever." Black shrugged. "If it makes you feel better to think that, go
  ahead. Play the little drama queen. Tell yourself how I wrested away your
  virtue, how I forced you to submit to my vile animal lusts, how I...Christ,
  you're slick." He was still playing with Snape's hole, stroking the flaring
  muscle, tickling over the fine little hairs; he slid a finger in and twisted it,
  pumping gently. "Mmm. Like silk. Nice job, Snivvy. My cock could float into you
  on lube that fine."

  "I told you," Severus ground out, "it's medicine." He was struggling mightily
  not to clench around that finger.

  "Oh. Right. Medicine." Black rolled his eyes and removed his finger. "So what do
  you need 'medicine' for? Haven't you ever heard of healing spells?"

  Severus didn't answer. Of course he'd heard of healing spells, and he'd used
  them more times than this ignorant shitbag could ever guess, but he preferred
  the salve. It was safe, it was comfortable, it was what he was used to...and it
  was his mother's. He had very little left of his mother as it was, and--

  He cut the train of thought off abruptly. He just preferred the salve. That was
  all.

  "Is it poisonous?"

  "What?"

  "That gunk, that...medicine," Black chuffed impatiently. "Is it toxic?"

  "Yes." Damn! Severus could have kicked himself. He had answered much too
  quickly; not even Black would fall for that.

  Nor did he.

  "Um, I didn't think so," Black snickered. "Still...you can never be too careful,
  eh?" He picked up his wand again and dragged it lightly along Severus's
  perineum; the lingering tingle from the salve blossomed into the unmistakable
  deeper vibration of magic. "There we go. Nice and tidy now."

  Severus swallowed hard. Tidy. He knew what that meant, all right, and his
  stomach gave a strange little twist, part lust, part dread.

  "Since I'm the one responsible for your discomfort, I reckon I should do
  something about it." Black leaned forward between Severus's thighs again,
  glancing up at him from beneath his shaggy forelock. "Grab your arse."

  "What?"

  A sharp slap stung the inside of one thigh. "Did you take a stupid pill tonight,
  Sniv? I said, grab your arse. Spread your butts. Show your hole. It isn't so
  hard, you know. Two hands, two cheeks - I think you can figure it out."

  Severus just looked at him, flame-faced and stricken. Black sighed.

  "Merlin, Snape, this bashful-virgin rot is getting old, and I'm horny as a goat.
  Do what I say, or I'll tie you to that bloody chair and fuck you raw, and I
  don't care how sore you are." Another sharp slap. "And then I'll sell tickets to
  the show."

  "Show? What do you--?" Oh. That show. "I don't believe you even have a fucking
  pensieve!" Severus burst out. Even to his own ears, he sounded childish,
  desperate.

  Black put a hand under Severus's chin and turned his head, forcing him to look
  into the mirror. "Do you really want to take that chance?"

  Severus looked. Swallowed. Caught his breath. Wished he had his wand, and
  imagined how good Black would look with an evil second head growing out of his
  ear and gnawing on his face.

  Did as he was told.

  "There you go! See? That wasn't so hard." Black smiled encouragingly and stroked
  the red splotch on Snape's thigh. "Now pull them apart."

  Severus obeyed. Barely.

  "Oh, come on, Sniv, you can do better than that. Let me see your hole, I want-
  No, dammit, don't shake your head, I want you to do this. Yes, you can...don't
  make me ask you again. That's it. Oh...yes, that's...Wider. Wider. Oh, that's
  got it now, Sniv. That's lovely, that is. Look at that little hole just open
  right up for me. Poor little thing. Looks like it hasn't eaten in a week."

  Severus nearly choked. "You disgusting--you filthy--uhn!"

  The first swipe of Black's tongue sent a shock all the way up his spine. He
  jumped, his thighs jerking in Black's hands, his buttocks bunching in his own.
  Black licked him again, tracing a slow path from his anus all the way up to his
  balls; the wetted skin cooled as the air hit it, and the shiver that passed
  through him was exquisite.

  "Goosebumps," Black mused. He blew a soft stream of breath over the glistening
  pucker, and Severus shivered again, to Black's obvious delight. "I didn't know
  you could even get goosebumps there."

  He moved on. Back up the perineum. Over the swollen sac. Around the base of the
  cock. Severus felt a quick brush of lips across his scrotum; then Black licked a
  stripe the length of his cock, tracing the vein, swirling over the head and
  probing the creaming slit. Severus stiffened, fingers digging into his own flesh
  as he fought the urge to arch up into that touch. Black probed again, wiggling
  the tip of his tongue into the tiny opening, and it took every scrap of self-
  control Severus possessed not to wiggle right along with it.

  He was not going to let Black do this to him again. No matter what Black did to
  him, he was not going to respond. He was strong. He could resist. He had to
  resist. He would not give Black the satisfaction of drawing pleasure from him;
  he would never give Black that kind of power over him again. He'd kill the
  Gryffindor first.

  Or himself.

  But it was a fight he just couldn't win. Black was relentless, the bastard, the
  heartless prick, and relentlessly inventive. And he was everywhere, from the tip
  of Severus's prick to the backs of his knees, nipping and licking and nuzzling
  every inch of flesh he could find. Every touch was a tease, just enough to
  arouse, never enough to satisfy; every touch created a different, distinct
  sensation, and every sensation was magnified by the fierce control Severus was
  struggling to maintain. The hot shiver in the pit of his stomach; the delicious
  rise of the hairs on the back of his neck; the spastic flutters of his anus and
  the painful tightening of his balls, his nipples, and the root of his cock - all
  were heightened by the knowledge that the release he refused to seek was
  literally inches from his grasp.

  What the hell was wrong with him? Not even the fact that Black was forcing him
  to participate in his own debasement could quell his excitement. Just the
  opposite: every time he looked over Black's bobbing head and saw the shameless,
  slutty way the boy in the mirror was holding himself open, offering himself like
  an eager whore, a dirty thrill uncoiled low in his belly, leaving him weak and
  shaky and hot.

  And even when he did manage a feeble attempt to resist, Black just gave him more
  of that maddening mouth and a reminder, some awful, obscene reminder, that that
  they were putting on a show, a reminder of why he was submitting to this
  ignominy in the first place.

  When he tried to push Black away: "I love how you look with your legs spread,
  your cock bouncing around, your arse cheeks laid open," Black sighed, nuzzling
  between them to place sharp little bites along their insides.

  When he tried to move his hands: "Did you know your hole turns pink when it's
  excited?" Black asked, licking warm circles over the hole. "All flushed and wet,
  like a little pink mouth-it looks like it's trying to kiss me back."

  When he tried to cover himself: "Look how your bollocks pull up at that," Black
  chuckled, suckling ever-so-lightly on Severus's balls. "Gods, they're hard as
  bludgers, they are. Look at them trying to crawl up around your prick, trying to
  get away from me."

  Look at this. Look at that. Look, look, look. Even with most of his brain
  melting, even through a sensation that felt like a cross between the world's
  most brilliant blow job and virtual castration, Severus got the message. Part of
  him even admired it. As a strategy, the pensieve threat was actually rather
  brilliant, and the corner of his mind still capable of real thought was
  astonished; he never would have guessed Sirius Black had the cunning for such
  Salazarian mind games.

  And where was the prick getting the patience for this? Certainly Black had the
  requisite cruelty for such measured, deliberate torture, but the self-control?
  The bastard hadn't even come yet himself, and the fly-front of his jeans still
  looked like it was going to burst.

  Severus wished it would. He could think of no worse humiliation than to come
  before his asshole rapist did - especially when the asshole rapist had pranced
  in here already waving a stiffy that could cut glass - and he was rapidly losing
  his own control. He was panting now, sweating, writhing with every lick. His
  cock was swollen, flushed a dark pink; a trickle of pre-come ran from the tip,
  down the shaft and into his crack. The urge to bring himself off was unbearable.
  Now Black was sucking lightly on the head of his prick, just the head, and
  Severus ached to push deep into that delicious mouth until he exploded.

  He was squeezing his own buttocks, kneading them, his fingers slipping further
  and further into the cleft. They brushed his hole; it twitched and opened
  readily, and he stroked it without thinking.

  "Oh, that's it," Black crooned. The voice appeared in his ear, sudden and husky
  and hushed. "That's it, Snivvy. Fuck yourself for me. Stick it in. Stick it in
  and bring yourself off for me. Make yourself come for me."

  Quite suddenly, it sounded like one hell of an idea.

  He slipped his finger into his own heat; he felt Black grin against his belly,
  and the tongue dipped into his navel, swirling and pressing and tasting. The
  combination of sensations was alien and intense, almost too intense: it made him
  want to hump and cringe and laugh and sob, all at the same time, and he
  convulsed as his body tried to accommodate the wildly conflicting signals from
  his misfiring brain.

  "Gods, stop, stop," he managed to gasp. His free hand scrabbled for Black's
  head, twining in the thick short hair, trying to push the mouth away. "Gods, I
  can't...just stop, just stop..."

  Black allowed himself to be pushed, though not far; Severus could feel the
  warmth of his breath as he spoke. His eyes roamed restlessly over Severus's
  body, glued to the slender finger working in and out of his ass.

  "Christ, you look so fucking hot like this," he muttered hoarsely. "I wish I
  really did have a pensieve, so I could see you like this again and again."

  It took several seconds for the words to penetrate. When they did--

  "GET OFF ME!" Severus snarled. He wound his hands in Black's hair again and
  shoved with all his strength, sending the bigger boy sprawling. "Get off, get
  off, get off, get off!"

  He scrambled up and out of the chair, blindly, frantically, not thinking of his
  wand on the bed stand across the room, or his clothes, or even the door. He
  wanted only to get away, to get Black's hands off him and Black's mouth off him
  and Black's leering face as far away from his as possible.

  He almost made it. It was the jar that tripped him up; he stepped on it and it
  rolled his foot out from under him, putting him flat on his face, knocking the
  wind out of him. Before he could even catch his breath, Black was on top of him,
  overpowering him easily, half-dragging, half-carrying him back to the chair and
  throwing him down. Severus struggled fiercely, perhaps more fiercely than Black
  expected: twice he almost got away. Then he heard the "Relaxus" spell and saw
  the shimmer of magic around him, and he collapsed in the chair, unable to move,
  his body drugged and limp, his limbs heavy and useless.

  He could do nothing but glare helplessly as Black arranged him in the chair like
  an oversized doll. He spelled Severus's arms, crossing his wrists and pinning
  them behind his neck; he lifted the long legs over the arms of the chair,
  spreading them until Severus felt some of the intense strain on his thighs even
  through the magic. Once he seemed satisfied with Snape's position, Black leaned
  forward and cupped his chin once more.

  "Gods, you're really something, Sniv," he said. "What a cheap little Muggle
  romance novel you're turning this into." He chuckled - chuckled! - and his grey
  eyes sparkled with mirth. "Now this is the part where I'm supposed to say,
  'You're such a little hellcat, Snape.' Right? Or, 'Oh, how I like a wench with
  spirit'?" He leaned closer still, his breath warm and moist on Severus's lips.
  "Well, you know something, Snivvy? You are. And I do."

  The kiss was hard, and messy, and almost painful, but Severus would not have
  fought it even if he could. It was delicious. No one had ever kissed him the way
  Black did - not Lucius, not Bellatrix, not anybody. He could taste the whole
  perplexing range of Black's emotions in his kiss, from anger and contempt to
  warm desire, a Gryffindor's need to conquer warring with a Gryffindor's need to
  play the hero, to pamper and protect. Severus still couldn't move his body, but
  there was nothing wrong with his mouth, and he returned the kiss as well as he
  could, licking Black's teeth, sucking on his tongue, the low moan it pulled from
  Black making him moan in response.

  When neither one of them could breathe at all anymore, Black pulled away. His
  handsome face was flushed, his eyes almost dreamy. He traced Severus's bottom
  lip with his thumb. "Gods, what a mouth," he whispered. "I can't wait to get my
  cock in that mouth."

  "Then let me go." The words burst out before he could stop them. Black's
  answering laugh made him blush, but he gritted his teeth and plowed ahead. "I
  mean it. If you let me go, I'll-I'll suck you. I'll suck you dry."

  "You'll do that anyway, soon enough," Black agreed. "But not tonight. Tonight is
  special, Severus. Tonight is all about you." He flicked Severus's half-hard cock
  and shook his head. "Looks like I was a bit too keen with that spell, eh? There
  are parts of you I don't want relaxed. Don't really fancy fucking a corpse.
  Finite Incantatum."

  The spell released him, and the tension seemed to slam into his tautly-presented
  body: instantly, his shoulders were aching, his thighs were on fire, and his
  groin was splitting. He felt like a wishbone in the hands of two gleefully
  sadistic children.

  He opened his mouth to protest - then the tip of Black's wand slid smoothly into
  him, and he forgot all about his tortured muscles in a wash of sudden, sick
  terror. His mouth went dry, his head went fuzzy, and for a terrible moment, he
  thought he might faint.

  Black's wand. His wand, sweet Salazar, and what the fuck was the crazy bastard
  thinking? A wand was a weapon, an instrument of vast and unpredictable power,
  and a rational wizard would no more insert one into another human being than a
  Muggle would a knife, or a gun.

  He would have said all this - would have outright begged, if he had been able -
  but his ability to speak seemed to have abandoned him. He opened his mouth again
  and emitted nothing but a faint whimper. Black smiled broadly at the sound.

  "Like that, do you? I thought you might. Mmm. I love that squeezing, clenching
  thing you do with your hole. Look at that little pucker grab hold...Can every
  bottom do that, Severus, or are you just gifted?" He glanced down at Severus,
  who was shaking his head frantically back and forth, and his mouth quirked.
  "Merlin, Snape, calm down. It's a rhetorical question."

  He pushed the wand deeper. It seemed to hum inside Severus; he could feel the
  power crackling through it like lightning through a rod.

  "Please," he managed to croak. His throat was tight, and dry as dust. "Please--
  I--please-"

  Something of his terror must have shown in his face; Black's brows came together
  in a puzzled frown. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  "Please. Take it out. Take it out. I'll do anything--" Severus was barely aware
  that he was begging; he was too busy bracing himself for the agony of magic
  ripping through him, an agony he imagined he could already feel.

  "Oh, for Merlin's sake." Finally - finally! - Black understood, and he looked
  both amused and exasperated. "Jesus, Snape, I thought you were smarter than
  that. You don't really believe all that bullshit about wands going off inside
  you, do you?"

  Severus was silent, afraid to speak, afraid to move, afraid even to breathe.

  "It's just what they tell us so we won't fuck ourselves with them." Black was
  clearly trying to be patient, as if talking to a dim-witted child, and his tone
  was almost kind. "It's a myth, Severus. Like...like telling kids they'll go
  blind if they wank too much. Believe me, this is perfectly safe." He laughed.
  "Peter practically uses his arse for a scabbard, if you know what I mean."

  Severus still looked skeptical. Black frowned impatiently.

  "For gods' sake, Snape, maybe I don't give a shit about you, but do you really
  think I'd risk damaging this?" He grabbed a handful of ass and squeezed, hard.
  "Look, there's nothing you can do about it anyway, so just relax. Enjoy it. From
  what I've heard, it's supposed to feel brilliant."

  Severus swallowed again. Black looked utterly sincere - which meant zero as far
  as Severus was concerned, because Sirius Black was an amazing fucking liar - but
  his words did make a certain sense. He did seem to enjoy Severus's body. And he
  certainly seemed fond of his ass. And even though he was a nasty, bullying,
  sadistic prick, Severus didn't think he was a total homicidal maniac. And--

  And it did feel brilliant.

  Almost half of it was inside him now, twisting and probing, stretching him
  gently. It was thinner than Black's prick, but longer - and much, much harder.
  There was no give to it when he tightened around it, none at all, and every
  squeeze produced a faint but oddly pleasant ache. And the magic! It was unlike
  anything he'd ever felt, glowing inside him, sparking, tingling, quivering. He
  was rapidly getting hard again, his fear dissipating in a warm surge of arousal.

  "Oh, yes," Black murmured. He had his head back and his eyes half-closed, his
  hips moving slightly, mimicking the thrusting motions of his hand. He seemed to
  be getting as much pleasure from the act as Severus was; he was reacting as if
  it was his cock buried in the Slytherin boy instead of his wand. As Severus
  watched, Black murmured something slithery-sounding - "Simpaticus" - and twisted
  another two inches of wand into him. Severus arched, pressing down hard with his
  thighs against the arms of the chair, and Black shuddered and hissed, "Oh, yes!"
  once more, clutching blindly at Severus's ass.

  Severus fell back, panting. Simpaticus, eh? Oh, very clever, and he tried not to
  smirk as he shoved himself abruptly upwards, impaling himself on the remaining
  few inches of wand, tightening every muscle south of his navel until the
  bruising hardness seemed to bite into his flesh. Take that, arsehole.

  "Fuck!" Black's eyes flew open, shocked and glaring. For a moment he looked
  blank; then his eyes narrowed. "Oh, Snivvy wants to play, does he?"

  His hand stole down to the wand now buried in Severus's hole and touched it
  lightly. Severus threw back his head with a cry as the quiver deep inside him
  became a hard, steady vibration, the wand pulsing deliciously against his
  prostate. He fought with his body, trying not to hump helplessly, trying to get
  away from the intense sensation, yet trying to get more.

  Then Black's head ducked down between his thighs again, and Severus felt the
  moist heat of Black's mouth envelop him, taking half his impressive length in a
  single gulp. The wand twisted in and out of him, shuddering deep up into his
  gut, and Black was sucking him hard enough to make a stone twitch, and all at
  once it was all too much. He came without warning: there was no buildup, no
  spiral, no climb, just a dazzling explosion of pleasure that made his ears pop
  and his head spin and his body seize and his breath stop dead in his throat. And
  there was no fall, just a buzzing darkness as, this time, he blacked out for
  real.

  ********************************************************************************

  He awoke shortly before dawn. He was no longer in the chair, but tucked into his
  own bed, three quilts deep and feeling wonderful - warm, sleepy, peaceful,
  sated. He felt no trace of the pains and strains such vigorous sex usually
  produced, and he wondered, for a few fuzzy moments, if he might have dreamed the
  whole thing.

  A languid stretch and a slight shift against the sheets cured him of that
  misconception instantly. A tiny moan escaped him, and he flipped quickly onto
  his side. Good gods, it felt like Black's wand was still up there. And his
  prick...his prick was incredibly sore. Severus touched the head gingerly and
  grimaced. For an obvious beginner, Black did give great head, but someone needed
  to tell him to watch the bloody teeth.

  Black. Black had done it to him again. Had assaulted him in his own room. Had
  wrung levels of pleasure from his body that he hadn't known were possible. Had
  restrained him and humiliated him and subjugated him and made him thoroughly
  enjoy every single minute of it and, as an encore, had fucked him into oblivion
  with a surrogate cock.

  Then had carried him to his bed and tucked him in and wrapped him up, as cozy as
  a newborn babe. Or as carefully as a favored toy.

  It was enough to drive a sensible Slytherin mad.

  Was that what he was? Snape wondered. A toy? A game? Something Black wanted by
  simple virtue of the fact that he could not have it? Knowing Black, it made a
  twisted sort of sense. Black was popular, a good student, a good athlete, almost
  ridiculously pretty (and he knew it); the stupid slut had fucked easily half the
  school, and he had the other half mooning about after him with their tongues
  hanging out at any given time. And how had it made him feel all these years,
  knowing that an ugly little outcast like Severus Snape wouldn't give him a
  second look unless there was a hex behind it? Severus didn't know, for sure -
  but he would've bet a year of his life that it had galled the big-headed moron
  to his core.

  He hoped it had, anyway.

  He burrowed deeper into the covers. The movement sparked another little flare of
  pain from below, and his small smile faded. No matter how Black had felt before,
  it was a moot point now. The prick had won. He had gotten what he wanted, as
  rich Gryffindors always seemed to get what they wanted, whether they deserved it
  or not and on a platter besides. Yes, he had taken it by force, through
  extortion and trickery and emotional blackmail, but - to paraphrase the immortal
  Salazar Slytherin - what did facts matter in the face of results? Sirius Black,
  heartless heartthrob of Hogwarts, could now add Severus Snape to his long list
  of conquests. He had won again.

  So why did he come back?

  Severus thought about it. It was a reasonable question. Black had taken him two
  nights ago, had achieved his conquest then - what was the point of returning
  last night?

  He was horny, that's all. Horny, and the school's half-empty.

  True, the school was almost deserted, but there was still a smattering of viable
  partners from which the Gryffindor could have chosen...and no doubt none of them
  would have required threats and incapacitating spells to ensure their
  participation. Yet Black had come to him. Moreover, he intended to return - he
  had implied that quite clearly. You'll do that anyway, soon enough, he had said.
  But not tonight.

  Not tonight. Some other night. But why? What more did he want? He had taken
  Severus's body, taken his dignity, denied him control of his own body. Fear,
  punishment, abject humiliation - what else was left?

  I want you to like me, Severus.

  Black had said that as well, two nights ago. I want you to like me, Severus. I
  just want you to like me. I'm going to make you like me.

  Bollocks, Severus snorted to himself. There weren't enough days in a dozen
  lifetimes for that. If Sirius Black was trying to get Severus to fall for him -
  if Sirius Black was truly that blind and greedy and vain and stupid - he was
  going to be waiting until Hufflepuff won the House Cup and the dead rose singing
  from their graves. Severus couldn't like him if he tried.

  He sighed and shifted again. He freed an arm from the covers and threw it
  carelessly across the pillows. One thing house elves were good for, anyway -
  lots of thick quilts, lots of nice fat pillows. He pulled them closer, burying
  his face in their softness. They were warm despite the dungeon chill, warm as
  fresh bread, and they smelled nearly as good, the faint scent of laundry soap
  mixing with newer, earthier smells. Musk. Leather. Skin. Sweat.

  Black.

  Black?

  Severus stared into the dark, sleepy no longer.

  "Lumos," he whispered. The torches flared into life, and he went up on one
  elbow, squinting in the sudden brightness. The other side of the bed was as
  sleep-messy as his own; the pillows were rumpled, and still indented slightly in
  the middle. He slid his hand across them, savoring the traces of Black's body
  heat; several short black hairs came away on his fingers, and he looked at them
  wonderingly.

  It couldn't be. Couldn't. Not even Black was that stupid.

  But - apparently - he was. He had stayed. He had stayed most of the night,
  judging by the warmth still clinging to the bedding; had stayed and slept beside
  a boy who loathed him, a boy whom he had raped twice in as many nights, a boy
  who could, and gladly would, hex his balls off and replace them with hot toffee
  apples without so much as drawing a deep breath.

  Forget stupid. Black was downright crazy.

  He had stayed.

  Severus wondered what Black had done. What Severus had missed. Had he slept at
  all? Or had he played with his new toy, caressing and exploring Severus in the
  same maddening, almost-tender way he had the night before? Had he kissed
  Severus? Had he held him? How long had he stayed?

  Why had he stayed?

  Severus Noxed the torches and fell back against the pillows. His head was
  spinning. Why, why, why. It always came back to "why" with Black, didn't it? To
  questions with no answers - or, worse yet, questions with answers he didn't
  quite dare to contemplate.

  The answer. To your question. To your 'why.' It lies much more in what you feel
  than what you think.

  Easy enough for Dumbledore to say - Severus was willing to bet he'd never been
  burned in all his hundred-plus years as often as Severus had in sixteen. And it
  was easy enough for Severus to feel that Black had given him a kind of power
  this night, a power he had never dreamed of having over anyone, let alone the
  high and mighty Sirius Black...but it was impossible to ignore the harder voice
  of reason. The voice that told him not to be a fool, not to get his hopes up,
  not to let his guard down.

  The Dumbledore voice persisted. You should learn to trust your instincts,
  Severus. They are good and true, as true as any I have ever seen, and well
  worthy of your trust.

  Well. Every instinct he owned told him that those squashed pillows and stray
  hairs meant that it was Black who was in over his head here, that it was Black
  who might end up on the wrong end of the joke for once. That Black was more
  obsessed with him than either of them would have ever guessed.

  Yes, instinct told him all of that, quite clearly. But the voice of reason told
  him flatly that Severus Snape just didn't have that kind of luck, never had,
  never would - and the voice of reason was also the voice of long, hard
  experience. Almost impossible to ignore.

  Still...it was a beautiful thought, wasn't it?

  He closed his eyes. The bed was snug; the room, in all its lovely, shadow-draped
  silence, was all his. The day was all his. No classes, no homework...he could
  lie in all morning if he wished. Have breakfast in bed. Read. Doze. Dream, even.
  Lie in and luxuriate in the warm soft stillness.

  And in the possibilities.

  Severus drifted off, his smile as untroubled as a child's.
***** The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 3 *****
The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 3




  Chapter Three - Competition

  Friday, 7 January, 1977

  "You going into Hogsmeade today?"

  "Hmm?" Sirius turned his gaze on his friend. Not without difficulty, given the
  view at the far end of the table. Damn, but Snape was looking good today. And
  not in his usual, sexy-in-a-weird-Goth, I-know-what's-under-those-robes kind of
  way, either, but in a normal, spruced-up, special-occasion kind of way. Clean.
  Well-groomed. He wore striking new robes of shimmering Slytherin green, his hair
  was washed and brushed and streaming gorgeously down his back...and was the
  little tart actually wearing eyeliner?

  Remus sighed. "Are. You. Going. Into. Hogsmeade. Today?" He enunciated each word
  carefully, and a bit sharply. Like a parent speaking to an unruly child, Sirius
  thought.

  "Um...I don't know. Wasn't planning on it. Not much fun without you and James
  and the rat." Besides, I might have something better on offer.His eyes drifted
  to Snape again. He decided Snape was not wearing eyeliner after all; his lashes
  were just so thick, and his eyes so dark, that it looked like he was. Come to
  think of it, he always looked like he was wearing lipstick, too, but Sirius knew
  it was just the natural color of his mouth. Red. Ripe. Luscious, even when it
  was wrapped around an insult.

  Snape's mouth. Wrapped around him. Hot and wet and--

  "Who said I wasn't going?" Remus said.

  He was talking to Sirius, but he was looking the same place Sirius was looking,
  and Sirius tried not to blush. "Well, I just figured...you know, since last
  night was..." He gestured helplessly. "You still look a little tired, is all."

  The wise-ass smile turned wan. "Tired doesn't even come close," Remus admitted.
  "I don't know why, but last night was especially bad."

  Sirius felt a stab of guilt. Last night had been the full moon, and Remus, for
  the first time in practically forever, had spent it alone. Oh, Sirius had
  offered to stay with him, as was their custom, but Remus had seen that his heart
  wasn't in it, and he had graciously refused. Over the past couple of weeks,
  Sirius had found other, far more pleasurable alternatives to changing himself
  into a dog and sharing fleas with a werewolf, and both of them knew it.

  Remus read his expression and sighed again. "Sirius, it's not your fault. It's
  not because you weren't there. I don't know what it was." He shrugged. "Some
  cycles are just worse than others. It's always been that way."

  "Oh." Sirius picked at his eggs. He still felt guilty; no amount of kindness on
  Moony's part was going to change that. Moony had spent the night out in the
  Shrieking Shack, freezing his furry little ass off, enduring the physical agony
  of two transformations and trying to resist the bone-deep urge to munch on a
  wayward villager or two - and where had Sirius been? Why, buried balls-deep in
  Severus Snape's mouth, thank you very much, and sucking Snape off at the same
  time. Sixty-nine, the Muggles called it. "Look, if you were planning to go, I'm
  in."

  "Are you sure?" Moony's lips took on that knowing little quirk again. "I thought
  you might have other plans." He tilted his pumpkin juice slightly in Snape's
  direction before taking a sip. Snape, thank the gods, wasn't looking.

  Sirius did blush this time, but he covered with a hollow laugh. "Oh. Right. With
  him? Please, Moony." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Shagging the little
  freak is one thing, but actually being seen with him in public? I do have some
  standards, y' know."

  "Oh, I don't know." Remus was still eying the unsuspecting Snape over the rim of
  his goblet. "He looks rather presentable this morning, don't you think?"

  "I hadn't noticed." It was a lie, an obvious lie, a lie so obvious that Sirius
  knew thatRemus knew it was an obvious lie - but he had to say something.

  "Well, he's all dolled up for some reason. Hair washed. New robes." Moony
  shrugged again, all innocence. "Looks to me like he has a hot date lined up. I
  just assumed it was you."

  "Shut up." It came out close to a snarl. Moony blinked; Sirius bit his lip. Damn
  it. He knew Moony was only teasing him, just taking the mickey a bit, but he
  couldn't help it. He was irritated. He was getting that feeling again. That
  uncomfortable, uneasy, what-the-hell-have-I-gotten-myself-into-here feeling.
  Again.

  He had been fucking Snape for twelve days. Twelve days of heart-stopping, mind-
  blowing, spine-tingling sex, in every corner, every position, and every hole
  Snape had, and he was still no closer to getting Snape where he wanted him -
  where he truly wanted him - than he'd ever been. Twelve days of heart-stopping,
  mind-blowing, spine-tingling sex later, Snape still hated his guts.

  Oh, he obviously enjoyed the sex - his body, at least, responded beautifully to
  every delicious, degrading assault Sirius launched, and he never made any real
  attempt to protect himself. Even Remus, who was not privy to the gritty details
  (nor, he had made it clear, did he care to be), had been forced to concede that
  Snape could have put a stop to his relations with Sirius, had he truly wanted
  to. Forewarned was forearmed, as the saying went, and Moony reasoned that any
  idiot could throw up a decent ward, sleep with his wand under his pillow, or
  even bury a knee in his attacker's nuts, if that was what it took. And Snape was
  no idiot.

  So the general consensus was that Snape wanted him, and that was fine, that was
  brilliant, that was right as rain. But it wasn't enough. Snape didn't want him
  the way Sirius thought Snape should want him - which was to say, he didn't want
  him the way he wanted food or sleep, water or air. Sirius wanted Snape to think
  of him every waking moment, to dream of him during restless nights, to taste his
  kisses when he wasn't there, to stare at him longingly across a room, silently
  begging for the smallest smile or the merest glance. He didn't want Snape to
  merely want him; he wanted Snape to fucking worship him.

  But Snape wasn't cooperating. By night, he allowed Sirius to fuck him, to fondle
  him, to tie him in vulgar and humiliating positions, to spank him, to use any
  number of exotic accoutrements with and on and in every part of him; by day, he
  ignored Sirius as resoundingly as if they had never met. Snape was giving it up,
  but he wasn't giving in.

  Snape was a contrary, pig-headed, hateful little git.

  Worst of all, the holiday break was almost over - and what was it James had said
  to him before the break? "Bugger the little snake stupid, if it makes you happy,
  Paddy, but watch out for the claws after. He hates you; shagging him isn't going
  to change that."

  And Sirius had laughed. Maybe Prongs had a point about the claws, he said, but
  he was dead wrong about the last. Sirius Black knew the extent of his seductive
  powers, his charm and his sexual prowess, and he had vowed he would reduce Snape
  to a slavering, worshipping boytoy by the end of the Christmas break. If not by
  the end of their first night. He had told James so; he had told himself so. Had
  promised himself, in fact.

  Someone, apparently, had forgotten to tell Snape.

  And now there was...this. Up until now, Sirius had at least had the consolation
  of telling himself that it wasn't his plan that was failing, that it wasn't his
  charms that were lacking - it was just Snape, being difficult, being contrary...
  being Snape. But now, thanks to Remus's big mouth and Snape's natty new look,
  Sirius had another possibility to consider.

  Competition.

  He looked at Snape again through narrowed eyes. Okay, so he'd washed his hair.
  Big deal. He'd been washing it regularly ever since Sirius had taken him up;
  Sirius liked his hair clean, and he had advised Snape that it was in his own
  best interests to keep it that way. He smiled. Given that this advice had been
  reinforced on several occasions by the brisk application of a paddle to Snape's
  squirming ass, Sirius wasn't all that surprised by the Slytherin's sudden
  interest in personal hygiene.

  But the robes, now...What was the deal with those robes? Moony was right; they
  were definitely new. And definitely expensive - silk, by the look of them. A
  Christmas present? Well, maybe. Probably. But from whom? No way could Snape's
  parents afford real silk; hell, they couldn't afford a halfway decent winter
  cloak for him, judging by the one he'd worn to tatters for the last couple of
  years. And Snape had no friends. Certainly none who could, or would, give him a
  lavish gift like that.

  Sirius's smile faded. Lavish, yes - and rather personal, now that he thought
  about it. Like something a lover would give. Someone who cared what Snape looked
  like, someone who wanted Snape "all dolled up" for some reason.

  What was Snape all dolled up for?

  Who was he all dolled up for?

  Sirius stared hard at Snape, willing him to look up. After a moment, Snape did,
  and Sirius felt his uncertainty sharpen into a moment's real fear. The black
  eyes were cool, flat, utterly expressionless except for a faint, contemptuous
  curiosity. It was the same dismissive and superior look that Snape always gave
  him, and a flare of rage replaced his fear, a flare so intense it both shocked
  and thrilled him. Last night I had you bent over a chair screaming my name, you
  snotty little fuck, and you have the nerve to look at me like that?

  As if he could read the thought, Snape nodded almost imperceptibly, the tiniest
  of smiles curving his lips. You bet your arse I do.

  Sirius went cold. He pushed his plate away with a shaking hand. He wasn't hungry
  anymore.

  ********************************************************************************

  Three hours later, he was in Hogsmeade, stalking his unsuspecting lover and
  still steaming like a cut-rate cauldron. He had ditched Remus with unexpected
  ease; Moony had taken to bed shortly after breakfast, complaining of the killer
  migraine that sometimes followed the transformation, and had promptly fallen
  asleep. Sirius, too riled to even feel properly guilty, had grabbed the
  Invisibility Cloak and a few other necessary items and slipped quietly from
  their room.

  He stayed about twenty feet behind Snape, moving swiftly and silently as a cat.
  Those few items he had grabbed - a short, stout wooden paddle; a birch switch,
  long and thin and whippy; his heaviest, thickest, softest dragon-hide belt -
  made awkward bulges under his robes, but their bulk was not unwelcome: when he
  finally caught up with Snape, the smirking, snotty-look-shooting asshole was
  going to get a nice little taste of each.

  And if Snape's mysterious robe-buying friend wanted part of the action? Well,
  that was okay, too. That suited Sirius, in his current mood, just fine.

  Just as easy to kick two asses as one.

  Snape crossed Trickor Street and turned right, disappearing around the corner of
  Zonko's. Sirius had to wait for a trio of bloated biddies to waddle out of the
  way before crossing the street himself, and he rounded the corner just in time
  to see Snape enter The Hog's Head.

  What the fuck?

  No way should Snape have been allowed in the Head; he was only sixteen, he
  looked even younger, and old man Roach was death on that rule. No minors in the
  Hog's Head. Ever. Shit, Sirius would have bet good money that Albus Dumbledore
  himself would have been carded at Roach's door.

  He waited, watching, fully anticipating (and not without great pleasure) that
  the door would fly open any moment and Snape would come sailing out. Probably
  land right on his ass, poor thing. Might even get his fancy new robes dirty. Oh.
  Horrors. What. A. Thought.

  Thirty seconds. Sixty. A minute and a half. Finally, more irritated than ever,
  torn between the indignation that Snivellus, of all people, had managed to
  actually breach the sanctity of The Hog's Head and the frightening conviction
  that Snape was getting himself gang-raped by a drunken mob, Sirius went to the
  nearest window and took a look.

  Snape was standing beside a corner table, half-hidden in shadow. There were two
  men with him. One, a handsome older man whom Sirius didn't recognize, was
  already seated, a half-finished pint of something black and viscous-looking on
  the table in front of him. Even at a cursory glance, he was quite striking. He
  looked to be in his early to mid-fifties. He was very pale and very thin, almost
  as thin as Snape, and though seated, he appeared quite tall. His hair swept back
  from his high forehead in thick black waves, revealing strong, aristocratic
  features: full lips, firm jaw, chiseled cheekbones, aquiline nose.

  The other man, who stood beside Snape with his hand low on the teenager's back
  (low enough to raise Sirius's hackles, anyway) was young, very blond, and good-
  looking in a soft, effete sort of way.

  Lucius Malfoy.

  Sirius's lip curled. Lucius Malfoy. The quintessence of everything that was
  wrong with Slytherin House: rich, pampered, bigoted, and arrogant. He'd been a
  sixth year when Sirius, Snape, et al. were firsties, the supreme ruler of the
  House of the Snake, and a primo political climber even then. Sirius still
  recalled the little clique of thugs and bitches that Malfoy had called friends -
  well, how could he not? They had made it their sworn duty to torment Gryffindors
  every chance they got. Especially scared-shitless little first-year Gryffindors
  who didn't know a puffskein from a pineapple.

  Sirius also recalled, now, that Snape had sometimes been allowed to hang around
  the fringes of Malfoy's group, though only in the manner that a geeky little
  brother was allowed to play with the big boys - i.e., if he was willing to do a
  lot of dirty work, take a lot of shit, and kiss a lot of ass.

  Malfoy was talking. Sirius couldn't hear any of the conversation, but from his
  gestures, it appeared that Malfoy was introducing Snape to the older man. No.
  Not introducing. Presenting. The slick smile, the smooth (and obviously
  practiced) sweep of his arm, the eager shine on his pointy, pale face - all
  brought to mind a sleazy used-broom salesman trying to make one last deal for
  the night.

  The stranger nodded, and Malfoy and Snape sat down. The stranger beckoned to a
  passing waiter; two tall glasses appeared on the table almost instantly. Nobody
  spoke.

  Sirius pressed closer to the dingy window, trying to make sense of the tableau.
  The dynamic was odd, and it was compelling. Malfoy still looked anxious,
  nervous, but cautiously pleased with himself - would he make the sale? The
  stranger looked politely neutral, a blankness just this side of boredom on his
  face, belied only by a slightly amused twitch of his lips. Snape just looked
  scared.

  Scared?

  Sirius took a better look. Snape's head was down, his hair obscuring most of his
  face, but what little Sirius could see was a tight white mask. He was sideways
  to Sirius, and Sirius could see his hands were clenched tightly together in his
  lap; a muscle throbbed along his jaw line, and he was gnawing at his lower lip.
  Snape did not scare easily; after five-and-a-half years of tormenting and
  bullying him, Sirius knew that as well as anybody. But he was scared now. On
  second look, Malfoy was, too - that glossy, glib salesman's smile was just a bit
  too wide, and a bit too fixed, to be anything but a cover for fear.

  So who was this man?

  Sirius looked at him again. Really looked, this time - and felt his knees turn
  to water. Merlin! How had he missed that the first time? By any definition, the
  stranger was handsome, but that wasn't why Sirius, even with his newfound
  appreciation of his own sex, suddenly found it hard to stand. Or breathe. The
  man had an aura with a capital A; twenty feet and one dirty window pane away, he
  still exuded a power and command that made even Dumbledore look like a moth-
  eaten old Muggle doing card tricks.

  Now the stranger was talking. To Snape, mostly. He seemed to be questioning him;
  Snape appeared to be answering, though just barely - his lips moved around
  replies too brief to be anything but "yes" or "no," and he kept his head down
  during the entire conversation, as if afraid even to glance into the older man's
  face.

  After the jolt he'd just had - at a comfortable distance, no less - Sirius could
  hardly blame him.

  The stranger spoke again, making a small gesture toward Snape's untouched drink,
  and Sirius saw that his striking looks were marred on at least one score: his
  hands were spectacularly ugly. He had unusually long fingers, the bony, chalk-
  white of a skeleton's, and his nails were uncut, wickedly pointed and slightly
  yellow.

  Without looking up, Snape shook his head slightly at whatever the stranger had
  said. The stranger frowned. He spoke again; again, Snape shook his head, and
  Sirius saw his knuckles go white in his lap. The stranger's brows drew down, and
  he regarded Snape's bent head for a long moment before turning angry eyes on
  Malfoy.

  Angry red eyes.

  What the--?

  Sirius recoiled in horror. It had to be an illusion, some trick of the dim
  light. He had seen the man's eyes when he first looked at him. They were normal.
  They were brown, for Christ's sake... weren't they?

  What kind of human being has red eyes?

  The stranger was still glaring at Malfoy, who stammered and stuttered and looked
  about ready to shit. He was still sputtering when Snape lifted his head. He
  still looked scared as well, almost as scared as Malfoy, but he met the terrible
  stare of the man across from him with a calm Sirius couldn't help but admire.
  His mouth moved briefly. He glanced at Malfoy, sitting frozen beside him, then
  spoke again.

  Slowly, the stranger's face cleared. His eyes went brown again, and his handsome
  mouth curved into a small, pleased smile. He nodded. He rose from the table,
  reached into his robes, and pulled out some coins. Two...no, three galleons. He
  handed them to Malfoy, and Sirius's chest went heavy and tight.

  The stranger spoke to Snape again, and Sirius saw shock cross Snape's face as he
  listened. The man paused, that little smirk back on his lips, as if he found
  Snape's reaction terribly amusing. Then the smile warmed; the man reached down
  and lifted Snape's chin, pushing back his hair, stroking his face. It was a
  blatantly sensual gesture, its tenderness rendered obscene by that ugly hand,
  and Sirius shuddered - he couldn't even imagine how repulsive the touch of that
  hand must have been.

  But Snape didn't appear disturbed. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy it: the
  shocked look never left his face, but he tilted his head a bit, pushing into the
  caress slightly, staring into the stranger's eyes as if hypnotized. Sirius's
  stomach curled. Snape's reaction was even more revolting than the actual touch.

  He wondered again at the stranger's power. Then he wondered where else the man
  would be touching Snape before the day was over, and his stomach flipped again.

  But that's what's going on here, isn't it? That's where it's all headed.And
  Sirius had known that even before the money had changed hands, hadn't he? The
  new robes, Malfoy's sales pitch, Snape's fear...all of it fit. Snape had found
  himself a sugar daddy. And Malfoy - Malfoy, that slime, that scum! - had pimped
  the deal.

  Still caressing Snape's cheek, Red Eyes motioned for him to stand; still gaping
  dazedly at him, Snape obeyed. Malfoy stood as well, and the three of them walked
  to the bar. Red Eyes spoke with Roach. He motioned to the two young men standing
  slightly behind him, then to the staircase behind the bar. Roach nodded. Red
  Eyes nodded. More money exchanged hands. Roach reached under the desk and handed
  over a rusty, oversized key - Suite 3, it said. Then, with a gallant sweep of
  his arm, Red Eyes ushered Snape and Malfoy up the stairs and out of sight.

  Sirius was gobsmacked all over again. Roach wouldn't let most minors so much as
  clean an ashtray in his place, but he was allowing two grown men to take a
  scared sixteen-year-old kid upstairs? Jesus! What did he think they were going
  to do with him, play Exploding Snap? And two-on-one - well, there was a kink
  Sirius hadn't expected at all.

  A kink he found disturbingly hot...and he hadn't expected that, either.

  Would Snape fight them? he wondered. Would they have to trap him between them,
  crushing him with their bigger, stronger bodies, Malfoy pinning his slender
  wrists behind his back while Red Eyes played roughly with his cock? Would they
  share tastes of him, Malfoy's tongue dipping deep into Snape's asshole, the
  stranger's full lips wrapping around Snape's prick? Would they take turns? Would
  one of them take his ass while the other fucked his mouth, or would they - oh,
  gods - would they fuck him at the same time? He had heard of that. He'd never
  seen it, but he could imagine it with little trouble. Oh, yes. Two swollen cocks
  plundering that tight pink hole, stretching it brutally, ripping into him. Snape
  screaming, his silken voice broken by pain and ecstasy. Malfoy beneath him,
  driving up into him; the stranger bent over him, pounding and pounding, that
  handsome face flushed with cruel pleasure, eyes hellish with lust--

  With a gasp, Sirius pushed himself away from the window and looked up, blinking
  into the bright sun. He had to get in there.

  ********************************************************************************
  Five minutes and one illegally-procured broomstick later, he was hovering
  outside the bathroom window of Suite 3. A slow circuit of the building had told
  him there were six rooms above the pub, odd and even numbers flanking a central
  hall. Rooms with odd numbers ran along the front of the tavern.

  The window was as filthy as the one downstairs, and he tried to keep his nose
  from actually touching it as he peered in. The bathroom was filthy, too, barely
  more than a cubbyhole; the bathroom door was open, and Sirius could see part of
  the room beyond. A sagging chair. A scarred bed stand. One corner of the bed,
  haphazardly-made. He wrinkled his nose. Some suite. Surely Red Eyes, with his
  elegant mien and his fine clothes and his ready supply of galleons, could afford
  a nicer fuckpad than this.

  Then again, a fifty-something man who liked to shag teenage boys probably
  couldn't be too choosy, could he?

  Carefully, Sirius eased the window open and climbed in, a fragment of an old
  Muggle song playing faintly in his head. It was tricky, trying to keep the cloak
  from slipping off as he struggled off the broom and through the tiny opening,
  but he managed it. Well, he was a Marauder; there was likely no piece of
  mischief he couldn't handle.

  What he would find in the next room was another story.

  He stuck his head in. The room was tiny, and the rest of it was as ugly and
  dusty as the small portion he had already seen. Red Eyes was nowhere in sight,
  but Snape and Malfoy were. Big time.

  Standing at the foot of the bed. Half-naked, arms wrapped around each other.
  Kissing.

  Sirius stared at them. For all of his fevered imaginings, he didn't know what he
  had expected, really, but it certainly hadn't been this. This looked nothing
  like the desperate, ravenous kisses he and Snape exchanged, biting at each
  other, trying to hurt, trying to win - competitors, even in that. This was slow
  and languid and luxurious, lips caressing lips, mouths meeting and pushing and
  sliding and opening in perfect harmony; here and there, a low moan broke through
  the kiss, and Sirius could see the muscles working in Malfoy's throat as he
  sucked on Snape's tongue.

  He never let me kiss him like that.

  Well, that was only technically true, he supposed. He had kissed Snape like that
  once, though Snape didn't know it. On their very first night together, after
  Snape had passed out, Sirius had kissed him, and it had been, well...nice. No
  struggle, no biting, no gnawing each other's faces and fighting for dominance -
  just a nice, slow, deep kiss.

  But Lucius Malfoy apparently merited such treatment when Snape was awake.

  Sirius clenched his fists, suddenly furious that he'd had to sneak and steal
  what Snape was offering Malfoy so freely, and in that moment he could have stood
  by and watched gladly as the two of them were ripped apart by wild dogs.

  He moved further into the room, closer to them, edging along the wall. He didn't
  know why he was moving; he didn't even know why he was still here. He only knew
  that he couldn't stand what he was seeing and he couldn't walk away.

  They were both naked now. Malfoy had Snape's ass in his hands and was using it
  like a handle, grinding the younger boy's groin into his. He was biting Snape's
  neck, that tender spot just at the start of the shoulder, and Snape was boneless
  in his arms, head back, eyes closed, delectable mouth open on soft gasps that
  Sirius could almost taste. Another helpless surge of anger swept over him. It
  was just a hickey, for Christ's sake, and the little whore looked like he was
  going to swoon.

  The slut. The cheap, easy, faithless little cunt. He was going to pay for this
  if Sirius had to make his ass sing.

  Lips still glued to Snape's neck, Malfoy eased him down onto the bed. He traced
  the shell of Snape's ear with his tongue, sucked briefly on the lobe, then
  released it with a soft smack. "So..." he whispered. "What do you think of him?"

  Snape tensed, his eyes opening warily. "I don't want to talk about him."

  Malfoy laughed softly into Snape's neck. "I don't want to talk at all," he
  smirked. "But I'm afraid we must, sometimes." He ran his tongue along Snape's
  jaw and captured his mouth again in another brief, hot kiss. "He wants you,
  Severus. He really does. I saw it in his eyes."

  Snape shuddered - no doubt thinking about those eyes - and grabbed Malfoy's head
  in both hands. "Later,Lucius. Not now."

  Malfoy smiled. It was a real smile, full of warmth and amused affection. It
  brought an answering smile from Snape, a smile that softened his strange
  features and made him almost handsome, and Sirius had never hated either one of
  them more than he did at that moment. Forget wild dogs; dismemberment was too
  good for them. "Then what...now?"

  For answer, Snape pulled his head down. Another kiss. Long. Slow. So deep it was
  hard to tell where his mouth ended and Malfoy's began. "Use your imagination,
  you fucking Slytherin."

  In the end, Malfoy used more than his imagination. Considerably more. And Sirius
  was there for it all. A bizarre sort of detachment settled over him as he
  watched, covering his fury, but not dulling it. It was as if a second
  personality took over, offering bland, random commentary while the real Sirius
  waited, silent, stewing, throbbing with jealousy and rage.

  Merlin, his nipples are sensitive. Look at them perk up when the arsehole
  tongues them. I haven't really paid enough attention to them, have I? Not so
  much as a tweak, now that I think - Ouch! Christ, that had to hurt. Watch the
  teeth, arsehole, that's my property you're gnawing on...Gods, he really loves it
  though, doesn't he. Bloody little pain slut. Maybe I should try some nipple
  clamps on him. Some of the really nasty, magic ones that suck while they bite.
  Chomp those little titties 'til they scream...Now what the fuck are you doing?
  Well, that's...different. Belly-button tongue-fucking, live from Hogsmeade.
  Sounds like an ad for bad Muggle television. Shit, it really gets him going,
  though, doesn't it? His cock twitches every time Malfoy sticks his tongue in.
  Maybe I need to have a go at that myself. Snivvy does have a sexy stomach. Yeah,
  I could get into th - What are you stopping for? Don't stop, you git, he loves
  it...Oh. Well. Guess he loves that,too. And look at Malfoy go! Shit. Maybe I
  need to practice more. How the hell is he taking him that deep? Hey, arsehole,
  can you breathe? I guess you can. Too bad. Guess you're just a natural-born
  cocksucker, then. But at least I play with his balls. What are they, orphans?
  Give them a squeeze, for Christ's sake! Nice and hard - he likes it rough. But
  you already know that, don't you, arsehole? Sure you do. You damn near bit his
  tits off a couple of minutes ago. Jesus, you really must be good at that...he's
  close already...do you swallow, arsehole? Do you want to--?

  "Fuck me," Snape said suddenly. His hands clutched convulsively at the long
  white silk of Malfoy's hair; his voice was unrecognizable, harsh and weak and
  shaking with need. "Please, Lucius, please, now."

  Malfoy released the suction with a loud pop and smiled. "You're so demanding,
  Severus," he purred. "And so perverse, considering how close you were to
  release. Glorious..." Lick. "Shattering..." Lick. "Devastating..." Lick.
  "Release." He snaked out his tongue and swirled it slowly over the head of
  Snape's cock, and Snape arched, his body a trembling white bow.

  "Please!"

  The sheer need in the word, that one word, ripped through Sirius like a knife.
  How hard had he had to work to hear that word from Snape? How long had he had to
  spank and screw and taunt and threaten him to wrench it, kicking and screaming,
  from Snape's lips?

  Just fuck him already,he thought. He suddenly felt very tired. Just fuck him and
  get it over with, so I can get out of here.

  Either Malfoy was a mind-reader, or he was even hornier than he looked: he had
  Snape's knees up to Snape's shoulders and Snape's hole stuffed fat with rich-boy
  cock almost before Sirius could blink. There was no teasing now, no playing, not
  even any real preparation - just two fingers in, barely-slicked and shaking with
  impatience, stretching Snape clumsily before the prick slammed home. One thrust,
  two, three, each one lifting Snape clear off the mattress - and of a sudden
  Snape was coming, jerking, humping, clawing at Malfoy's ass. Malfoy gave a
  tremendous shudder and froze, buried deep in the spasming body, sinking his
  teeth into Snape's shoulder to muffle his cry of release.

  A little quick on the trigger there, eh, Blondie? Sirius jeered silently. But
  his heart wasn't really in it. Snape looked completely wrecked, and it was hard
  to gloat after watching another man fuck his lover into what appeared to be an
  irreversible coma. He passed out. Son-of-a-bitch. And here I thought I was
  special.

  Malfoy panted over him for a moment, head hanging, eyes closed, before easing
  himself out of Snape and settling beside him. He studied the slack face with
  amusement. "Severus?"

  Nothing.

  Gently, Malfoy tweaked a nipple and tried again. "Severus?"

  Still nothing.

  Malfoy's smile turned wicked. He slid his hand down Snape's body and ever-so-
  lightly skimmed his fingertips along the spent prick. A shudder whipped through
  Snape, a gasp tore from his throat, and his eyes flew open wide. "Fuck!"

  "Just did." Malfoy teased the fingers along his length again, and Snape squirmed
  away frantically, grabbing at Malfoy's hand.

  "Merlin, Lucius, stop! Gods, I - You know I can't stand that!"

  "I do. But I can't resist. You wriggle so prettily, Severus. As though you're
  suffering the most exquisite torture." The gleam in his eye at the word
  "torture" was a bit unsettling, Sirius thought. Like he might be wishing it was
  a razor blade he was dragging along Snape's cock instead of his fingers.
  "Besides, I had to bring you around somehow."

  Snape blushed. "I blacked out again."

  "You did."

  "Why do I do that?" Snape looked so genuinely flustered, it was almost cute.
  Made Sirius want to pat him on his messy little head. "Why does that always
  happen to me?"

  Malfoy's laugh was deep and dirty. "Well, I'm no mediwizard, Severus, but I'd
  wager the size of that Quidditch bat between your legs has something to do with
  it. Frankly, I'm surprised you don't faint dead away every time you get an
 erection." Snape's blush deepened, and Malfoy laughed again, wrapping his arms    
  around the younger wizard's waist. "Honestly, you're still such a child
  sometimes. Who cares why it happens? It's brilliant. And it does such marvelous
  things for my ego."

  Join the club, arsehole.

  They lay in silence, a cozy tangle of arms and legs, Malfoy lazily stroking
  Snape's back, Snape playing with Malfoy's hair. After a few moments, Snape spoke
  into the quiet. "How did he know?"

  Malfoy didn't even open his eyes. "How did who know what?" he mumbled.

  "You know who. How did he know about my father?"

  Malfoy shrugged and cracked one eye. "I told you, Severus. He just...he just
  knows things." He shifted - uneasily, Sirius thought - and pulled Snape a bit
  closer. "I think he might be a Leglimens."

  "A what?"

  "A Leglimens. A wizard who can read minds."

  Snape frowned at the ceiling. "I've never heard of that."

  "Well, now you have." Malfoy's voice was drowsy again. "Now go to sleep."

  With obvious reluctance, Snape closed his eyes. Less than a minute later,
  however, they were open again, staring thoughtfully at nothing. Sirius
  recognized that look - brow creased, a little frown tugging at his lips. It was
  the same calculating look Snape sometimes wore in Potions or Transfiguration, on
  the rare occasion when his Dexterity Draught wouldn't thicken properly, or his
  owl turned into a quaffle with wings. "But I wasn't thinking about my father."

  Malfoy groaned. "You're always thinking about your father, Severus." He
  stretched, yawned. "And in any case, sitting in a pub full of drunken reprobates
  probably wouldn't put him far from your mind."

  Snape's face tightened. "You have an ugly mouth, Malfoy."

  Malfoy sighed. "Severus, it's no secret what your father is. You must know
  that."

  "And what is he, Lucius?" Bitter. Angry. Ashamed.

  "A drunk. A thug. A Muggle-loving has-been who treats you like shit just because
  you like the Dark Arts and don't see evil wizards behind every bush."

  Well, that was tactful,Sirius thought. But surprisingly candid, coming from
  Malfoy. Certainly, Sirius couldn't disagree with him; pretty much the whole
  school thought that Snape's father was some kind of nutter. Perhaps not as nutty
  as his wife, who was reportedly locked up in the psycho ward at St. Mungo's, but
  a nasty piece of work nonetheless. Just the Howlers he occasionally sent his son
  - all of which were savage, some of which were already the stuff of school
  legend - proved that.

  And did Snape really think it was such a secret? Christ, the rumors about his
  parents were one of the biggest reasons Snape was considered such an oddball,
  although Sirius himself had never held that particular aspect of Snape's
  weirdness against him. Not with the number of nuts on the Black family tree.
  Indeed, from what little Sirius knew of Snape's father, the old fruitcake
  sounded like a perfect match for Sirius's mum.

  "I've never told anyone," Snape said now, as if Malfoy had not spoken at all.
  "Not all of it. Not even the half of it. I--" He lowered his voice. "Not even
  you know all of it, Lucius. Not the really bad parts. But he did. He knew." He
  heaved himself up on one elbow and looked at Malfoy through the heavy curtain of
  his hair, his face earnest and puzzled and a little frightened. He looked very
  young and very vulnerable, and it made that strange something tighten in
  Sirius's chest again.

  "I told you, Severus. He makes it his business to know." To Sirius, Malfoy
  sounded careful. As if "he" might be listening to them, even now.

  "My life is none of his fucking business," Snape spat suddenly, viciously, and
  Malfoy went as white as his hair.

  "Don't talk like that!" he hissed. "For the love of Salazar, Severus, don't ever
  say anything like that again. Don't even think it."

  Snape stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Lucius, he can't hear us." Malfoy
  said nothing. Snape grimaced. "Are you that afraid of him, then?"

  Malfoy began stroking his back again, avoiding his eyes. "It isn't a question of
  fear, Severus," he said. His voice was calm once more; his face said he was
  lying through his teeth. "It's simply a matter of respect."

  "Bollocks. You don't respect anyone."

  "I respect him. And if you had anything in that head of yours besides curses and
  adolescent melodrama, you would, too."

  "I can respect him without pissing myself every time I say his name."

  Ooh, that was a shot. Sirius expected Malfoy to bristle, to bluster and deny,
  but the blond did none of it; instead, he gave a wan chuckle and a playful slap
  to Snape's backside, a reaction that seemed to surprise Snape as much as it did
  Sirius. "What I said before I'll say again, Severus: you're still such a child.
  I do forget that, sometimes."

  Snape scowled, squirming slightly under the caressing hand. "Lucius--"

  "Enough." Another soft slap. "Go to sleep. You said you didn't want to talk
  about him, so we shan't." He pulled Snape closer, still fondling his ass, and
  nuzzled under his ear. "And I want to sleep, too. You wore me out, you little
  snake."

  "I should be going," Snape said, nevertheless relaxing into the embrace. "It's
  getting late."

  "The room's paid up for the night. I expect I'll want to fuck you at least two
  or three more times before morning." He squeezed lightly between Snape's legs.
  "Perhaps I'll even have a ride on this monster at long last."

  Oh, isn't that cozy, Snivvy? Sirius thought. We both have the same nickname for
  your cock.

  "I really shouldn't," Snape said. And all the while just about humping Malfoy's
  hand, the slut. "I don't need any more detentions."

  "You won't get a detention," Malfoy assured him. "Father's friends on the Board
  will take care of everything."

  That seemed to settle the matter, more or less. The debate went back and forth
  another minute or so before it dwindled down to a sleepy exchange of mumbled
  words and caresses and kisses, then to nothing at all.

  Sirius waited, listening to the even, mingled breathing for a full five minutes
  before he dared to move. Carefully he stood, pushing himself up along the wall,
  using it for support; his legs were as asleep as the pair on the bed. The items
  in his pockets - the belt and switch and paddle - slapped lightly against his
  thighs, as if to remind him that they were still there, and more than willing to
  be used.

  He needed no reminder. Both Slytherins were already deeply asleep, their wands
  lost in the careless tangle of clothing on the floor, and it would have been all
  too easy to overpower them. Tie them up. Cast a silencing charm on the room.
  Give Malfoy a long-overdue thrashing, give Snape the ass-whipping of his life,
  and still have enough energy left over to fuck Snivvy six ways from Sunday.

  And he'd make sure Malfoy had a ringside seat. Let Malfoy see every twitch and
  tremor he drew from that struggling body, let him hear every helpless whimper
  and moan Snape tried desperately not to make. He'd shag him nice and long and
  slow and let Malfoy eat his heart out, watching another man, a man who could
  actually last more than thirty seconds in the saddle, turn his little fucktoy
  inside-out.

  Now was his chance.

  Now.

  He didn't move.

  He didn't want it, he realized. Any of it. Didn't want to punish Snape, didn't
  want to struggle with him, overpower him, force him to respond. He'd already
  done all of that, and where had it gotten him? He was the one standing in this
  shitty little room alone, breathing the reek of Slytherin sex, burning with a
  jealousy that tasted like bile in his throat.

  He stared at the two bodies entwined on the bed. They were sleeping nose-to-nose
  and cock-to-cock, their hair spilling and mingling on the pillow, black silk
  shot with white. Malfoy's hand was still between Snape's legs, slightly cupped,
  possessive even in slumber; Snape's hand was on Malfoy's. Sirius didn't know
  which hand bothered him more.

  I held you like that once, you ungrateful little whore.Only once, and, just as
  with the kiss, Snape had been unconscious throughout, but, still, Sirius had
  enjoyed it. Lying skin-to-skin, sharing warmth, kissing away Snape's nightmares,
  had made Sirius feel almost tender towards the little git, and he hadn't felt
  that way toward anyone in a very long time. Not since Reg was a toddler, at
  least.

  This was what he wanted. What Malfoy had, right here, right now. And not just
  Snape curled up in his arms, seduced and sated and tamed, but all of it, all of
  it. Snape's face, eager, welcoming, trusting... smiling. Snape's eyes on his,
  burning, adoring and ecstatic. Snape's hands on his body, all over his body, as
  they had been all over Malfoy. How would those hands feel on him? What would it
  be like to have those elegant fingers combing through his hair, caressing his
  back, digging into his straining buttocks as he slid in and out of Snape's tight
  heat?

  Gods, he wanted to know. Hehad to know.

  Might as well wish for the moon, Paddy. It was James's voice, James at his
  cynical, tell-it-like-it-is best. You know that, don't you?

  Sirius didn't leave the room. He fled from it.

  ********************************************************************************

  He didn't even attempt to go to Snape that night. In the first place, he doubted
  very much there would be a Snape to go to, and, in the second...well, he didn't
  really care to know for sure.

  So he went to bed early, Malfoy's words ringing in his ears - I expect I'll want
  to fuck you at least two or three more times before morning - and surprised
  himself by falling promptly, deeply asleep.

  Asleep, and dreaming.

  ********************************************************************************

  Almost half of it was inside Snape now, twisting and probing, stretching him
  gently. It was thinner than Sirius's prick, but longer - and much, much harder.
  There would be no give to it when Snape tightened around it, none at all, and
  every squeeze would produce a faint but oddly pleasant ache. And the magic! It
  would be unlike anything he'd ever felt, glowing inside him, sparking, tingling,
  quivering.

  Was Snape feeling it yet? Oh, yes. He was rapidly getting hard again, the fear
  on his face shifting to helpless arousal.

  "Oh, yes," Sirius murmured. He let his head drop back and half-closed his eyes,
  his hips moving slightly, mimicking the thrusting motions of his hand. He was
  getting as much pleasure from the act as Snape was; he felt as if it was his
  cock buried in the Slytherin boy instead of his wand.

  Aware of Snape's eyes on him, Sirius murmured the linking spell again -
  "Simpaticus"- and twisted another two inches of wand into the Slytherin. Snape
  arched, pressing down hard with his thighs against the arms of the chair, and
  Sirius shuddered and hissed, "Oh, yes!" once more, clutching blindly at Snape's
  ass.

  Snape fell back, panting - then he shoved himself abruptly upwards, impaling
  himself on the remaining few inches of wand, tightening his muscles savagely as
  if to say,Take that, arsehole.

  "Fuck!" Sirius's eyes flew open, shocked and glaring. For a moment, he looked at
  Snape blankly, not even seeing him; then he narrowed his eyes. "Oh, Snivvy wants
  to play, does he?"

  His hand stole down to the wand now buried in Snape's hole and touched it
  lightly. Snape threw back his head with a cry as the quiver under Sirius's hand
  became a hard, steady vibration. Sirius touched it again, angling it to pulse
  relentlessly against Snape's prostate; Snape began to hump helplessly, and
  Sirius couldn't tell if he was trying to get away from the intense sensation or
  trying to get more.

  Then Sirius ducked his head down between Snape's thighs again and took half his
  impressive length in a single gulp. He twisted the wand in and out, sucking hard
  enough to make his cheeks ache, and all at once Snape was coming, coming without
  any warning, coming in a bitter-salty flood down Sirius's throat, and Sirius was
  coming, too, spraying the ornate carpet between his spread knees with cream.

  Right on their fucking House crest, he thought fuzzily, letting Snape's cock
  slip from his mouth. Brilliant.

  Still on his knees, he slumped forward and wrapped his arms around Snape's
  waist, resting his forehead on Snape's crotch. Despite the weight, Snape made no
  move to buck him off or squirm away. He made no move at all, and when Sirius was
  finally lucid enough to register this, he lifted his head and took a look.

  Son-of-a-bitch, he marveled.Passed out again. And, then, on the heels of that:
  Damn, I reallyam good at this.

  He climbed slowly to his feet and tucked himself back into his jeans. It took
  longer than it should have; his fingers were fumbling, his hands shaking. That
  sex-link spell - the Simpaticus Charm, it was called - had worked like...well,
  like a charm. Sirius had felt everything through his wand, as strong and hot and
  right thereas if he had been fucking Snape himself. He glanced at the rug again,
  a mean little smile tugging at his lips. He had kept his promise to Remus - at
  no time had his cock actually breached Snape's sanctity - and he had still
  managed to shoot like a bloody geyser.

  Not to mention the fact that he had fucked Snape into a boneless, brainless,
  insensate heap.

  Again.

  The smile became a grin. He felt almost giddy as he unspelled Snape from his
  awkward sprawl in the chair and carried him, long limbs dangling, to his bed.
  Jesus, it was almost tooeasy. And it was only their second night together. At
  this rate, he was going to have Snivvy emitting heartfelt sighs in his direction
  and doodling "Mrs. Severus Black" on his homework before the week was out.

  He laid Snape carefully on the bed. The Slytherin gave a whispery little cry as
  Sirius arranged his legs in a more natural position, and Sirius gave him a
  speculative look.Probably sore from having them spread so wide,he thought. And
  they'll probably be on fire tomorrow.

  He glanced across the room. The little jar of whatever-it-was was still on the
  rug beside the chair, where Sirius had tossed it, where Snape - thank the gods
  for small favors - had slipped on it. Without really thinking about it one way
  or another, Sirius aimed his wand at it and murmured, "Accio,"and the jar flew
  into his hand.

  He looked at it. He opened it. He sniffed it. He scooped out a small amount in
  his palm, about the size of a sickle, and tested its texture between his
  fingertips, as he had tested it earlier on Snape. Well, inhim, anyway. He hadn't
  been mocking Snape; it really was quality stuff, silky and warm and wondrously
  light.

  He looked at Snape again. The Slytherin was still out cold; he would never know.
  And Sirius was feeling so good, so outrageously pleased with himself - and with
  Snape, too, when you got right down to it - he supposed he could afford to be
  charitable. Just this once.

  Besides...the odd kindness here or there could only help him reach his ultimate
  goal. What was it the old Muggle song said? Try A Little Tenderness?

  He sat on the bed and began massaging the salve into Snape's thighs. He kept his
  touches light, brief, as non-sexual as possible, even when his fingers came
  close to Snape's most intimate parts. He didn't want to hurt the little dork,
  but he didn't want to arouse him, either; in the first place, it would defeat
  the purpose, and in the second, he couldn't get it up right now with a gallon-
  jug of Boner Bloom.

  As he worked, Sirius reflected. It was surprisingly pleasant, doing this; it was
  amazing how much easier it was to be nice to Snape when the snarky shithead was
  unconscious. Hell, just having his mouth shut for any length of time did wonders
  for his personality. Why, if he--

  Snape moaned. It was not a moan of pleasure or pain, but of sorrow. Despair,
  even - it sounded perilously close to a sob.

  "Don't," he murmured, and his hands pushed feebly against Sirius's. "Don't,
  don't, just leave me alone, why can't you just leave me alone?"

  Sirius froze. Snape's eyes were still closed, but his brow was furrowed, and his
  agitation was real. And growing by the minute.A nightmare,Sirius realized, going
  weak with relief. Just a nightmare.

  But, oh, those words struck just a bit too close to home.

  "You let him...you never stop him...never help when I need you...why don't you
  ever stop him?"

  Stop who? Sirius wondered wildly. Me? James? Malfoy? Your father? It could be
  most anybody, he supposed; Snape's tormentors numbered in the dozens.

  And why did that thought make him feel hot and queasy with shame?

  Snape's struggles were getting stronger; Sirius had been holding him down
  without even realizing it, and now he backed off, afraid Snape would wake up.
  Snape stopped his flailing, but his weeping grew more intense, his body shaking
  with anguished, gut-deep sobs. Sirius felt the old contempt try to rise within
  him -there goes Snivellus again, hey, bawl-baby, what's a matter, fall off your
  broom again and bruise your little arse? - and then disappear without a peep.
  Snape looked terrified, more frightened even than he had been of the wand inside
  him; even worse, he looked helpless. Helpless, and bewildered, like a child who
  was in terrible pain and didn't understand why no one would make it stop.

  He looked so much like Regulus that it hurt.

  I should get out of here. Right now, while I still can.

  But he couldn't. He couldn't, any more than he'd ever been able to turn Reg away
  when he came to him in the night, tear-streaked and trembling and terrified of
  the storm crashing outside his window. Reg when he was no more than three or
  four years old and still scared of just about everything, Reg back before
  everything got so ugly and twisted and fucked-up between them. Reg, back when
  Reg still needed him.

  Sirius swallowed. Took a deep breath. He even glanced around, as if someone
  might actually be watching, before reaching out a tentative hand and placing it
  on Snape's brow. His other hand was clamped hard on his wand, his eyes glued to
  Snape's face, and, gods help him, if Snape's eyelids so much as twitched, he was
  going to find himself hexed halfway to Hell and back.

  Nothing. The hand did not awaken Snape, but it didn't calm him, either. He
  continued to sob quietly, his words now so indistinct and choked that Sirius
  couldn't understand any of them. And that look, that unbearable, lost look, was
  still on his face.

  Sirius thought back. Whathad he done with Reg when he was having a nightmare?
  What had he said to him? Gods, he couldn't remember. It had been ages ago. It
  had been a fucking lifetimeago.

  "Shhh," he whispered, feeling lame and foolish and terribly self-conscious.
  Awkwardly, he stroked the damp black hair, smoothing it back from Snape's
  forehead. "Shhh, it's all right, everything's all right. Go to sleep. It's all
  over now."

  Snape shook his head slightly, as if in denial, and moaned again. Sirius
  repeated the words and the calming caresses, torn between rueful amusement and
  an embarrassment so deep it was almost painful.

  Gods, what would anyone think if they could seethis scene? he wondered, still
  "Shhh"-ing and stroking absently. What would Prongs say, or - oh, gods help me -
  Peter? That little rat would never let me live it down. Probably have to kill
  him to stop him running his gob.He cast another furtive look around, then caught
  himself. What was the point? Even without witnesses, this was utterly
  humiliating.

  But it was working.

  He glanced down at Snape's face. Itwasworking, wasn't it? Snape's brow had
  smoothed, and his sobs had tapered off to an occasional whimper or wet sigh.
  Sirius felt an unexpected swell of pride. Well. It looked like he hadn't lost
  his touch, after all. And he felt something else, too, something warmer and
  deeper and better than pride, something he hadn't felt in so long that he didn't
  even recognize it at first.

  Tenderness.

  The memory came to him in a rush, so powerful and immediate it was nearly time-
  travel, so strong it made tears sting his eyes. The storm raging outside. The
  low murmur of the house elves working downstairs. The warm, sweet, sleeping
  weight of the small boy in his arms, and the knowledge that his arms were the
  only place his little brother wanted to be. The safest place.

  Little git.He stroked his hand through Snape's hair again and continued the
  caress down, along his temple, his cheek, his jaw. Snape made a soft sound low
  in his throat - sleepy, contented - and a smile Sirius couldn't squash curved
  his lips.Oh, yeah. Just like Regulus.

  He looked down at himself. He was already lying on the bed, close to Snape, but
  not quite touching him; he didn't know exactly when or how that had happened,
  but it had. He looked at the clock, which said it was well past two. He looked
  at Snape, sleeping deeply and peacefully and apparently dreamlessly now, and
  wished with all his heart that he could join him. Just curl around him like a
  blanket and close his eyes and pretend, perhaps, that there was a storm outside.
  Just for an hour or two. Just for old times' sake.

  Might as well wish for the moon, Paddy. It was James's voice, James at his
  cynical, tell-it-like-it-is best. You know that, don't you?

  He ignored the voice. He could do it, he mused. It wasn't as if he couldn't
  protect himself. He had his wand, while Snape's was still clear across the room.
  He could put a waking spell on Snape, one that would rouse Sirius the instant
  the Slytherin opened his eyes. He could put a low-level ward on himself. He
  could--

  Snape was awake.

  Snape was awake. Facing him. Staring at him. They lay nose-to-nose and cock-to-
  cock, Snape's face no more than an inch or two from Sirius's. That face wore no
  expression at all, and his eyes, those queer, bottomless black eyes, were
  unfathomable; even at this distance, Sirius could see nothing in them but his
  own shocked and rather sheepish reflection.

  And then Snape smiled.

  It was a real smile, a smile that softened his strange features and made him
  almost handsome, and Sirius had never wanted him - had never wanted anyone- more
  than he did at that moment. And he wanted all of him,allof him, down to the last
  detail: the snarky bits, the geeky bits, the dangerous bits that snarled and
  sneered, the endearing bits that smiled invitingly, the sexy bitch who fucked
  like a seasoned whore and the guileless child who sobbed in the darkness of
  untold dreams. All of him. For now, for ever.

  Thinking Might as well start somewhere,Sirius tilted his head and kissed him.
  Really kissed him, tenderly and thoroughly, clenching careful fingers in his
  hair. It was crazy, he knew it was, the whole thing was crazy, but Snape must
  have been just as crazy, because he was kissing back, just as tenderly, just as
  thoroughly, wrapping his arms around Sirius's neck and writhing lazily,
  teasingly against him. His lips left Sirius's and brushed his ear.

  "Fuck me," Snape said suddenly, his breath hot and tickling, sending shivers
  down Sirius's spine. "Please, Sirius, please, now."

  Please.A word he couldn't resist, not from those lips. AndSirius.Not "Black,"
  not "Gryffindor," notarseholeor fuckheador shit-for-brainsor any of a hundred
  other vicious insults, but Sirius. His name,wrung out in ecstasy and desire,
  carried on that beautiful dark voice like a prayer.

  "Yes," he murmured. "Yes." Covers were tugged down, clothing shed, and Sirius
  felt Snape's hands on him for the first time. Stroking. Squeezing. Pulling him
  close.

  Then they were kissing again, and somehow they had rolled and Snape was on top
  of him, impaling himself on Sirius with delicate, gasping little thrusts, and
  his hands were everywhere, everywhere, and Sirius was coming and Snape was
  coming and it was better than good, it was perfection, it was exactly the way
  Sirius had imagined it.

  It was exactly the way it should be.

  ********************************************************************************

  It was only a dream.

  Oh...oh, shit.

  He should have known. Even asleep, he should have known. It sure as hell hadn't
  happened like that in real life. Oh, some of it had - the first part was dead
  on, from fucking Snape with the wand right down to the Florence Nightenwitch bit
  with the salve, right down to Snape's nightmare and Sirius's clumsy comforting.
  Right up until the smiling and the kissing and that glorious, honey-sweet, slow-
  motion shag.

  Maybe if I don't open my eyes, I can slide back into it...

  And Sirius hadslept with him. Literally slept with him, cozy as two spoons in a
  drawer. Not one of his brighter moves, Sirius knew - he didn't care to think too
  long or too hard on what Snape would have done to him, had he awakened first -
  but no harm had been done. Unfortunately, no smiling or kissing or glorious slow
  shagging had been done, either, and it figured that the best part of the dream
  would also be the one part that never happened.

  Oh, it happened, mate.At least it was his own voice taunting him this time. It
  just didn't happen with you.

  Malfoy. The mere thought of him was enough to chase the last of the dream's
  sexy-sweet residue away, and Sirius gave up and opened his eyes.

  Were they together right now? he wondered. Bah - of course they were. Probably
  rocking the Hog's Head off its rotting foundation, humping away like a couple of
  horny rabbits, while Sirius lay alone and miserable and grasping at the tatters
  of a dream. Were they laughing at him? Had Snape told Malfoy about him? Sirius
  wouldn't put it past him. Probably made him feel sly and clever, getting on his
  back for Sirius all week long and then putting his ass in the air for Malfoy.
  Oh, yeah. That probably made old Snivvy feel slick as shit through a skrewt.
  They were probably laughing their asses off right now, thinking of poor,
  pathetic Sirius Black wandering the halls of Hogwarts, looking for his bedtime
  treat and not finding it. Poor, pathetic Sirius Black, with only his hand for
  company.

  You Slytherin bastards,he thought, as furious as if they were actually in front
  of him, convulsed with mirth. You'll be laughing on the other sides of your
  faces when I'm done with you. One word from him, just one, and he could have
  Snape expelled and Malfoy in Azkaban before you could say "statutory rape." Love
  to see Daddy get you out of that one, you slimy albino prick.

  He punched the pillow in silent frustration. Who was he kidding? It was a lovely
  thought, and a tempting one, but he knew he'd never do it. What was the point?
  Malfoy's old man probably would get him out of it, somehow - that fucking family
  had more money than Gringotts - but Snape's father, former Auror or not, didn't
  have that kind of pull. Malfoy would skate, Snape would hang...and where would
  that leave Sirius? The last thing Sirius wanted was to see Snape kicked out of
  Hogwarts. Especially now, when Sirius was so close to breaking Snape at last. So
  close he could feel it.

  He lay back, forcing himself to calm down. Three more days. He had just three
  more days before classes began again, three more days of skeleton-staffed,
  empty-halled, prefect-less freedom in which to win Snape over. And he could win
  him over; of that he was certain. He knew what to do now. Oddly enough, he
  supposed he had Malfoy to thank for that - watching them together, infuriating
  as it had been, had given him some very clear ideas about the care and handling
  of Severus Snape.

  Keep it rough, but not too rough. Snape clearly enjoyed being dominated, and he
  seemed to have a kink for mild pain, but he needed to have a little control,
  too. Temper the insults with humor and affection - Snape hadn't liked it when
  Malfoy called him a child, but the hand fondling his bum had taken the edge off
  his anger. Talk to him. Listen to him, or at least pretend to: Sirius doubted
  Malfoy was any more interested in Snape's troubles than he himself was, but if
  Lucius Malfoy could fake it, then so could Sirius.

  That went for the whole approach, actually: if Malfoy could do it, Sirius could,
  too.

  Malfoy doesn't have to tie him up like a bloody human sacrifice every time they
  shag.

  Sirius sighed. Yes, that was a problem, wasn't it? Bit of a sticky wicket, as
  old Phineas Nigelus would say. Snape's compliance in bed only went so far - he
  never tried to prevent Sirius's attentions to him, but he always fought like a
  demon once they were underway - and Sirius didn't think that was likely to
  change. No matter how gently he approached Snape, no matter how understanding
  and affectionate and faux-attentive he might try to be, he would still have to
  use, at some point, some level of force. And it was awfully hard to convince
  your lover he was not being violated when you had his legs tied behind his neck
  and his cock bound up like a sausage hanging in a butcher's shop window.

  But it couldn't be helped. He couldn't trust Snape, and without some other way
  to control him...

  When the answer hit him, it was so perfect, so breathtakingly simple and
  brilliant, he nearly jumped out of bed and ran for his parchment and quills. If
  Moony had not been in the next bed and deeply asleep, he probably would have.
  Instead, he lay grinning ear-to-ear, utterly delighted with himself. Hell, even
  Snape himself would have to admire this twist: it was positively Slytherin.

  Sometimes he really did think he was in the wrong house.

  Anyway, he didn't need parchment or quills. He knew exactly what he was going to
  write. Right to the point, as blunt as he dared. Blackmail was a Slytherin
  concept, maybe, but the actual execution would be very Gryffindor, short and
  straight and done. And no, Sirius would not actually follow through on the
  threat, but...well, Snape didn't need to know that, did he? Perhaps he'd catch
  on sooner rather than later - he was far too clever not to - but three days of
  believing was all Sirius needed from him.

  I know what you did in Hogsmeade. If you don't want anyone else to know, meet me
  in the small room just under the third-floor staircase at eleven-thirty. P.S.
  Come alone.

  Three days. And then it would be over.

  Sirius grinned. He was feeling much better. One of the best things about being
  Sirius Black, he reflected, was never getting stuck in a dark mood. He was just
  no good at being miserable for long.
***** The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 4 *****
The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 4




  Chapter Four - Complications (Severus)

  February - March 1977

  But it wasn't over in three days.

  By all rights, it should have been. Whatever poisonous chemistry they generated
  should have been no match, in the long run, for their hate; whatever twisted
  passion burned between them should have sputtered out weeks ago, doused by
  boredom or reason or just plain inconvenience. But it hadn't. When they
  exchanged furtive, smoking looks across the Hall or in class, the last thing
  either of them felt was bored, and when they were naked together, reason went
  right out the window.

  As for inconvenience...well, there was none. Not really. It was more difficult
  to find times and places to meet than it had been over the holidays, true, but
  it wasn't nearly as difficult as Severus would have guessed. He hated to admit
  it, but Black was one resourceful son of a bitch. He knew, like the back of his
  hand, corners and rooms and entire wings of the school that Severus hadn't even
  known existed, and he never seemed to get caught. Whether it was skill, or
  magic, or plain dumb Gryffie luck, Severus didn't really care -- it was the not-
  knowing that drove him crazy.

  Of course, Severus never got caught, either...but that was just good old-
  fashioned Slytherin stealth.

  So it wasn't over yet, whatever "it" was, but it was going to be, soon; Severus
  was going to tell Black tonight. He didn't want to do it, but he had to. Lucius
  knew -- and Lucius wasn't pleased.

  Severus scowled at the note crushed in his fist, as bewildered as he was upset.
  He couldn't fathom why Lucius was doing this. Lucius knew Severus had no
  feelings for Black, knew he was just using the bastard for release and revenge.
  And Lucius wasn't the jealous type anyway; he certainly had no qualms about
  sharing Severus's favors when it suited his purposes. Since taking up with
  Lucius in the fall, Severus had attended several of his "private parties" -
  - read: high-brow kinkfests -- and Lucius had passed him around like a tray of
  fancy canapes at every one of them, beaming smugly the entire time. Severus had
  even had a few rounds with Lucius's fiance, Narcissa, and Lucius hadn't raised a
  hair. Other things, yes -- but not a hair.

  Yet Lucius didn't want Black anywhere near Severus. And he didn't want Severus
  anywhere near Black. And at this point in Severus's life, Lucius was God. So
  that, as they said, was that.

  Severus sighed.

  The truth of it was, he didn't want to give Black up. He hated the thought of
  giving him up. No -- not him. It. The game. The dance. The mind-fuck. Watching
  Black's clumsy attempts to court him, to break him down, to win him over.
  Watching Black jump through hoops he didn't even know were there, trying to get
  something from Severus that Severus was neither willing nor able to give. Even
  more than the sex -- and the sex was truly out of this world -- he would miss
  the sheer vindictive pleasure of playing with Black's head.

  And Black made it so easy to manipulate him! It was almost insulting. Since the
  night he had left his scent and warmth (and hair) in Severus's bed, Severus had
  suspected Black's truest desires; since the morning he had slipped Severus the
  blackmail note and confirmed those suspicions, Black had been dancing to Snape's
  careful tune.

  And the best part was the cocky asshole was too thick to even realize it.

  It was so simple, really. If Black came to him in the old way, rough and
  demanding, wanting to play the hard-edged dom, Severus played passive-
  aggressive, responding as little as possible, invariably dropping some not-so-
  subtle hint that Lucius Malfoy certainly didn't treat his lovers this way. If
  Black tried to change tactics, tried to be gentle or considerate or playful or
  patient, Severus deliberately provoked him, spraying him with insults, mockery,
  even physical violence, until he snapped. Severus would spew the most caustic
  put-downs in his arsenal, slap Black's face, scratch and bite like a wild animal
  -- and when Black finally, inevitably lost his temper and responded in kind,
  Severus would withdraw back into his chilly shell and play the Lucius card
  again. Sometimes the frustration turned Black such a delicious purple, Severus
  thought his head might actually explode.

  It was the most fun Severus had had in years.

  Of course, he didn't do it every time; that would be too obvious, and even Black
  wasn't so dumb he wouldn't pick up on the pattern. Besides, the physical price
  was just too high. Black always punished him, Black frequently hurt him, and
  sometimes, Black went over the line. The last time he'd goaded Black into an
  explosion, Black had strapped him so hard and so long it made the Boxing Day
  spanking feel like a swat with Mummy's broom and fucked him with a dildo the
  size of one of the mutant cucumbers in Hagrid's garden. Severus could only thank
  the gods it had been the weekend; he hadn't been able to sit, at all, for three
  straight days.

  Just imagine what he'll do to you when you dump him.

  Well, there was a pleasant thought. Severus was dead certain Sirius Black had
  never been dumped in his life, and for "Snivellus," of all people, to give him
  his first taste of the boot...what would he do? A shiver rippled through Severus
  at the possibilities. It was, he told himself, a shiver of fear and loathing and
  utter revulsion. He told himself this quite firmly; his own rather disturbing
  predilection for pain and subservience was an aspect of his developing sexuality
  he didn't care to examine too closely.

  And then he told himself it didn't matter. Didn't matter what Black did to him,
  didn't matter how Severus found himself responding. He would still have the
  satisfaction of shattering Black's hopes one last time. Not exactly a silver
  lining, perhaps, but it was a start.

  He still didn't want to do it.

  He looked back at the note in his hand: Tell him, Severus. I mean it. I don't
  want to say, "It's him or me "-- but I will.

  It was so Lucius. Politic and proper, a trifle hurt in tone, so reasonable-
  sounding on its face. I don't want to say, "It's him or me" -- but I will. And,
  of course, that was exactly what the mealy-mouthed prick was saying the entire
  time.

  The frustration welled in him once more. Perhaps he could talk to Lucius again.
  Perhaps over the holidays, when they had some time alone, face-to-face. Perhaps
  he could set Luc straight, tell him he had no reason to feel this way, make him
  understand---

  He pushed the thoughts away. Even if Lucius wanted to understand, he wasn't
  capable of it. Lucius was a golden child, privileged and pampered, sheltered and
  adored. Lucius had never been the butt of the joke, the nobody, the outsider,
  the freak; Lucius had no way of understanding what even the smallest triumphs
  meant to a loser like Severus Snape.

  Nor, in all likelihood, would he care.

  Severus straightened in his chair. Enough of this, enough. He'd do what he had
  to do; he always did. He was a Slytherin. He was practical, savvy, and hard-
  headed. He needed Lucius Malfoy, and he didn't need Sirius Black. It was as
  simple as that.

  "Incendio," he muttered. The note went up in flames.

  ********************************************************************************

  He waited for Black in the little room off the old Potions lab, one of their
  more frequent trysting spots. Black was late, as usual, and Severus sat at the
  teacher's desk, doodling aimless formulas and figures in the thick dust, letting
  his thoughts drift around him like troubled ghosts.

  He wondered which Black he'd get tonight -- the lover, or the fighter? Usually,
  he much preferred the fighter: the nasty, strong-arm bully who would tie him up,
  down, and sideways, who would insult and demean him at every opportunity, who
  would take a paddle or a calloused hand to his ass as readily as Lucius would
  kiss his cheek. The rich, pretty Gryffindor punk whose every word and action
  reminded Severus -- and these days, gods help him, Severus sometimes needed
  reminding -- of all the reasons he despised rich, pretty Gryffindor punks in the
  first place.

  Severus felt comfortable with that Black. He understood that Black. He could
  even relate to that Black -- after all, the Gryffindor loathed Severus just as
  much as Severus loathed him. But the other Black? He made Severus uneasy. Oh,
  Severus enjoyed him as a game, took great pleasure and even pride in provoking
  him, though sometimes it was difficult to keep a straight face; Black's sporadic
  attempts at affection were as laughable as they were obvious.

  And when they weren't laughable, they were...troubling. Rather creepy, actually.
  The way Black looked at him sometimes, when he thought Severus wasn't looking
  back, made Severus uncomfortable.

  When Severus was ten, he had seen a cauldron in the window of The Daily Grind in
  Diagon Alley. It was made entirely of black glass, the surface faceted like the
  finest gemstone, and it was rimmed with real gold. It was, without a doubt, the
  most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was also completely beyond his means,
  of course, and he accepted that, but it didn't stop him from wanting it until he
  hurt with wanting it. For years, every time he was in Diagon Alley, he would
  find himself drawn to the cauldron on display, and every time he had to fight
  the crazy compulsion to break the window and snatch it, stuff its bulk under his
  cloak and clutch it to his breast and just run, run off to some dark corner
  where he could hide it, never let anyone else use it or touch it, or even see
  it. Ever. Because by then he hated the cauldron as much as he loved it, hated it
  for making him want it so.

  That was how Black looked at him. The way a dumb little kid with no money had
  looked at a fancy fucking chamber pot on a dusty velvet pillow. As if he wanted
  to grab Severus and tuck him under his arm and run, lock him away someplace
  where he could take him out in secret and gloat over him and never let him go.

  Ever.

  My, aren't you a melodramatic little arsehole tonight.

  He sighed and doodled a heart in the dust.

  It never occurred to him that Black might actually be in love with him; even
  now, that thought would have made him choke with horrified laughter and then
  look for a special mother-son rate at St. Mungo's. But it wouldn't have made any
  difference to him even if it had. Black and his cronies had been abusing,
  mocking, and bullying Severus since the day they met, most of the time for no
  better reason than their own puerile entertainment -- and had he thought for
  even a second that he was causing Black any real emotional pain, his only
  response would have been a gleeful, heartfelt Yes!

  He drew a jagged crack down the middle of the heart. He frowned at it for a
  moment, then added a knife plunging into the crack.

  He wondered if he should say it straight out or let Black fuck him first. He
  supposed it would depend on what Black had in mind for the evening's
  entertainment. Another little thrill of anticipation coursed through him. Black
  was a nutter, but he was an imaginative nutter. A bit too imaginative,
  sometimes; Severus had already had to censure several of Black's wilder
  brainstorms. Just last week, the idiot had actually suggested a midnight shag in
  the Forbidden Forest. Severus had demurred; it was too cold, he had said, and
  his winter cloak wasn't up to it. Black had sneered -- "Why don't you have your
  rich boyfriend buy you a new one?" -- and he had sulked, but in the end he had
  settled for a semi-al fresco encounter in the Astronomy Tower.

  All things considered, though, Severus appreciated Black's sense of adventure.

  Not that it matters what you appreciate after tonight, he thought morosely, and
  he erased his dusty heart with a vicious swipe of his sleeve.

  "Well, well, well. Aren't we grand. Shall I call you Professor Sweetcheeks now?"

  Black. Right in front of him. Appearing out of nowhere -- again; howdid he do
  that? -- carrying his little bag of tricks and grinning like a deranged monkey.
  Brilliant, Severus thought; it looked like he was getting the lover and the
  fighter tonight, and he never knew how to handle that.

  "You were late," Severus said, finally opting for cool neutrality. "I needed a
  place to sit down."

  "I'm amazed you can sit down," Black snickered. "It's only been three weeks."

  Severus flushed. "Proud of yourself, are you?"

  "Oh, stop whining." Black's grin soured at the edges. "As if you didn't deserve
  every stripe! I was wearing your teeth marks on my cock for a week, you little
  animal; you're lucky you didn't get worse."

  Black's yelp. The give of his firm flesh, the taste of his blood. Severus felt a
  grin of his own threaten at the memory, and he quashed it, though just barely.
  "You're lucky you're not a eunuch." He stood and walked around the desk,
  perching on the edge in front of Black and offering his very best sneer. "Though
  I daresay I'd be hard-pressed to tell the difference."

  To his disappointment, Black didn't take the bait.

  "You're fucking Malfoy, and he's hung like a cashew," he shrugged. "But if
  you're really such a size queen, Snivvy, I'm sure I can lay my hands on another
  Arse-Ripper Deluxe and give you a proper stuffing."

  The flush went from pink to scarlet; Black's eyes went from grey to silver,
  arousal flaring in their depths.

  "Merlin, I love the way you blush," he murmured. He framed Severus's face in
  both hands and lifted it, holding him still and staring hard into his eyes.
  "Blush and squirm and scowl and pretend you don't love every nasty thing I do to
  you. Sometimes, Severus, I think you deliberately provoke me, just so I'll put
  you across my knee."

  Severus had time for a single, scorching thought -- Sometimes,Black? Gods, you
  really are dumber than mud -- before Black hauled him to his feet and took his
  mouth in a deep kiss.

  Damn, but he was a good kisser. Severus was dizzy and panting and hard as a
  diamond when Black finally pressed him to the desk top and began to undress him.
  He could feel Black's erection nuzzling his thigh, could hear the ragged edge to
  his breathing, and he spread his legs without even thinking about it, expecting
  a nice long shag. He was surprised -- and irritated -- when Black suddenly
  pulled away.

  "Wait a tick. Before I forget..." Black reached down under the desk; Severus
  could hear him rummaging around in his bag. Then he straightened and thrust a
  bundle of something soft into Severus's startled hands. "Here. I don't wear this
  any more, it's too small for me, but it should fit your skinny arse just fine."

  It was a traveling cloak, heavy black wool lined with exquisitely soft grey
  flannel. It was a handsome, well-made garment, and it certainly looked harmless
  enough, but Severus barely had it in his grasp before he was trying to give it
  back.

  "Oh, no, you don't! I told you, you bloody fool, I'mnot going out to the Forest
  with you!"

  "So who asked you to?" Black flared.

  Severus raised an eyebrow.

  "Oh. That." Black waved a hand. "Well, I changed my mind about that. Last
  weekend John Lovegood and Dharma Patil went snogging in the Forest and ended up
  with scratch-me-not all over their arses. I reckon I don't need any of that
  shit, do you?"

  He pushed the cloak back into Severus's hands. Severus stared at it. Black
  sighed.

  "For Merlin's sake, Snape, it's not going to bite you. Now take the bloody
  thing. Before I strangle you with it."

  Severus took it reluctantly and examined it thoroughly, checking for poison
  fibers, Muggle explosive devices, maybe a big old HEX ME sign flashing on the
  back. Beware of Gryffindors bearing gifts, his grandmother had liked to say -
  - and had she known this particular Gryffindor, she'd have likely said it more
  often.

  "I don't understand," he said finally. "If you're not taking me into the Forest,
  why do I need this?"

  "Because your cloak's a tatty old piece of shit that wouldn't keep you warm if
  you set it on fire." He rolled his eyes. "Jesus! What's to understand? It's a
  cloak, stupid. You don't solve it, you wear it."

  "You're... you're giving me this?"

  Severus's obvious astonishment seemed to take Black by surprise; he cleared his
  throat and glanced down at his shoes, looking gruff and sheepish at the same
  time. "Yeah, well. Don't get any ideas. I just didn't want to listen to you
  snivel about the cold any more."

  "It's mine?"

  Black nodded.

  "To keep?"

  "Bloody hell! Yes!" Black snapped. He was a trifle red himself at this point.
  "Now shut up and stop making such a fuss about it, or I'll change my mind. And
  put it on; I want to see how it looks."

  Severus complied. He ran his hands over it again, marveling at the quality; even
  the shell was impossibly soft, more like rich, thick fur than wool.
  Merlin!Lucius didn't have a cloak this nice. And it was no hand-me-down, either.
  It was obviously new, and it fit him as if it had been tailored to every quirk
  of his growing teenager's body, his too-long legs, his wiry, slightly sloping
  shoulders. Even the sleeves came about an inch past his wrists, draping over his
  hands in that particular way he liked--a way that Black had once flatly declared
  "would drive me mental in about two minutes flat."

  Too small for me, my arse, he thought. And then he was so confused, he didn't
  know what to think at all.

  He didn't even know what to feel. He was amused and disconcerted and suspicious
  and pleased, all at once; he was also, for a dangerous moment or two, genuinely
  touched. And, strangely enough, it was the lie that impressed him much more than
  the gift. Lucius gave him gifts all the time, but Severus recognized them for
  what they actually were. Down payments. Investments. Bribes. Severus liked
  Lucius as genuinely as Severus could like almost anyone, but he was smart enough
  to know that Lucius didn't give him the time of day without something in it for
  Lucius.

  And Lucius always made such a big production of it, always managed to let
  Severus know the great lengths and great expense he'd gone to for him. Gifts
  from Lucius were events, and sometimes when Severus dropped to his knees before
  him, he didn't know whether Lucius wanted a blow-job or Severus's actual head.
  On a platter. Still murmuring rapturous endearments.

  But Black, who had a nature every bit as selfish as Malfoy's, and an ego every
  bit as bloated and greedy, didn't seem to want anything at all. No thanks, no
  credit, no fuss or fanfare -- and this for a gift with no apparent strings
  attached, a gift given only because he had the means to give it and because it
  was honestly needed. The fact that it was needed by Severus Snape did not seem
  to have entered Black's equation at all, and Severus couldn't even begin to wrap
  his brain around that. For once, Black had him completely flummoxed.

  Thank the gods Black was too thick to notice.

  "You know, you don't look half-bad in decent clothes." He reached out and
  straightened Severus's collar. It was an oddly fraternal gesture; for a moment,
  Severus thought the Gryffindor was going to ruffle his hair. "How does it feel?"

  It felt perfect. Warm. Luxurious. Sensual, even. The flannel brushed velvety
  fingers over his bare skin with the slightest movement, tickling his thighs,
  caressing his ass, teasing his nipples with whispery little--

  His eyes and mouth flew open at the same time. "Black! Where the hell are my
  robes?"

  "Never mind your robes." Black was smirking, that hot, avid light back in his
  eyes. That look again, that cauldron-in-the-window look. "Answer the question.
  How does itfeel?"

  "Nice," was all Severus could manage, but that seemed to be enough for Black. He
  pulled Severus's body against his and began to fondle him through the cloak,
  rubbing the softness into his naked cock and balls and thighs and ass. Severus
  closed his eyes and moaned. He felt utterly decadent, dressed but undressed, all
  starched and prim and proper in his surface finery, all flushed, leaking prick
  and bollocks tight as drums underneath. The contrast was wickedly arousing.

  "Feels good, doesn't it," Black murmured, his mouth on Severus's ear. He gave
  the flannel-draped cock a slow squeeze and Severus ground hard into his hand,
  panting softly. "You like being starkers under that thing?"

  "Yes."

  Black's other hand re-joined the party, massaging his buttocks. "You like me
  touching you through it?"

  "Yes."

  "You want to wear it while I fuck you?"

  A flannel fingertip slipped between his cheeks, pressing and probing. "Y-yes!"
  he gasped, going up on his toes to avoid the intrusion. "Shit! Yes!"

  The light in Black's eyes flamed. "Turn around," he growled.

  Black took him right there on the desk. Over the next several hours, he also
  took him over the worktable, on the floor, against the blackboard, and on the
  floor again. By the time they finished, with Severus straddling Black in the
  teacher's chair and Black's hands clamped on the Slytherin's frantically-pumping
  ass, the room was a shambles, the handsome new cloak was a dusty, sweaty, come-
  streaked mess, and Severus was shooting air.

  And he had forgotten all about dumping Sirius Black.

  Next time, he told himself fuzzily, writhing in the grip of another dry,
  explosive orgasm. Wizard's honor, I swear...do it... next time.

  ********************************************************************************

  But he didn't do it next time.

  He didn't do it the next time, or the time after that, or the time after that.
  He didn't say a word about it three days later, or five days later, or on the
  following weekend. Nor did he mention the matter on St. Valentine's Day (14th),
  All Creatures' Day (18th), Muggle Appreciation Day (20th), or even Ravenclaw's
  Birthday (23rd).

  It wasn't as if he hadn't tried. Or wanted to try. It was just that Black
  kept...distracting him. The Gryffindor had reached dazzling levels of invention
  over the last few weeks, and every time Severus prepared himself to break off
  the affair, he found himself wooed back by some new and previously unimagined
  sexual delight. Plus, there were all those holidays in February -- and Sirius
  Black, Severus had discovered, was an absolute bugger for holidays.

  He had discovered it on Valentine's Day, when Black covered him in what must
  have been half the inventory of Honeydukes and licked every inch of him clean.
  He had discovered it again on All Creatures' Day, when Black used a lush phoenix
  feather and a supple, surprisingly delicate dragon-hide whip in an expert
  pleasure-pain tandem Severus was fairly sure he had never learned in Professor
  Kettleburn's class. He had discovered it on Muggle Appreciation Day (a "holiday"
  exclusive to Hogwarts, and one which he suspected Dumbledore had invented solely
  to torture the Slytherins), when Black had vowed to cure Severus of his
  pureblood bigotry once and for all. "The only reason you hate Muggles, Snape, is
  that you're ignorant about them," Black had said. "You haven't seen any of the
  good they've done for mankind." Perhaps he had a point; an evening of nipple
  clamps, cock rings, and something called a "French Tickler" had Severus singing
  paeans to Muggle ingenuity. With his body, if not with his voice.

  Then came Ravenclaw's Birthday, and to honor the intellectual member of the
  Hogwarts founding four, Black wanted to take a more cerebral approach. So he
  bound Severus to the bed, blindfolded him, and made him describe, in the most
  precise and detached terms possible, everything Black did to his body. It had
  turned out to be quite the learning experience. Severus, at least, had learned
  several lessons, not least among them the fact that even the most clinical
  analysis -- "Your tongue is penetrating my anus, forcing my sphincter to spasm"
  -- could be incredibly arousing when there was a tongue actually penetrating
  one's anus, forcing one's sphincter to spasm.

  He judged old Rowena would have been proud.

  So there were all those holidays, and all their accompanying merriment, and
  scattered in amongst all of that was the usual array of exotic positions and
  exciting games, and by the 25th, exactly three weeks after Lucius's terse
  ultimatum, Severus still hadn't told Black they were through.

  And Severus was getting nervous.

  He knew he was pushing his luck. Lucius was going to find out, and when he did,
  he wasn't going to bother with vague owled threats. No, Lucius these days had a
  higher power in his corner, and, combined with his latent sadistic tendencies,
  he'd probably use it to put Severus in a chastity belt for the rest of his life.
  Probably a very large, metal chastity belt. With many teeth.

  And Lucius would find out. Lucius had excellent sources inside Hogwarts, all of
  whom were watching Severus like hawks, none of whom would give Severus a pat on
  the back without looking for a good place to stick a knife. Bellatrix Black, in
  particular, seemed terribly interested in what Severus was getting up to with
  her cousin Sirius (Severus suspected it was she who had tipped Lucius off in the
  first place, and he had suspected it long before she'd shot off her mouth in
  Potions class) and Bellatrix Black was dangerous. Gorgeous, brilliant, an
  exquisite lay, but dangerous.

  Genuinely dangerous. Like...like him.

  As always, the thought of him sobered Severus like a slap. Severus didn't know
  for certain that he was the one behind Lucius's sudden stand, but...but what if
  he was? No amount of pleasure, no matter how novel or thrilling or dark, was
  worth crossing him. Severus needed him. He didn't like him, even feared him a
  little, but he needed him desperately. Men like Voldemort opened doors, doors
  that even Lucius couldn't open. Doors that boys like Severus Snape didn't even
  know were there.

  He had to tell Black. He would tell Black.

  Tonight.

  Tonight, for sure.

  ********************************************************************************

  Black wanted to meet in the nook behind the Great Hall. It was probably not the
  most discreet place to tell him -- the acoustics were phenomenal, and if Black
  went as mental as Severus feared he would, he'd probably wake the whole bloody
  castle -- but he couldn't put it off any longer.

  Black was waiting for him, lounging on the sofa before the fire. Severus caught
  sight of the paddle already in his hand, and the skin on his ass tightened
  longingly. Gods, he loved the paddle. It hurt just right, just enough, and it
  felt so good when Black rubbed Mum's salve into the stinging flesh afterward.
  Such cool, gentle hands. Such soft, easy strokes. Black just about worshipped
  his ass, and Severus could feel that every time Black touched him there. He'd
  rub and he'd stroke and he'd spread him carefully, so carefully, like a
  breathless child opening a much-anticipated present, and then he'd--

  No. Stop it. Tell him. Tell him now.

  Ten minutes later, as he was bent over the back of the sofa, long thighs
  stretched taut and bottom raised high for the first hot smack, he thought:
  Later. I'll tell him later. It's been this long; another few days won't hurt.

  Whack!

  Severus shuddered under the blow, grinding himself into the sofa. Yes. Yes,
  later would be just fine.

  ********************************************************************************

  By the first week of March, Severus was getting desperate.

  At breakfast each day he was a wreck, casting nervous looks at the ceiling of
  the Great Hall during the morning post, waiting for the inevitable query from
  Lucius. It never came, and far from easing his mind, this only increased his
  anxiety. What was Lucius playing at? What was he waiting for? What was he
  planning next, now that threats had failed?

  Worst of all, spring holiday was just a few weeks away, and if Severus hadn't
  ended it with Black by then--

  He couldn't go on like this. He had to tell Black. Had to.

  He would. Tonight. Tonight, for certain.

  He would.

  He didn't.

  ********************************************************************************

  By the third week of March, Severus was getting defiant.

  So he hadn't told Black yet -- what of it? Perhaps he wouldn't tell him at all.
  Perhaps Lucius should learn he couldn't run Severus Snape's life the way he ran
  everything else; perhaps it was good for him to know Severus had other takers
  for his charms besides one pampered little nancy boy and his spooky old pimp.
  Malfoy wasn't the only horny rich boy out there -- if nothing else, Black proved
  that -- and Severus could always find another rung on the ladder. Perhaps that
  rung might even be Black himself. Since the cloak incident and Bellatrix's
  betrayal, Black had been very nearly human to him, and if the idiot managed not
  to get himself totally disinherited by the time they graduated, he could prove
  useful.

  And, honestly, what was there to be afraid of? Lucius? That was a laugh. Fully-
  trained or not, Lucius wasn't half the wizard Severus was; he wouldn't last five
  minutes in a head-to-head duel, and he knew it as well as Severus did.
  Bellatrix? Much more of a challenge, and much, much meaner, but nothing he
  couldn't ultimately handle. He ticked off the rest of the list on mental fingers
  -- Avery? Rosier? Nott? -- and it was no contest. Spell-for-spell, not one of
  them could hope to match him.

  Actually, now that he thought about it, there were probably only two wizards in
  all of Hogwarts who couldmatch him, and he was fucking one of them. Who just
  happened to be the other one's best friend.

  So Lucius was no real problem, and his merry minions were no real problem, and
  that left only...him. Him, also known as Lord Voldemort, also known as the
  spooky old pimp. And that...well, that could prove to be a very real problem
  indeed. If Severus lost Lucius's support, he would likely lose Lord Voldemort's
  as well, and he wasn't sure he could afford that. He supposed it depended on how
  powerful Voldemort ultimately got. If, as he reportedly aspired to be, Voldemort
  was one day Minister of Magic, it would not do for Severus Snape, rising young
  potions genius, to be on his bad side. If, on the other hand, Voldemort turned
  out to be just another radical or troublemaker or outright loony -- and, gods
  knew, the wizarding world had seen hundreds of them over the years -- it would
  not do for Severus Snape to get caught in the fallout, either. It was hard to be
  a rising young potions genius when one was rotting in Azkaban.

  Or dead.

  The trouble was, Severus didn't think Voldemort was just another radical or
  loony. He was far too brilliant, and far too powerful. Severus had felt that
  power immediately upon meeting him, the first glance like a fist to the face. If
  Voldemort wanted to take over their world, Severus could think of no one -
  - save, perhaps, Albus Dumbledore himself -- who could stop him.

  But Voldemort seemed content to bide his time and build his legend. Thanks to
  his clever self-promotion, he was already a hero to many and an almost mythic
  figure to others -- and, as many mythic figures are, he was already draped in
  shadows of misdirection, contradiction, and outright lies. He was a visionary.
  He was a criminal. He was a savior. He was a devil. He had legions of followers,
  yet only a handful of people had ever seen his face. Their entire world was
  abuzz with his name, yet many were wary of even speaking it aloud. Having met
  the man, however briefly, Severus could well understand. One look in those eyes
  had made him feel like falling to his knees, spreading his legs, and running
  like hell, all at the same time.

  (Drink your drink, Severus. The liquor is not the reason he hits you.)

  Severus pushed at the memory, willing it to go. It would not budge.

  (He hits you because he fears you, child. He knows you are already ten times the
  wizard he will ever be.)

  That cold, high voice. That implacable tone.

  (That's why he broke your arm. You were only six; you didn't even know what you
  had done. But he knew. Oh, yes. He saw your power, even then, and he feared it.
  And he punished you for it, as he's been punishing you all your life for it.
  Punishing you simply for being what you are.)

  Words he knew would stun the young wizard before him; words he knew that same
  young wizard hungered to hear.

  (Iwouldn't punish you for it, child. I would reward you, honor you, cherish you
  for your power. And together, we would make that Muggle-loving waste of magic
  wish he'd never been born.)

  Severus had never told anyone that his father had broken his arm. Not another
  living soul. Certainly, he'd never told anyone how often he had longed for
  revenge, real revenge, in countless dreams that ran with blood and rang shrill
  with his father's screams. No, Voldemort had just taken those thoughts right
  from his head, like a man plucking a ripe peach from a branch and taking a great
  juicy bite -- and the look on his face had said he found them just as sweet,
  just as tasty.

  I told you, Severus. Lucius's voice. He just...he just knows things. I think he
  might be a Leglimens.

  Leglimency. The art of sensing the thoughts and images and feelings of others.
  Severus had looked it up. It was an ancient and rather obscure magic, rarely
  practiced anymore. As with all types of magic, it could be studied and mastered,
  to varying degrees, by any witch or wizard, but a very select few were
  apparently born with the gift. Severus supposed it was what Muggles would call
  mind-reading.

  Or what his grandmother had called the Reach.

  Severus shivered. The thought of having anything in common with Lord Voldemort
  made his skin crawl. The man was evil. Oh, surely not in the crazed, comic-book
  way the Ministry and the papers were painting him -- Severus certainly didn't
  believe the wilder stories, of wholesale Muggle slaughter in backwater villages,
  or bands of white-masked torture squads sent out in the dead of night -- but
  definitely evil. Amoral. Power-hungry. Dangerous.

  Abruptly, Severus opened his bag and began unloading ingredients, each jar
  hitting the scarred desktop with a hard thump. He was angry. His resolve, all
  his wonderful, defiant resolve, was slipping away again, and why? Because he
  feared reprisal from some old fart who never cut his nails and called himself
  "Lord"? It was absurd. It didn't even make any sense. Even if "Lord" Voldemort
  was the most evil, most powerful wizard who ever lived, he posed no threat to
  Severus Snape. Severus Snape was just some dumb kid; Voldemort was a major
  political player, a man who wanted to be Minister, who wanted system reform on a
  massive scale, who wanted to "deal with the Muggle problem, once and for all."
  Did a man like that really care whether or not one greasy teenager joined his
  campaign?

  Probably doesn't even remember meeting me, he thought. Probably doesn't even
  remember my name.

  Right.

  He unpacked the last jar of Himalayan hen's teeth and stuffed the bag under his
  chair. A small but dense cloud of dust rose up. He sneezed, looking around him
  with a sneer. Gods, Professor Prozac was a slob. This workroom was filthy. Just
  from watching him in class, Severus knew that Prozac was messy and lazy -- both
  unforgivable failings for a potions master, in Severus's opinion -- but at least
  the classroom was a common area and the house elves could tidy it up.They must
  be afraid to come in here, he thought. Severus supposed he couldn't blame them.
  Prozac was no real threat if you knew how to get around him, but he was also a
  crusty, cranky, creepy old horror. From what Severus had read in Hogwarts: A
  History,the Potions master was nearly always a crusty, cranky, creepy old
  horror, though nobody quite knew why. It was something of a school tradition.

  A huge yawn took him by surprise. Last night catching up with him, no doubt. He
  stretched into it, bones cracking pleasantly, a little of his anxiety and
  uncertainty bleeding away. He allowed himself a small smile. Last night. Last
  night had been...Merlin! More nights like that were just what he needed to chase
  the boogeyman away. Whatever the risks, the mere possibility of having Black
  like that again, of taking him like that, made them seem distant and foolish and
  small.

  Black on top of him, his handsome face taut and strained, his eyes squeezed shut
  as he lowered himself onto Severus's prick. Black beneath him, arching into
  every brutal thrust, slamming back every time he was slammed, relishing the
  violence and the pain. Severus had topped before; he had been the man, so to
  speak, with Lucius, with Rosier and Avery, and of course with the girls -
  - Bellatrix, Narcissa, even Avery's little bird, Roselle. His physical
  endowments alone made him the belle of every Malfoy ball. But he had never
  topped with Black before. He had never had Sirius Blackbeneath him and all
  around him, opening for him, surrendering to him, urging him on with grey eyes
  gone a lusty silver and that reckless, ruthless, heart-stopping grin.

  And afterward, when Black had buried his face in Severus's neck and warned
  sleepily, "Remember, if you kill me, we never get to do this again" before
  lapsing into blissful unconsciousness, it had been Severus who lay awake in the
  darkness, arms a tentative circle around his prize, chest tight with emotions he
  dared not name.

  "Don't you look like the kneazel who ate the canary."

  He turned toward the door. Lily Evans bustled over, her color high from the
  cold, her arms laden with packages. Severus automatically stood to help her, and
  she said, "Watch it! That black one on the very top is the thestral ribs, and I
  had to pull teeth to get them." She waited until he took the slim black box and
  placed it on the table, then put down the rest of her things with a groan. "The
  good news is I got them at cost."

  "No doubt," Severus snorted. "Old man Ashwinder's a hound for young girls. I'm
  surprised he didn't gift-wrap them for you, too."

  She gave him a sour look. "For your information, sexist pig, it was your friend
  Tom who saved the day. Ashwinder didn't want to sell them to me at all. Even
  after I showed him my letter from Professor Prozac, he gave me a time; if that
  Tom hadn't stepped in, I'd probably still be standing there arguing." She
  shrugged off her coat. "You might have wanted to mention to me, by the way, that
  thestral ribs are on the school board's list of banned substances."

  "Everything but rose petals and fairy farts is on that bloody list. And Tom
  knows that, which is why he's the only one in the place who isn't scared
  shitless of the Board." Tom Montague was the assistant manager at the Toil &
  Trouble Apothecary in Hogsmeade. A serious, soft-spoken man not much older than
  the Hogwarts crowd to whom he catered, Tom was everything Severus thought a
  proper apothecary should be: well-informed, well-supplied, and politely
  disinterested in what his wares were used for once they left his shop. "Didn't I
  tell you to ask for him in the first place?"

  "Ask for him? What do you--?" Her face cleared, and she shook her head. "Oh, no,
  Severus, I didn't mean that To--"

  "You didn't get the quail eggs." He was rummaging through the packages.

  "Yes, I did. They're in the bottom of that green bag." She pulled off her
  gloves. "And don't you go muttering at me, I didn't pack them. It was some idiot
  girl with a big chest and loads of pimples."

  He was aghast. "You let Bertha Jorkins pack the eggs? Are you daft? She's clumsy
  as a troll!"

  "I'm sorry, Severus, that I don't have the shortcomings of the Toil & Trouble
  staff committed to memory." She seemed torn between exasperation and amusement.
  "Next time, you can do the shopping."

  "I don't need the extra credit, I'm not a prefect, and I can't go into Hogsmeade
  whenever I please. Besides, shopping is women's work." He spoke absently, trying
  to get a rise out of her mostly from habit; he was checking the eggs for cracks,
  his mind already on the job ahead.

  "So's cooking," she shot back. "Shall I make this potion myself, then?"

  "As if you could."

  The barbs continued to fly back and forth as they unwrapped the rest of her
  purchases, but there was no heat in them. They bantered like this most of the
  time, as Severus, at least, found it easier than real conversation. He didn't
  know why, really; he liked Lily, and he knew she liked him, though not in the
  way most boys would have wanted a girl like Lily Evans to like them. She was
  very pretty. She had beautiful hair, thick and shining, dark red without an
  orange strand in the bunch, and the clearest, greenest eyes he'd ever seen. She
  also had, from what he'd managed to glimpse on occasion beneath her voluminous
  robes, perky little breasts and mile after mile of gorgeous legs.

  Severus was as bisexual as the next young wizard, and he appreciated Lily's
  looks, but they were not the main reason he liked her. Mostly he liked her
  because she was...well, she was likable. She was smart, and she was serious
  about her studies. She had a good sense of humor, dry and a trifle dark, robust
  but never coarse. She had a capacity for letting go and starting fresh that
  Severus, with his penchant for melodrama, self-pity, and cherished grudges, both
  envied and admired. And she was kind, but in a brisk, no-nonsense, unsentimental
  way that Severus did not find offensive. In many ways, she reminded him of a
  much-younger, much-prettier Minerva McGonagall...and McGonagall, Head of
  Gryffindor or not, was one of the few teachers in the place who had ever given
  him a break.

  If Lily had a major flaw -- well, besides being a Muggle-born, though Muggle-
  borns didn't bother Severus nearly as much as he pretended -- it was that she
  was a bit of a crusader. Stomp out this, help save that....there was always some
  Cause that needed her unique blend of hustle-bustle and smarts. Severus supposed
  he couldn't really complain; he figured Lily's do-gooder tendencies were what
  had drawn her to him in the first place. Why else would one of the prettiest
  girls in school befriend an ugly loser?Beauty and the Beast,Potter liked to call
  them. Well, let him. It drove Potter crazy that Severus was on such good terms
  with Lily, whom Potter had been head-over-heels for since second year, and who
  wouldn't piss on James Potter if he were on fire.

  Just one more reason to like her, as far as Severus was concerned.

  Only once had Lily's save-the-world streak come between them, but that once had
  nearly ended their friendship. The previous summer, after O.W.L.S., Potter and
  Black had attacked him by the lake. It had been an exceptionally humiliating
  attack, even by Marauder standards -- they had hung him upside-down in mid-air,
  his robes over his head, his underpants in a tree -- and completely unprovoked.
  Lily had stepped in to defend him; Severus, in an agony of embarrassment, had
  lashed out at her. He had called her Mudblood, a word so bad it would have
  prompted his old man, had he heard it, to beat Severus within an inch of his
  life. Stunned and hurt, she had lashed back. Called him "Snivellus," which had
  hurt a hell of a lot more than any beating. It had certainly hurt more coming
  from her lips than it ever had coming from Potter or Black or that fat little
  waste, Peter Pettigrew.

  Two weeks later, on the last day of the term, she had come up to him in the
  library, looked him right in the eye, and without preamble said, "I'm sorry. I
  had no right to interfere. I had no right to call you that name. I had no right
  to call you dirty or make fun of your clothes. But you had no right to call me
  Mudblood. Nothing can excuse that. Are you sorry? If you are, fine. We're still
  friends. If you're not, and you really meant it, well, I won't like it, but I'll
  respect your wishes and leave you alone. So, Severus...are you sorry?"

 Once Severus had stopped blinking and gotten his mouth to close again, he had     
  managed a nod. Lily had smiled. They had chatted a bit, their feud apparently
  over. Severus, feeling like he'd just been run down by one of the horseless
  carriages waiting to take them to the train, had to admire her style. Only Lily
  Evans could apologize to herself and still give someone else the credit.

  And he was glad. He hadn't wanted to lose her. They were not real friends,
  though Severus suspected Lily didn't realize that -- Severus knew very well he
  was incapable of the kind of trust true friendship requires. But she was someone
  to chat with during a break in class, or to study with in the library. She was a
  partner he could choose, without fear of permanent disfigurement or public
  humiliation, for Potions or Defense Against the Dark Arts. She was not a friend,
  but she was the closest thing to it he'd ever known.

  As Severus rolled up his sleeves and prepared to shave the thestral ribs, she
  scanned the recipe in the heavy leather book he had spread open on the table.
  "`Slice spiders into segments precisely one-eighth of an inch thick and boil
  with jellied quail eggs for one hour,'" she read aloud, then stopped, a guilty
  look on her face. "Severus, this is going to take forever! I'm sorry, I had no
  idea Memory Enhancer was so complicated."

  "Wait until you see the other one." He pointed. "Hand me that small silver
  knife. And start slicing the spiders. About a dozen should do."

  She gave him the knife and picked up the bag of spiders, but she didn't open it.
  "You're sure you have the time for this?"

  He nodded.

  "And I'm not...keeping you from anything."

  "No."

  "Not interfering with any plans, or...or anything."

  He turned on her, exasperated and perplexed; this vague, clumsy girl wasn't at
  all the forthright Lily Evans he knew. And she was blushing. He had never seen
  Lily blush, never, not at Potter's crudest come-ons, not at anything. Not even
  the sight of her good friend Severus -- all of her good friend Severus -
  - dangling in mid-air with his bits gaily waving in the breeze.

  "What are you talking a--Shit!" The knife slipped; a small bead of blood welled.
  Severus dropped the knife and healed the cut with a hasty flick of his wand, his
  heart pounding a bit harder than usual. Close one, that. Even a drop of blood,
  especially wizard's blood, could imbue the most benign potion with deadly and
  unpredictable powers. "What areyou going on about? I told you I'd help you with
  this months ago."

  "Yes, but that was before--"

  She stopped so abruptly she might have been slapped, and suddenly Severus knew,
  even without Reaching, exactly what it was she was trying to ask. "Before what?"

  She sighed. "I'm not very good at coy, am I?"

  "As good as I am at sweet." It came out sharper than necessary. "Spit it out,
  Lily. Before what?"

  "Before Black, Severus. Before Sirius Black." Her eyes were fixed so closely on
  his face that he could almost feel them, light, fluttering like tiny wings.
  "Everyone says you're sleeping with him."

  Severus turned quickly back to his rib shaving, jaw set tight. "`Everyone' says
  a lot of things about me."

  "I know that, you dope. That's why I'm asking you, straight out. Are you
  sleeping with Sirius Black?"

  He said nothing, only shaved faster, curling slivers of bone flying furiously.
  That, and his flushed face, seemed to be all the answer she needed.

  She leaned back against the table, her mouth round with astonishment. "Holy
  shit," she breathed. "You are."

  "Shut up."

  "Holy shit."

  He gritted his teeth.

  "I can't believe...I never thought..." Her hands made vague little fluttery
  gestures. "You...and Black...holy shit."

  "Will you stop saying that?" Of all the Muggle expressions he'd ever heard,holy
  shithad to be one of the more exquisitely stupid. Right up there with half-
  assed, dingleberry, and fuck a duck. "And stop gawping at me. You look like a
  bloody codfish."

  "I do that, sometimes, when I'm in shock," she deadpanned. "Gawping like a
  bloody codfish is a standard Muggle reaction to the utterly absurd."

  He glared at her, risking his fingers again, and she threw up her hands.

  "Oh, for God's sake, Severus, how do you expectme to react? It's the craziest
  thing I've ever heard! Not five minutes ago, I would have bet my life you
  wouldn't touch Sirius Black with a ten-foot pole, and now you're telling me
  you're...he's...you're..." She paused and delicately cleared her throat. "You're
  involved."

  Severus snorted a laugh. Well, that was one way to put it. Although it was as
  good a word as any, he supposed; when it came right down to it, he and Black had
  been "involved" since the day they met. "You really didn't believe it? Even with
  what Bellatrix said in class? Even with all the talk?"

  "Are you joking? Bellatrix and that lot? Those are the same people who swear
  that you brew illicit potions in your dorm with unicorn blood and the fat of
  boiled babies." She opened her bag of spiders at last and began picking through
  them, discarding some, laying others in a careful line on the table. "Mostly,
  though, I didn't believe it because you never told me about it."

  "Why would I?"

  She gave him a level look. "Because that's what friends do, Severus. They talk,
  they tell each other things. I tell you things."

  "Nothing like this."

  "But I've never had anything like this. Nobody'sever had anything like this."
  She closed the bag and grinned at him. "You have to admit, as gossip goes, it's
  awfully juicy."

  He made a disgusted sound. "You're as bad as the rest of them."

  "Why? Because I have about a thousand questions I'd like to ask you right now?
  Please. I'm human, Severus. Of course I'm a bit curious."

  She was curious, and a damn sight more than a bit; he could feel her interest
  crawling over him with every sweep of that bold green gaze. "Well, then, why
  don't you ask Black? He's the one doing all the talking."

  "I wouldn't take a Chocolate Frog from Sirius Black if I were starving to
  death," she said, her lip curling in pretty disdain. "Anyway, Black's not
  talking. Not even to his friends, from what Potter and Lupin say." She picked up
  her own knife and began slicing. "That's another reason I didn't believe it,
  actually -- you know what a big-mouth Black is, and he fancies himself such a
  stud. Every time he gets himself a shag, it's practically in the Daily Prophet,
  so why would he keep quiet about this?"

  Severus pushed the delicate bone shavings into a pile and wiped his hands. They
  were trembling a bit. Just a bit.

  "Perhaps I'm not up to his usual standards," he said carefully. He managed to
  keep the bitterness out of his voice, but just barely. So I'm good enough for
  him to fuck on a regular basis, but not good enough for him to admit it?How
  typical of Black, ever the Gryffindor hypocrite.

  "You're so far above his usual standards it's not even funny," Lily asserted.
  "You can talk, for starters. Big words, like `think' and `book' and `school' and
  `brain.' That puts you in the lead right there, as far as I can see." She
  stopped slicing and gave him a measuring glance. "And you look good, Severus.
  No, really. It's amazing what a shampoo and a spot of exercise can do -- Oh,
  don't you dare make that face at me! I know perfectly well what you were getting
  at, and it's rubbish. So Black's prettier than you. So what? He's prettier than
  me, too" -- he couldn't help a chuckle at that -- "but I'm not about to put a
  bag over my head. There's nothing wrong with your looks that a bit of care
  hasn't fixed, Severus, so you'd do well to find another excuse if you want to
  feel sorry for yourself."

  He didn't quite know how to respond to this little outburst. She meant it, any
  fool could see that; she was genuinely annoyed with him, and that pleased him
  almost as much as her words-- somehow, it made the words more believable.

  A small, warm glow came up in his chest as he opened the jar of hen's teeth. He
  poured a handful into a mortar and began to grind. "Well, if I'm so bloody
  wonderful, why is Black denying everything?"

  "I never said you wereso wonderful" -- her mouth quirked mischievously -- "and I
  never said Black was denying anything."

  "But--"

  "He's just being very cute about it, is all. Playing games. Doesn't say yes,
  doesn't say no. Just sits there and shrugs and smiles this incredibly smug,
  satisfied little smile." Her mouth twitched again. "You know -- a lot like the
  smile you were wearing when I came in here."

  Severus felt his face heat. He ground the hen's teeth a bit harder, putting a
  little more muscle into it than was necessary. Still, the glow in his chest got
  even warmer. So Black was smiling, was he? And he wasn't denying their affair.
  No, he was being coy -- and even a dumb shit like Black had to know that being
  coy was as good as a tally-ho to those intrepid souls who manned the Hogwarts
  grapevine. It was practically an admission.

  "You're doing it again."

  He looked up. "Hmm? What?"

  "Smiling. That cat-in-the-cream smile. What's so funny?"

  "Oh...I...I was just wondering what everyone else is saying," he lied. "What's
  the official Hogwarts theory? Has Black been hit with an insanity hex? Or did I
  slip him a love potion in his pumpkin juice?"

  "Well, some fourth- and fifth-year girls were saying something like that, that
  you'd hexed him or whatnot, but nobody paid them any mind." She laughed merrily.
  "Oh, they're terribly jealous of you, Severus! They'd like to scratch your eyes
  out, the lot of them. But nobody's laughing at you, if that's what you're
  worried about. Most of them are dead impressed. They think you've landed quite
  the catch."

  "What do you think?"

  She screwed up her face. "You know what I think. I think Black's an arse. A
  handsome, charming, useless, bullying, big-headed arse. I can't imagine what you
  see in him, and I hope it's not some stupid joke you're running on him or he's
  running on you, and I think you should be extremely careful. Past that, I don't
  care, so long as you're happy."

  Her expression said this was a dubious hope at best, and the words I am, the
  reassurance she obviously needed, trembled on the tip of his tongue. He bit them
  back. Happy he was -- for now -- but she was right; he still had to watch his
  back. "I'm always careful. And just for the record, I think Black's an arse,
  too."

  "Well, I should hope so," she said, and for some reason the prim tone made him
  laugh out loud.

  They worked in silence for the next fifteen minutes or so, chopping, peeling,
  stirring. Outwardly, Lily appeared content to concentrate on her tasks, but
  Severus knew better. He wasn't trying to Reach into her head; it was just
  happening, as it sometimes did, without any conscious effort on his part.
  Flickers of her thoughts, from concerned to amused to downright salacious,
  danced across his own.How the hell did it start? I can't believe Severus would
  trust that creep, even for a second. When did it start? Black's been staring at
  Severus like a drooly old dog for months now, but -- no, it couldn't be as long
  as all that. They'd have killed each other by now. I wonder how they look
  together. Why is that so sexy? Oh, I'm horrible. I wonder what they do. Who
  shags whom? Or do boys take turns?

  He did his honest best to filter it all out, but it was very difficult. Not to
  mention distracting. It also meant that she was distracted as well, and that
  made him nervous. Despite their complexity, he could make the Memory Enhancer
  and the speed-reader potions in his sleep, but combining any two potions was
  tricky business, and it required superior concentration. One mistake, and the
  least they would have would be a useless mess.

  Still, he said nothing. There was no way he could say anything without letting
  on that he was poncing about, however unwillingly, in her head. Only when a
  shockingly accurate vision jumped full force into his mind -- him, Black, the
  two of them naked and impossibly intertwined -- did he finally speak up.

  "If I could talk about it, Lily, I would."

  "I know." She didn't deny her curiosity, or pretend not to understand what he
  meant. Nor did she argue or cajole or pout. He knew his silence hurt her; he
  could feel her disappointment that he still didn't trust her as she felt he
  should. But she did not press the issue, and he loved her for that more than he
  could say.

  And then she said, "Hand me the hen's teeth, will you? Quickly, Severus, while
  the temperature's right -- there we go. Brilliant!" and he marveled anew at her
  capacity to simply let a thing go. "Oh! Is it supposed to be that color?"

  He gazed at her affectionately, trying not to smile. "It's fine. Just lower the
  flame about half an inch."

  It was easier after that. There was the rest of the potion to attend to, then
  the long wait before the final step, when they would add the thestral ribs. They
  passed the hour talking of inconsequential things. Their classes. The weather.
  Lily regaled him with a few stories from home. Severus had a pureblood's
  instinctive distrust of Muggles, and a Slytherin's disdain, but he was also
  intensely curious about them (as he was about most everything), and Lily managed
  to indulge him without ever letting on that she knew how much he enjoyed it.

  When the hour was almost up, Lily stood and peered into the cauldron. "Time to
  add the ribs? The color looks right now."

  Severus joined her. "Mm, but it's not thick enough. Give it another minute or
  so."

  "I won't even ask what difference a minute could possibly make," she said. "I
  know better." She watched as he scooped most of the rib shavings into a glass
  beaker, leaving a small handful behind on the table. "How do you do that?"

  "Do what?"

  "How do you know the exact amount without taking a single measurement?"

  He shrugged; his response would have been much the same if she had asked him how
  he knew to breathe in after he breathed out. "I just know."

  He added the shavings slowly, a pinch at a time, charming his wand to stir by
  itself. The potion hissed briefly; the milky pink surface went scarlet, then
  silver, then to a shimmering, opalescent swirl of color. Perfect, he thought
  with a rush. Merlin, he loved potions! It was a discipline like no other, art
  and science and logic and magic all working in precise harmony, and when he got
  one just right like this, just right on the very first go, he didn't feel like a
  wizard at all. He felt like a god.

  You're amazing at this.

  When she said nothing further, he glanced up at her; only then did he realize
  she had not spoken aloud. Her eyes were not on the potion, pretty as it was,
  although she dropped them there when she caught him looking at her. "It really
  is the purest magic, isn't it?" She smiled into the cauldron. "To put all those
  horrid bits of things together and create something so beautiful."

  He nodded, pleased that she understood.

  "Should we test it?" she asked.

  "Of course."

  She was the one who needed the extra-credit, so she insisted on being the guinea
  pig, though Severus argued strenuously to take her place. "We don't even know
  what we've created," he protested.

  "Certainly we do. The greatest study aid the wizarding world has ever seen." He
  opened his mouth, and she held up a hand. "Severus. Can it kill me?"

  He reviewed every ingredient and procedure mentally. It was at least the tenth
  time he had done so, and he came to the same conclusion each time. "No," he
  said, almost grudgingly.

  "Will it hurt me? Damage me mentally or physically in any lasting way?"

  "No."

  She smiled and held out her hand.

  "It won't hurt you, but any potion can have unforeseen side-effects. Especially
  when combined. In theory, these two should be compatible, but that's only
  theory, and..." He trailed off. One look at her face told him he was wasting his
  breath. He sighed and pulled out the last weapon in his arsenal, though he
  realized it was utterly lame. "It doesn't taste nearly as good as it looks."

  "What potion ever does? Now give it here, Severus. And if I should turn into
  anything hairy or mad, just chain me to the table and leave me some meat
  scraps."

  She downed the potion. She made a decent job of pretending the taste wasn't vile
  -- only a slight clench of her jaw gave her away. Severus thought about calling
  her out on it, but decided against it. Despite the Black issue rearing its head,
  they had shared a rather enjoyable evening -- he had nearly forgotten the simple
  pleasure her company gave him -- and he didn't want to spoil it.

  Also, he was too busy watching anxiously for signs of impending hairy madness.

  "How do you feel?" he asked finally.

  "Fine. Better than fine. Sort of...sharp. And fizzy."

  Fizzy? So it was working. Brilliant. "All right. Now read this."

  She looked at him, dumbfounded. He was tapping a finger on the potions book,
  still open on the table. "What, one page? That's hardly much of a test,
  Severus."

  "Not the page. The book."

  "The entire book? It's over five hundred pages!"

  He nodded and glanced at his watch. "You have ten minutes."

  "Ten minutes? But I can't possibly--"

  "If we did it correctly, you can." He tapped again. "Read."

  She read. He saw the amazed pleasure on her face growing stronger with every
  page, which she turned faster and faster until they were a breezy black-and-
  white blur. She finished with over a minute to spare.

  "Test time." Severus took the book from her hands and thumbed through it. He
  stopped about halfway through. "Now tell me what you read on page 278."

  "`Ethically speaking, the Mesmer Potion is a highly dubious draught, nearly as
  powerful as the Imperious Curse. It was banned by the Ministry of Magic in 1834.
  It--" She stopped, her eyes going wide.

  He gave her a small smile. "Congratulations," he said. "For the next forty-five
  minutes, you are eidetic."

  "I have a photographic memory?" she clarified. He frowned questioningly. "Sorry.
  Muggle term. It means I can instantly memorize anything if I look at it for a
  few seconds."

  He nodded, slightly annoyed. "Yes. That's what eidetic means as well."

  She laughed, "Oh, don't be such a priss!" and jumped into his arms, knocking the
  annoyance (and most of the wind) right out of him. "My God, Severus, we did it!
  We actually did it! We invented a potion!"

  "Yes...well...no..." Salazar! One hug, and he was a blathering fool? Get a grip,
  you twit! "Technically speaking, wemodified a potion. Two potions, to be
  precise."

  She pulled back and favored him with a smile of such warmth and affection that
  it turned his knees to sludge. "And you are nothing if not precise." This time,
  she hugged herself. "But, for once, I think you're being too modest. You're a
  prodigy, Severus. Some day your name's going to be on everything from pain-
  killer to hair tonic, and I'll say, `Oh, yes, Severus Snape, the bazillionaire
  Potions inventor? I went to school with him.'"

  She was giggling, for Merlin's sake. He tried to frown with the appropriate
  disapproval, but his face didn't seem to know what to do. His emotions were all
  over the place, amused and embarrassed, pleased and still a bit dismayed by that
  hug. Especially by his own reaction to that hug. Gods, did all Muggleborn girls
  smell that good? Bella and Narcissa wore the best perfume galleons could buy,
  and they didn't smell half that delicious, fresh and soapy and slightly spicy...
  "You're mental," he managed at last. "Completely off your head."

  "High as a snitch," she agreed blithely, still giggling. She handed him a vial.
  "Here, prodigy. Bottle our invention while I clean up. Oh!" She jabbed a finger
  at him. "That's what we should call it. The Prodigy Potion. What do you think?"

  "I think you're stuck on that bloody word." He took the vial and carefully
  ladled the potion into it. He wasn't being modest at all; she was making him
  genuinely uncomfortable. Praise always made him uncomfortable. He had received
  too little of it in his life to know how to react to it, and so he reacted as he
  always did when in doubt: with scorn and contempt. "The only reason you think
  I'm a prodigy at potions is that you're hopeless at them."

  "Not anymore, baby!" She said this with such great, gloating satisfaction that
  Severus laughed in spite of himself. "And it's notmybloody word, so don't yell
  at me. Your friend there, old what's-his-face -- he's the one who called you a
  prodigy."

  "Friend?"

  "Tom. Tom whatever-his-name-is. From Hogsmeade."

  "Oh, Tom," Severus dismissed. "Tom's not a friend. We hardly know each other."

  "Seemed to me he knew you pretty well. He was singing your praises the whole
  time I was there."

  "I'm sure he was," Severus said dryly. "I'm one of his best customers."

  He stoppered the vial, laid it carefully aside, and began filling a second. He
  very nearly dropped it when she startled him with an irritated hiss.

  "Severus, do you ever listen to me? At all? I told you before, it wasn't that
  Tom. You mean Tom Montague, right? Well, Tom Montague wasn't even working
  today." She finished packing up the last of her ingredients and tucked the jars
  and vials into her bag, repeating, "I told you that when I came in," apparently
  in the event Severus was extremely stupid as well as inattentive and rude.

  "Well, who are you talking about, then? I don't know any other Tom."

  "Of course you do," she said, in her best let's-be-practical voice. She took a
  cloth from the cupboard behind them and began wiping the table. "You must. He
  certainly knew you. Perked right up when he overheard your name, and jumped
  right into the conversation. I was a bit annoyed at first -- you know, he was
  eavesdropping, and butting in -- but then he was such a help with Ashwinder and
  that business with the thestral ribs, I couldn't really be angry. And he seemed
  very nice. Quite charming, and very handsome for an older man, too. And he
  thinks the world of you, Severus. Really. He couldn't say enough about how smart
  and talented you are, how successful you're going to be..."

  "Really."

  "Really." She stopped wiping and looked up at him, really looked at him,
  searching his face. "You honestly don't have any idea who I'm talking about, do
  you?"

  If only, he thought. Unfortunately, he did have an idea, or was beginning to,
  and it wasn't a very pleasant one. It made his throat feel dry and his chest
  feel tight and the pit of his stomach feel like he'd swallowed a bludger. A very
  large, very cold bludger.

  Quite charming, and very handsome for an older man, too.

  "Perhaps he's a friend of my mother's," he lied. The smooth, easy way the lie
  rolled out surprised him, although it shouldn't have done -- he had always been
  a very capable liar. "Perhaps I don't know his first name. What did he look
  like?"

  "Tall. Thin. Very pale. Dark hair. Handsome, as I said. Distinguished-looking,
  you know?"

  Severus nodded. He knew, all right. "What about his hands?"

  Her brow creased, but she said only, "I didn't see his hands. He wore gloves."
  She cocked her head at him. "Any of this ringing a bell?"

  "What color were his eyes?" It was a stupid question, a pointless question,
  really, he already knew perfectly well who "Tom" must have been, but...

  "Brown."

  "Brown?"

  "Yes, Severus. Brown. Rather dark. Not as dark as yours, but dark."

  Severus breathed a bit easier.

  "They were very peculiar eyes, though," she went on, and his heart sank again.
  "They seemed to...to change. When the light hit them a certain way, they looked
  -- don't you dare laugh at me, now -- they looked red." She frowned suddenly and
  shivered slightly, and Severus could tell she wasn't aware that she had done
  either one. "Anyway, I'm sure it was a trick of the light. I mean, nobody
  actually has red eyes, right?"

  Severus swallowed hard. "Of course not."

  "At any rate" -- she shrugged -- "except for that, I quite liked him."

  "Why?" The question was out before he could stop it.

  She gave him an odd look.

  "I just meant...it's just that you...you don't usually take to people that
  quickly." Which was perfectly true; a healthy wariness of strangers was, in
  fact, one of the few traits he and Lily shared. "What was so special about him?"

  She folded up her cleaning cloth and laid it on the table. "I don't know," she
  said after a moment's thought. "I just got a good vibe off him, I guess. He
  reminded me a bit of Professor Dumbledore. You know, he seemed very powerful -
  - he felt powerful, just standing there chatting -- but not dangerous."

  Not dangerous. In the years to come, those words would come back to Severus
  again and again, haunting him even in his deepest dreams. Not dangerous: Lily's
  first assessment of Lord Voldemort, the man who would one day take her life.

  "Severus, who is he? I can tell you recognized him from my description. How do
  you know him?"

  "I met him last summer while I was apprenticing. He used to come into Mordred's
  quite regularly. We talked potions a few times, but I don't know him very well.
  I don't even know his last name." The lies continued to come readily, at his
  fingertips, as they always seemed to be. "I'm surprised he remembered me; I'd
  forgotten all about him."

  Lily shook her head. "He'd be a hard one to forget, I imagine."

  "To a bird, maybe."

  "I wouldn't be too smug there, Severus. He was miles more interested in you than
  he was in me." She waggled her eyebrows, her good humor obviously still intact.
  "And he did say the two of you could be, er...`very good for each other.'"

  He scarcely heard her tinkling laugh. The chill in his belly had moved up to his
  heart, which was beating a little too fast.He thinks the world of you, Severus.
  Really. He couldn't say enough about how smart and talented you are, how
  successful you're going to be. He wondered what else "Tom" had said about him.
  He wanted to know everything: every word, every gesture, every expression that
  had crossed that elegant face. No, not wanted -- he neededto know. But he
  couldn't keep asking Lily all these questions. She was much too sharp for that,
  and she'd get suspicious.

  Of course, there was one other option.

  You can't do that, it's practically rape, for the gods' sake--

  He ignored the voice of conscience and tried to consider the matter practically.
  Could it even be done? It was harder Reaching into someone's mind deliberately
  than it was to simply receive their random thoughts, and it was particularly
  difficult when one was actively searching for a specific memory or image. But
  Lily, for some reason, had always been a very easy read for him -- the level of
  his earlier link with her was not at all the exception for them -- and the
  memory he wanted was fresh. He could probably do it. At the very least, he could
  probably get enough information to answer some of his hotter questions. Why did
  Voldemort want him so much? What was Voldemort offering in exchange for his
  services? What was charming, handsome, not-dangerous Tom's attitude toward him?
  Was he angry, impatient, tolerant, amused? What would he say if Severus
  continued to refuse? More to the point, what would he do?

  Severus didn't know if the answers to these questions were a matter of life and
  death, or just a matter of a good night's sleep, but he knew he couldn't take
  that chance.

  He Reached.

  Lily kept chatting, unaware as always to the intrusion; Severus chatted back,
  nodding and "mm-hmm"-ing in all the right places as he ran swift mental fingers
  through her head. He didn't go deep -- he truly didn't want to violate her any
  more than was necessary, and that was what this was, a violation -- but he
  skimmed over everything, like a man riffling through a book, looking for a
  particular page. Snippets of thought, in words and pictures, came and went with
  dizzying speed. The Prodigy Potion (for that was what she was calling it, at
  least in her head), shimmering in its cauldron. Him and Black, kissing. A thin,
  blonde, horse-faced girl he didn't recognize. The word "sleep." A white cat. The
  word "vial." The face of Lord Voldemort, handsome indeed, and smiling, mouthing
  his name---

  Ah! There it was. Severus, he read on those sensual lips, and he could almost
  hear the hiss Voldemort enjoyed adding at the end. He liked Severus's name,
  thought it the consummate Slytherin name; he had told him so that day in
  Hogsmeade, and he had pronounced it just like that, stressing the sibilants,
  rolling them around on his tongue the way another man might savor a fine wine.

  "I told you a great many things that day in Hogsmeade, Severus," Voldemort said
  now. "But it would seem you weren't listening."

  Severus recoiled. Lily was no longer talking -- in fact, her eyes had taken on a
  glazed, dreamy look, and her face was slack -- but her lips were still moving,
  still shaping words. Shaping Voldemort's words. In Voldemort's voice.

  What in the name of all the gods--?

  Severus cut his link to Lily so abruptly he could feel the disconnect, a faint,
  painless, ripping sensation in the middle of his forehead. For a few seconds, a
  surreal kind of echo ricocheted through his brain as he heard Voldemort in
  Lily's mind and also heard him aloud, and that did hurt -- it was like getting a
  cold spike deep in each ear.

  He needn't have bothered. Cutting the link did nothing; Voldemort continued to
  talk through Lily, and there was something so grotesque about that hissing voice
  coming from her rosebud mouth that nausea passed over Severus in a clammy wave.

  "I am not a man of great patience, Severus, but I am trying to be accommodating
  with you. I understand that you are very young, and that the young are often
  foolish. It is quite probable you have no idea what you need or want, or even
  `who you are,' as the idiot Muggle head doctors like to say." The sarcasm in his
  tone was brutal. "So I shall give you what I give only a very select few: a
  second chance."

  Severus opened his mouth -- it was just reflex, he had no idea what he was going
  to say -- but Voldemort held up his hand. Or, rather, he held up Lily's hand. In
  either case, it was terrifying. Severus couldn't even guess the depths of dark
  magic behind a spell like this, a spell that seemed to combineImperio and
  Obliviate and Mesmer and at least a dozen others either restricted or outright
  banned by the Ministry.

  "Don't talk. I know you're dying to, adolescents are always dying to show you
  how brilliant they've become in their piddling fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years,
  but don't. My time in this state is limited, and what I say to you now I shall
  never say again, so listen closely. I admire your intellect, Severus. I
  recognize your power. I desire your service, and I offer untold rewards. All
  that you have ever most desired. Power. Success. Acceptance. Revenge.

  "But the greatest reward is already yours. You have been chosen to serve a grand
  cause, Severus, and you have been chosen by the greatest sorcerer our world has
  ever seen. I would suggest you consider that honor most carefully before you
  refuse out-of-hand.

  "I would suggest you consider a great many things carefully before you refuse me
  again."

  The voice ceased. There were perhaps ten or fifteen seconds of silence before
  life and awareness flooded back into Lily's face, and then she began speaking
  again, this time in her own voice. With something like horror, Severus realized
  she was finishing the thought she had started when Voldemort's spell took her
  over.

  "--way he grades, but, even so, I can't imagine he could get away with giving us
  anything less than an `O,' can you?"

  Her brilliant eyes found his, hopeful and questioning, and Severus saw nothing
  in them to suggest she had a clue what had just happened. Another dizzy surge of
  nausea seized him, and he sat down, hard. It was only fortunate circumstance
  that a chair happened to be there to catch him.

  "Severus, are you all right?" She was at his side in an instant, and her face
  told Severus he must look very bad indeed. She put a hand to his forehead -- why
  did women always do that? it was as useless as tits on a billybull -- and
  frowned. "God, you look like death all of a sudden! You're clammy, and white as
  a ghost."

  For once, no slick and ready falsehood leaped into his mind. "Am I?" he said
  idiotically.

  "Don't play games, Severus. What's wrong? Do you feel ill? Do you want to see
  Madam Pomfrey?"

  "No. No, I'm...I just felt sick for a moment. It's going away now." And it was,
  though he was still very shaken. I would suggest you consider a great many
  things carefully before you refuse me. "I just needed to sit down."

  She didn't look at all convinced.

  "Stop acting like a bloody mother hen." He let just the right amount of
  irritation creep into his tone. "There's some kind of stomach...thing going
  around Slytherin house. I'm sure it's just a touch of that."

  "I've never heard of a stomach `thing' coming on that all of the sudden. And I
  still think you should see Pomfrey."

  "I can make a better remedy than anything she has," he said flatly, and Lily
  pursed her lips, but she didn't say anything. She couldn't; it was the truth.

  Instead, she conjured a glass of water and handed it to him. "Here. Drink this
  while I pack up your things. And don't argue with me, you know I'll be careful."


  He had no intention of arguing -- his hands were shaking so badly, he would have
  shattered every bottle and jar in his stores if he had tried to do it himself -
  - and he drank the water dutifully. He didn't bother to point out that he could
  have conjured it himself if he were truly thirsty; at least she wasn't nagging
  him now, or asking any more questions. Gods knew, he was asking himself enough
  for both of them.

  So much for a good night's sleep.

  It took her almost five minutes to cap and close all of his ingredients and put
  them back in his bag. Under normal circumstances, Severus felt, he could have
  done the job in half that time, but he knew he couldn't complain -- she was only
  being as good as her word, being careful as promised. And it gave him time to
  think. He needed time to think, time to parse and replay and analyze every word
  Voldemort had said to him, time to look at every angle and opening...Time to
  find some set of rationalizations that would allow him to pretend he hadn't just
  received a death threat from the Dark Lord himself.

  As a rule, Slytherins were very good at rationalization; they were hard-headed
  realists, true, but they were highly selective hard-headed realists.
  Unfortunately, Severus was the exception to the rule.

  Still, he tried. And by the time she'd put the last jar in his bag and buckled
  it tight, he'd managed to convince himself that he was overreacting. All right,
  so Voldemort really did want him, for whatever reason, and yes, he was obviously
  irritated, maybe even insulted, that Severus hadn't jumped at his initial offer.
  And certainly, he could make trouble for Severus, particularly once he got into
  power. He could play major havoc with Severus's plans, could blackball him from
  good positions, keep him out of the right places and away from the right people.
  But, surely, thoughts of death threats were taking things too far. Weren't they?
  The man was ruthless and he was amoral, but he wasn't crazy. Was he? Certainly,
  he wouldn't actually hurt Severus, or kill him, just because Severus didn't want
  to take some bloody job for him.

  Would he?

  "Feeling better?" Lily, startling him from his thoughts. "Ready to go, or do you
  need to sit a while longer?"

  He shook his head and stood slowly, testing his legs. They felt shaky, but they
  supported him just as they always had. He looked at his hands. Steady as ever.
  So far, so good. "No. No, I'm better now."

  "You do look a bit better." She sounded slightly relieved at this, so he
  supposed it must be true. "Perhaps all you need is sleep. You've dark circles
  under your eyes like a raccoon."

  Severus stiffened, waiting for the inevitable reference to his recent nights
  with Black, but none came. He took his bag from the table and murmured,
  "Wingardium Leviosa." The bag hovered obediently at his side. Magic was
  forbidden in the corridors at Hogwarts, and he'd likely get a detention if Filch
  or some brown-nosing Prefect saw him, but right now he didn't much care. The bag
  was heavy, and Lily was right -- suddenly, he was very tired.

  Lily raised her eyebrows at the floating bag, but she didn't say anything. She
  walked with him to the Slytherin Common Room entrance, Severus offering a
  requisite protest that she resolutely ignored. No portrait or statue marked this
  door, just a patch of stone barely discernible from the rest of the wall, but
  Lily, who had only been this close to Slytherin House three or four times
  before, stopped in front of it even before Severus did.

  Too bad you're not that sharp about people, Severus thought, a bit
  uncharitably.Maybe you wouldn't have been standing there telling me what a jolly
  good fellow Lord Voldemort is.

  "Good night, Severus. And thanks again for your help."

  He just shrugged, as uncomfortable with gratitude as he was with praise. "It was
  nothing. I'll see you tomorrow; we'll present the potion to Prozac before
  class."

  She nodded, but she didn't move. She seemed to be deliberately stalling,
  something further on her mind, but Severus was not in the mood for games.

  "Lily, you might want to leave before I give the password. I daresay you
  wouldn't appreciate it if you heard it."

  "Oh, what, is it `Mudblood' again?" She rolled her eyes. "My, that's original."

  Actually, it was Muggleborn scum, though Severus saw no reason to share that
  with her. "Let's just say it's rather unflattering, and I won't use it in front
  of you unless I have to. Now, please, Lily. I'm very tired, and I--"

  "Has he done something to you, Severus? Something...something he shouldn't?"

  "Who?"

  "That man. That Tom." He stiffened again; she saw it, and rushed on before he
  could interrupt. "It just seemed to me that you didn't like him. Maybe even that
  you were afraid of him. And there I was, making foolish jokes...you know, about
  him fancying you...but maybe...well, maybe I shouldn't have done."

  Her point was clear enough, and, were he not so worried and weary, Severus would
  have laughed out loud. A man who called himself the Dark Lord wanted to recruit
  him for "a grand cause," and she was afraid for his supposed virtue. What a
  silly little Mudblood she was sometimes. Sweet, in her own blunt-spoken way, but
  silly nonetheless.

  "He's never laid a hand on me," he told her. "Never even tried."

  She said nothing, just narrowed those brilliant emerald eyes, and Severus's dark
  humor faded. There was nothing silly about that look -- it was scared and
  puzzled and suspicious, all at once, and it nearly pinned him to the wall. She
  knows, he realized. On some level, she knows what he is, how dangerous he is,
  how dark, and never mind good "vibes" and all that rot. Part of her knows he's
  evil.

  Just as Severus knew it, deep down where no amount of rationalizing or analyzing
  or self-delusion could reach.

  It hit him then, all of it, and it hit him hard. The trap he had walked into,
  the dismal future he had created for himself -- a future of servitude and fear
  not very different from the past he was so desperate to escape. He knew himself
  well, and he knew that, by morning, this would seem a bad dream; all that was
  Slytherin in his nature would ride to the rescue, and he would be back to
  looking for angles and loopholes, for weak spots in the web that Malfoy and
  Voldemort and the rest of them had woven so adroitly about him. But for now,
  here in the dark chill of the dungeons at the end of a long day, his heart knew
  the truth. He was trapped. He was owned. His dreams of freedom were ashes.

  "Lily, you need to go now. Please." His voice was not quite steady; he felt a
  horrible certainty that very soon he might weep, and once he started, he might
  not be able to stop.

  "But--"

  He closed his eyes and said it again, as fervently as a prayer -- "Please, Lily,
  just go" -- and perhaps she was sharper about people than he'd thought: when he
  opened his eyes, she was gone.

  As soon as she was, he wanted her back.

  A trace of her sweet scent lingered in the air; wisps of her thoughts -- I'm
  your friend, I worry about you, I wish you'd talk to me -- hung in her wake. He
  closed his eyes again and took them in, small comforts against his despair,
  talismans to take with him into the dark.

  It was a very long while before he went to bed.
***** The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 5 *****
The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 5




  Chapter Five - Complications (Sirius)

  February - March 1977

  Sirius Black and Severus Snape were officially outed on February 11, 1977.

  In retrospect, Sirius was surprised it took even that long; he had been hearing the
  rumors for several weeks by then, and nothing was safe at Hogwarts, anyway -- the
  walls had ears, the ghosts had eyes, and the portraits had nothing better to do than
  gossip. The official school motto was "Never tickle a sleeping dragon," but it might
  just as well have been "Surrender all secrets, ye who enter here."

  The fact that it was his cousin Bellatrix who let the cat out of the bag was
  something less of a surprise. She had always been a nosy little bitch, she was the
  school's leading gossip, and she hated Sirius nearly as much as he hated her. Just
  lately, she also seemed to be keeping an unusually close eye on Snape, and that
  troubled Sirius a little. Just a little. He hadn't forgotten how Bellatrix had
  reacted to James's attack on Snape last summer, after O.W.L.S. It had been Bella who
  had prevented the other Slytherins from stepping in to help their beleaguered
  Housemate, Bella who had urged James most enthusiastically to relieve Snape of his
  underpants...and, as James dangled Snape starkers in the air like a sex-party piata,
  it had been Bella who had observed, with her trademark raunchy laugh, that all of
  Snape's best features were south of his navel -- and that they were astonishingly
  impressive features indeed.

  It had bothered Sirius then, and it bothered him now. He had no doubt that her
  appreciation, at least, had been unfeigned: Bella was a slut from way back, and the
  only thing she liked better than a bloke with a big cock was two or three or four of
  them.

  Of course, her newfound interest in Snape's comings and goings could have been
  entirely innocent. Could have been. She was a Slytherin prefect, after all (which
  was proof, as if Sirius needed any, that the teachers all got pissed off their asses
  in the staff room and threw darts at a board to make these sorts of critical school
  decisions), and Snape did have a very bad reputation -- all those issues, a target
  with a temper, trouble just waiting to happen. It was certainly possible that Bella
  was only watching Snape so closely because she didn't want him to get into some mess
  or other and disgrace the House of the Snake.

  It was absolutely possible. Probable, even. Even if Snape liked girls -- and Sirius
  didn't really know, or care, whether he did or not -- he simply wasn't Bella's type,
  big cock or no. In Bella's busy tapestry of rich boys and popular boys and charming
  boys and pretty boys, Severus Snape wasn't even a loose thread.

  Was he?

  It gnawed at him. It was a remote possibility, but it was also a disturbing remote
  possibility. And trust Bellatrix to be involved -- Bella, who lived to be the source
  of disturbing possibilities. How the hell did I get saddled with her for a partner,
  anyway? he groused to himself, but of course he already knew the answer to that.

  On Fridays, the last subject of the day for the sixth-year Gryffindors and
  Slytherins was Potions. Whose bright idea it was to mix the two houses that hated
  each other the most and put them within easy reach of knives, poisons, and flammable
  substances, Sirius had no clue (though that mental image of giggling, drunk-as-
  monkeys teachers came back to him rather often), but it had been that way ever since
  first year. And not just in Potions, either, but in almost all of their other
  classes as well. Flying. Herbology. Charms. Transfiguration. As far as Sirius could
  tell, it hadn't made a bloody bit of difference. The Houses of the Lion and the
  Snake had soared together, pruned together, made paperweights dance and turned furry
  hats into rabbits together...and come Quidditch Cup time, each House still wanted to
  thump the righteous crap out of the other.

  This was, in Sirius's opinion, just as it should be.

  Today the class was quiet, though not silent: the room hummed with whispered
  conversations, the soft, rapid thud of knives chopping up and down, the scritch-
  scratch of someone's quill as he or she made an occasional note. Professor Prozac,
  the Hogwarts Potions master, sat as his desk at the head of the room, reading a
  book. He was a tall, hunched, gaunt creature with a long shock of tangled white hair
  and pale blue eyes that never blinked. He reminded Sirius of a praying mantis that
  had steeped too long in formaldehyde.

  Sirius glanced across the room. Prozac, no exception to the blind idiocy that
  infected the rest of the faculty when it came to inter-House relations, always
  partnered a Gryffindor with a Slytherin for lab assignments, and Snape had been
  paired, as usual, with Lily Evans. Prozac claimed he liked the way they worked
  together, the way they proved that House rivalries could be set aside for the good
  of a common goal. Lofty words, but Sirius wasn't buying them. More likely, Prozac
  knew that no one else could work with Snape for more than five minutes without
  either (a) drowning him in his own cauldron or (b) being turned into a pile of teeth
  and smoldering ash.

  Gods, Prongs must be eating his heart out, Sirius thought, and one look at his
  friend, who had been paired off with that useless ape Gavin Goyle, confirmed the
  suspicion. Sirius chuckled. Poor James. But then, Snape and Lily had always been
  fairly chummy, and James certainly knew that. Knew it, in fact, better than anybody
  -- he was mad for Evans, absolutely gone for her, and her friendship with Snape
  stuck in his craw like one of Hagrid's homemade biscuits.

  Frankly, Sirius didn't get it. Evans was pretty, sure, but she was also a do-
  gooding, finger-wagging, speech-making little prig, and the only person at Hogwarts
  she seemed to dislike more than Sirius himself was James Potter. It just didn't make
  any sense. James wasn't as handsome as Sirius, but he was passably good-looking, he
  came from a rich and influential family, and he was a Quidditch star. He could have
  had any number of pretty girls, scores of them, just for the asking, yet he had
  spent six years knocking his brains out to win a bird who treated him like something
  nasty she couldn't quite scrape off her shoe.

  A sarcastic thought surfaced -- Oh, and Snape's just sending you candy and flowers
  every day, is he? -- and he smirked ruefully. The point was taken.

  Snape leaned over the cauldron he and Evans were sharing, bending slightly over the
  table, and Sirius narrowed his eyes, the smile melting into a lazy smirk. Snape's
  robes were too big to actually reveal anything, but Sirius knew the body beneath
  them well, and it was far too easy to recall Snape naked in similar positions -
  - legs spread, back arched, that tight white ass in the air begging to be fed. What
  would it be like, he wondered, to take Snape like that right here and now, to fuck
  him while their classmates watched? His groin tightened pleasurably as he imagined
  it. His hand on the back of Snape's neck, holding him down. His bigger, stronger
  body pinning the slender Slytherin to the table, his cock ruthlessly plundering that
  silky pink hole. He could see it, actually see it in his mind's eye; he could hear
  it. He could hear Snape begging not to be taken so publicly, Snape's gasp of pain as
  he was thrust into violently, with no preparation, Snape's groans and low cries
  turning lustful as he helplessly responded to Sirius's brutal touch. Just as he had
  on that first night, and on so many nights thereafter.

  "For goodness sake, Sirius, why don't you just bend him over the table and have done
  with it?" Bellatrix asked.

  Sirius turned hastily back to his own cauldron. He was still toying with the mental
  image of naked Snape writhing beneath him, sobbing and groaning and ready to come at
  a word, and her taunt, so close to what he'd been thinking, brought a flush to his
  cheeks. "Mind your own business, you cow."

  "Mind your half of our potion, and I will," she replied. Her voice was bland and
  cool, but her face, that delicate, creamy, cameo face, glowed with suppressed humor.
  There was a hard sparkle in her dark eyes. "I've no intention of flunking this class
  just because you can't stop ogling your bitch for more than five minutes at a time."

  "He's not my bitch, and I'm not ogling him. You're mental."

  "And you're obsessed. And delusional." She cocked her head at him. "Or do you
  imagine you're being subtle, Ri-Ri?"

  Ri-Ri. Sirius gritted his teeth. It was what she had always called him when they
  were little, back before she sprouted the tits and the bad attitude, and her use of
  it nowadays never failed to irritate him. Which was, of course, precisely why she
  did it.

  He decided the best defense was a good offense. "I'm obsessed? What about you?"

  "What about me?"

  "Ever since Christmas, you've been watching Snape like a hawk. Do you fancy him,
  Bella, or are you just mad that he has a bigger cock than you do?"

  Bella grinned at him. Uh oh, Sirius thought; that was never a good sign. Bella's
  smile could mean any number of things, but her grin always meant trouble. Her grin
  meant Bella was on the hunt, Bella smelled blood, and Bella was hungry.

  And, sure enough, there went her fucking hand in the air. Jesus Christ--

  "Professor?" she called, studiously ignoring Sirius's frantic shushing gestures.
  "Professor Prozac?"

  Prozac looked up from his book with a put-upon sigh. "Yes, Miss Black?"

  "Sir, would you please instruct my lab partner to keep his eyes on our cauldron and
  not on his boyfriend's arse? It's terribly distracting."

  The entire class gasped as one, and Sirius shot dirty looks all around. He didn't
  know what the hell they were so scandalized about: Bellatrix was always saying the
  most outrageous things -- shock and horror were her meat and drink -- and she loved
  to talk dirty, especially in inappropriate company. It gave her a cheap thrill, like
  slumming in a Muggle nightclub, or shagging someone whose father made less than a
  hundred thousand galleons a year.

  Across the room, Snape stood frozen, staring at her in disbelief. Sirius's fellow
  Marauders wore similar expressions.

  "Miss Black!" Prozac sputtered, when he could finally speak. "You will refrain from
  using such language in my classroom!"

  Bellatrix gave a delicate shrug. "I'm sorry, Professor. But it is the truth. Cousin
  Sirius just can't seem to focus today, and every time I look up, he's staring at
  Severus's bum. I'm amazed it hasn't gone up in flames by now."

  A burst of laughter erupted, appalled and titillated, and she beamed a serene smile
  around the room, like a queen greeting her subjects.

  "Silence!" roared Prozac. "That will do, Miss Black!"

  Bella nodded. "As you wish, sir."

  "Get back to your potions, all of you; you've only twenty minutes left, and at the
  rate most of you are going, you won't have it even half-done." Prozac tapped his
  fingers restlessly on his book, waiting for order to be restored. "As for you, Mr.
  Black, please keep your eyes on the job at hand and not...and nowhere else, is that
  clear?"

  Sirius flushed again as a few stray snickers greeted this directive. "Yes, sir."

  The soft, busy hush fell again. Prozac swept them all with his pale eyes and then,
  apparently satisfied that the crisis was over, went back to his book. Gods! If he
  wasn't the laziest, most useless teacher on staff, Sirius was the next Minister of
  Magic. And he was horribly biased as well: if anyone but a Slytherin had made the
  comments Bellatrix had, Prozac would have had them in detention for a week,
  scrubbing cauldrons until their fingers bled.

  At least you could have punished her for Snape's sake, you old git,Sirius thought.
  He's a Slytherin, too.

  He glanced at Snape again -- surreptitiously, lest his tits-for-brains cousin notice
  and rat him out again. Snape was huddled with Evans, who was talking to him in low
  tones and patting his arm in that irritating, patronizing way of hers. He looked
  wretchedly embarrassed -- if anything, he was even redder than Sirius -- but he also
  looked angry. Even as Sirius watched, Snape felt his gaze and met it, and the
  Slytherin's face twisted with hate.

  What the fuck? Sirius thought, dismayed. I got outed, too, you little poof. Why are
  you glaring at me?

  Furiously, he turned back to Bella, who was watching the exchange with a tiny Mona
  Lisa smile. "Why did you do that?" he demanded.

  She looked at him, all innocence. "Do what, dear?"

  "Open your big bloody pie-hole."

  "Hmm. Let's see. To piss you off. To embarrass you. To embarrass Severus. To gossip.
  To cause trouble." She offered her most brilliant smile. "Need I go on?"

  "You haven't embarrassed anyone but yourself," he spat. "You know me, Bella. I don't
  give a fuck what anybody thinks."

  "Perhaps not," she agreed. "But it would seem that Severus does. He doesn't look
  very pleased right now, does he?" She added a pinch of powdered dragon horn to the
  cauldron and stirred gently. "Of course, he does have his little Mudblood slag to
  comfort him, so that should ease your mind."

  "Stick your head in that cauldron and take a deep breath -- that would ease my
  mind."

  "Is he fucking her, do you suppose?" Bella went on, as if Sirius hadn't spoken at
  all.

  Sirius just stared at her.

  "Evans, I mean. Do you think Severus is shagging her? Do you think the little
  Mudblood cunt is riding that enormous cock of his every time your back is turned?"
  She studied his face carefully, searching for the reaction he refused to give. "No?
  Well, perhaps you're right, then. You know him better than I do. And I'm sure you
  keep him thoroughly satisfied. Sirius Black is such a stud, isn't he? Certainly,
  none of Sirius Black's lovers could have reason to stray."

  Sirius chopped a flobberworm, ignoring her. Not that that stopped her; it didn't
  even slow her down.

  "Of course, now that he's done with you -- well, that's quite a different story,
  isn't it? Now he's free to hump that little mongrel blue, if he wants to. Now that
  he's done with you, he--"

  "Who says he's done with me?" It came out sharper than he had intended, but he
  couldn't help it -- she had struck a nerve. What she was saying was too possibly
  true to dismiss; what she was saying put the same sinking dismay in the pit of his
  stomach that Snape's angry face had.

  "Oh, Ri-Ri," she clucked sadly -- but, oh, how her eyes sparkled! "You really are
  delusional, aren't you, dear? Did you see his face when I said you were staring at
  his arse, or when everyone was laughing at him? Did you see the look he gave you? It
  waspoisonous, Ri-Ri, absolutely poisonous! If looks could kill, cousin, you'd be
  halfway to Hades by now."

  Sirius glared at her. He pressed his lips together and clenched his knife so tightly
  his fingers went white. He didn't trust himself to say anything -- he'd already said
  too much, probably -- and the urge to pick up the cauldron and dump the contents
  over her head was nearly irresistible. The image of her hands clasped to her
  bubbling, blistering face as Flameless Fire Potion ran down her cheeks was brief,
  but it was vivid and satisfying.

  "I don't even know which is more preposterous," she continued, blissfully unaware of
  Sirius's inner struggles. "One of the so-called `beautiful people' shagging a hook-
  nosed little creep, or a pureblood Slytherin shagging a stupid, self-righteous,
  Muggle-loving Gryffindor. Either way, it's a bad match." Her eyes danced; there was
  a lovely, natural flush to her cheeks and lips, and Sirius thought, with a flash of
  dismal humor, that Bella never looked more beautiful than when she was fucking with
  somebody's life. "I probably did you both a favor, nipping your sorry little tryst
  in the bud. Perhaps you'll even thank me some day."

  "I'll thank you right now," Sirius offered. "How about a nice genital-herpes hex?"

  Bellatrix just winked. I'd love to see you try, that wink said, and Sirius gave up.
  Bella was crazy, really crazy, and you just couldn't threaten people who were that
  crazy. Hell, you couldn't even insult them.

  Besides, crazy or not, the bitch was right. If he wasn't careful -- if he didn't
  handle it just so -- Snape was going to dump him like a bad habit over this. That
  look on his face may not have dropped Sirius stone dead, but it had spoken volumes:
  Snape thought Sirius was in on Bella's little stunt, and Snape hated him for it.

  Hated him. All over again. Just as Sirius had been finally -- finally! -- making
  some progress with him.

  Sirius chopped his now-pulverized flobberworm with lethal strokes. Gods damn her to
  hell! If she had planned to pull the rug out from under them at the worst possible
  time, she couldn't have been more successful. When Sirius thought of all the
  cajoling and coaxing and seducing he'd done, all the stupid shitty little games he'd
  had to play to get Snape even this far -- and now, thanks to Bellatrix, he might
  have to start all over again -- he could have killed the crazy cunt with his bare
  hands.

  He was not, by nature, a brooding boy, but he lapsed into a morose silence for the
  rest of the period. Bella, always an expert reader and manipulator of people's
  moods, made no attempt to draw him out with any further taunts or insults; she
  seemed content to see him lost in the dark thoughts she had planted in his head.

  He was still brooding about it when the bell rang, still brooding about it when he,
  James, Peter, and Remus headed to Gryffindor Tower to change for supper, still
  brooding about it when they entered the Great Hall. Halfway through the meal, which
  consisted of pushing some kind of meat around on his plate and greeting his friends'
  conversational gambits with sullen grunts, he realized a startling truth: he was
  afraid. He was afraid of losing Snape.

  He hadn't been lying when he'd said it didn't matter to him what anyone thought.
  Despite his occasional jokes to James and Moony about his reputation, Sirius didn't
  really care who knew about him and Snape. He certainly didn't care if anyone knew he
  liked boys as well as girls; he had read extensively on the matter over the summer,
  and he had discovered that most young wizards and witches were actively bisexual,
  that it was part of their normal sexual development. Those who were totally
  straight, like James, or totally gay (as Sirius was beginning to suspect Peter was)
  were the exception. They were accepted readily enough, but they were far from the
  norm.

  Moreover, Sirius had enough faith in his own popularity to believe he could get away
  with almost anything. He was a leader, he was a rebel, he was a daring trend-setter,
  and had he stood up in this very hall at breakfast and announced that he was fucking
  Severus Snape, by luncheon half the school would be trying to get into the
  Slytherin's robes for themselves...and the other half would be claiming they already
  had.

  But Snape didn't have the buffer of popularity and idolatry to protect him. He would
  be humiliated and teased, more of a target for general abuse than ever -- at, least,
  when Sirius wasn't around -- and he would blame Sirius for it. Was already blaming
  Sirius, if that nasty look was any indicator.

  And Sirius would lose him.

  The thought made Sirius feel clammy and shaky and slightly sick to his stomach -
  - and that reaction, so anxious and unsure, so utterly un-Sirius Black-like, was as
  shocking as a shower of ice water.

  Sirius was not a stupid boy by any means; some tended to think him so because of his
  simple, pared-down view of the world, but he was much sharper than most people
  realized. He knew perfectly well that his feelings for Snape had changed, and he
  knew perfectly well how bizarre that was, but there it was: indisputable, real as
  raindrops. It had been there since that day in Hogsmeade, when he had watched Snape
  make love with Lucius Malfoy and the jealousy had burned in his belly like acid. At
  first, it had been the petty jealousy of a child forced to share his favorite toy,
  but it had evolved, over the course of that one hour, into something more. And the
  dream he had had that night, of holding Snape and kissing him and having him,
  havingall of him, just as Malfoy had done, had sealed the deal.

  Snape fascinated him -- that was the simple truth of it. He was a mass of
  contradictions that Sirius found endlessly intriguing: fear and aggression,
  aloofness and loneliness, cold disdain and raw, desperate desire. It had been these
  contradictions that had attracted Sirius from the beginning, and weeks of intimacy
  had not dulled their peculiar allure; if anything, their sex only heightened it. In
  their lovemaking, Sirius saw the two sides of Severus Snape clash most powerfully,
  and the battle never failed to enthrall him. And when the battle was over, when the
  metamorphosis was complete, when the eyes that could slit with cruelty and freeze a
  basilisk in its tracks went hot and soft and drowsy, when the body that was so
  graceless and stiff and self-conscious by day began to arch and fall in languid
  waves, flowing through his caressing hands like warm water, Sirius would think: I'm
  doing this. Me. Sirius Black. I change him. I complete him. I make him beautiful.

  But it had never occurred to him, until much too late, that Snape could change and
  complete him as well.

  For a short while -- a blessed few days, at most -- the novelty of discovery and the
  thrill of his own sexual power over Snape had been enough; after that day in
  Hogsmeade, however, Sirius had discovered that he wanted more. More precisely, he
  had discovered that there was more -- that there was a Snape who existed for Lucius
  Malfoy who did not exist for Sirius Black, a Snape who said and did all the things
  Sirius wanted him to say and do, without force or qualification. Sirius had been
  uneasy about Snape at that point, anyway, fretful and frustrated; the relative ease
  with which Snape had surrendered his body had not translated to the addictive
  worship that Sirius had expected and craved, and it had been eating at him. Seeing
  Snape direct that worship at someone else -- at Malfoy, no less, who was such a
  waste of magical space he should have been euthanized at birth -- had been salt in a
  festering wound.

  And so had begun what Sirius thought of as Phase II of their relationship. He had
  begun to soften his approach, taking the advice he had given himself that night,
  following Malfoy's unwitting example. Keep it rough, but not too rough. Temper the
  insults with humor, and with affection. Talk to Snape, listen to him -- or at least
  pretend to. It hadn't been easy, gods knew; Sirius had done his best, but being nice
  to Severus Snape was work for a saint, and Sirius recognized he fell somewhat short
  of that standard. Snape seemed to delight in provoking and insulting him, taunting
  and even physically attacking him, until Sirius exploded. Sometimes Sirius punished
  him, always, he fucked him; usually, he did both. And at these times -- and they
  were more frequent than not -- Sirius would think, with Snape's ass glowing red
  beneath his slapping hand or sucking greedily on his aching, thrusting prick, that
  Snape was not worth even faux kindness or attention, that this was all Snape was and
  all he was meant to be: a gorgeous, ripe, utterly perfect little bottom that was,
  unfortunately, attached to a bad-tempered, foul-mouthed, manic-depressive creep.

  But there were other times, too. Times when Snape didn't goad him to violence or
  drive him away to sulk in a cold bed, times when Snape let himself be almost
  human...and it was these times, even more than the fantastic sex, that kept Sirius
  coming back for more. On these occasions they would play games, games gentler and
  more erotic than their usual fare, and Sirius would be able to surprise the
  Slytherin into a word of grudging approval or a small hint of a smile. Or Snape
  would have one of his nightmares, and Sirius would hold him until it passed,
  murmuring and stroking his hair or his face, pretending he didn't know the precise
  moment when Snape slipped from the dark dream's grip and into wakeful awareness. And
  even that was all right, because Snape always pretended the same.

  And sometimes -- on one or two very special occasions -- they talked. Their
  conversations were stilted and wary and brief, but in them, Sirius got just enough
  glimpses of the real Snape to make him hungry for more. In those rare moments,
  Sirius saw a Snape he never would have credited, a Snape who showed flashes of dry
  wit, of insight and even humility, and a thin, hard core of stubborn self-discipline
  the Gryffindor rather admired. Sirius had not set out to see these things, but what
  had begun as a performance crafted to seduce the other boy had, somewhere along the
  line, become real; Snape had become real, and Sirius was shocked to discover that
  the real Snape was rather ordinary. Rather normal, actually. He was certainly
  neither of the two caricatures Sirius had created for him -- neither an ugly, curse-
  spewing monster nor a panting bitch in heat, but a kid, just another kid, brighter
  than most, sadder than some, and as clueless and vulnerable as the rest of them.

  That was the Snape Sirius wanted now.

  This would have been a disturbing realization for most people; a deeper, more
  complex individual -- a more complicated individual, one might say -- perhaps would
  have had trouble eating and sleeping, would have let his studies suffer, would have
  become moody and withdrawn from his other friends. Sirius did none of these things.
  What was the point? His feelings were what they were; nothing could or would change
  them, and he had to face facts. He was not in love with Snape (he told himself this
  quite firmly, and he believed it for as long as he possibly could), but he was
  hooked. Oh, yes. Right through the bag and back, as the Muggles liked to say.

  And now -- maybe -- it was all for naught.

  He looked across the room to the Slytherin table. He gave Bellatrix no more than a
  passing sneer; she was hardly worth the energy it took to hate her, and really, he
  would have expected no better of the heartless tart anyway. But Snape...He let his
  gaze drift along the row of bobbing, talking, eating heads until it landed on the
  black-haired boy. Snape was looking fixedly at his plate, fork in hand but not
  eating, his long hair hiding his face. He did not look up at Sirius, and suddenly
  Sirius was throbbing with dull fury.

  Because he had expected more of Snape, hadn't he? Bella was Bella, but Snape should
  have known better. Snape had to know how hard Sirius had worked -- was still working
  -- at their relationship, even if he would die before acknowledging it. He had to
  have noticed all the little changes in Sirius's approach, all the subtle concessions
  Sirius had made...hadn't he? Sirius hardly ever tied him down anymore, unless it was
  part and parcel of whatever game was on the evening's agenda. He still spanked him
  rather often, but only because Snape truly enjoyed it, and -- except for one
  explosive evening a month or so earlier -- never as hard as that first time. He
  rarely called him "Snivellus" anymore, nor "Snivvy," nor "Sniv" -- it was either
  "Snape" or (on extremely special occasions) "Severus." He even studied up on the
  latest in Potions and the Dark Arts, Snape's two favorite subjects, so that he could
  have something of interest to say in the rare event of conversation.

  And the shit Snape didn't know about could fill a bloody book! Did the little git
  even once stop to think that Sirius Black might be the reason he was no longer
  tripped or pushed or taunted in the halls? No longer the target of every passing
  thug's frustration, or every tired teacher's ire? No longer the last to be picked
  for anything that had to do with brooms or bludgers, poisons or hexes? Sirius had
  done all of that, quietly and unobtrusively, and he had asked for nothing in return
  other than the pleasure of watching as, little by little, that fascinatingly normal
  inner-Snape crept cautiously out of his shell.

  Truth be told, it all made Sirius feel rather noble...and Sirius had discovered he
  liked feeling that way. Was hooked on it, so to speak.

  Like that business with the cloak. It had been no big deal to Sirius, really -- he
  had bought the thing mostly to one-up Malfoy, and he had more money than he knew
  what to do with, anyway -- but Snape's reaction had caught him completely off-guard.
  Sirius had expected surprise and suspicion, perhaps even a defensive sort of anger:
  for a boy who had so little, Snape also had considerable pride, and Sirius could see
  him bristling at the suggestion, however true, that his old cloak was not getting
  the job done anymore. At best, Sirius had imagined he would get a tight-lipped nod,
  or -- if Snape was feeling particularly generous -- a terse "Ta" and one of the
  Slytherin's frighteningly skillful blowjobs.

  But Snape had seemed genuinely grateful. No, more than grateful, actually: he had
  seemed overwhelmed. Pleased and flattered, and too flustered to hide any of it. His
  obvious and unstudied shock at getting such a gift (perhaps at getting any gift,
  though it certainly appeared that Malfoy was rather generous with him) had startled
  Sirius, and embarrassed him a bit, but it had also made him feel ten feet tall.
  Conversely, it also made him feel slightly ashamed: until that evening, it had never
  occurred to him that even Snape might not be immune to a simple kindness.

  And it had made him want to do more.

  Not that he could now, of course. If he tried to give Snape anything now, the
  Slytherin would think it just a cheap trick, a tactic to soften him up for more
  humiliation. It was too bad, really -- Valentine's Day was just around the corner,
  Sirius had Snape's gift all picked out...and chocolate-covered Snape was a gift both
  of them could enjoy.

  He was still staring at Snape; Snape was still staring at his plate. He didn't seem
  to have any more appetite than Sirius did, and that gave Sirius pause. And hope. Was
  Snape upset as well? Did the prospect of breaking off their -- what was it Bella had
  called it? their "sorry little tryst"? -- trouble him as much as it did Sirius? And
  did he really think Sirius was such a miserable little craven that he would let the
  worthless opinions of others decide their fate?

  You don't know me very well if you believe that, kid,Sirius thought. You don't know
  me at all.

  Snape looked up then, directly into Sirius's eyes, and -- although he wouldn't
  realize it until much later -- it was at that precise moment that Sirius fell in
  love with him. The look on Snape's face was the same look that had tugged so
  unexpectedly at Sirius's heart on their second night together, the night Sirius had
  first held him through one of his bad dreams. It was helpless and wise and sad and
  uncertain, all at once. It was vulnerable, and it made every scrap of Gryffindor
  protectiveness in Sirius Black's body surge to the fore.

  It was clearly asking a question.

  With no other way to answer, Sirius shook his head the tiniest bit -- no, I didn't
  put her up to it; no, I didn't know she was going to do it; no, I don't care who
  knows or who doesn't-- and smiled. He was careful to keep it genuine, a kind, warm,
  let's-be-mates smile with no trace of mockery or lechery. Apparently, he was
  successful: Snape's uncertain face relaxed a bit, and after a moment, he nodded. He
  didn't smile back - in fact, he frowned, but Sirius read no anger or disdain in the
  gesture, just a thoughtful sort of resolution. Sirius saw the slim shoulders move up
  and down in a small sigh as Snape returned his gaze to his plate and, at last, began
  to eat.

  Relief and good humor flooded Sirius.Little git, he thought affectionately. Worrying
  yourself sick about nothing. He entertained these thoughts with no sense of irony
  whatsoever -- his own worries of the past hour were already gone, gone as if they'd
  never been, his heart wiped clean as a blackboard. He reflected again that it just
  wasn't in him to be miserable for long.

  His stomach growled suddenly, and he attacked his own food with newfound vigor. Mmm.
  Beef stew-- one of his favorites. He wolfed down a mouthful, then another, and
  another, plans for later that evening beginning to buzz happily through his head.

  He was going to be nice to Sniv -- to Severus tonight. Very nice. He wasn't even
  going to punish Snape for that nasty look he had gotten in Potions. Yes, it had been
  uncalled-for, and yes, Snape should have known better, but, still, old habits died
  hard. And everyone was entitled to a mistake now and then, weren't they? Of course
  they were. Anyway, what was more important was the fact that Snape had obviously
  gotten over his little snit. Getting past such things was not Snape's forte, Sirius
  knew, and he thought such an extraordinary effort should be rewarded.

  Rewarded handsomely. As often, as hard, and in as many different positions as Sirius
  could manage.

  "Welcome back to the living," James drawled in his ear. Sirius turned a foolish grin
  on him, cheeks stuffed with stew, and James snorted a laugh. "But what the hell's so
  funny?"

  ********************************************************************************

  Sirius was as good as his word. That night he was extraordinarily nice to Snape, so
  nice that they both ached in every limb and slept well past noon the next day.

  Neither of them mentioned Bellatrix Black.

  ********************************************************************************

  The rest of the month passed in a pleasant blur. Sirius was happy and busy. Classes
  and homework and Quidditch practice took up most of his days; his nights were spent
  either with his friends (good) or Snape (better). He found he was enjoying Snape
  more than ever. Perhaps it was only relief -- perhaps the brief scare Bella had put
  into him had given him a new appreciation for what he had in Snape, who was a
  partner and a plaything and a pet all rolled into one. Or perhaps it was the fact
  that he had someone to take care of, a purpose and a goal beyond his own fleeting
  pleasure, for the first time since Regulus had turned on him and become, in their
  parents' eyes at least, an only child. Sirius didn't know, and in truth, he didn't
  give it much thought; it wasn't in him to analyze anything too deeply, especially
  not anything that felt this good. Whatever it was, it was brilliant, and Sirius
  would later think -- when he could bear to think of it at all -- that those six
  weeks in the late winter and early spring of 1977 were the happiest of his life.

  There was just a single cloud. A small, annoying, too-blond-by-half cloud named
  Lucius Malfoy. Spring holiday was rapidly approaching, Snape had been invited to
  spend it with Malfoy -- and, over Sirius's most vehement objections, Snape was
  planning to go.

  It irked Sirius to no end. After an initial angry outburst, he had ignored it,
  assuming Snape was only trying to make him jealous, or get a rise out of him. Just
  lately -- and he supposed he should have caught on much sooner, but, well, he simply
  wasn't the suspicious type -- he had begun to realize that Snape often did such
  things deliberately, that he enjoyed irritating and needling Sirius into a temper.
  If he refused to take the bait, Sirius reasoned, perhaps Snape would eventually tire
  of the game and drop the matter altogether.

  But as the weeks went by and vacation loomed ever closer, Snape continued to insist
  that he was going. Oddly, there was none of his usual sneering defiance in this
  pronouncement, none of the bitchy, bratty challenge that always made Sirius want to
  flame his ass and then fuck him silly. In fact, the prospect of spending a fortnight
  at Malfoy Manor seemed to depress and upset him -- but going he was nonetheless.

  By then, it more than irked Sirius; by then, it bugged the living shit out of him.
  He found himself thinking about it more and more frequently: in class, during meals,
  even during kitchen raids and late-night Forest runs with his friends. One night,
  toward the end of March, he finally brought it up in bed.

  "I don't want you going off to Malfoy's."

  They were in a long-abandoned storeroom high in Gryffindor Tower, lying between silk
  sheets on a huge four-poster bed. Sirius had transfigured this regal confection from
  an ancient sagging sofa, and it looked as out-of-place amongst the rest of the
  rotting, dusty junk as a swan among vultures. Still, it was warm, and soft as a
  cloud, and they were quite comfortable. And quite safe: Snape had put a rather
  ingenious glamour on the door, and even though it was still a door from their point
  of view, anyone passing by in the corridor outside would see only a blank stone
  wall.

  Clever little sod, Sirius thought fondly. Even the simplest glamours were highly-
  sophisticated magic, well beyond most sixth-years, but Snape had managed this one
  with flash and ease. It was funny, really. He'd always known how smart Snape was,
  how brainy and clever and cunning, but it hadn't really occurred to him before now
  that Snape was also powerful. He was as powerful, certainly, as James, or Sirius
  himself. It puffed Sirius up a bit, like the old joke about the nerd who married the
  beauty queen, although he supposed it was foolish of him to actually be proud to
  have such a smart lover. The dumb ones were so much easier to control.

  Snape was dozing; Sirius was playing with Snape's ass. There was nothing
  particularly sexual about the playing: he simply liked the way it felt, cool and
  creamy, filling his palms with a pliant softness that warmed sweetly under his
  touch. And Snape liked it too; it never failed to put him in a drowsy stupor, his
  body draped boneless and warm over Sirius's, his hair a silky fan across Sirius's
  chest.

  At Sirius's words now, however, Snape lifted his head, going tense despite the
  caressing hands. "We've been over this, Black."

  "Not to my liking, we haven't. You know how I feel, but you still say you're going.
  Why is that?"

  "Because I hate you, and I enjoy making you miserable."

  Sirius ignored this completely, though that same comment would have thrown him into
  a rage even a month earlier. "Besides that, I mean." He tightened his hands briefly
  on the other boy's bottom, dragging a teasing finger along his cleft. "You do know
  you'd have more fun with me than with that little poof, don't you? Mr. Sixty-
  Seconds. And wait until you see some of the things I have planned for the holiday -
  - they'll make your nasty little head spin."

  They were pressed chest-to-chest; he felt Snape's heart speed up, and he hid a
  smile. Now he had Snape's attention. Well, why not? Especially given the last few
  weeks. Sirius had been a very busy boy of late, even when he wasn't getting busy
  with Snape. He had read everything he could about wizard sexuality, from the most
  clinical texts to the smut monthlies Peter got seemingly by the cartload; he had
  ordered erotic toys and studied spells designed to heighten and sustain and even
  conjure pleasure. It was intensive work, anathema to a boy who never cracked a book
  and still managed solid grades, but it had paid off handsomely on their nights
  together. He knew he was dazzling Snape with every new trick, breaking down the
  other boy's defenses with a sensual onslaught a professional whore could not have
  matched, and Snape had responded beautifully. Was responding: with every game, every
  sensation, every orgasm, he was giving in a little bit more.

  Surely, he would eventually give in on this.

  "It's only two weeks, Black. I daresay I can stand the suspense." His tone was dry,
  and light, but evasive. Sirius wasn't falling for it.

  "You don't evenwant to go," he accused, and Snape pulled back and looked at him, his
  expression startled. Sirius snorted. "Oh, what, you think I can't see that? Merlin's
  balls, Snape! You really do believe everyone else in the world is a complete idiot,
  don't you?"

  "No, not everyone. Just you."

  Sirius smacked his ass. "Don't change the subject. Is Malfoy forcingyou to go? Is
  that it? Because if he is, and if it's for the reason I think it is, we've got him,
  Snape. We can nail him. You're underage, and he--"

  "And he is Lucius Malfoy," Snape finished for him. "He's untouchable. I'm nobody. No
  one would take my word against his." He slid out of Sirius's arms and sat up, facing
  him. "Besides, he isn't forcing me. I made a promise to go, long before you -- we -
  - long before any of this." He waved a vague hand, encompassing the room, the bed,
  their bodies. "I promised."

  "Well, isn't that sweet," Sirius sneered. "Honor among Slytherins. What a concept."

  "Better than big-headed Gryffindor arrogance," Snape shot back. "Responsibility has
  no meaning to you at all, does it, Black? To any of you lot. All that matters to you
  Gryffindors is getting what you want, and getting it as quickly as possible, any way
  you can."

  Sirius snorted. Maybe he had missed something, but it seemed to him Snape had just
  given a pretty apt description of every Slytherin who had ever lived. "Talk about
  the cauldron calling the kettle black! `Any way you can' could be your bloody House
  motto...and if you and Malfoy aren't just using each other like a pair of knut-
  grubbing whores, I'll eat my pointy hat."

  Snape looked down at the bedspread, nervously plucking out little puffs of chenille.
  Sirius read uncertainty in the gesture and plowed ahead.

  "Anyway, what `responsibility' do you have to Malfoy? Seems to me heought to be
  doing things for you; you're the one who puts your arse in the air for him."

  Snape's eyes flashed. "Lucius does plenty for me."

  "Yeah, I'll bet." Sirius snorted again. "And to you, as well, I'd wager. Too bad he
  can't do it for more than a minute at a go."

  Snape looked him dead in the eye. "Lucius does things for me you couldn't even
  imagine," he said softly, and for some reason the look on his face -- hard and set
  and sad -- sent a shiver down Sirius's back. Because they weren't talking about sex
  anymore, were they? Oh, no. They were talking about power now. Not magical power,
  but political and social and financial power. Most Slytherins craved it like air or
  water, and Snape was no exception. Sirius imagined Snape wanted it even more than
  most; after all, it was Sirius who held him during his nightmares, and those
  nightmares were frequent enough to give Sirius a pretty bleak picture of the rest of
  Severus Snape's life.

  If you need someone to protect you from your old man, there's me,you stupid little
  toad, he thought, and only when he saw Snape's face tighten did he realize he must
  have spoken it out loud.

  (But Ididn't, I didn't speak at all, I didn't even open my mouth, and sometimes I
  think Christ! it's like the little sod's reading my mind or something)

  Without a word, Snape started to slide off the bed, already reaching for his
  clothes. Sirius moved to stop him, laying a hand on his wrist and tugging him gently
  forward, but Snape wrenched free.

  "Let me go!" he hissed. He scrambled off the bed, his robes and shorts fisted in one
  hand, his face miserable with shame.

  Sirius sighed. Time for the trump card, he reckoned.

  "I think you're forgetting something, Severus." He sat up as well, leaning back
  against the headboard. "There's a reason I don't have to tie you down any longer
  when we screw. The same reason you come to me no matter what, the same reason you
  jump every time I say `frog.' I saw you in Hogsmeade."

  Snape laughed. "Is thatwhat you think, then? Gods! You really are almost too stupid
  to live. If you think I have no choice in any of this, Black, you're dead wrong. If
  you think I give a shit about you and your ridiculous threats, you--"

  "Oh, I think you do," Sirius interrupted. "I think you're hell-bent on protecting
  your secret."

  Snape's lip curled. "Lucius doesn't need my protection. I told you before, Black -
  - you can tell your tales until you're blue in the arse, and it won't matter.
  Nobody's going to bring down Lucius Malfoy."

  "I wasn't talking about Malfoy." Snape gave him a puzzled frown. "I was talking
  about the other bloke, Severus. The hard case with the dodgy red eyes. The one who
  pimped you to Malfoy." Snape's face was frozen, his eyes getting bigger with each
  word, and Sirius felt a flash of the old, mean glee. "Yeah, I know. You didn't know
  I saw him,did you? Icouldn't have kept quiet about that all this time, could I? Not
  big dumb Sirius Black. Big dumb Sirius Black isn't smart enough to sit on a card
  like that, is he?" He leaned forward and grasped Snape at the waist, drawing him
  back down to the bed; Snape allowed himself to be drawn, too stunned by Sirius's
  revelation to resist. "But I did. I saw, and I sat on it. I thought it might come in
  handy one day. Rather Slytherin of me, don't you think?"

  Snape was shaking his head. "You can't -- you don't know--"

  "I know what I saw, and I know you and Malfoy didn't want anyone to see. I reckon
  old Red Eyes wanted to keep it quiet as well. For obvious reasons."

  "You didn't see anything!" Snape nearly shouted. He glanced around quickly and
  lowered his voice. "You didn't see anything, because we didn't doanything."
                                                                                       
  "Oh, I saw enough," Sirius countered. He chose his words carefully, keeping his tone
  calm and thoughtful. "It's true I don't know who the man is, or even what he was
  doing there -- besides tossing you to Malfoy like a table scrap, I mean -- and he
  didn't actually fuck you himself. But I know you talked, and it didn't look like
  good talk. I know he bought you a drink you're too young to drink and told you to
  fuck a bloke you're too young to fuck. And I know you're scared of him."

  And this he did know. He felt the slender body trembling in his grip, felt the
  sudden fear rolling off Snape in cold waves; being naked with him was like standing
  in a soft but icy breeze, and Sirius knew it was not just fear of Sirius Black or
  his big talking gob that was doing that.

  A hard shiver coursed through Snape even as Sirius completed the thought, and he
  wrapped his arms around the Slytherin, pulling him close.

  "So what I think you should do is just tell Blondie you'll be spending the spring
  holiday here at Hogwarts, ta very much...or else I may have to go to the
  Headmaster."

  "Black, you just don't know--" Snape began again, but Sirius shushed him with a
  quick, hot kiss, stroking his back, carding a hand through his hair. He was waiting
  for the trembling to stop, for Snape to sigh a bit and relax against him in his
  usual silent surrender; this technique, this odd juxtaposition of gentle touches and
  harsh, stern, even threatening words, always worked on Snape like a charm.

  But not this time. This time, the body in his arms remained tense and cold, the
  trembling grew even fiercer, and Sirius felt a touch of unease. Was he making a
  mistake, pursuing this with Snape? Pursuing this at all? He still recalled, all too
  vividly, the jolt he'd felt when he had first looked at the stranger holding forth
  in the Hog's Head, the sense of power and charisma that had just poured from the man
  and hit Sirius like a roundhouse slap. And those eyes of his...jokes aside, those
  eyes were creepy. For a moment, some of Snape's fear communicated itself to Sirius,
  and the question he had asked himself that day came back to him again: What kind of
  human being has red eyes?

  Then all that was Gryffindor in him, the good and the bad, rose up and righteously
  crushed these doubts. Powerful or not, Snape's mysterious benefactor had a secret, a
  secret Sirius Black knew...and people with secrets could be controlled. If the
  Machiavellian scum he called a family had taught Sirius nothing else, they had
  taught him that.

  "I know you're afraid of him," he reiterated. He spoke quietly, hands still stroking
  and soothing and reassuring. He wanted to add, Don't blame you one bloody bit, but
  he didn't. There was a lot he wanted to add -- he was bursting with curiosity about
  the red-eyed man, especially now, in light of Snape's violent reaction to the mere
  mention of him -- but this was not the time. "And it wouldn't do to cross him, now,
  would it? To make trouble for him, or drag his name through some scandal involving
  booze and sleazy pubs and teenage boys?"

  Snape was silent.

  "Would it?"

  Nothing.

  "I said, would--?"

  "You fuckingbastard," Snape said. He sounded furious, sullen, trapped...and, if
  Sirius was not mistaken, just the slightest bit impressed.

  "I'll take that as a yes," Sirius chuckled. He bit gently at the pouting bottom lip.
  "So you see, then, how it would be best for everyone if you just told that albino
  faggot to go hang and stayed with me instead." His hand was straying, sliding down
  the flat belly until it just brushed over Snape's cock. Snape pushed ever-so-
  slightly into the touch; Sirius doubted he was even aware he was doing it.

  "I haveto go," Snape whispered, and Sirius grinned. He smelled the concession in
  those words the way a shark will smell the first threads of blood in the water, and,
  happily, he moved in for the kill.

  "Bollocks. Malfoy has no power over you. Perhaps the old bloke has power, but he
  can't reach you here at Hogwarts." He stroked and petted and kissed as he argued,
  hitting all of the lovely little sensitive spots he'd mapped out over the last few
  months: he nuzzled the patch of smooth skin just under Snape's ear, bit lightly at
  his jugular, rolled a nipple as soft as whipped cream between his fingers until
  Snape was breathing hard and fast. He was trembling still, but it was not the
  fearful trembling Sirius had felt in him earlier. His eyes were closed, and he had
  that furrow between his brows that meant he was thinking hard. Clearly, his resolve
  was weakening, and even Sirius wasn't big-headed enough to think it was entirely due
  to his attentions. Snape really didn't want to spend the holiday with Malfoy.
  Something -- or, more likely, someone -- was making him go.

  Someone or something with red eyes? he wondered, and that flicker of fear came and
  went again, quicker even than the thought.

  "Perhaps...perhaps I wouldn't have to stay the entire time," Snape whispered. It was
  an unsteady whisper; Sirius had him on his back by now, and was tonguing his belly-
  button in lazy little swirls. "Perhaps I could just--mm--go for a few days, and--oh-
  -then I...I could...l-leave..."

  "No." Sirius pulled back and shook his head. "That wouldn't work, and you know it.
  Once he had you there, Malfoy would find a way to keep you there."

  "But I have to go. I--it's important. I can't not go. There's no way out of it."

  "What kind of a Slytherin are you?" Sirius teased. He nosed through the dense black
  curls at Snape's groin, breathing the musk of growing arousal. Snape squirmed.
  "There's always a way out, Severus."

  "No. Not this time."

  "Leave it to me."

  "I don't trust you."

  Sirius smiled. Snape was more or less panting now, his hips jerking in tiny thrusts;
  his cock was fully erect and rubbing at Sirius's cheek impatiently, demanding
  attention. "You trust me at least as much as you trust Malfoy, or we wouldn't be
  here. If you didn't trust me, you wouldn't let me do the things I do to you." He
  turned his head and took the head of Snape's prick into his mouth. He gave it a good
  hard suck, tongue swirling, head bobbing, until Snape was groaning and bucking and
  clawing the blankets into shaking fists. Then he let it pop free and licked his
  lips. "Besides -- I have an idea."

  "Gods...help us," Snape managed to sneer.

  "No, I actually do." Another quick, hard suck; another abrupt release. Snape made a
  frustrated sound and glared shakily at him. "But I need to think on it a bit more."

  "Don't hurt yourself."

  Sirius scowled. "I'll hurt you, you shirty little brat," he said, and flipped Snape
  over on his belly. Inside, he was laughing. He couldn't help it; now that he knew
  Snape a bit better, Sirius rather got a kick out of his mouth. In his own mean,
  sarcastic way, Snape was very funny sometimes -- and who else but Snape could manage
  to be horny and snarky at the same time?

  The first smack was hard enough to make his hand sting. It left a clear red imprint
  on one pale cheek, and Sirius traced it with a gentle fingertip before smacking him
  again. And again. Once, twice, three times, a dozen times, two dozen...he didn't
  count. He just spanked until the pretty bottom was pleasantly pink and pleasantly
  warm and Snape was squirming, rubbing himself shamelessly against the bed. It was,
  as always, a mouthwatering picture.

  Then Sirius parted the glowing buttocks and pushed himself in, all the way in with
  one smooth thrust, so deep they both shuddered. Snape lifted his head with a short,
  sharp cry -- it was not a pain cry; they had already made love once, and Snape was
  relaxed and ready for him -- and pushed back as hard as he could.

  "Mine," Sirius whispered fiercely in his ear, and when Snape did not challenge him,
  he said it again -- "You're mine, you're all mine" -- and began to move, in and out
  of a silken warmth that felt like home.

  ************************************************************************************

  Snape could snicker all he pleased, Sirius thought, but he did have an idea. It
  wasn't precisely a new idea. It had been lurking in the back of his head for a few
  weeks now, ever since he'd first learned of Snape's plans to go off with Malfoy. It
  wasn't precisely a good idea, either. Hell, in many ways, it was utterly insane -
  - but the more Sirius thought about it, the more he liked it.

  And to think that it had been Wormtail -- Wormy, who half the time couldn't wipe his
  own ass without first looking up the instructions -- who had given it to him.

  All of the other Marauders were leaving Hogwarts for the holiday. James was going to
  tour Egypt with his folks, and Moony and his parents were going to see relatives in
  Ireland. Peter wasn't going anywhere, but his mum's three sisters were coming for an
  extended visit, and Mrs. Pettigrew wanted him home. Peter was beside himself. All
  three of his aunts were violently healthy and painfully thin, and two weeks with
  those carrot-eating bitches was going to be a nightmare, he said. No junk food. No
  second helpings. No desserts. "Nothing but veggies and water and raw fish," he had
  told Sirius glumly the night after he got his mum's owl. "I expect I'll be half-
  starved by the time I get back."

  "I expect you could live off what you've got on your arse alone for twice that
  long," Sirius had retorted, then immediately felt guilty. He supposed it wasn't a
  particularly kind thing to say. But he couldn't help it: this was also the night
  after Snape had announced he was going off with Malfoy, and Sirius was feeling
  rather tetchy himself. "Anyway, what are you moaning about? At least you have
  somewhere to go. I'm stuck here alone for the fortnight."

  Peter's grin was sudden and sly. "Not allalone, though, eh, Sirius?"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  The grin faltered. "Well...Snape. You've got Snape, right? You spend most of your
  time with him anyway lately, so I just thought...I just thought you'd have plans
  with him." He glanced at Sirius, pretending a casual indifference Sirius saw right
  through. "You do, don't you? Have...plans...with Snape?"

  Plans. Sirius snorted. Well, that was an interesting word for it, anyway. "You mean
  for him, don't you, Wormy?"

  Peter shrugged.

  "You know, for someone who's so repulsed by homosexuals, you get an awfully rancid
  gleam in your eye whenever you ask about me and Snape."

  Wormy blushed and shrugged again, but he did not look away. "I'm curious."

  "You're nosy," Sirius corrected, though there was no bite in his voice now. For once
  in his life, Wormy was being honest, and Sirius supposed the least he could do was
  respond in kind. "Oh, what the hell? Snape's going to Lucius Malfoy's for the
  holiday. He told me so last night."

  Peter's eyes popped. "Snivvy's fucking Malfoy too?"

  "Don't call him `Snivvy' -- and no, he's not fucking Malfoy. Not anymore."

  "Then why's he going to--"

  "I don't know! Because -- because he has to, I guess. That's how it sounded, anyway.
  Like he doesn't want to go, but he has to."

  Peter pursed his lips. "And you don't want him to."

  "Oh, no, I'm chuffed to bits about it. I offered to help him pack. Bought him some
  sexy new underthings. I'm hoping they'll take pictures of themselves fucking and
  sucking and owl them to me every day." He glared at Peter. "How bloody stupid are
  you? Of course I don't want him to go!"

  "Then don't let him."

  Sirius blinked. "Huh?"

  Peter gave him a look of exaggerated patience.Oh, and I'mthe stupid one?that look
  said. "Don'tlet him. Forbid him to go, and if he tries to go anyway, stop him."

  "And how do you propose I do that?" Sirius asked. At this point, he had only been
  toying with the idea of playing the red-eyed-man card -- he really didn't want to
  blackmail Snape unless it was absolutely necessary. And perhaps Peter's idea would
  prove better. Even a blind niffler found a coin once in awhile, as the saying went.

  "Any way you can." Peter frowned. It was a rather reproachful frown, as if Sirius
  had disappointed him in some way. "He's yours, Sirius. He belongs to you now. You
  can't ever let someone else take what's yours."

  Sirius nodded impatiently. Well, sure, of course, he knew that, but--

  Then Peter said, "Maybe you could take him home with you," and Sirius sat up
  straighter, eyes wide and startled. Peter continued speaking -- his lips were still
  moving, anyway -- but Sirius heard nothing after those first eight words.

  Take him home with you. Shit! Why hadn'the thought of that? It was so simple, and so
  perfect -- and what an opportunity it could be! Two weeks of perfect privacy, with
  no more locks or wards or cloaks or doors, no more sneaking and skulking
  about...sweet Merlin, it would be heaven. And not just for the sex, either, but
  for...well, for everything.

  He thought suddenly of all the things he and Snape had never done. They had never
  had a meal together, just the two of them. They had never taken a shower or bath
  together. They had never gone for a walk together, or argued about Quidditch, or
  listened to music on the wireless. They had never even spent an entire night in each
  other's arms. Things other couples took for granted had been denied them within the
  confines of Hogwarts, and the prospect of two whole weeks, of having Snape not in
  stolen snatches of time but in great, endless spans of it, made Sirius feel like a
  little kid on Christmas Eve.

  And perhaps removing Snape from Hogwarts for a time would be fun for him as well.
  Perhaps it would relax him. Loosen him up a bit. Coax him a little farther out of
  his shell. And with Sirius right there, to continue molding him and shaping him
  every step of the way...

  It was a brilliant idea. Well -- he reconsidered -- it was half a brilliant idea.
  There was no way in hell he was bringing Snape home, of course, but he could
  certainly bring him somewhere. Money was no obstacle; Sirius had his own vault at
  Gringotts, a trust fund set up at his birth by the only other human being in his
  family, his mother's brother Frank, and he could easily afford a flat of his own.
  And not some dump, either, but a nice place, posh and up-to-date. A place that would
  make Malfoy Manor look like the dusty, dead-century relic it was.

  Peter Pettigrew was a gods damned genius.

  "Peter Pettigrew, you're a gods damned genius," he declared. "Before you leave, I'm
  going to stuff so many Chocolate Frogs and butter biscuits in your bag that they'll
  have to roll you down the halls."

  He bounded out of bed and dropped a loud, smacking kiss on the top of Peter's
  startled head before heading for the door.

  "Where are you going?" Peter asked.

  "Quidditch pitch," he called back. "Need to fly. Need to think. Don't wait up."

  ************************************************************************************

  Now, nearly a month later, he was still thinking.

  As far as he could see, there was only one real problem with Peter's idea, but it
  was a big one: how to get out of Hogwarts without parental consent. He was underage,
  as was Snape, and neither of them would be allowed to leave Hogwarts without a
  signed permission slip from a parent or guardian. Forging the proper documents would
  not be difficult -- James, for one, could conjure a first-rate forgery in his sleep
  -- but if the school ever followed up on their whereabouts or contacted their
  families, they'd both be in trouble. And not the detention-for-a-week, fifty-points-
  from-Gryffindor sort of trouble that Sirius was used to being in, but real trouble.
  Even, perhaps, the leave-and-please-never-come-back sort of trouble.

  Or -- in Snape's case, at least -- the beat-you-til-you're-black-and-blue sort of
  trouble.

  Sirius wasn't much concerned about his own parents; he doubted they would raise a
  hair if he was supposed to show up at their doorstep and did not. They had stopped
  caring what he did at least ten years ago, and they had stopped seeing him
  altogether around the time he turned fourteen or so. The way Sirius had it figured,
  he could actually drop dead at the dinner table some evening and his folks wouldn't
  notice until he failed to pass the salt.

  But what about Snape's father? How would he react if they were caught? What he would
  say to Snape -- or, worse, what he woulddo? Sirius didn't know, but he had his
  theories, and none of them were particularly pleasant.

  On the surface, of course, it didn't appear that Snape's old man cared any more
  about Snape than the Blacks did for Sirius. He certainly didn't seem to care how
  thin and pale Snape was, or whether or not he ever washed his hair, or if he had a
  proper, warm winter cloak or even a decent pair of underpants. He never visited
  Snape on Family Day at the end of term, never had him home on holidays, never sent
  him so much as a single gift or package or letter. The Howlers Snape occasionally
  got -- and they were the work of a certified lunatic -- were the only owls he ever
  got.

  But Snape's father did pay him some attention. Sirius knew that much. If Snape's
  nightmares were any indication, it was extremely abusive attention, and it both
  angered and saddened Sirius to think the only time Snape's father acknowledged his
  existence was when he was beating the shit out of him.

  We're alike, he thought suddenly, shocked and a bit horrified at the realization.
  Sirius's mother had never hit him -- Rhiannon Black would never resort to anything
  so common, so Muggle-like, as corporal punishment -- and his dad had never
  administered anything more than an occasional hard spanking, but Sirius had been
  abused by them nonetheless. Their weapons of choice were not belts or fists or
  slapping hands, but an icy, acid coldness they masked as disappointment. He was
  lazy. He was careless. He was spoiled. On occasion, if they were feeling
  particularly vicious, he was stupid. He was a waste of their money, their time, and
  the energy they had used to create him, and if his birth wasn't the single biggest
  regret of their lives, it was topped only by his lack of development ever since.

  They were words, just words, and Sirius had learned to ignore them long ago, but,
  still -- words could hurt, too. Words could hurt plenty.

  Words, cutting words. Sirius supposed Snape got his share of that sort of abuse as
  well. Sirius still remembered the Howler Snape had received on their very first day
  at Hogwarts -- at breakfast, it had been, on the morning after the Sorting. Snape's
  father had not been pleased with the Hat's decision to put his son in Slytherin, and
  he had wasted no time letting Snape (and, by default, the entire school) hear about
  it. That tirade, nearly two minutes long and laced with obscenities and vicious
  threats, had been the talk of the school for weeks; it was that Howler, Sirius
  recalled now, and the humiliated, horrified tears it had wrung from the eleven-year-
  old Snape, which had earned him the nickname "Snivellus" for once and ever more.

  Snivellus. More of Bella's handiwork, that.

  And what was it Malfoy had said? That Snape's dad was a drunk, and a thug, and that
  he abused Snape for his love of the Dark Arts. Something else, too...something about
  seeing "evil wizards behind every bush." Sirius knew Augustus Snape had been an
  Auror, so none of those facts came as any great surprise -- a lot of Aurors were
  hard drinkers (and hard men), and seeing dark wizards everywhere was their bread and
  butter. But Sirius was willing to bet most of them didn't go punching their kids
  around to keep them on the path to magical righteousness.

  Sirius sighed. Anyone that paranoid probably watched his son like a hawk, and would
  likely not be overjoyed that he was going off on holiday with a boy from a family as
  dark as the Blacks. If they were found out...well, Sirius didn't really want to
  contemplate that. He didn't mind taking risks for himself -- he actively enjoyed
  taking them, as a matter of fact -- but he knew he had no right to make that choice
  for Snape. His father didn't beat him; Snape's did.

  Shit, shit and double-shit! It was enough to piss off a priest, really, and Sirius
  cursed his luck. Why couldn't Snape's father be like all the other Slytherin
  parents, and actually want his son to be evil?

  With another sigh, Sirius picked up his Daily Prophet and turned to the classifieds
  again. As he perused the flats-for-rent listings, he thought, for the hundredth
  time, how much easier everything would be if he could just do as Peter had suggested
  and bring Snape home with him. True, they wouldn't be totally alone as he wished,
  but it was a big house and, like Hogwarts, it had its secret places. And they could
  probably manage a few nights' stay in London without too much trouble. Ha! Given how
  invisible Sirius was in his parents' house, most likely with no trouble at all.

  But he just couldn't. He couldn't bring Snape home. Even if he believed he could
  stand two weeks at Grimmauld Place without going completely bonkers (or slaying his
  entire family in their sleep), he didn't think chez Black was any kind of proper
  environment for Snape. He was not worried that Snape would be unwelcome in his
  ancestral home; indeed, he feared just the opposite. The Black family was dark,
  almost as dark as the Malfoys, with a long and proud history of darkness behind it
  and, no doubt, an ambitiously dark future stretching before it. His parents would
  take one look at Snape -- Severus Snape, the pureblood Slytherin, the Dark Arts
  wunderkind -- and they'd not only welcome him, they'd fucking adopt him.

  And they'd go to work on him. Shaping him. Twisting him. Turning him darker, turning
  him like them. Turning him against Sirius, just as they had turned Regulus.

  Sirius jotted down a few likely-looking addresses. That one with the balcony
  overlooking the Thames sounded particularly nice. Very continental, that. It would
  certainly give Snape a taste of how the other half lived, and they could make some
  actual use of it as well. They could shag all night if they wanted, sleep sinfully
  late, and have enormous, leisurely brunches on the terrace. Perhaps, if they were
  feeling very daring, they could even have a little romp out there, right out in the
  spring-sweet sunshine or under the stars. Sure. And when Snape's crazy father
  finally hunted them down and killed them, he could just dump their bloody, broken
  bodies over the side.

  Sirius Black, you are one morbid fucking bastard.

  Sirius threw down his quill and rubbed his eyes. He had to resolve this thing soon,
  had to -- all this thinking was making him a drag. No wonder Snape was such a dour
  little prick most of the time.

  Even the other Marauders had been no help. Wormy had nothing more to offer, idea-
  wise; apparently, he'd exhausted his supply of inspired thoughts for the year.
  Moony, after voicing approval that Sirius was actually considering the consequences
  for Snape as well as for himself (the approval tinged with a disbelief that Sirius
  found rather insulting), said that Sirius should err on the side of caution and
  remain at Hogwarts. James just thought Sirius was being a twit.

  "Even if his father is as wonky as everyone says he is, Snape's survived sixteen
  years with him," James had pointed out. "He'll live."

  Sirius frowned doubtfully.

  James threw up his hands. "For Christ's sake, Paddy, why don't you just ask him,
  then?"

  "Him? Him who? You mean Snape?"

  "No. I mean Dumbledore. Of course I mean Snape, you prat. It's his father, isn't it?
  If anyone should know how to get 'round the old nutter, Snape should."

  "I don't know, Prongs. This is a lot to get around. More than cutting classes or
  throwing a hex at someone. This is -- this is big."

  "So is sneaking off to Malfoy's," James reminded him. "That lot are up to their
  necks in the Dark Arts, and if Snape's old man is really so set against dark magic,
  he couldn't know about that."

  It was a fair argument. It was also embarrassingly obvious, now that Prongs had
  pointed it out for him.

  "I wonder what Snape told him," Sirius mused. "If he told him anything. For all I
  know, he's just planning to take off for the fortnight, and counting on Malfoy to
  cover his arse. Maybe he plans to have Malfoy's old man bribe his old man--"

  "There's only one way to find out," James cut in. There was more than a little
  irritation in his tone. "Stop bloody guessing and justask him. And give the rest of
  us a break." He shook his head. "I love you, Paddy, but I have better things to
  think about day and night then how to set you and that walking corpse up in some
  love nest."

  Sirius had given him a very dirty look, but he'd said nothing more. He didn't want
  to push his luck with James. James had accepted Sirius's growing infatuation with
  Snape, but that didn't mean he liked or understood it. Sirius suspected the only
  reason James had been tolerant for this long was Lily Evans, and the fact that James
  knew better than anyone the strange ways of foolhardy obsession.

  Now, as he gathered up his parchments -- three inquiries for more detailed
  information on three very expensive flats -- Sirius thought, only half-joking:
  Probably end up just bloody kidnapping him. Probably just stuff the little git in a
  sack and carry him out the door. And then, if the worse came to the worst and
  Snape's father did find out, well...? Well, maybe Sirius would just have to get
  involved. Sirius thought he might even enjoy getting involved -- it might be fun to
  give that abusive old boozer a taste of his own medicine.

  As he walked up to the Owlery, a new thought occurred to him. Maybe Snape would not
  have to deal with his father at all. Maybe neither of them would. Sirius was going
  to turn seventeen on June 24, and he already planned to get his own place for the
  summer. If the spring holiday experiment worked and he and Snape proved they could
  actually live together without killing each other, well...who knew? Maybe--

  (oh, don't be so stupid, he's not going to live with you, next thing you know you'll
  be picking out rings)

  --maybe Snape could move in with him.

  He wondered when Snape's birthday was. When would Snape be seventeen? Funny, how he
  knew so little about Snape, even after three months of intimate relations. He
  supposed he could find out easily enough. He needed to know for sure, if he was
  going to make any long-term plans. Madam Pomfrey probably had records of all the
  students' birthdays somewhere in her office, or perhaps Dumbledore did. Sirius
  supposed he could even ask Snape outright, if it came to--

  He cut the train of thought off abruptly. He was a bit alarmed at how exciting he
  found the idea, how immediately his mind seized on it and ran with it and began
  racing with extravagant plans.Slow down, you berk,he chided himself sternly. First
  things first. Worry about now, now. Worry about the rest later.

  Still, his heart was lighter than it had been in days as he entered the Owlery and
  sent his eagle owl, Lucifer, off with his mail, and he was whistling as he headed
  back out the door.

  "Oof!"

  And ran straight into Bellatrix Black.

  Literally ran into her, just outside of the Owlery. He was coming out, she was
  coming in, and they collided full force, their bags and books spilling between them.
  Sirius was knocked flat on his ass; Bella managed to grab the door frame and keep
  her balance, though just barely.

  "Why don't you watch where you're going, you stupid quiff?" Pain, more than anger,
  made him snarl the words. He had allowed Snape to top him for the first time just
  the night before last, and while Snape had been very, very good -- that prostate
  thing was even better than all of Snape's moans and yelps and sighs had led him to
  expect -- Snape was also very, very large, and Sirius still couldn't sit down
  without his ass wanting to floo the Fire Department.

  Bella looked down at him coldly. "I believe you ran into me, Sirius. Now get up. You
  look remarkably stupid, and you're blocking my way."

  Sirius ignored her. He rather gingerly got up on his knees and began stuffing
  scattered school supplies back into his bag. If she wanted to mail something, she'd
  bloody well have to wait.

  "Get up, I said!" She kicked him, not gently, in the ribs. He scrambled to his feet.
  The movement made the ache in his ass flare sharp and hot again, and he drew his
  wand and pointed it in her face.

  "Kick me again, you fucking bitch, and I swear I'll--"

  "Oh, save your blustering," Bella said impatiently. "I've no time to play with you
  now." She drew her own wand from one green brocade pocket and gave it a wave; books
  and parchments and quills sailed neatly into her bag. She snapped her fingers -
  - Sirius rolled his eyes and thought,Oh, yes, gods forbid Bellatrix Black should
  have to stoop -- and the bag went to her hand like a faithful old dog. "There.
  That's got it, I think. Now, will youpleaseget out of my way? I have mail to send."

  Without waiting for an answer, she plowed past him and into the Owlery, knocking him
  on his ass yet again and slamming the door behind her.

  "Oh, no thanks, I can get my own," Sirius called after her. "Really. It's no trouble
  at all." He looked at his spilled supplies again. For a moment, he was tempted to
  follow her example and just reversal-spell the mess, but students weren't allowed to
  do magic in the hallways. Not that he hadn't broken that rule a time or two himself-
  -

  But no. No. Given how many rules he was likely going to be breaking in the coming
  weeks, right now it would probably be best to keep as low a profile as possible.

  He bent to his scattered books again, muttering as he threw them haphazardly into
  his bag. Bitch, hag, slag, bint...just about every pejorative term he could think of
  for "female I don't like very much" managed to pass his lips. His good mood was
  gone, at least for the time being. Bloody hell! Of all people who had to cross his
  path today, why did it have to be her?

  He collected his last book -- Secrets of Divination: What You Don't Know Can Hurt
  You -- and there, crushed beneath it, was a roll of parchment. He picked it up. It
  was tied with a red velvet ribbon, and it reeked of Witch Diamonds perfume. Bella's
  perfume. On the outside, written in Bella's elegant, flowery hand, was the name
  Lucius.

  Sirius frowned. He looked at the closed Owlery door. He looked at the parchment. He
  looked at the door again. The frown turned slowly into a smile.

  Well, well, well. I think you dropped your mail, Bella. The mail you were so hot to
  send. Must be good stuff, too -- why, you were so eager to get in there, you hardly
  took the time to be nasty.

  Poor Bella. She'd be frantic if her message were to go missing, or fall into the
  wrong hands. Absolutely frantic. And furious. And--

  Sirius looked around again. The hall was empty. He opened his bag and stuffed the
  parchment deep, then shouldered the sack and headed quickly for the stairs.

  He was whistling again.

  ********************************************************************************

  Less than five minutes later, he was on his bed in his empty room, a cold bottle of
  butterbeer in one hand and Bella's missive in the other. He untied the ribbon and
  unrolled the parchment, hoping for blockbuster stuff -- Dear Lucius, I'm actually a
  man, just thought you should know -- but willing to settle for even small details.
  Hopefully highly embarrassing, painfully personal details with which he could tweak
  her every now and again.

  Like every single day for the rest of her school career.

  Halfway through the letter, he began to regret his decision. It was, as he should
  have expected, nothing but a lot of mean and mindless gossip -- who was wearing
  what, who was flunking what, who was fucking whom -- about a lot of mean and
  mindless people Sirius barely knew. Slytherins, mostly. Agnes Bullstrode's mum and
  dad were getting divorced -- more proof, if you asked Bella, that those half-Muggle/
  half-magic marriages simply did not work. Rita Skeeter had been caught snogging with
  Jeremiah Flint beneath the Quidditch stands, and could Luciusimagineanything more
  revolting than that pair of matching uglies tangling tongues? Juno Madigan and
  Serafina Nott had gotten into a right old catfight in the Slytherin common room over
  Rudolpho Lestrange, Bella's more-or-less steady boyfriend; Juno had hexed Serafina
  bald-headed, and it had taken Madam Pomfrey nearly twenty minutes to re-attach
  Juno's left ear. "As if either of those mousy wenches have a chance in hell with my
  Dolpho," Bella had written, and Sirius could almost hear her famous scornful laugh.

  And so it went.

  Sirius read these anecdotes with amusement, with disgust, even with a touch of
  jealous dismay -- Slytherin did sound like quite the happening House, didn't it?
  Made rowdy Gryffindor Tower seem almost sedate by comparison -- but with no real
  interest. There was nothing useful in these pages, certainly nothing he could hold
  at the ready for the next time Bella decided to stick her dainty nose where it
  didn't belong.

  He was on page four, and fighting a series of jaw-cracking yawns, when he spied his
  own name on the page. Oh, Merlin, he thought sarcastically.I wonder what I've been
  up to that I didn't know anything about?

  Amused, curious, he backed up a few sentences for context and read.

  Is everything in place for the 18th? I know you had some concerns last time we spoke
  (and I must say, darling, I didn't much care for your tone!), but I don't think you
  have anything at all to worry about. I've been watching Severusvery closely, just as
  I promised, and I'm certain he can get Sirius to follow him to the Manor. That
  "poor, friendless waif" bit of his has my idiot cousin mooning about after him like
  a lovestruck first-year. You know, I do fear I've underestimated Severus all these
  years. What a marvelous little actor he is! If he were just a bit prettier, he could
  be on the stage. Not that fooling Sirius requires anyextraordinary talent, you
  understand. He's never been the sharpest wand in the shop. Just reporting the stupid
  things Sirius says in bed has made Severus thelifeof the Common Room! But I'm sure
  you've heard them all before. From what I can gather, even the sex isn't all that
  spectacular. Of course, Severus doesn't really talk to me, I think he's still angry
  over that silly "Snivellus" business--after all these years, can youimagine? Some
  people haveno sense of humor. But he does talk to Dolpho sometimes, and Dolpho said
  Severus told him that fucking Sirius is like fucking a dog. "All panting and licking
  and not much else," is how Severus put it. I laughed so hard I thought I'dchoke!
  Severus does have a way with a phrase, doesn't he? It's utterly beyond me why you're
  so jealous of them. I think Severus will be happier than anyone when all this is
  over and he can be rid of that Gryffie oaf once and for all. Myself, I can't wait.
  I'm going to have some fun with my dear cousin. There's a sexual variation on the
  Cruciatus I've beendying to try. And I know Severus has about five years' worth of
  revenge to get out of his system. I wonder if there'll be anything left of poor Ri-
  Ri when we're done with him? Oh, I'm getting wet justthinkingabout it!

  And then it was on to that sneaky little Ravenclaw who told Evan Rosier she was on
  the Potion but really wasn't and now wanted him to marry her and what did she think
  this was, anyway, the Middle Ages?

  Not that Sirius actually registered any of that. He was too busy trying to digest
  what he had just read. And it's so hard for me,he thought with distant, bitter
  humor, seeing as how I'm not the sharpest wand in the shop.

  Snape had used him. Snape had tricked him. Snape had played him so neatly, for so
  long, it was almost funny. Almost. Hell,hewas almost funny. Here he was, making all
  these grand plans, checking flat ads, sending owls to London; here he was actually
  worryingabout Snape, making sure he had some decent clothes on his back, even
  entertaining notions of stepping in between Snape and his mean old daddy like some
  half-assed knight in a fairy tale, and what was Snape doing? Turning the name Sirius
  Black into a running Common Room joke.

  He read it again. Certain bits seemed to leap off the page -- That poor, friendless
  waif bit of his. What a marvelous little actor he is! All panting and licking and
  not much else-- but he forced himself to ignore these distractions and read it
  thoroughly. It was coming together for him now. So Severus was supposed to lure
  Sirius to Malfoy Manor. He thought of the past six weeks, of Snape and all his
  stubborn whining about responsibility and promises, and he felt almost physically
  ill. Oh, Snape was all aboutpromises, wasn't he? He had apparently promised Malfoy
  some unusual entertainment for his next party -- some Sirius entertainment, one
  might say -- and by Salazar, he was going to deliver.

  The lying, scheming, whoring little fuck.

  Trembling, he read it a third time, and a fourth. By the sixth time, his numb
  disbelief was thawing, scorched away by his rage. He couldn't remember ever feeling
  this angry, ever, in his entire life. For once, he was grateful that none of the
  other Marauders were in the dorm with him; he felt like jumping on and throttling
  purple the first person he saw.

  That poor, friendless waif bit of his has my idiot cousin mooning about after him
  like a lovestruck first-year.

  Yes, that was the one that really got to him. He could handle Bella's insults; he
  was used to those. He could handle Snape's stupid lies about his sexual performance,
  because he knew they were lies...unless Snape's cock was a "marvelous little actor"
  as well. He could even accept that Bella and her Slythie clique wanted to kidnap,
  rape, and possibly torture him and call it entertainment -- they were only
  Slytherins, after all.

  But it was the truth in Bella's hateful words that was so hard to take. Hehad been
  mooning about, wearing his heart on his sleeve, all these weeks. He had begun to
  care for Snape, and he hadn't bothered overmuch to hide it, all the time thinking
  that Snape was worthy of it, that Snape could learn to feel the same way, that Snape
  could grow and blossom and change. To find out now that Snape felt only contempt for
  him in return--

  Gods! Had he really thought he'd seen Regulus in Snape, Regulus the way he was
  before, untouched by darkness and hate? Yes, yes he had...and in the end, Snape had
  proved to be like Reg ineveryway. He had betrayed Sirius as well. And as much as he
  hated Snape at this moment -- and it was a black and murderous thing, this hatred -
  - Sirius hated himself even more for choosing Snape, for picking someone so utterly
  unworthy for reasons buried in his own sad past.

  It hurt. Oh, Christ, it hurt, it was like a knife twisting in his guts -- but above
  the hurt, above the humiliation and disappointment, overriding it all in a pulsing
  red wave, was the rage.

  Just reporting the stupid things Sirius says in bed has made Severus the life of the
  Common Room.

  I think Severus will be happier than anyone when all this is over, and he can be rid
  of that Gryffie oaf once and for all.

  And Snape had played it so beautifully, too. Stubborn but reluctant, determined but
  not totally intractable -- oh, yes, Snape had played his part to perfection. Well,
  why not? He was, after all, a marvelous little actor.

  A voice spoke up inside Sirius's head. It was timid, unsure, not at all like his
  usual mental voice. Maybe he wasn't acting. Maybe that's why he seemed so upset
  about going to Malfoy's. Maybe he was afraid you would follow. Maybe he knows what
  they're planning for you, and he doesn't want to be a part of it.

  For a moment -- no, not even a moment; a scant few seconds at best -- Sirius grasped
  hopefully at these thoughts. Then his eyes went to the parchment again, and he
  sawfucking Sirius is like fucking a dog.He sawthe stupid things Sirius says in bed.
  He saw has my idiot cousin mooning about after him. And something slammed shut
  inside him. Maybe Snape wanted him raped and ritually tortured over the holiday and
  maybe Snape didn't, but either way, it didn't change the fact that Snape had been
  using him, lying to him, and -- oh, and this was the worst, Sirius didn't know why
  it was the worst, but it was -- laughing at him for all these months. Playing him
  for the ultimate fool, and making fun of something Sirius had begun to believe in so
  earnestly.

  "Maybe, shit," Sirius said aloud. Maybe if pigs had brooms, bacon would fly. He'd
  already wasted too much time defending Snape, protecting Snape, making excuses for
  Snape -- but no more. Let him go to his precious fucking Malfoy if he needed
  protection. Sirius was done with him.

  Well -- almost done with him. Snape had some explaining to do before he got
  officially dropped. Maybe I'll just beatthe truth out of you. Would you like that,
  you lying little fuck? I'll bring a dragon whip in one hand and a box of salt in the
  other, and you can screamyour confession to the bare walls. And then go cry on
  Malfoy's shoulder.

  Or maybe he'd just Crucio the little prick and have done with it.

  A wave of despair assaulted Sirius, and he dropped his head in his hands. What
  difference did it make what he did to Snape? No punishment, no matter how brutal,
  could hurt Snape the way this was hurting Sirius. He wished it could. He wished he
  could think of something, anything, that would make Snape feel this same horrid stew
  of emotions, this outrage and anger, this shock, and this terrible, empty kind of
  sorrow.

  His eyes went to the letter again. Fucking Sirius is like fucking a dog was the
  first thing he saw. Furiously, he grabbed his wand and muttered, "Incendio!" and the
  wretched thing burst into flames. He pushed it off the bed onto the cold stone
  floor, watching it char and curl and shrivel. Yet the words remained in his brain.

  Fucking Sirius is like fucking a dog.

  "Well, you'd know better than anyone, wouldn't you, Snivellus," Sirius muttered. He
  threw himself back on his bed, drawing the curtains with a flick of his wrist. How
  clever Snape probably thought he was, making a comment like that -- and all the time
  not knowing how close he was to the truth. In other circumstances, Sirius would have
  enjoyed the irony. Another joke on the greaseball. This round goes to the Marauders.

  He wondered what Snape would say if he knew he really had been fucking a dog -
  - well, sort of -- all these months. Most likely, he'd be horrified. Snape was a
  pureblood, and most purebloods hated magical beasts almost as much as they hated
  non-magical humans. As much as they hated, and feared, pretty much anything that
  wasn't a pureblood wizard or witch.

  Maybe I'll tell him,Sirius thought with giddy, spiteful pleasure. After I whip the
  shit out of him, maybe I'll tell him. Let him know the tongue he's had on his tits
  and the cock he's had up his arse belong to a bloke who spends whole days scratching
  fleas and licking himself.A grim smile curved his mouth as he imagined the look on
  Snape's face. He imagined it would be a lot like the look he'd had on his own face
  when he was reading Bella's letter, and wouldn't thatbe poetic justice. Oh, yes.
  That would be completely bri--

  He stopped. He stared up at the canopy overhead, barely visible in the murky light,
  and his smile became a grin. It was his old grin. The cruel, cocky, snappy grin that
  made his admirers swoon and his enemies blanch. It was his pre-Snape grin.

  On second thought, maybe he wouldn't tell Snape about Padfoot after all.

  Why tell him, when showing would be so much better?
***** The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 6 *****
The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 6




  Chapter Six - Degradation

  Friday, 1 April, 1977

  He was sound asleep when Black grabbed him.

  The Gryffindor struck quick as a snake, the bed curtains parting just wide enough to
  admit his hand and his head. The hand was already waving a wand, the head already
  whispering the necessary hexes, and by the time Severus realized he wasn't having an
  extraordinarily vivid dream, Black had spelled him silent, blindfolded, and bound.

  What...what's going on? he mumbled. Or tried to: his lips moved, but nothing came
  out. He attempted to sit up, but that didn't work, either -- his wrists, thighs and
  ankles had been tied tightly together, and all he could do was flop about uselessly
  on the bed.

  Then he felt himself lifted. No, not lifted. Levitated. His stomach did a tiny flip-
  flop as he was put more or less vertical, though his balance was uncertain and his
  feet did not touch the floor. An arm encircled his waist, holding him until he
  steadied. Then, something odd: a sensation of something being dropped over him,
  something like a large cloth, soft and nearly weightless.

  "Let's go, arsehole," Black growled in his ear, and a slight push propelled him
  forward, drifting along at the Gryffindor's side.

  He was still too stunned to struggle (even if he'd been able to whilst floating
  three inches off the ground), but his brain was waking up fast. How the hell had
  Black gotten all the way up to his dorm, to his bed, without getting caught? Where
  was Black taking him? How were they going to get there? What if they were seen? As
  consummate a liar as Severus himself was, even he would have been hard-pressed to
  explain to a passing prefect or teacher why he was floating a classmate along the
  corridors long after curfew, or why said classmate had a black rag across his eyes,
  ropes around his arms and legs, and what felt like a tablecloth over his head.

  Severus almost hoped they were seen. He didn't like this, not at all. Gods knew, it
  was hardly the first time Sirius Black had ever tied or gagged or even blindfolded
  him, but this didn't feel like any of those times. It didn't feel right. And he had
  heard the anger in Black's growl, and he didn't have to Reach tofeel it, throbbing
  through the other boy in hot red waves.

  He knew why Black was angry with him. Severus had been avoiding him for over a week,
  trying to screw up the courage to tell him they were through. He wasn't particularly
  worried anymore about Black's reaction -- the prospect of incurring Sirius Black's
  wrath rather paled in comparison to ultimatums from the Dark Lord -- but he knew
  Black would badger him with countless, wearying questions, questions he could not
  answer. Wouldnot answer. He didn't trust Black; he had never trusted Black and he
  never would, and three months of brilliant sex and one expensive gift wasn't about
  to change that.

  Of course, Black didn't know any of this. All heknew was that his favorite fucktoy
  was suddenly playing hard-to-get, and, obviously, he didn't like it. And, bold
  Gryffindor idiot that he was, if the mountain wouldn't come to Merlin, Merlin was
  by-gods going to go to the mountain.

  A flash of irritation cut through Severus's unease. Fucking Gryffies. They all
  thought the world owed them whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. Did Black
  think he was the only one troubled by the situation? Severus didn't like it, either
  -- he'd been wanking so often over the past week that his prick cringed when it saw
  his hand approaching, and he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in days -- but he
  wasn't running about breaking into dorms and floating people out of their beds like
  balloons.

  They continued on, the Gryffindor setting a fast pace. They made so many twists and
  turns that Severus lost count; by the time they reached their destination, he was
  mildly nauseated and thoroughly confused.

  He heard Black mutter "Alohomora,"and heard the click of a door latch. He was
  relieved when Black released the levitation spell and his feet touched solid ground,
  but not for long: Black gave him another shove and he stumbled forward, his bound
  hands shooting straight out in front of him to keep himself from falling on his
  face.

  Laughter washed over him. Combined laughter, and very familiar. Hatefullyfamiliar.
  Potter's gritty baritone. Pettigrew's girlish titter.

  Oh, no--

  The cloth and blindfold were yanked from his head. He screwed his eyes shut quickly
  and eased them open again, expecting sudden, painful brightness, but even compared
  to the utter blackness behind the blindfold, the room was very dark. High stone
  walls, cold stone floor, all of it lit by only three or four sconces. Severus
  frowned, puzzled. It looked like the dungeons, but he knew that couldn't be. He
  hadn't lost his bearings that badly; his dorm was down in the dungeons, and he knew
  they had climbed several staircases to arrive here. Wherever here was.

  He didn't waste much time pondering it, however. There was a strange-looking
  scaffold in the very center of the room, and that took most of his attention. It
  slanted forward at a steep angle, not quite parallel to the floor. It was a simple
  A-shaped frame, two long beams meeting at the top and spaced far apart at the
  bottom, with a wider slat connecting them in the middle. Leather straps dangled
  ominously from these intersections, silver buckles swinging and winking back the dim
  light.

  Severus went cold. That scaffold was for him -- nobody was going to mount such a
  Medieval-looking contraption willingly, and he was the only guest at this little
  party sporting the latest in magical bondage. Black was going to tie him to that
  thing and spank him, no doubt, spank him and probably fuck him, too -- and he was
  going to do it in front of them. Black was angry with him, and this was Severus's
  punishment, to be paddled like a wayward child and taken like a whore in front of
  his most bitter enemies.

  He swallowed hard. What if Black removed the silencing spell? What if Black made him
  cry out, made him whimper and sob and snarl helplessly, pleading for mercy? It
  wouldn't be the first time. Severus had an extremely high threshold for pain, and he
  had remarkable self-control, but Black had learned his limits by now, and he knew
  how to play with them, how to push and tug at them until they snapped, how to bend
  Severus back and forth between pleasure and pain until Severus wanted them snapped.

  That brought an even worse thought. What if Black made him come? The mere thought of
  being brought to an orgasm in front of these hooting, jeering animals made Severus
  want to conjure a hole in the floor and dive into it headfirst.

  "Snape. I'm talking to you."

  Black's voice. Sharp. Sudden. Almost directly in his ear, making him jump. He turned
  his head, aiming his best glare like a dagger...and then his eyes went wide as Black
  slapped him across the face.

  It wasn't a very hard slap -- indeed, he heard it much more clearly than he felt it
  -- but it still shocked him to his core. Black had slapped his ass plenty of times
  over the last several months (and usually with Severus's tacit encouragement), but
  he had hit him in the face only once, on that very first night -- and only then
  because Severus had spit on him.

  Why did you do that? he asked, but all that sounded in the room was the echo of the
  blow and another moronic burst of laughter close behind him. Potter and Pettigrew.

  He spun and stared the daggers at them. As he'd suspected, Lupin was there as well,
  hovering in the gloom, a bit back from the others, and the sight of him lit the
  first real flickers of anger in Severus's gut. Lupin wasn't laughing, and his face
  was largely obscured by shadows, but Severus knew the look he was wearing without
  even seeing it. No doubt it was the same look the spineless, mealy-mouthed bastard
  always wore when his friends were tormenting Severus Snape: troubled and ashamed,
  guilty, but helpless. Severus had recognized (and despised) that look the instant
  he'd first seen it, on that long-ago first train ride to Hogwarts: it was the same
  look his mother always wore when his old man was working him over.

  Black's hand shot out, twisting in his hair and dragging his head around again.
  "Look at me when I'm talking to you!" he snarled. He lowered his voice and hissed:
  "Or is looking at me as repulsive as fucking me?"

  His eyes were slits, his face white and grim, and Severus's anger vanished in a wash
  of fear. Black was not laughing. Normally, Black would have been chortling right
  along with the other two idiots, acting as if he were having the time of his life,
  but not now. Now his face was set hard, with rage and something else, something
  Severus couldn't define. Whatever it was, it was frightening. It suggested that
  perhaps he was in for something considerably worse here tonight than just a
  spanking.

  As if to confirm this, Black looked at Pettigrew and said, "The charges, please."

  Pettigrew giggled. He stepped forward and reached into the pocket of his Muggle
  jeans (so tight they were practically plastered to his fat can, Severus noted
  viciously) and pulled out a roll of parchment. He cleared his throat, looked around,
  giggled again, and finally read:

  "Severus Snape, you stand before this tribunal accused of debauchery, deceit, and
  conspiracy to kidnap a Gryffindor for unsavory purposes. You stand further accused
  of being a faithless, two-faced slut who'd take it up the arse from the Whomping
  Willow if you thought it would get you anywhere. Also, you're an ugly git." More
  giggles. "How do you plead?"

  Severus stared at him blankly. Conspiracy to kidnap a Gryffindor? What the hell was
  thatsupposed to mean?

  "Sorry, Snivellus, what was that?" Black leaned forward, cupping a hand to his ear.
  "`Guilty,' you say?" Before Severus could even blink, Black turned back to
  Pettigrew. "The accused pleads guilty as charged, Your Honor. Please pronounce
  sentence."

  Pettigrew cleared his throat again and lifted his chins, no doubt trying to look
  dignified and imposing. To Severus, he looked like a bullfrog scoping a juicy fly.
  "The accused is hereby sentenced to be fucked by a dog."

  Severus's jaw dropped. Pettigrew and Potter burst into fresh bellows of laughter,
  even Lupin had a slight smile on his face, and, for one short but giddy moment,
  Severus felt relieved. It was all just a joke. A bad joke, juvenile as all their
  jokes were, but just a little one-act play they had cooked up to scare him because
  Black was pissed and the others were bored.

  Then he looked back at Black, and his heart sank. Black still wasn't laughing; Black
  was still looking at him with hatred, that old, virulent hatred he hadn't seen in
  months. To Black, at least, it was no joke -- he was in charge here, and he looked
  furious.

  But was he furious enough to actually stand by and watch a dog, a mindless,
  slobbering, grinning dog, defile a fellow human being?

  No, Severus thought desperately. No, surely not. He couldn't. Not that.

  As a whole, wizards were remarkably uninhibited sexually -- they were much more
  tolerant than their Muggle counterparts of same-sex relationships, for example -
  - but bestiality was their one universal taboo. Purebloods, with their inherent
  mistrust of any creature that was not a pureblood wizard, had a particular horror of
  the act, and Severus was no exception: the thought of being fucked by an animal made
  him almost physically ill. It also terrified him. If anyone found out he had had sex
  with a dog, even forced sex such as this, he could be sent to Azkaban for the rest
  of his life. And he'd consider himself lucky -- as recently as fifty years ago, he
  would have been put to death for it.

  He began to struggle.

  Black watched for a minute or two, that wretched fury stamped blank on his face and
  cold in his eyes. Then he said, "Put him on the rack."

  Potter and Black moved forward and flanked him, each of them grabbing an arm.
  Severus continued to fight both them and the ropes binding him, but it did no good.
  They half-dragged, half-wrestled him to the scaffold in the center of the room and
  strapped him to it, face down. His arms were extended above his head and his wrists
  buckled together at the top of the "A"; his legs were spread wide along the legs of
  the frame and his ankles tied in place. The wide slat connecting the two sides
  pressed against his belly, hard and cold even through his night shirt, and another
  strap was drawn across the small of his back, anchoring him firmly in place.

  Even though he knew it was futile, he fought as hard as he could. He managed to bite
  Pettigrew -- he tasted as bad as he looked, the useless pudding -- and got in a
  couple of good hard kicks when they untied his ankles to spread his legs. One of
  them caught Potter square in the gut, and the Gryffindor's grunt of pain and
  surprise sent a savage joy through him, a joy undiminished even when Potter
  retaliated with a stinging slap to his ass and a muttered, "Oh, you'll pay for that,
  you slimy little shit."

  He continued to struggle even after he was bound, flexing against the straps,
  testing their strength and his mobility. They seemed very strong, and he couldn't
  move more than an inch up or down, back or forward or even sideways. His head was
  framed by his arms and the triangle part of the "A" shape, and he couldn't see much
  past the line of his own shoulder on either side.

  Then Black's hand fisted in his hair again, and the muscles in his neck and
  shoulders groaned in painful protest as his head was dragged up and back, forcing
  him to look straight into those icy grey eyes.

  "If you're wondering why I didn't help them," Black said, "I didn't want to touch
  you. I know how sick it makes you when I touch you, and since you're our guest here
  tonight" -- a cold smirk came and went, quick as a shadow -- "I'll try not to offend
  you by putting my filthy Gryffindor hands on you any more than I have to."

  Again, Severus was lost. And frustrated. He felt like he had walked into the middle
  of a play and was the only one with no idea what was going on. I know how sick it
  makes you when I touch you.Where did that come from? Yes, he had been ducking Black
  lately, and no doubt Black was feeling frustrated and insulted, but this was a
  definite over-reaction. Childish, actually. If one week without his Slytherin treat
  was enough to make Black so fucking melodramatic, he had rejection issues even
  Severus couldn't match.

  "Dishabilles," Black said, still looking him dead in the eye. His night shirt
  vanished; cold air rushed over his body, prickling it into gooseflesh, and Potter
  and Pettigrew cheered.

  Black let go of his hair. Gratefully, Severus let his head fall forward -- then
  jerked it back in alarm as the top half of the scaffold dropped with a sudden lurch,
  bending him sharply at the waist. It fetched up with a jolt less than a foot from
  the floor, so close that his hair spilled across the rough stone surface like black
  ink. For a moment he was too sick and stunned to do anything but hang there, panting
  silently and trying very hard not to throw up.

  Then Potter and Pettigrew hooted again, cutting through his shock and reminding him
  where he was. And how he was. He cringed at the realization of what he must look
  like to them, his legs held stiff and spread wide, his bare ass thrust boldly in the
  air. He was bent so severely that he was looking up at his cock and balls as they
  dangled, heavy and vulnerable, swinging slightly between his parted thighs.

  "Paddy, I think I finally get what you see in him," Potter chuckled. Severus saw a
  pair of denim-clad legs approach him from behind, and then he felt hands, hands even
  rougher than Black's, begin caressing his ass. "What a rear end. Is it as tight as
  it looks?"

  "Yes. Amazingly tight, actually, considering how many cocks he's had rooting about
  up there."

  That sulky, spiteful tone again. That I-know-how-sick-it makes-you-when-I-touch-
  youtone. Severus caught it even through his growing fear, and his mind tossed around
  frantic possibilities. Was that what this was all about? Was Black jealous? How
  could he be? Black didn't know about any of his other lovers, except Lucius. Gods,
  he didn't have any other lovers besides Black and Lucius. All of the others -
  - Bellatrix and Rudolpho, Avery and Rosier and Narcissa and Roselle -- were just
  extensions of Lucius, stepping stones toward the dark benefactor Severus wasn't sure
  he even wanted anymore.

  "It's brilliant." The caresses turned rougher, Potter's hands squeezing and kneading
  both cheeks now, hard enough to hurt. Severus couldn't see his face, but he could
  hear the gruff arousal in his voice.

  And in Pettigrew's, when he spoke up. "Is it soft? It looks really smooth and soft."

  "Um--like your head," Black snorted. Then he sighed and relented. "Come on, then,
  Wormy, and have a feel."

  Severus shuddered as Pettigrew's hands, pudgy and sweaty and thoroughly repulsive,
  joined Potter's. Wormy. Severus had no idea what that nickname was supposed to mean
  -- or, for that matter, what any of the ridiculous names they exchanged meant, save
  Lupin's-- but it was perfect for Peter Pettigrew. He waswormy; Severus felt like
  every part of him that Pettigrew touched was left lightly coated in slime.

  Then Potter shoved a finger up his ass, and had it not been for the silencing spell,
  Severus's scream would have awakened half the castle. The penetration was totally
  dry and fiercely burning, the finger horny with calluses that abraded the delicate
  flesh inside him. When Potter began pumping, Severus felt like he was being scraped
  raw.

  "What's this little bump?" Potter asked. The finger found his prostate and scraped
  that, too, and Severus convulsed in agony. Either Potter mistook his reaction for
  pleasure or didn't care, because he immediately did it again.

  "Bump?" Black sounded bored.

  "Inside him. When I rub it, he goes wild. His arse bunches up and his bung squeezes
  down on my finger."

  "Oh. That's his prostate. It's very sensitive. Like a girl's clit. You rub it long
  enough, he'll cream all over you. You don't even have to touch his prick."

  "Yeah?" Potter sounded intrigued. He rubbed; Severus writhed. The pain was searing.
  Scorching. Throbbing. He closed his eyes, sweat trickling down his face despite the
  stone-cooled chill in the air, but they flew open again when he felt, then saw,
  Pettigrew's moist hand curl briefly around his cock.

  "You must not be doing it right, James," Pettigrew said. "He's not even hard."

  Potter said nothing, but the torturing finger hesitated, then stopped. Severus let
  out a shaky breath, too grateful to even care that it had been Peter Pettigrew to
  his rescue.

  "Of course he's not hard, you bloody idiot." Now Black sounded irritated. "James
  didn't lube him up. It hurts when you don't lube him."

  Severus tensed, fully expecting Potter to laugh that nasty laugh of his, say,
  "Brilliant!" and finger-fuck him more vigorously than ever. But Potter surprised
  him. "Well, lube him then. I want to make him hard."

  With another put-upon sigh, Black uttered the spell. Instantly, warm oil welled
  around Potter's finger, soothing Severus's raw passage, turning the painful throb
  into something low and soft and rather pleasant. The relief was so intense it was
  nearly erotic, and a hot shiver raked Severus from his head to his toes.

  "Shit!" Potter half-laughed, half-gasped. "I felt that! The shiver. I felt it inside
  him."

  He began pumping his finger again, more slowly this time, stroking over the prostate
  with a newfound delicacy, a finesse that Severus found as disturbing as it was
  arousing. I want to make him hard, Potter had said, and he was succeeding, but it
  had been Severus's experience that whenever James Potter wanted anything, it did not
  bode well for Severus Snape.

  His body knew none of this; it felt pleasure, and it responded. More shivers raced
  up and down his spine, his hips jerked backward in tiny thrusts, and he couldn't
  tear his eyes away from the sight of his own cock coming to life under the arousing
  assault. He was both amazed and mortified as he watched it twitch every time Potter
  rubbed the quivering gland, as it flushed pink and swelled fat with his pounding
  blood.

  "Jesus, Siri, are you sure he's been screwing around behind your back?" Potter
  asked. "He's tighter than a nun's cunt, even with the oil."

  "I'm sure." And then, something Severus didn't understand: "I told you what he and
  his stinking Slytherin fuck buddies had planned for me."

  "Sirius..." Pettigrew, a bit breathless. "Can I have a go at him?"

  "In a minute, Wormy." It was Potter who answered. "I want to make him come" -- his
  other hand came down into Severus's view, wrapping firmly around his prick, thumbing
  sticky circles over the head -- "and he's so close I'd wager he can taste it."

  Severus bit his lip, silently imploring Pettigrew to keep talking. He was close, but
  he didn't want to come. Not for Potter. Not ever for him.

  "No," Black said. "I don't want him to come. Not yet. And you are being selfish,
  Prongs. You need to give someone else a chance."

  "Selfish?" Potter snorted. "Look who's talking." But he let go of Severus's prick
  and withdrew his foraging finger, slowly, obviously reluctant. "You've had this arse
  all to yourself for months."

  "Yeah, me and half the House of the Snake." Black's voice was sharp. "Wormy, what
  are you waiting for, Christmas? Comeon."

  Severus tensed again, expecting fresh pain, but he was well-stretched and well-oiled
  now, and he scarcely felt Pettigrew's finger as it slid into him. Still, what he
  could feel was awful. Pettigrew's finger was as repulsive as the rest of him, plump
  and soft, humid and almost spongy. It was like being fucked by a leper with a
  rotting cock.

  "Oh!" Pettigrew nearly squeaked the word. "Oh, blimey, he's hot in there! Sirius, is
  he always so hot in there?" And then, without waiting for an answer: "Can I fuck him
  with my dick?"

  Severus froze.

  "I thought `poofs' disgusted you, Peter," Black said.

  Pettigrew didn't reply. His free hand came up to cup and pet the firm buttocks. "So
  pretty," he murmured. "So smooth." His finger found the now-swollen prostate, but he
  didn't stroke it as Potter had done; he stabbed at it, and a jolt of intense
  sensation shot through Severus. It wasn't exactly pain, but it certainly wasn't
  pleasure, and it made his teeth clench and his toes curl and every muscle in his
  body contract helplessly.

  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, did you see that? Did you see the way his arse closed up
  around my finger? Jesus, that's wicked!" Like Potter, Pettigrew seemed utterly
  tickled by his reaction, and he jabbed again, and again, like a child wearing out
  the "Go" button on a fascinating new toy. He giggled at every spasm while Severus
  sobbed, dry-eyed and silent. "Sirius, yougotta let me fuck him."

  "No."

  "Oh, come on," he wheedled. "I won't make him come if you don't want me to."

  "With that baby pecker, you couldn't make him come if you fucked him all night,"
  Black dismissed. "That's not the point. Nobody's fucking him tonight, not even me.
  Tonight the sacred honey pot" -- a dark chuckle -- "is reserved exclusively for our
  friend Snuffles."

  Severus's stomach tightened again. It's just a joke, it's just a joke, it's just a
  joke... Perhaps if he repeated the words often enough, he would convince himself.
  Not that he actually needed much convincing. The look in Black's eyes
  notwithstanding, Severus didn't believe they would really let a dog...well,at him.
  Hecouldn't believe it. It was just too sick, even for them.

  "Well" -- Pettigrew sounded vaguely sulky -- "can we spank him, at least?"

  "I hadn't planned on it," Black said.

  "We have time," Potter said. "Nobody knows about this room but us. And look at him,
  Paddy! That position is too bloody good to waste."

  Black did not immediately reply. Severus melted limply into the scaffold, shaking
  all over, trying to catch his breath and hold it for Black's answer at the same
  time. He was relieved that Pettigrew had stilled his hand and stopped sending what
  felt like lightning bolts up his ass, but he was also scared that Black would grant
  this new request. If Potter and Pettigrew did get a chance to spank him, they would
  hurt him. And not in the careful, controlled way that Black did. They would hurt him
  the way his father did.

  The cold voice of logic spoke up.If they spank you, they might lose interest in
  letting that dog at you. If there is a dog. And anything's better than that.

  But for the first time in his life, Severus took no comfort from that voice, and for
  the first time in his life, he told it to piss off. He didn't want logic right now,
  damn it -- he wanted denial.

  "All right," Black said finally. "But not too long, and I don't want any marks on
  him."

  Pettigrew had his finger out of Severus almost before Black finished speaking.
  Severus heard the faint, metallic chink of a belt being unbuckled, the slight
  whisper of it being slid from its loops. He grimaced. It figured they would want to
  use a belt. He hated the belt. It bit and burned like nothing else, and it could do
  actual damage, especially in the wrong hands. Black had only used it on him twice,
  but it had been one of his father's favorite implements when Severus was younger.
  Before he had been graduated to the old man's fists and the occasional Cruciatus
  Curse for punishment.

  "Moony." Black again. "Do you want a feel before James and Peter discipline our
  little Slytherin brat?"

  "No!" Lupin sounded aghast at the suggestion, and Severus swallowed contempt like
  bile. He honestly hated Lupin more than any of them. Potter and Pettigrew and Black
  were black-hearted bastards, but at least they weren't hypocrites about it. "For
  God's sake, can't we just get this over with?"

  "Now, Remus, anything worth doing is worth doing right," Potter told him cheerfully.
  "Give me the belt, Peter."

  "But--"

  "I'm head Marauder, Wormy, and I go first." Potter's tone defied any challenge. "Now
  hand it over."

  Through his own spread legs, Severus saw Potter move into position behind him,
  bumping aside Pettigrew, who was still hovering over Severus's arse like a mama
  niffler shielding her young. He heard a faint swish -- the belt being drawn back,
  perhaps -- and saw it strike Potter's thigh as he tested it on himself. He heard it
  as well; he couldn't help jumping at the sound, and Potter hissed out a pained,
  shaky laugh.

  "That's right, Sniv, you jump," he said. "You're going to be doing a lot of that
  tonight."

  The first lash was like a splash of scalding water. He could tell that Potter hadn't
  pulled the blow at all, that he had, in fact, put the full force of his arm behind
  it -- the pain had that kind of sharp, cutting quality. The biting sting of impact
  receded as the heat spread and sank deep into his flesh; then it was repeated as a
  second welt was raised across his ass, just under the first. This one was very low,
  along the crease between his bottom and his thighs, and it would have drawn a yell
  from him, had he been capable of producing any sound but the hard, dry pull of his
  breath.

  After only a dozen smacks, Severus was writhing continuously; after twenty, he was
  rocking the scaffold with the force of his struggles. After twenty-five (his mind
  insisted on counting the blows, more out of habit than anything else), Potter
  stopped.

  "What do you think?" he asked the others. He was breathing very hard, certainly
  harder than his slight exertions justified. Sadistic prick.

  "Brilliant," Pettigrew pronounced. He sounded a bit out of breath himself. "His bum
  looks even better red, don't you think?"

  "I wasn't asking you, Wormy. Sirius?"

  There was a pause -- a quite deliberate pause, Severus was sure -- before Black
  drawled, "Thighs are still too white."

  Bastard!

  "All right." Potter went back to work, laying enthusiastic stripes up and down
  Severus's thighs until they were, presumably, an acceptable shade of red. Severus
  couldn't see them, of course, but he could certainly feel them, and theyfeltvery red
  indeed. By the time Potter stopped for good and Pettigrew took his place, they felt
  as though they would never be white again -- he was absolutely on fire.

  Then Pettigrew was laughing, "My turn, slimeball!" and the belt was biting into his
  ass again, making him forget all about his thighs. The pain was sharper than Severus
  had ever felt before, even with his father, and he had a moment's panic, certain
  that the leather had actually cut him. He held his breath and waited for the
  telltale slither of blood running down his thighs; he had hardly released it when
  Pettigrew hit him again and he gasped again, his tender ass screaming in protest,
  his curse-knotted throat screaming right along with it.

  After only a few blows, he was in agony. His ass felt not just hot but blistered,
  raw, as if Pettigrew was stripping the skin away, one layer at a time. The tears he
  had held in check for Potter were running freely down his face now; his cock hung
  limply, the pain far past the point of arousing him even against his will. He
  wouldn't have believed it possible, but Pettigrew was hitting him even harder than
  Potter had, putting not just his arm but his whole body into it. Watching dazedly
  through the frame of his own shaking legs, Severus saw the fat little prick's
  sneakered feet actually leave the floor with the force he brought to each blow.

  With no way out and no end in sight, Severus did what he had always done when
  Augustus was hurting him: he escaped. He fled from the pain, retreating to a room in
  the back of his mind and raking the imagined door shut behind him. He knew this room
  well; he could picture it quite clearly, white and stark and clean. Sterile, even -
  - but safe. Usually. As the pain grew worse, the room would get smaller and smaller,
  and the door would shake and rattle in its frame. Sometimes, if the pain was
  especially intense, the door wouldn't hold, but most of the time it did. As with any
  skill, this one grew stronger with diligent practice-- and Severus had had a lot of
  practice.

  Though he didn't know it, Severus was using a popular Muggle pain-management
  technique, although his magical and psychic gifts gave it a potency no Muggle
  therapist could have dreamed. Indeed, its power sometimes frightened him, and he
  only used it in the direst of circumstances. Some vague but undeniable instinct told
  him that if he went to that room too often, or lingered there too long, he would
  never get out. He would end up like his mother, trapped in a safe little room at St.
  Mungo's, trapped in a safe little room in her mind.

  But he needed the room now, and so he used it now. How long he was in there, he
  didn't know, but the door held throughout. Once or twice, it opened a crack, and
  Severus threw all his mental weight against it, distracting himself from the pain
  that slipped through with ghastly visions of revenge.Imagine Pettigrew bloody and
  screaming. Imagine your fingers wrapped around his throat. Imagine plunging a knife
  into that soft slug's body and feeling the hot gush of his guts pouring over your
  hands.Insane thoughts, keeping him sane.

  The door held, but it was a close call; it was shivering like a live thing when the
  beating finally stopped, and the clean white room around him had gone small as a
  coffin. Exhausted and grateful, Severus fell against the door, and the mental image
  was so strong that he could feel it, its wooden surface cool and slightly rough
  under his tear-stained cheek. Dimly, as though from a great distance, he heard a
  voice.

  "I said that's enough!" Black. Nearly shouting. Angry, with an unmistakable edge of
  fear.

  Severus opened his eyes. He made the mistake of opening the door in his mind at the
  same time, and the pain rushed in, making his entire body shudder. His ass and
  thighs felt as though they burst into flame, and this time the sensation of blood
  running down his legs was real. Disbelief hit him like a slap. He cut me. Hecut me.
  The useless great pig cut me.

  A black and sweeping rage roared through him, wiping out pain and dismay and
  everything else in its path. You stinking, puling, crawling, toadying little waste.
  Just wait until I get my hands on you. They'll have a job finding enough fucking
  pieces of you for a proper burial. I'll mount your fucking head on my wall, I'll
  feed your fucking liver to Fang and your fucking pussy little heart to the Dark Lord
  himself, and I'll laugh myself blue every time you scream.

  And not just Pettigrew, but all of them,allof them. Every-fucking-one.

  "Oh, come on, Sirius! That's not fair! You let James go a lot longer than that!"

  "James didn't cut him, you bloody fucking idiot!" And now there was no `nearly'
  about it -- Black was shouting. "You're going too hard! He's damn near unconscious,
  for fuck's sake! And Itold you I didn't want any marks on him!"

  If Pettigrew had a reply, Severus didn't hear it; Black overrode the other boy,
  turning to Severus and chanting a healing spell. Severus was hurting too much to
  feel the usual tingle as his flesh was repaired, but the pain began to fade at once;
  within a minute or two, it was completely gone, as were the cuts and welts.
  Throughout the healing process, Black stroked his bottom until it felt smooth and
  white and cool again.

  "Aw, why'd you do that?" Pettigrew protested. He sounded tremendously disappointed,
  and Severus would have sold his soul for just one minute alone with the fat bastard.
  Even half a minute would have done. "His blood was so pretty."

  "I just told you, idiot, I don't want any marks on him. Or are you deaf as well as
  stupid?"

  Pettigrew muttered something under his breath.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said I think you still fancy him!" Pettigrew burst out. "You don't want to see
  him hurt, no matter how much you say you hate him. Shit! Why don't you just powder
  his bum for him now, make sure he's--"

  There was a brisk, sharp sound, like a slap, and Pettigrew's words ended in a gasp.

  "You shut your mouth," Black said. His voice was low and dangerous. "You hear me?
  Shut it, or I'll shut it for you."

  There was a very long silence.

  Finally, Lupin cleared his throat. "Look, Sirius, why don't we just let him go?
  You've had your revenge. Even you seem to think he's been punished enough. Why do we
  need to -- to do the rest?"

  "Because he deserves it," Black said flatly. "Because I want him punished in the
  right way."

  More silence.

  "Look, I'm not going soft on the little prick, if that's what you lot think," Black
  said. "I just don't want him distracted, by pain or anything else. I want him to
  enjoy this." Another exquisitely soft stroke across Severus's bottom, tender,
  feather-light. "It'll drive him crazy if he enjoys it."

  "Then let's do it," Potter said.

  Severus saw the legs cluster together behind him once more. He felt Pettigrew's
  hands on his ass again, spreading him, holding him open. He felt Potter's fingers
  poking at his hole, smearing something thick and sticky over and then into it. He
  caught a faint, sweet odor he knew but couldn't quite place, until Black's earlier
  words came back to him and he put the pieces together. Tonight the sacred honey pot
  is reserved exclusively for our friend Snuffles.

  Honey. It was honey Potter was spreading inside him and all over him, sticky
  sweetness coating him from the top of his cleft to the base of his balls. Not lube.
  Of course not. He was already slick with the oil Black had conjured inside him, and
  honey was too sticky to be a decent lubricant, anyway. Not lube, but bait. A sweet
  little treat for their mysterious four-legged friend.

  Dogs did so love their sweets.

  Severus closed his eyes. It was true, then. It was not a joke, not a scare tactic,
  not a bad dream. It was going to happen, and there was nothing he could do to stop
  it. Curiously, now that he had accepted the truth of the situation, he felt no
  panic, no horror. Only the rage, burning in the pit of his stomach, hammering dully
 at the base of his skull.                                                             

  "Snape." Black's voice; Severus felt a slight tug on his hair. He couldn't lift his
  head at all now, not in this position, but he turned it as far as he could,
  defiantly ignoring the strain on his neck and shoulders. Black was crouched beside
  him, and they locked eyes, face-to-face. "I'm going to go get Snuffles now. I want
  you to meet him. He's a smart dog, and a good dog, and I think you're going to like
  him. Especially when he starts to eat."

  He smirked, obviously looking for a reaction. Severus just stared back coldly,
  keeping his face as bland and still as possible. The smirk faltered, then faded;
  when Black resumed speaking, he sounded cheated and furious.

  "And when he starts fucking you, I want you to remember that you asked for this. You
  were the one who had to go and fuck things up, you two-faced bastard, and you're
  getting just what you deserve."

  He grabbed Severus's face in both hands and kissed him, tongue plunging in, fingers
  clenched in the long black hair. Severus was too startled even to bite.

  It wasn't a long kiss, but it was intense. Hard. Deep. Desperate. Severus got a
  single clear thought from him -- You stupid Slytherin, why did you have to go and
  ruin it all?-- and then Black pulled away. He released his grip on Severus almost
  violently, as if he'd discovered he was holding a poisonous spider or snake, and
  stood. His legs and feet disappeared from Severus's limited view, and Severus was
  left with his mouth tingling and his mind racing and his heart pounding, waiting for
  his ordeal to begin.

  As with most things, the waiting was the worst part.

  He held himself as still as possible, listening for anything -- the creak of the
  door, perhaps, or the rusty release of a cage he hadn't seen earlier -- that might
  signal the dog's appearance on the scene. His skin rippled into gooseflesh; his
  nipples tightened; his muscles knotted and relaxed and knotted again. Now that the
  overwhelming pain of the strapping was gone, he became aware of other, lesser
  discomforts produced by his intensely awkward position. His back ached. His
  shoulders ached. The muscles in his thighs trembled and burned, and his wrists and
  ankles felt raw. Tension only made these small hurts worse, and he tried to relax as
  he peered through the human legs behind him, looking for the dog and not seeing it,
  still nursing a flicker of hope that somehow, somehow, he would be spared this
  ultimate degradation.

  He saw it no more than twenty, maybe thirty, seconds before it began to lick him. He
  couldn't see its head, but the bits he could see were the mismatched parts of a
  mongrel -- slender, silky legs topped by a shaggy barrel chest -- and a laugh,
  bitter and half-hysterical, welled up in his throat. The least they could have done
  was provide a pedigreed animal to rape him, instead of some mangy mutt off the
  street.

  It padded softly across the scarred stones, moving toward him; an instant later, he
  felt it burrow between his ass cheeks, all wet, questing nose and velvety muzzle. It
  nuzzled and sniffed, whining softly; the nose pushed deeper, and Severus jumped. It
  was a very cold, wet, questing nose.

  The first lick was light and rather tentative. The dog whined again, the sound
  muffled between Severus's buttocks, and Severus blushed fiercely. He was sweating
  again, and he knew the dog was reacting as much to the hot, musky scent of him, the
  taste of him, as it was to the sweetness slathered over his flesh.

  The boy's salty taste was delicious mixed with the intense sweetness of the honey,
  and immediately, the dog wanted more.It swabbed its tongue along the twitching
  crack, following its nose inexorably to the place where the boy-smell was strongest.
  Oh, and there was more sweet here, too, and the dog sought it eagerly, pushing
  harder with its tongue, trying to dig out every scrap.

  The tongue was wetter and bigger than a human tongue; it was rougher, too, and the
  slight friction felt marvelous on such delicate skin. The friction turned to warmth,
  the warmth to heat; the heat spread to his balls, and they swelled obligingly,
  feeding his hardening prick. He tightened his thighs until they trembled, clenched
  his ass until the muscles ached, trying to repel the relentless invasion, but his
  efforts only seemed to inflame the dog more -- it gave another little whine and
  licked even harder.

  The hole was so small! The dog could barely get its tongue in, and not nearly as
  deep as it wanted. It wished it could use its teeth, make the hole bigger, but it
  didn't want to hurt the boy. The boy was getting excited, making more of that mount-
  mesmell with every lick, and the dog didn't want him to stop. He tasted too good.

  It did wish the boy would stop moving, though, and it nipped lightly at the
  squirming rounds of flesh hugging its muzzle, growling again in a gentle warning.

  Severus didn't flinch. The tiny nip didn't hurt, nor did it frighten him. He knew
  the dog didn't want to harm him. He knew the dog only wanted--

  He stopped squirming and stared wide-eyed in the dog's direction, his battle between
  horror and arousal suddenly forgotten.

  He knew what the dog was thinking.

  How did he know what the dog was thinking?

  He didn't know how he knew -- but he did. Perhaps thinking was too grand a term for
  the simple, wordless impressions he was getting, primitive wants and needs and
  intentions and reactions, but he was getting them nevertheless. Powerful urges.
  Primal emotions. Hunger. Pleasure. Frustration. Confusion.

  Lust.

  The dog was worrying at the boy's hole now, plunging its tongue as deep as it would
  go, working it steadily inward with short, firm strokes. The tantalizing sweetness
  was almost all gone, but the smell of sex, thetasteof it, was stronger than ever.
  The smell was male, which was wrong, and tinged with a slight, sour tang of fear,
  but it called to the dog powerfully just the same.

  It hadto get in there.

  The tongue felt like it was attacking him now, the strokes harder and faster,
  frantic and ruthless. Severus was shaking all over, his hips jerking in time with
  every rasping lick: his senses were heightened by fear, and his inability to move or
  even speak allowed him no release, intensifying every sensation. The velvety muzzle
  caressed the insides of his buttocks; the soft chuffing of its breath tickled the
  tiny hairs around his hole. Occasionally, the dog's excitement overcame it and it
  nipped at the resisting flesh in frustration, but even that was intensely exciting,
  the points of its teeth just grazing his skin, the slightest pinch of pain to
  balance the warm, wet pleasure.

  It was disgusting. It was alien. It was incredible.

  He felt his body responding and he fought it, trying to retreat to his room again,
  the safe room in his mind that had protected him so many times before. But it was
  much harder to escape pleasure than pain, he discovered -- his body didn't want to
  escape this, no matter who or what was causing it, no matter what his head thought
  of the situation.

  The dog licked and nipped and nuzzled and probed until the boy was shuddering and
  panting much like a dog himself, breathing in silent, shallow bursts. The dog licked
  until all traces of the honey were gone -- then it sniffed around, looking for other
  tasty parts.

  It found his cock rather quickly.

  What was this stuff? Juicy. Slick. Oozing out of the boy's sex thing. It smelled
  good as well, musky and even saltier than the rest of the boy, and the dog's tongue
  slipped out again, eager to taste.

  Gasping, shaking, blinking sweat out of his eyes, Severus got his first look at the
  whole animal -- big, black, and square -- as the beast ducked its head between his
  spread legs. It nosed his balls, lapping up the last traces of honey, then sniffed
  briefly at his prick. The head of his cock was leaking profusely, and the dog looked
  almost comically surprised at the trickle of fluid suddenly wetting its muzzle. It
  sneezed; then it licked its muzzle and looked straight at him, a low growl of
  pleasure rumbling in its chest.

  Severus would have sworn it was grinning at him.

  The dog licked its nose again. Delicious. It licked the tip of the boy's thing.
  Oh!Verydelicious. Here, the scents of salt and musk and pleasantly bitter male rut
  were joined by a new smell, rich and sweet and more enticing than any of them.
  Blood. The boy's sex-thing was swollen with it, bulging with it, pulsing with it.
  The dog could hear it rushing back and forth just under the skin, and it fought back
  the overwhelming urge to bite down, to tear into the tender flesh, to rip and chew.
  It didn't want to hurt the boy. It wanted to mount the boy, even though his smell
  and taste were so male and so wrong, and the boy might not allow it if the dog hurt
  him first.

  Severus shook his head frantically back and forth, long hair sweeping the floor, as
  he watched the dog nuzzle and mouth his cock. The long pink tongue stroked over the
  head, and Severus's thighs jerked as if on a string.If it does much more of that, he
  thought jaggedly,I'm going to faint like some goosy virgin girl.And just as if the
  dog was getting his thoughts as well, the damned mutt did it again.

  The dog had found the source of the tasty juices, and it licked them away as fast as
  it could. But the boy's sex-thing wouldn't stop moving; it swayed and swung and
  bobbed maddeningly away from the dog's tongue at every stroke. The dog growled in
  frustration. It wished it could just put the boy on his back, trap the mean, teasing
  thingbetween its paws, and lap until the delicious juices stopped flowing.

  Severus heard the growl, understood the dog's frustration -- and he was grateful for
  it. The sporadic swipes of the dog's tongue across the head of his prick were
  intense and exciting, but the movement of his cock prevented the kind of relentless
  pressure and rhythm it had used on his...well, on other parts of him, and he thanked
  the gods for it. It was the only reason he wasn't coming like a geyser all over the
  mutt's furry face.

  Tired of the futile chase, the dog chuffed impatiently and took the boy's thing in
  its mouth. Took it gently, as carefully as it would have taken the scruff of a pup's
  neck between its jaws, and not deep -- just the round, wet knob at the end rested on
  its tongue. It closed its mouth just enough to hold the head still and began to lick
  again, fueled as much by triumph at its own cleverness as it was by hunger and sex.

  Severus saw his cock slip into the dog's mouth. Panic gripped him and he began to
  struggle -- until he felt the big tongue sweeping over the head in hard, fast
  strokes, and he shuddered, seized, and came, so suddenly he hardly had time to cry
  out.

  Then he fainted.

  The dog got the first burst in the back of its throat and swallowed it easily,
  intrigued by this newest taste, and by the way the boy's thing jumped around on its
  tongue; it licked harder, faster, coaxing the gushing spray. Even when the boy's
  fear smell spiked, and his thing stopped spitting and went soft and boneless between
  its jaws, the dog kept licking, swabbing up every trace of that taste it could find,
  drawing out every last one of the tremors it could feel just under the boy's skin.

  Severus came back to consciousness with a jolt. An unpleasant jolt. Someone was
  touching him. He squirmed away from the touch, but he was tied or frozen or
  petrified or something,and he could hardly move at all. He opened his mouth to
  protest -- Lucius, gods damn it, stop, you know how I hate that-- and then he
  remembered.

  The dog.

  The dog had licked him until he came. The dog wasstill licking him, and now the
  contact was unbearable. Severus had always been extremely sensitive after an orgasm;
  he could never stand so much as a fingertip stroking him, let alone a warm, wet
  tongue caressing him from root to tip. His body twitched and writhed, his arms and
  legs went spastic; he fought frantically to escape, pulling at his restraints,
  lifting his hips as high as the strap across his back would allow. Which wasn't very
  high at all.

  Oh, gods, it wastorture! It was tickling fingers on the soles of your feet, it was
  the itch deep in a healing bone, it was maddening and unreachable and unstoppable.

  No, he tried to moan. Please -- gods -- stop -- no more --He knew the dog couldn't
  hear him, and he knew it wouldn't have understood him even if it could, but he
  simply couldn't help it. This was too much to bear.

  The dog registered the boy's distress immediately. It smelled the boy's rising
  panic, heard his racing heartbeat, tasted the sweat of his fear. It knew it should
  stop, it knew the boy was no longer enjoying its attentions, but it couldn't. The
  dog was excited now as well, as much by the boy's useless struggles as by the
  creamy, soft, sweatythingit still held loosely in its mouth, and it couldn't stop
  until the boy was ready for it again, wanting it again, and smelling once more of
  heat and lust and surrender.

  Sobs welled up from his belly. Chills coursed along his spine. His balls throbbed as
  they filled again, long before they were ready, and his cock gave a weary lurch and
  began to harden painfully once more.

  The dog licked the boy's thing until it was firm again, pulsing and plump again with
  the boy's sweet blood. Instinct kicked in then, and the dog let the boy's thing slip
  from its mouth with a regretful whimper. It backed out from under him, giving him
  teasing little licks here and there along the way.

  Severus watched the dog's retreat with wide eyes. He watched it rise up on its hind
  legs behind him and just glimpsed its erection, jabbing at the air like a red
  exclamation point. It was an impressive glimpse; it was a big dog.

  Then the heavy paws landed on his back, the long, blunt nails raked painlessly over
  his skin as the dog scrabbled for balance, and the shaft thrust deep into him. There
  was no head to stretch him as there was on a human cock, and his body offered no
  resistance, taking the invasion effortlessly.

  Shock closed over him like a shroud. Dark. Cold.

  I'm being fucked by a dog, he thought, and the thought was remote and emotionless,
  as if it came from someone else's head. I'm being fucked by a dog. I'm being fucked
  by a dog.He thought it over and over, and gods help him, he couldn't seem to think
  anything else.

  And had he actually believed he was prepared for this? That he could hide behind his
  anger and his visions of revenge and survive this, this...abomination?

  Severus ran for the room in his mind.

  Bitch oh sweet hot tight bitch greedy sucking little boycunt shuddering all around
  its cock demanding more thrusting back offering his heat mount me hump me take me
  those little thrusts were saying oh I'm so hot I want it you more please

  The dog's thoughts were lust-muddled mind-babble; its thrusts were fast and frantic.
  Its balls slapped his ass. Its lolling tongue dripped saliva on his back. Its
  loathsome cock seemed to grow bigger inside him, swelling as it sawed in and out.
  His own prick was stiff again as well, and it bounced against his belly with a meaty
  thwap! every time the dog's shaft raked over his prostate.

  Severus felt none of it. His body did, and it would feel the soreness and such the
  next day, but the realSeverus, the essential Severus he carried in his own head, was
  far away from it all. He was in his room, and this time the door was not just locked
  but blocked, barred, and bolted.

  Sweet sweet tight tight tight hot sweet BITCH--

  The dog gave a brief howl and drove as deeply into Severus as it could, the force of
  its climax curving its spine. It froze, shuddered, and came.

  Though he didn't realize it at the moment, Severus came, too.

  ************************************************************************************

  "Snape."

  He didn't pass out this time, but he did close his eyes.

  "Snape."

  Severus heard nothing. It was taking him a long time to come back to reality, longer
  than it ever had before. A frighteningly long time. The room in his head had gone
  dark this time as well as small, and his hands scrabbled blindly over the mental
  door's surface, seeking the locks and bolts he'd engaged in sheer panic just moments
  before. A different kind of panic was surfacing now as he fumbled and pulled and
  pushed, all to no avail. Oh, gods, it was happening. What he had always dreaded,
  what he had always feared. He was trapped here. He would never get out. He would go
  insane.

  "Snape!"

  The voice roared into his head, slicing through his chorusing thoughts; at the same
  instant, Severus felt his mental hand close over something cold and hard on the door
  and twist. The door fell open abruptly, spilling him back into reality.

  Some reality, anyway.

  He blinked around him dazedly. Everything was different now. The stone walls and
  floor were gone, plain, worn wood planking in their place. There was no trace of the
  dog. There was no trace of Potter or Pettigrew or Lupin. The scaffold was gone, too,
  no longer supporting or restraining him. Severus didn't remember its disappearing,
  but it must have done so: he was now lying on the floor.

  He struggled to sit up. The shift of his body sent the dog's seed, slimy and still
  hot, gushing out of him, and he leaned up on one elbow and vomited. Everything came
  up in hard spasms until there was nothing left to give and he was wracked by dry
  heaves. He retched until tears stood in his eyes and his throat burned and his belly
  ached; then he collapsed back on the floor, sliding away from the mess, wrapping his
  naked arms around his legs and drawing his knees up to his chin. He couldn't stop
  shivering.

  "Jesus Christ, Snape, what'swrongwith you?"

  Now Black sounded scared. Severus didn't care. Black muttered a short spell, and the
  mess on the floor disappeared; he muttered another, and Severus was dressed again,
  his nightshirt back in place. He couldn't quite bring himself to be grateful.

  "Here." Black's hand, in front of his face. It held a glass of water. "Drink this."

  The water looked wonderful. His throat was raw, and his mouth tasted vile. He lifted
  a trembling hand. He took the glass, drew it to his lips -- then stopped, caught by
  the look on Black's face.

  Twenty years later, standing beside Sirius Black's grave on a bright December night,
  Severus would wonder how different all that followed might have been, had he really
  seen that look, seen it and recognized it for the guilty, shamed, self-loathing look
  it was. But at that moment, he was in no condition to see it; at that moment, all he
  saw was disgust.

  You bastard,he thought, and the anger that flooded him brought him strength. My sick
  convulsions disgust you, do they? I wonder howyou'ddo down here, you fuck. I wonder
  how you'd do with some mongrel's drool drying on your back and its come running out
  of your arse.

  He flung the water, glass and all, back in Black's face. Black ducked with less than
  an inch to spare, but the expression on his face changed instantly, and it was
  priceless: total, speechless, white-as-parchment shock.

  "Stay away from me," Severus said. He barely recognized his own voice, raspy from
  disuse and shaking with unshed tears. Those tears were perilously close, but he
  would not, absolutely fucking would not, cry in front of Sirius Black. Not now, nor
  ever again. "Just...just stay away."

  He lurched to his feet and staggered toward the door. He wanted to run, but his legs
  weren't anywhere near steady enough; he had to settle for a shambling, stumbling
  walk. He was almost there when a fierce cramp bit into his right thigh. He dropped
  to one knee, pounding the floor in frustration, the tears -- they felt nearly
  hysterical at this point -- closer than ever.

  It didn't matter, anyway. Black had easily beaten him to the door and was now
  blocking it, his arms folded, his wand in hand. The shock was gone from his face; it
  had been replaced with something Severus couldn't quite name, though it looked
  insultingly close to amusement. "You have no wand, you don't know where you are, and
  you can barely walk. How, exactly, do you think you're going to get out of here?"

  "Get out of my way."

  Black didn't move.

  "Gods damn you, move!"

  "No. I'll take you back. I can't have you running about the halls by yourself. Not
  like this. It would raise too many questions."

  Severus lunged. Black's wand went flying as he threw up his hands to block the
  attack. Severus landed on him and they fell to the floor, rolling and punching and
  fighting furiously. Not once during their struggle did it occur to Severus to try
  and retrieve the wand; he was half-mad with grief and rage and shock, and such
  practical thoughts were well beyond him.

  Fortunately for him, it never occurred to Black, either.

  They rolled again. Somehow Severus ended up on top, his knee between Black's legs,
  his hands around Black's throat. He squeezed. He felt no triumph as he saw Black's
  eyes bulge and his face grow dark, only a desperate, hopeful relief. Just a bit
  more, he told himself.Just a bit more and he'll have to let go, just a bit more and
  you'll be free.

  Black's eyes were losing focus; the hands clawing frantically at Severus's wrists
  were slowing, weakening. Black's face was nearly purple, and a thin, whistling sound
  issued from his lips, a sound remarkably like the whine of an excited dog.

  Just a little bit more--

  Another cramp seized him. His thigh muscles knotted again, the pain sudden and sharp
  and sickening, and his grip faltered -- only for a moment, but it was all the time
  Black needed. He grabbed Severus's wrists and squeezed until the small bones ground
  together, until Severus hissed and let go of the Gryffindor's throat. They rolled
  yet again, and then Severus was beneath the bigger boy, his wrists pinned to the
  floor on either side of his head.

  Pinned. Trapped.

  Strangely, he felt no fear. A peculiar numbness crept over him as he stared up into
  Black's furious crazed face, a lethargic calm as dangerous as it was false. His
  thoughts floated out and away from him, drifting lazily back and forth, and he had a
  powerful urge to simply curl up in a ball, close his eyes, and let Black do what he
  would.

  Only one thought came to him with any substance or clarity, and it was a question,
  the question that had been gnawing at him since this nightmare began. Perhaps it was
  a lifeline some deeper part of him threw to his wandering mind, a distraction, a
  chance to find some reason amidst the chaos. Or perhaps it was simply his nature,
  and his instinctive, abiding hatred of not knowing the answer, any answer, to
  anything.

  "Why?" he whispered.

  Black jerked in surprise. There was no confusion in his eyes -- he seemed to know
  exactly what Severus was asking in that one anguished word -- and no more anger,
  just stark, slack-jawed astonishment. His mouth worked in silence for a few seconds
  before any words managed to get out. "Are you fucking joking?"

  Severus shook his head.

  Black's eyes swept over Severus's face, fierce and searching. His surprised
  expression faltered, then crumbled, and now there was no mistaking the look he wore:
  it was horror. Severus actually saw the blood drain from his face.

  That's probably how Ilooked when they told me I was going to be fucked by a dog, he
  thought. For no more than a heartbeat or two, all of the emotions he'd suffered on
  this long, terrible night -- the fear and the revulsion and the helpless, bewildered
  rage -- came back to him and penetrated his eerie calm. His stomach heaved again,
  and his hands balled into fists. Then the storm passed.

  Black let him go and pulled away.

  Warily, Severus lifted his head. Black was sitting up, a foot or so away, still
  staring at him with that same sick wonder. "Oh, shit," he said, and his voice
  sounded weary and weak. "You're notjoking, are you? You really don'tknow." He
  scrubbed a heavy hand over his eyes. "Oh, bloody fucking hell."

  Severus frowned. He didn't know what Black was talking about. He hadn'tknown what
  Black was talking about all night, and this answer was just as incomprehensible as
  the rest of the Gryffindor's blatherings had been.

  Fuck the answer,his logic voice said coldly. Just get out of here.

  Severus swiped the hair from his eyes and backed away on all fours, until his butt
  hit the door and he could go no farther. Black made no move to stop him. "Let me
  go," Severus whispered. It was not a threat; he told himself it was not a plea.

  Black said nothing.

  Severus turned and pressed his forehead to the door. He was shaking again, shaking
  so hard his teeth chattered, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. He drew in
  great, whooping gasps of air that sounded and felt like sobs, but none of it seemed
  to reach his lungs. They ached. They burned. His vision blurred, and his head
  pounded. It was terrifying. It was also funny as hell: he had had his hands around
  Black's throat, and he was the one who was going to suffocate.

  "Stop it." Black sounded scared again. "What are you doing? What the fuck is wrong
  with you? Stop doing that! Just breathe, for Christ's sake!"

  As if he wasn't trying.

  Panic rising in his throat, uncaring of what Black might do, Severus got to his
  knees and clawed at the doorknob. It turned with unexpected ease, and the door
  opened so abruptly that he fell forward across the threshold.

  "No -- wait -- gods damn it, Snape, stop!"

  Severus scrambled through the opening, trying to get to his feet -- his thigh was
  still cramping horribly -- and move forward at the same time. He felt Black's hand
  close around his ankle and he kicked, ignoring the pain knifing through his leg as
  his foot connected with the top of Black's head. Black uttered a low groan; the
  fingers around Severus's ankle went limp, and Severus slid forward on his belly
  until he was completely out of the room.

  The hall in which he found himself was unfamiliar, but it was typical Hogwarts: worn
  wood floors, ornate statuary, abysmal paintings of sleeping wizards and witches and
  knights and ladies fair. The drab normalcy of it all grounded him somewhat, and the
  panic eased its tight hold on him. His thoughts cleared; his trembling lessened; he
  found he could breathe again, and he did so in huge, grateful gulps, lying on his
  belly in the middle of gods-knew-where.

  Black did not come after him. Perhaps he was knocked out. Perhaps he was even dead.
  Perhaps, in other circumstances, Severus would have actually cared enough to check.

  For now, he just ran.

  ********************************************************************************

  He didn't know, then or later, how long he ran; it could have been an hour, or two,
  or three, and it was a miracle he didn't get caught. At first, he ran blindly,
  stumbling and sometimes falling, blundering into dead-end walls, making turns and
  descending stairs in an unthinking, unseeing panic: the sheer physical need to put
  as much distance between himself and what had happened overwhelmed any sense of
  logic or caution. He ran until exhaustion took over and forced him to stop,
  collapsing against the nearest wall for support, a hot stitch in his side and knives
  in legs that threatened to buckle and spill him to the ground with his next step.
  His breathing was ragged and harsh, and it sounded shockingly loud in the sleeping
  school.

  He still had no idea where he was.

  He armed sweat from his forehead and closed his eyes, trying to think. It was hard -
  - his brain was still in flight mode, screaming at him to forget all this thinking
  nonsense and just move, but he forced the impulse back and concentrated. After a
  moment, it came to him. No, he didn't know where he was, but his sense of direction
  had always been keen, and it told him the dungeons were north of here, and down. If
  he kept moving in that general direction, he would, sooner or later, find the
  Slytherin dorms. Like as not, it would be later rather than sooner, but it was what
  it was; it would have to do.

  He pushed himself away from the wall and walked on. His panicked flight was behind
  him, and he moved much more slowly now, but with just as little caution; the same
  listless blankness he had felt earlier had dropped over him again, robbing him of
  his usual stealth. His steps were clumsy, plodding, tired; his thoughts were dull
  and disjointed. By the time he reached the door to the Slytherin common room, he was
  in a very real state of shock.

  You need to wash first,a voice said in his head -- it was not the logic voice; this
  one came from somewhere much deeper. Severus nodded complacently. Yes. All right.
  Washing...washing was a good idea.

  He turned away from the common room entrance and headed back the way he had come,
  around the corner to the prefects' bathroom. Rudolpho Lestrange had told him the
  password. Good old Rudolpho. One of his Slytherin fuck-buddies, as Black would say.

  He entered the bath. It was a luxurious room, elegant in its dcor, almost decadent
  in its appointments. The tiles underfoot were silky-smooth and always the perfect
  temperature, never too hot or too cold; towels as thick as quilts were piled high on
  shelves that floated toward one at the wave of a hand. A sunken tub the size of a
  small swimming pool took up most of the center of the room and featured a dozen or
  so jeweled taps that would, at a touch, spew forth everything from multicolored
  bubbles to creamy foam. Severus had never been in the prefects' bath before, but
  that tub looked uncomfortably familiar. He frowned, his foggy, shock-numbed brain
  reaching for the connection. After a moment, it came. The Malfoys had a tub like
  that, and he and Lucius had shared it any number of times. Lucius had, in fact,
  taken his virginity in it.

  Good old Lucius. Another one of his Slytherin fuck buddies. Just a right regular old
  fuck-buddy magnet, aren't you, Severus? he asked himself, and uttered a crazy laugh.


  There was a large painting of a mermaid on the far wall. It was a magical painting,
  but the creature it depicted was like no mermaid that Severus had ever seen; she was
  a strictly Muggle concoction of golden hair and porcelain skin and melon breasts.
  She was dozing when he came in, but as Severus walked past, her eyes fluttered open
  and batted a sleepy invitation.

  "Why, hello, little one," she trilled. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

  Severus scarcely heard her. He skirted the tub and headed for the bank of frosted
  glass-and-gold stalls along the rear wall. He didn't want bubbles, he didn't want
  foam, and he certainly didn't want to flirt with some painted tart. What he wanted
  was water as hot as he could stand it and soap strong enough to take off a layer of
  flesh or two. He had never felt so dirty in his life -- if he could have shed his
  skin, he would have done so without a second thought.

  He didn't consciously think these thoughts, of course; it was instinct urging him
  on. Telling him to wash. Telling him he needed to feel clean again.

  He stepped into the first stall and stripped out of his nightshirt, hanging it
  carefully on a hook outside the door. The mermaid oooh'ed appreciatively.

  "My, my, my," she purred. "Not-so-little one, I see."

  He ignored her and turned the tap. The showers were as charmed as the rest of the
  room's appointments, and the water temperature was a perfect ninety-eight-point-six.
  He hardly felt it touch his skin.

  Hotter, he thought at the faucet, and it obeyed the wandless, wordless command
  instantly. Steam rose around him, and he basked in it, stretching like a cat; the
  hot water felt like heaven on his strained and battered body, and for long moments
  he simply stood beneath it, lifting his face to the spray, letting it run slippery
  fingers through his hair.

  It was heaven -- but it wasn't enough. He still felt dirty. Horribly dirty. He could
  still feel the dog's tongue on him, the dog's cock in him, the dog's come spilling
  out of his body. He could still feel Pettigrew's touch, loathsome and crude. And
  Potter's, disturbingly sexy.

  A bar of soap lay in a gaudy gold dish mounted to the wall, and he grabbed it and
  began scrubbing himself furiously. He soaped and rinsed and soaped and rinsed again,
  every inch of his body, inside and out, until his skin felt raw and glowed so pink
  it looked boiled. The stinging heat brought to mind the strapping Potter and
  Pettigrew had given him, and that brought to mind all the rest. His shell-shocked
  calm shattered, and the tears that had been threatening for hours welled up and out
  of him. This time, he made no effort to hold them back.

  It was like opening a floodgate. The tears became sobs, enormous wracking sobs that
  seemed to rip their way out of him and bounce around the vast room in taunting
  echoes. He dropped the soap and slid slowly down the wall, laying his head on his
  drawn-up knees, shivering again in spite of the steamy spray. He wept as he hadn't
  wept since he was a child, tears he had refused to shed during countless beatings
  and curses and humiliating attacks pouring out of him; he let them come, let the
  storm roar through him and take him where it wished.

  It had taken years to store up so much grief; he supposed he could spare a few
  minutes to release it.

  Finally, it was over. The sobs quieted to small, watery hitches, then fell off
  altogether. Severus lifted his head from his knees, looking around him with a new
  awareness. The crying jag hadn't magically cured or cleansed him, but it had washed
  away that foggy cloud over his thoughts. He knew where he was. He knew what had
  happened.

  Oh, gods, what hadhappened.

  Slowly, he climbed to his feet and shut off the tap. He plucked a towel from one of
  the hovering shelves and dried himself thoroughly, gingerly -- his skin was a bit
  raw from the over-enthusiastic scrubbing he had given it. He pulled the nightshirt
  over his head and stepped out of the stall.

  The mermaid was still awake, and she was looking at him with an expression he didn't
  care for much.

  "Poor little one," she said again, but this time there was no giggling or coquettish
  fin-waving with her words. Her pretty eyes were somber, and a sad little smile
  curved her lips. "Poor, sad, lost little boy."

  Severus felt his face flame. Pity was bad enough from a living, breathing person;
  pity from a painting was untenable, both cruel and absurd. He opened his mouth to
  insult her, then stopped. What could he say? She knew the truth. She had seen him
  naked in more ways than one.

  He left the bathroom without looking at her again.

  ********************************************************************************

  Back in his own bed, with the covers pulled up to his chin and every ward he could
  think of securely in place, he burned.

  Perhaps there was something to that old adage about the cathartic effects of tears.
  His shock was gone; his thoughts were clear and precise again, and singularly
  focused. He did not allow himself to think about what they had done to him. His
  shame and horror and that odd, bewildered grief were still there, but he refused to
  feel them. He locked them away in the back of his mind, not sparing them a second
  thought. Anger was all he allowed himself to feel. Anger, and hate. To feel anything
  else was to revisit this night again and again, and if he did that, he really would
  go insane.

  So he burned.

  They would pay. With their own fear, their own shame, with their blood and their
  most bitter tears. With their lives, if Severus could manage it. And he guessed he
  could manage it rather neatly -- with the proper assistance, of course.

  With their fucking lives.

  He did not sleep. At dawn he rose and crept silently to the Owlery. He sent Lucius a
  message. It was only two words, but he had no doubt Lucius would understand it
  perfectly.

  The Dark Lord had promised him many things, but Severus wanted only one. Revenge.
  And he would have it, with only two words.

  I'm ready, it said.
***** The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 7 *****
The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 7




  Chapter Seven - Communion

  Saturday - Sunday, 23 - 24 April, 1977

  "My Lord, I trust you remember my friend Severus. Severus Snape."

  Lord Voldemort's lips drew up in an appreciative smirk. As he had at their
  previous meeting, young Snape had made an obvious effort to impress, and he
  had succeeded. The makeover Malfoy had done on him was truly remarkable. In
  handsome silver-grey robes that set off his black eyes and creamy skin, his
  hair a glossy dark sheet halfway down his back, the boy bore no trace of
  the greasy, unkempt little ragamuffin Voldemort had so often seen in
  Hogsmeade, trailing Lucius and his friends like a sullen shadow.

  The young wizard spoke, formally and precisely. "I am most honored to
  attend you again, my Lord."

  Despite his obvious trepidation, his voice was steady. It was also
  extremely sexy -- far sexier than Voldemort had realized in the din of the
  Hog's Head. Very deep, very cultured, somehow silky and throaty at the same
  time. He felt an unexpected surge of heat in his cock. Voldemort himself
  had a rather high voice -- it was one of the few things about himself that
  he actively disliked -- and he was attracted to men who could turn a single
  word into something thrilling and erotic.

  "You honor me as well, young Severus." He matched the formality, if not the
  gorgeous timbre. "As I expect you will continue to do."

  "Yes, my Lord. My heart is so pledged."

  "Very good." Voldemort moved a step closer, studying him clinically,
  appraisingly, as if seeing him for the first time. Very nice, he thought;
  very nice.His first impressions in the pub had not been off. The boy's face
  was not handsome -- the nose was too long, too hooked, and out-of-
  proportion to the rest -- but it was exotic and arresting. The intelligent
  forehead, strong jaw, and high, slanting cheekbones spoke of good blood,
  pure blood, and the black eyes smoldered beneath silky arched brows. And
  that hair: silky too, almost blue in its blackness, spilling lush and
  unfettered over the pale sheen of his robes. Whore's hair, Voldemort
  thought, and he felt another surprising throb in his groin as he imagined
  plunging his hands into that hair even as he plunged into the boy's warm
  and willing flesh.

  Or maybe not-so-willing, but that was all right, too. Sometimes, it was
  even better than all right.

  He reached out one hand and stroked the younger wizard's cheek gently, and
  he could feel Severus unconsciously tense under that touch. He stroked
  again, even more gently, silently urging the boy to relax -- then hooked
  his fingers into claws and ripped the fine new robes open from neck to
  knees.

  Lucius had counseled him well: he wore nothing underneath.

  Startled by the sudden violence, Severus gave a little gasp, staring wide-
  eyed and trembling at the older man. The trembling increased when Voldemort
  murmured again and Severus felt invisible ropes catch at his slender
  wrists, binding them tightly behind his back.

  "Are you frightened, child?" Voldemort smiled, but it was not a comforting
  smile. He smiled as though the prospect of the boy's fear pleased him
  immensely.

  "I...I..." Snape stammered.

  "Do not bother to deny it, Severus. It is self-evident, and quite as it
  should be."

  Despite the vague threat in his words, his touch was still gentle as he
  stroked the boy's chest, calming him, taking in his exposed body with
  greedy red eyes. He decided he liked it, too. Clothed, the young wizard
  looked too lanky, too thin, but stripped bare he was revealed to be very
  lean but very hard, all smooth, lithe muscle. The skin was smooth also,
  most gloriously so, and Voldemort enjoyed touching it, running his hands
  lightly over shoulders and sides, hard nipples and flat, heaving stomach,
  fingers just grazing the thick dark hair curled below.

  It was quickly apparent that Severus enjoyed it as well; with his robes
  hanging open, it was impossible for him to conceal his arousal. Even if one
  could ever conceal anything from the Dark Lord.

  "You have a lovely cock, child," Voldemort told him softly, smiling as the
  boy blushed. He ran a slow finger down the hardened shaft, pressing along
  the pulsing vein, and Severus gave a faint little cry, shivering all over.
  "So very big. So very hard. I like it very much." Voldemort's smile widened
  as his leisurely, feather-light touches wrested more shivers and a low,
  restless moan. "You blush at my touch, at my words, but you like it too,
  don't you? You know how very nice it is, don't you?"

  Eyes half-closed, Severus swallowed and nodded.

  "Tell me, then," Voldemort crooned. He leaned in, his lips very close to
  the younger wizard's ear, his warm breath provoking more of those delicious
  little tremors. "Tell me. Say `I like my cock.'"

  "I --I --" His blush grew hotter as he stammered over the words.

  "Say it, child." Voldemort's stroking finger made another slow pass down
  the throbbing prick, pausing at the glistening tip. He thumbed it in tiny
  circles, slowly spreading the lips of the slit, pressing in gently, and the
  younger wizard groaned, his hips arching in a single, convulsive thrust.

  "I like my cock." The words tumbled from him in a silky gasp.

  "`I like my big, beautiful cock.'"

  "I...oh, gods, I..."

  The thumb was rubbing a bit more firmly now, and speech was obviously
  becoming difficult for him. Voldemort's smile widened once more. It was a
  cold, predatory smile, and had Severus Snape seen it, his ripe desire would
  have fled him in a heartbeat. But the soft touches had him bucking
  rhythmically, swaying slightly on his feet, his eyes shut tight to better
  savor the sensations, and he saw nothing of the chill in that smile.

  "Say it, Severus," Voldemort whispered, hissing the words. "I want to hear
  it, and I'm afraid I am losing patience with you."

  To accentuate the point, he gave the velvety flesh beneath his fingers a
  delicate pinch. It was verydelicate, hardly more than a tweak, really, but,
  given where it was granted and the state the younger wizard was in, it
  certainly made an impact. Severus cried out, eyes flying open to stare at
  the Dark Lord with a mixture of dazed arousal and shock. "I like my b-big,
  beautiful cock."

  "Very good, child! Very good." Voldemort spoke soothingly, resuming his
  caresses, matching his touch to his tone. The young wizard's eyes slipped
  closed again as he was petted and pleasured, and Voldemort gazed at him
  affectionately. So tender he was, so responsive...he did so love the young
  ones. "But wrong, I'm afraid." And he clamped his bony hand tight around
  the boy's member and squeezed.

  Hard.

  The teenager's dark eyes flew open again. A wounded gasp escaped his lips,
  and his knees buckled; he would have fallen if not for Voldemort's other
  hand, which went to his shoulder, ugly fingers digging in deep enough to
  bruise.

  "My...my L-L-Lord," he stammered, "what--?"

  Voldemort's grip tightened and twisted, and the words dissolved in a cry.

  "You see, you said `my big, beautiful cock,'" Voldemort informed him. His
  tone was even, almost pleasant, as his fingers continued to squeeze and
  twist and hurt. He slid his hand up to the vulnerable testicles and exerted
  a merciless pressure, and Snape moaned, beads of sweat popping out along
  his hairline. "But this is not yours, Severus. No part of you is yours any
  longer. It is mine. Do you understand that, boy? All of you -- every inch
  and fold of your body, every corner of your soul, every last, most
  desperate refuge of your mind -- now belongs to me."

  He punctuated the sentence by digging his fingers deep into the boy's sac,
  and Snape nearly passed out from the pain. There was a screaming snarl of
  agony in his belly that made him want to vomit, and the very roots of his
  prick were on fire. Tears slid down his face, unfelt; his throat worked
  soundlessly.

  "Do you understand, boy?" Voldemort's voice cracked like a whip. "Answer
  me!"

  "Y-y-yes, my L-Lord...p-please..." He would have sobbed the words if he had
  had breath enough to do so. "P-please--"

  And then, as quickly as it had started, the pain was gone. Not lessened,
  not fading, just -- gone. He didn't know how that could possibly be, but it
  was. One minute he was in utter torment, pain exploding through his
  genitals and digging into his groin like the tines of a fork; the next,
  nothing.

  Oh, but not exactly nothing, was it? Oh, gods, no. In the pain's place was
  the same ripe pleasure he had felt before, somehow even more sublime and
  intense after the pain, as Voldemort's thumb resumed its maddening sweet
  circles on the head of his cock. Indeed, the transition between pleasure
  and pain and back again had been so swift, and so skillfully administered,
  that he had never lost his erection at all.

  "Oh, thank you, my Lord, thank you--" And now he was sobbing, both with
  relief and with an almost mindless desire.

  "Whose lovely hard cock is this, child, weeping and twitching and begging
  at my slightest touch?" Voldemort crooned.

  "Yours, my Lord."

  "And these?" The hand moved up to his balls, stroking and squeezing -- but
  gently now. Oh, so gently.

  "Y-yours, my Lord."

  "And these?" The other hand moved along his chest to pluck and pinch at his
  nipples.

  "Yours--oh, gods--yours, my Lord..." He was almost panting with desire.

  The erotic inventory continued. The Dark Lord touched him everywhere -- his
  lips, his throat, his navel, the insides of his thighs, his buttocks and
  the delicate circle of flesh in between. Each time the same question was
  asked, and each time the young wizard answered with the words his master
  demanded... though as his lust built higher and hotter, it became
  increasingly difficult to speak when all he really wanted to do was to melt
  against the older man and whimper like a lost child.

  Voldemort was very close to him now, their bodies a scant inch from
  touching. The last step makes the journey,he thought, and he slid his hand
  beneath the torn robes, grabbed the boy's ass, and pulled him forward into
  a greedy kiss.

  Severus moaned into Voldemort's mouth as the lips crushed his, biting and
  sucking, parting them for the hot swiping tongue. Jolts of almost vicious
  pleasure cascaded through him, as much from the feeling of being claimed
  and used as from the sensations themselves. Even at sixteen, Severus Snape
  was used to being aggressive in all situations, even sex -- even with
  Black, who was so dominant he was practically a cartoon, Snape had been a
  far from passive partner. But this...this! This was totaldomination, a
  demanding, brutal use of his body with no regard to his feelings or
  pleasures or preferences...and oh, but it was wildly intoxicating. A
  feeling of utter submission suffused him completely, warming his already
  fevered flesh, melting what was left of his brain.

  Voldemort broke the kiss long enough to draw a ragged breath and mutter
  against his lips: "And this, Severus? This hot, sweet, wet mouth, panting
  and gasping beneath mine? Who does this belong to, child? Who? Who?" In his
  own excitement, he almost snarled the words.

  "Oh, gods, it is yours, my Lord, everything, everything is yours --" His
  eyes were unfocused, drunk with lust; his lips were swollen; a trickle of
  blood ran from the corner of his mouth. His sensuous voice was low and
  fervent and earnest.

  Voldemort smiled. He seized a fistful of that glorious silky hair and
  pulled the boy's head back, capturing his mouth again, licking the ribbon
  of blood away and sharing the salty-sweet taste with its owner. His other
  hand, still kneading and squeezing the firm buttocks, now slipped between
  them, and he shoved one obscenely long finger into the puckered hole.

  "Oh -- ah -- gods -- oh my gods --!" Severus stiffened, bucking and
  writhing against him, his cries muffled in Voldemort's mouth. The thrusting
  tongue, the finger rubbing and twisting deep inside him, the delicious
  friction of the older man's rough woolen robes against his hard nipples and
  harder cock, all brought him to sudden, jerking orgasm. He moaned his
  climax through the hot sucking kisses, moaned the words over and over again
  like a mantra.

  "It's yours, my Lord, all yours, yours forever, forever, yours yours yours
  yours--"

  His cock pulsed and spurted between them, his seed delightfully warm and
  sticky even through the Dark Lord's robes, his hot velvety hole clenching
  tight around the Dark Lord's finger, and it was all the Dark Lord could do
  to keep from returning the favor and squirting all over the sexy little
  bastard.

  Finally, the spasms stopped. He felt the boy go limp in his arms, near
  senseless from his orgasm...and goodness, what was the poor child going to
  do when Voldemort decided to really pleasure him?

  It was going to be most agreeable finding out.

  He waited with unusual patience, cradling the young wizard until he felt
  the boy's muscles stop quivering, felt his ragged breathing steady and
  deepen. He moved with unusual gentleness, pushing Severus away from him and
  forcing him to stand upright. A whispered word released the cords binding
  the youngster's wrists; tender fingers plucked away a stray lock of long
  black hair caught at the corner of his mouth.

  "Now, child. To the altar." Voldemort gestured toward the marble-topped
  stone slab. "Climb upon it and lie back."

  Moving slowly, unthinkingly, Severus obeyed. His torn robes were still
  hanging uselessly from his shoulders, and they provided thin insulation
  beneath him, but he could still feel the cold of the marble quite clearly
  against his back and thighs and ass. He lay back and stared up at the
  ceiling, a trickle of fear worming its way through the gauzy afterglow of
  his orgasm. They called this "the altar"? Well, wasn't that comforting.
  Like something out of a cheesy Muggle horror movie about ritual sacrifices
  of beautiful virgins.

  Well, then, he thought nervously, nothing to worry about, Sev. The
  attentions of Black, Lucius and most of Lucius's friends had almost
  convinced him that he was attractive in his own sharp, dark way, maybe even
  striking if one wanted to stretch the point, but he was certainly not
  beautiful. Nor was he a virgin...nor had he been even before the Dark Lord
  had raped him with a finger that felt approximately ten inches long. Even
  before Sirius Black, Bellatrix Black, and half the current population of
  Slytherin House (male and female), Lucius Malfoy had taken care of that
  little unwanted detail.

  "Sickle for your thoughts, child," whispered Voldemort right into his ear,
  and Severus jerked in surprise, his eyes flying open. He hadn't even been
  aware that he'd closed them in the first place, any more than he'd been
  aware of Voldemort climbing on top of him. "What musings could possibly
  have such a pretty young thing so...preoccupied?"

  "I...I was just--"

  Voldemort's mouth closed over his again, hard and hot, all teeth and tongue
  and sucking lips. It was an intense kiss, but a brief one, as the Dark Lord
  pulled away after only a few seconds. "What was that, Severus? I couldn't
  quite" -- a lazy swipe of his tongue along the trembling lower lip -- "make
  it out."

  "I s-said, I was--"

  The mouth descended again. Sucked. Bit. Licked. Chewed.

  Pulled quite abruptly away again, leaving him breathless and blinking and
  bewildered, rather aroused and oddly afraid.

  "I asked you a question, boy," the Dark Lord intoned. His tone was
  threatening, but his red eyes glinted with amusement at the cat-and-mouse
  game he was playing. He loved cat-and-mouse...and never more so than with
  such a tender young mouse as this. "You do realize when I ask you a
  question, I expect an answer immediately?"

  "Y-yes, my Lord, I know, but--"

  The rest of his words were lost as the Dark Lord's mouth claimed his yet
  again, and Severus moaned in delicious frustration.

  Voldemort continued the sweet, mocking torment in such fashion for quite a
  while, asking questions he had no intention of letting the boy answer,
  shushing the slick mouth with kiss after kiss until Severus finally gave up
  and lay back, panting and grinding slightly against him. It was clearly a
  surrender, and Voldemort responded by pulling away and sitting back between
  the younger man's spread legs. He stroked the shivering belly in slow firm
  circles and gazed at the boy fondly.

  "Oh, you're so sweet," he murmured. "So stubborn and earnest and young and
  sweet." His eyes flicked up and down, coming to a stop at the half-hard
  cock resting on one creamy thigh. "I think I should like to taste that
  sweetness...just once, just tonight, before it is gone forever."

  He leaned down to nuzzle the heavy warm flesh and murmured something
  against it, something unintelligible in Latin. Immediately, a knot of
  wonderful aching heat formed in Severus's belly, melting like warm butter
  into his balls, swelling his cock and sending it straining, pushing toward
  the ceiling. It was a truly remarkable sensation, going from semi-erect and
  semi-interested to hard as iron in an instant, and Severus went light-
  headed at the abrupt redeployment of his rushing blood.

  "Weep for me now, Severus," Voldemort commanded quietly. "Give me your
  nectar, child, give me your sweetness."

  He placed the tip of his finger lightly on the head of Snape's cock,
  stroking the quivering slit once, twice, and a shining drop of precome
  appeared, as if magically summoned by his touch. Severus moaned softly, a
  slight shiver rippling through his long frame.

  "Ah, yes, that's it," Voldemort murmured, and he bent his head again, long
  pink tongue snaking out to lick the moisture away. Another bead immediately
  formed in its place, and Voldemort sucked in an admiring breath. It was
  actually quite pretty. That single, perfect drop glistening on the satiny
  red flesh, like a drop of dew on the soft petal of a rose...

  He pushed the image away and frowned fiercely. Dew drops? Rose petals?This
  boy was affecting him much more than was comfortable if these simpering
  thoughts were any indication -- and who gave a toss about such fluff
  anyway, when one had a gorgeous, hard young cock bouncing in one's face,
  hot and leaking and begging to be licked?

  And Severus was leaking, oh, quite steadily now, and the Dark Lord feasted
  eagerly on the peach-sweet juices as they flowed, his clever tongue
  tingling at the taste. He just lovedthe young ones! They were so ripe and
  flavorful. So succulent. So fresh.

  Lovely noises began pouring from the boy's mouth, helpless whimpers and low
  growls and short, whispered bursts of filthy words. His movements, too,
  were becoming quite frantic: hands clawing helplessly at the smooth marble,
  hips squirming in ecstatic little circles, ass grinding into the slab and
  then arching abruptly away from it, desperate to get away from the
  maddening tickle of that tongue, equally desperate for more and more of it.


  Voldemort grabbed his hips and bore down, holding him still, at the same
  time making the leisurely strokes of his tongue firmer and more forceful.
  The boy groaned deep in his throat; the cock bobbed and twitched and jumped
  most amusingly at every lick, and the Dark Lord made an erotic game of
  chasing it, darting in with the strong slow swipes of his tongue,
  occasionally capturing the head between his lips and giving it a hard, fast
  suck before letting it pop free again. More unintelligible obscenities
  spilled from the teenager's mouth, and his balls drew up against his cock,
  ready to fire. His climax was minutes, perhaps only seconds, away.

  "Ah, ah, ah," Voldemort warned. He stopped his teasing and gave the tight
  balls a playful little squeeze. "We mustn't have any of that. Not yet,
  anyway."

  "Oh, but I -- I can't -- can't help -- please--"

  "Hush, child. You can, and you will. All good things come to those who
  wait." He gave one last looping, exaggerated swirl of his tongue over the
  dripping head and under the ridge, and Severus shuddered violently beneath
  his hands. "Now, up, boy. Up on your elbows, and eyes here on this lovely
  cock. I want you to see what I'm going to do to you next."

  Wide-eyed, propped up, arms trembling a bit from the strain of his
  position, Severus did as he was bid. He watched as the long fingers
  encircled his jutting erection, the limber tongue extending with
  excruciating slowness toward the head of his cock once more, curling as it
  stroked across the exquisitely-sensitive slit. He jumped mightily at the
  little lick and braced himself eagerly for another.

  The tongue curled again and stopped to probe the opening this time, the tip
  digging in slightly and sending ragged spikes of pleasure through him. He
  jumped again. Another little dive into his slit, and another, each one
  deeper than the last, until not even Voldemort's strong grip on his hips
  could keep him from arching off the altar, offering himself wantonly to the
  intense sensations.

  Then Voldemort's tongue slid smoothly into the tiny opening and kept
  sliding, stretching his cock from the inside out, filling it down to the
  balls with inch after inch of glorious, squirming, hot, wet muscle.

  Oh, gods--!

  His body gave a mighty heave, trying to come completely off the slab, but
  Voldemort's fingers dug into his flanks, hard, pinning him down once more,
  and all Severus could do was shudder and pant and watch as ordered, his
  eyes not wide now but huge with disbelief at what the Dark Lord was doing
  to him.

  Voldemort's tongue was inside his cock.

  Voldemort's tongue was fucking his cock...and by the feel of things,
  Voldemort's tongue was about twelve inches long and made entirely of hot,
  rippling silk.

  Or velvet. Or mink.

  Oh, my gods, my gods, my gods--!

  Snape's head was spinning. He tried to think, tried to grasp the unreality
  of what the Dark Lord was doing, tried even (in some small part of his
  mind) to find it sick and grotesque...but the sensations cascading through
  his flesh were like nothing he had ever felt before. His cock felt so
  stretched and full and heavy and hot, and every time that long wet tongue
  made even the slightest movement inside him, everything below his waist
  seemed to contract and explode at the same time. Oh, gods, why had no one
  ever told him this before? Shown him this? If he had thought theoutsideof
  his prick was sensitive, oh, sweetMerlin--

  He couldn't take his eyes off his cock. His cock, impaled on the Dark
  Lord's tongue.

  But how?The rational part of his mind tried again to intervene.How did it
  fit? How did he --

  Then Voldemort wrapped his lips around the head once again, sucking
  ferociously, and all efforts at coherent thought fled Severus's brain. He
  came hard and kept coming, his muscles seizing and shuddering, his body
  insisting on orgasm even as the tongue buried in his prick thwarted
  release. Spasm after wrenching spasm rolled over him, so intense he nearly
  blacked out at each one. He was barely conscious when Voldemort stopped
  sucking and pulled his tongue free in a single smooth motion.

  "Cream for me now, Severus," he demanded, "shoot for me now, you little
  whore--"

  And Severus did. Immediately, explosively, his body twisting and
  convulsing, his ass lifting and slamming repeatedly into the hard marble
  beneath him, jets of rich white fluid shooting out of him and into the Dark
  Lord's waiting mouth...It was the most incredible orgasm of his entire
  life, and he never wanted it to end. For long moments, it seemed it never
  would: he seemed to spend hours clenching and thrusting and shuddering and
  shrieking before he collapsed with a bone-jarring thud, dazed and
  twitching, hollow-eyed and spent.

  "Mmm," Voldemort smiled. He licked his lips slowly. "Just as sweet as I
  imagined." He leaned forward even as Severus fell back and pressed his lips
  to the slack, panting mouth. "Here, child. Open your mouth; taste your
  sweetness on me."

  Mouths clashed and tongues dueled. It felt ritualistic, and Severus had an
  odd flash from his childhood: the church where his family, faithfully
  passing as Muggles for centuries, had attended services. He closed his eyes
  and saw the silent towering stone walls and the rainbow puddles cast by
  beautiful stained-glass windows, and he heard the soft, dry voice of Father
  Callas as clearly as if the man stood beside him right now: Take, drink ye
  all of this, in remembrance of me.

  In remembrance of me, Severus Snape thought as he lay pinned beneath
  Voldemort, head spinning, chest heaving, rivers of sweat running down his
  arms and belly and thighs, while the Dark Lord raped his mouth with his own
  come and gave him his blasphemous Communion. Oh, gods help me.

  Another violent shudder ripped through him. Voldemort felt the movement and
  released his mouth, sitting back, petting him tenderly -- but there was
  nothing tender in the older man's smile. It was a smug, razor-edged smirk,
  as if Voldemort knew exactly the thoughts that had provoked that
  shudder...and was well-pleased by them.

  Red eyes still locked on Snape's black ones, Voldemort muttered something,
  another Latin phrase Severus didn't recognize, and dark shapes melted from
  the corners of the room, seemingly out of the walls, appearing silently all
  around the edges of the altar. Several of the hooded figures reached
  forward from the shadows, and Severus felt rough hands grasp his wrists and
  ankles and yank, pinning him flat, spreading him wide. Panic seized him
  then, unexpected but undeniable, and he clawed and kicked and thrashed and
  flailed, trying to free himself from their grips.

  A cool hand on his chest stopped his struggles abruptly.

  "I'm going to fuck you now, Severus," Voldemort whispered, and the feral
  edge that suddenly bloomed on his smile made Snape's tired prick twitch
  with anticipation even as his belly knotted with fear. "I'm going to fuck
  you to your core, to places you never even knew you had. I'm going to fuck
  you with my tongue, with my fingers, with my cock...and with my Mark."

  He rose sinuously to his knees and began to disrobe, eyes never leaving
  those of the young man beneath him. His body was pale as a pearl, lean and
  gorgeous, but it was the look of savage hunger on his face that made
  Severus almost weak with longing. That look confirmed that Voldemort didn't
  want to just fuck him; he wanted to own him, to possess him in every single
  possible way, and Severus had been looking for thatkind of acceptance his
  entire life. Hell, by now he had been fucked more times than he could
  count, but he couldn't remember the last time he had been truly and
  completely wanted. Maybe ages.

  Maybe never.

  He could almost hear Black's voice, raised in outraged protest:You lying
  little shit! Ilooked at you like that!Iwanted--

  No. He was not going to spoil this moment with thoughts of Sirius Black.

  Murmuring slightly under his breath, Voldemort lowered himself atop the
  trembling teenager and kissed him, gently this time, with no trace of greed
  or force. Severus felt rather disappointed; already, he found himself
  craving his Lord's cruel power, his total domination. But the hands
  restraining him gave an exciting edge of danger to the proceedings, and the
  kiss was quite skillful, slowly building in intensity until it became as
  ravenous and ruthless as he could have wished. Indeed, it was so intense
  that even when the Dark Lord finally pulled away, Snape would have sworn he
  could still feel the bruising lips and searching tongue working against his
  own.

  Voldemort's mouth moved down, latching onto his throat, onto the smooth
  pulsing flesh directly over the jugular. A sharp bite brought a yelp of
  surprised pain and fear; a hard sucking pressure raised a throbbing welt
  that made him writhe and curse; a cool swipe of that amazing tongue soothed
  the bruised flesh and provoked a languid hiss. And once again, even after
  the mouth had moved on, Severus could still feel the same sensations, in
 exactly the same place, at exactly the same intensity, being played out      
  again and again and again. Bite. Suck. Lick.

  Curious...

  The Dark Lord moved on. He took hold of a nipple, sucking and nibbling
  almost daintily, slowly teasing the sensitive nub to hardness. Like that
  first kiss, the contact would have ordinarily been too gentle for Snape's
  liking, but now, combined with the hot biting kisses on his mouth and his
  neck -- kisses unseen but most definitely felt -- the soft flares of
  pleasure in his nipple were magnified one hundredfold. After only a minute
  or two, Voldemort moved on to the other nipple, but it hardly mattered; the
  nibbling and licking and soft sucking sensations somehow continued in both.

  It's a spell, Snape thought hazily, he's using a spell to make me feel like
  this--

  He thought he had heard the word "resonate" in the slurry Latin/English
  gibberish Voldemort was chanting -- and was that it? Was Voldemort using a
  spell to make everything he did to Severus echo through his body, outward
  and onward, spreading inexorably and endlessly like ripples on a pond?

  "Stop analyzing everything, my little Slytherin," came Voldemort's soft
  whisper. "Just feel. Stop thinking and feel." His lips brushed belly as he
  spoke, the tongue darting in to explore the boy's navel, and Severus
  shivered. Whether the source of the shiver was the intense pleasure
  Voldemort was building in his body or the fact that the Dark Lord had so
  clearly read his thoughts, Snape couldn't have said.

  A moment later, he couldn't have cared less.

  The tongue trailed down from his belly to his groin, weaving leisurely
  through the crisp black curls, skirting his rising prick and moving past
  it, leaving lingering echoes of sensation in its path. The tongue moved
  over his balls and then behind them, stroking along his cleft, licking
  firmly over and all around his fluttering asshole before sliding smoothly
  in.

  Severus cried out and began to thrash again, although his efforts now had
  nothing to do with trying to get away.

  "More," he begged, as if the invisible attentions to his mouth and neck and
  nipples and belly and balls weren't enough, as if the tongue feeding his
  clutching hole could possibly give him any more pleasure. "More, oh, gods,
  more, more!"

  Smiling to himself, Voldemort gave him more. He lazily fucked the greedy
  flesh, slowly, magically extending his tongue just as he had when he had
  pleasured the boy's prick, worrying and burrowing around in the delicious
  musky heat until his victim was almost sobbing with ecstasy. He was indeed
  enhancing this initiation with charms and spells, but this particular brand
  of magic, this inspired use of his artful tongue, was all his own. Well -
  - except for the part where he made it almost a foot long, but that was
  just a minor improvement, after all. Besides, everybody knew it wasn't the
  size of the wand, so to speak, but what one did with it that counted.

  And if the reactions of the horny little brat convulsing under him right
  now were any indication, it counted for plenty.

  Easily, he slithered another inch of tongue into the grasping asshole -
  - slithering into the Slytherin,oh, yes, he quite liked that -- and allowed
  himself another smug smile as the hungry flesh closed convulsively around
  him. He lapped wet heat over the boy's prostate and Severus went absolutely
  wild, twisting violently against the gripping hands and screaming his
  pleasure. "Oh, gods, yes, my Lord, fuck me, my Lord, lick me, suck me, fuck
  me--"

  "Oh, my. You are getting quite emotional about all this, aren't you, young
  Severus?"

  A hissing laugh, directly above him. Severus opened his eyes and saw the
  Dark Lord's face smiling down at him. He blinked blearily. How the hell was
  Voldemort up there, talking to him, when his mouth was -- well, was so
  obviously occupied elsewhere? Even as he tried to ponder it, his body
  bucked helplessly once more, the tongue he would have sworn on his life was
  still inside him bathing his prostate again.

  And again. And again.

  How the hell--?

  "Stop analyzing," Voldemort repeated, rather snappishly this time. "Let it
  go, boy." He wasn't truly angry, but he was irritated; until now, he never
  would have believed it possible to meet a Slytherin who was toosuspicious.
  But even for a Dark Lord, the Greatest Sorcerer Who Ever Lived, it was
  galling to have all of his best sexual tricks picked apart and scrutinized
  by a wet-behind-the-ears pup like this. Especially when those tricks were
  otherwise turning the pup into a flesh-colored puddle in his hands.

  Well, then. Perhaps it was time to give the pup something else to think
  about.

  He shifted himself up and slid his hands under the flexing buttocks,
  lifting them, spreading them, and the Death Eaters holding Snape took their
  cue and silently followed suit, folding his legs up and pulling them
  farther apart. Voldemort positioned himself carefully, the head of his cock
  just barely brushing the boy's entrance, his first slight thrust just
  barely breaching him. Severus, still squirming with pleasure at what felt
  like a dozen wet, warm Voldemort mouths exciting him in a dozen different
  places at once, didn't seem to notice it, any of it, at all.

  But you'll notice this,won't you, my brainy little whore?Voldemort thought,
  and he pistoned his hips forward hard and fast, burying himself completely
  in the younger man's tight heat.

  Severus let out a strangled cry. It was an animalistic sound, full of mixed
  fear and pain that went straight to Voldemort's prick and made him withdraw
  and thrust again, even harder, giving the boy no time to adjust to the
  tearing pressure inside him. Oh, it was so beautiful, young flesh always
  was, so clutching and creamy-soft, so hungry and hot, so tender and so
  naively expectant of a tenderness he was incapable of giving in return.

  "Ah -- no -- oh, oh, gods -- please, no--"

  Severus tried to beg, forcing the words out through shivering, moaning
  gasps of pain. Dear gods, he had never been entered so violently, never;
  not even Black, Black at his angriest, had ever ripped into him like this.
  Even the myriad gorgeous sensations Voldemort had created in every other
  part of his body could not distract him from this clawing fire at his core;
  he sensed them dimly, still there, still working to arouse him, but they
  were faint, lost, buried in the explosiveness of this pain.

  "Your pain is my pleasure," Voldemort intoned, and Severus felt himself
  immersed in those red, red eyes. "And my pleasure is yours."

  "No-- no--"

  "Your pain is my pleasure, Severus."

  "-- oh, gods, gods, please--"

  Your pain is my pleasure, Severus.

  Not spoken. Thought.He heard the words not with his ears, but with his
  mind. The Dark Lord was sending to him, and despite the hard thrusts and
  the maddened light in those terrible eyes, the voice in his head was almost
  kind. Calm. Steady. Soothing, even.

  But relentless.

  Your pain is my pleasure, Severus. And my pleasure is yours.

  Severus struggled. He resisted the invasion of his mind as frantically as
  he fought against the rape of his body, trying to retreat to his mental
  safe room, trying to hide. But the Dark Lord's will was overwhelming; it
  plucked and pulled and hammered at his defenses until he felt himself
  dropping them, one by one, laying his mind as naked and open as the rest of
  him.

  Read me, child. Feel what I feel. Reach.

  Severus Reached.

  His eyes went wide with astonishment, and a whimpering little gasp escaped
  his lips. Hecouldfeel it, all of it: every glorious sensation coursing
  through the other man, mixing with his own pain until he couldn't tell the
  difference and didn't care. His nerves danced, his flesh quivered and
  crawled, every inch of his body alive in a way it had never been before.

  My pleasure is yours.

  And it was.

  It still hurt -- dear gods, it hurt like fire! But it was also delicious,
  brutal and pounding and so, so good. Without any conscious effort on his
  part, his body began moving in time with the body above him, thrusting up
  to meet every savage invasion, his hole gripping the angry raping cock like
  a silken vise.

  Voldemort felt the change immediately, felt his victim responding to his
  viciousness with helpless desire, and he increased the violence of his
  movements. He gazed into the younger wizard's eyes and saw raw terror vying
  with raw lust, and his own desire swelled into something like love. This
  was innocence and youth dying in his arms, bleeding out of the straining
  body beneath him, bleeding out all around and through his foraging cock,
  and oh! it was so sweet he could have cried.

  "Oh, oh, yes, oh, fuck, yes, please, yes, so good, so fucking good, please
  please please--"

  Severus's words dissolved into throat-tearing sounds of purest ecstasy,
  moans and hoarse shouts spilling from him in a husky flood. The hands
  clutching his sweaty arms and legs bit into his flesh as they tried vainly
  to control his thrashings; long black hair flew wildly as he tossed his
  head from side to side, as if in denial of the climax that felt like it was
  about to tear him apart. He was so close that flares of red and green and
  gold were exploding behind his eyelids.

  So close.

  On the brink.

  Teetering...right there...just a little more...

  Voldemort muttered yet again, and Severus felt everything stop all at once,
  everything from the aching, ripping fullness pounding deep inside him to
  the phantom lips and tongues moving over and within every inch of his body.
  He couldn't come, but the sensation of imminent orgasm remained, and he
  screamed in rage and frustration as he was held, hovering, on the tight-
  wire between need and release.

  The Dark Lord, still buried deep in his body, leaned forward and placed his
  hand on the boy's left arm. He muttered a single word -- "Morsmordres" -
  - and Severus screamed again as his world dissolved in pain.

  No. Not pain. Agony,ripping into his arm, coursing through his body, and
  there was no pleasure possible in this pain, none at all: it was brutal and
  all-consuming, the pain of snapping bone and rending sinews, the slice of a
  knife, the burn of an acid. It was madness made of his flesh.

  Voldemort smiled. Tendrils of smoke rose from the twitching skin beneath
  his hand.

  Severus heard sobs and vaguely recognized them as his own. He could smell
  his flesh cooking, and that smell, sweet and thick and choking, made his
  stomach roil. Blackness threatened to take him from all sides, and he
  scrabbled for it, seeking the mercy of unconsciousness, but terror had him
  in an icy hand and wouldn't let go.

  Look now, child, at all you have suffered.

  The pain ebbed, and, as it did, memories began to cascade through his head.
  Images long-forgotten came to him again, old hurts and hates reawakened as
  the Mark ate its poisonous way into him. The day his grandmother died. The
  day they took his mum away. The night his father caught him reading about
  the Cruciatus Curse and used it on him as punishment. His first flying
  lesson -- Potter had hexed his broom, and he had fallen off and fractured
  three ribs. Potter hanging him upside down, cawing, "Who wants to see me
  take off his pants?" Lily calling him "Snivellus." Pettigrew whining, "His
  blood was so pretty." Potter's finger inside him. The dog's come sliding
  out of him while he lay retching at Black's feet. Black's face, hating and
  hated.

  You despise them, don't you? Those who have abused you, abandoned you,
  shunned and hurt and humiliated you all your young life. You would like to
  see them punished, wouldn't you? We can hurt them, Severus. We can make
  them bleed.Together we can make them crawl and cringe and pray for mercy.
  Just as you've prayed, so often, for a mercy that never came.

  New images flashed through his mind. Potter, fifty feet in the air and
  about to score, plummeting from his broom and landing in a shattered,
  oozing heap. Pettigrew stuffing himself with poisoned chocolates until he
  puked up his own insides. Black on all fours, chained and naked, a dog -- a
  horrid mutant of a dog, with a monstrous, misshapen prick and great white
  scythes for fangs -- fucking him bloody even as it tore his throat to
  shreds.

  His father. Eyes vacant and staring. Face frozen in terror. Dead.

  Terrible images. Unspeakable desires. Part of Severus recoiled from them,
  guilt-stricken, repelled, horrified. To his credit, it was the larger
  part...but it was no match for the part of him that embraced them with a
  savage, sweeping joy. Imagine Potter's head smashed open like a rotten
  gourd. Imagine Black screaming, or the old man getting a taste of the
  Cruciatus for himself.As the Mark's magic flowed through him, feeding
  itself on a rage sixteen years in the making, it changed him, and that
  small part of him took over completely. Horror? Guilt? What did hehave to
  feel guilty for? They had earned his wrath, no matter how violent; they had
  earned the bloodiest revenge he could devise. Revenge was his rightagainst
  these people, his enemies, his life-long tormentors. Revenge was why he was
  here.

  Then say it, child.

  Still, he hesitated, some vestige of rationality, of conscience, of his
  essential humanity, trying feebly to assert itself through this spiraling
  madness.

  Say it, child.Impatience colored the thought now. Impatience, and
  irritation, and -- Severus struggled to focus, to concentrate -- surprise?
  Was thatsurprise in the Dark Lord's mind, surprise at being balked in this,
  in anything, even for an instant? Severus rather thought it was, and a
  flare of fierce gladness rushed up from somewhere deep within him, unbidden
  and unconcealed, shocking them both.

  Voldemort's eyes flashed. He dove deeper into the boy's mind, clawing for
  more memories and releasing them at random, ripping open old wounds,
  poisoning him with his own sad history. He squeezed the slender arm burning
  under his hand, and the chaotic stream of hate and conscience and rage and
  resistance in the boy's mind stopped abruptly, lost in a fresh surge of
  agony. Voldemort saw this surge clearly in his own head, a swirl of red and
  black nothingness, and he felt it as the boy jerked beneath him like a
  condemned man hitting the end of the rope.

  Y-yes. The boy's thought was clear enough, his meaning and intent, but it
  was a weak, pathetic whisper of a thought -- hardly the ardent vow
  Voldemort wanted and expected. Yes, I -- I accept.

  Aloud, child. So that your brothers and sisters might hear you. Aloud...and
  with a bit more feeling, if you would.

  "Oh, please," the boy begged. He was sobbing, his body convulsing; his mind
  teetered alarmingly, and for one cold moment it occurred to Voldemort that
  he might actually lose him if this went on much longer, that there was a
  limit to what the human body and mind could stand. "I said it, I did,oh, my
  Lord, please,this pain,gods Jesus, please, this pain--

  "Thenend the pain, you stupid boy! Say it!"

  He withdrew almost completely from the writhing body and thrust back as
  hard as he could. He felt the flesh tear; liquid warmth trickled around his
  cock, and he knew it was the boy's blood.

  Severus shrieked.

  "YES!" The word bounced off the high ceiling and echoed back, a crazed
  cacophony of screams. "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!"

  Yes,the Dark Lord thought. At last. He took his hand off the boy's arm; the
  red-black madness of the boy's thoughts turned a cool and creamy blue as
  the pain vanished. Pleasure rushed in to take its place, and Severus gave a
  soft cry, jerked once more, and climaxed.

  Then he passed out.

  Voldemort, finally free to loose the tight rein he'd held on himself
  throughout the initiation, began pounding into him again, thrusting hard
  and fast until his own orgasm overtook him and he shot deep inside the
  warm, limp body. It was a surprisingly powerful orgasm, even for an
  initiation, and he had to withdraw from the boy quickly and sit back, lest
  he collapse like a tired old man on top of him.

  That would be a lapse. That would be a sign of weakness. All-powerful Dark
  Lords could not afford such displays.

  Not yet trusting his voice -- for surely panting like a spent mongrel on a
  hot day was another sign of weakness -- he motioned brusquely to his
  minions. As one, they let go of Snape's arms and legs and melted back into
  the shadows. He looked the boy over, his face set and contemplative. There
  were dark rings of bruises on Severus's wrists and ankles, scratches and
  more bruises up and down his body, and blood on his mouth -- he had bitten
  deep into his bottom lip during the taking of his Mark. More blood ran in a
  thin rivulet down the cleft of his ass, staining the white marble beneath
  him.

  Voldemort's expression remained thoughtful as he passed his ugly hands over
  the boy's body, healing his small wounds and pains. Severus did not stir.
  It was a point in his favor, as far as Voldemort was concerned. He rather
  liked that passing-out bit at the end -- it gave the delicious sensation,
  however fleeting, that one was fucking a corpse.

  With a liquid grace worthy of his favorite pet, Voldemort slid from the
  altar and pulled on his robes. He drew his wand and pointed it at the
  unconscious teenager. "Rouse yourself, child," he intoned. "It is time to
  test our bond."

  Severus stirred, fluttered his eyes, made a small sound. He lifted himself
  groggily up on his elbows, looking all around the room before he focused on
  the regal figure standing at the foot of the altar. "My Lord?"

  Voldemort nodded. "Indeed."

  He pointed his wand at the boy's left arm. The Mark, a pink scrawl barely
  visible on the white, white skin, flared a bloody red-black. A startled
  little "Oh!" was yanked from the boy's throat as he hardened yet again,
  long before his abused, exhausted flesh was ready. He began to buck,
  helplessly fucking air, his eyes huge and staring and frightened.

  "Yes, I know," Voldemort chuckled. "Lucius told me. You despise being
  stimulated so soon after. But part of your bond to me is obedience,
  Severus. Instant, unquestioning submission to my will. And you will endure
  this terrible pleasure if I will it, child. No matter if it drives you to
  the very edge of sanity."

  He twitched his wand slightly, and Severus cried out again, his lovely
  voice cracked and husky from screaming.

  Lust, warm and pulsing, filled the room. It came from all sides, as the
  gathered Death Eaters watched their newest initiate writhe and gibber and
  moan. Lucius Malfoy, standing in the shadows with his fellows, could not
  take his eyes off Severus; he was more beautiful than Lucius had ever seen
  him. And when Voldemort twitched the wand again and Severus's orgasm seized
  him, Lucius thought that if Sirius Black were here to see Severus right
  now, like this, the stupid Gryffindor's heart would have stopped dead in
  his chest even as his cock swelled with desire.

  Severus was still leaning back on his forearms, his knees bent and spread,
  his ruined robes a silver puddle beneath him. Every muscle in his body
  stood out in trembling relief as he arched into his climax, back bent in a
  graceful bow, his smooth skin gleaming with sweat. His head was thrown
  back, that remarkable fall of blue-black hair trailing down, his mouth
  open, his black eyes half-closed in ecstasy. The long dark lashes -- and
  why had Lucius never noticed them before? he wondered; they were beautiful
  -- made sooty half-circles against his flushed cheeks.

  Then another spasm hit him and he arched still higher, the firm muscled
  globes of his ass bunching and clenching, and it took every ounce of Lucius
  Malfoy's self-control not to jump up on the table and bury himself deep in
  the offered flesh.

  That, and knowing what Voldemort would do to him if he dared so much as
  nibble at the Dark Lord's newest treat.

  Lucius let out a small moan of his own and clutched at the edge of the
  table for support. When his hand brushed his painfully erect cock instead,
  he decided that that would do even better. He plunged his hand into his
  robes and began to stroke himself, trying to time his rhythm to the
  thrustings of Snape's slender hips, imagining it was the sweet suction of
  the younger wizard's body pleasuring him instead.

  Many of the other Death Eaters were busy under their own robes as well. It
  seemed a general, unspoken consensus among them that Snape, their newest
  and youngest initiate, was putting on a wonderful show, perhaps the best
  any of them had ever seen. Of course, none of them actually remembered any
  of the other initiations they had witnessed -- the Dark Lord routinely
  Obliviated them after each one -- but they didn't have to remember to know
  that this one was exquisite.

  Only one person in the room appeared unmoved by the raw sexual display: the
  man responsible for it. Voldemort's expression was one of almost clinical
  interest as he watched the young Death Eater convulsing on the table. He
  could have been sitting on a bus reading the business section of a Muggle
  newspaper for all the emotion he displayed.

  He was...troubled.

  It was not that he was displeased with his newest acquisition: Severus
  Snape would indeed be a valuable addition to the Dark Order. Not only was
  he the most brilliant Potions prospect Hogwarts had produced in a hundred
  years, and powerfully magical -- Voldemort could feelthe power in him,
  radiating from him, as hot as the lusty sex-heat itself -- it also appeared
  that he was quite the little fuck-toy. So hungry he was, so slutty and
  wild...and, soon-to-be-ruler-of-the-world or not, Lord Voldemort was not
  entirely above such concerns. It wasn't essential that one always enjoy
  one's work, of course -- but it was certainly a benefit.

  Voldemort smiled inwardly. He took in the panting mouth, long smooth body,
  tight ass, and the big wet cock thrusting mindlessly in the air, and he
  thought: What's not to like?

  And, yet...?

  And yet.

  Snape had resisted him. Only for a moment, true, but even a moment was too
  long -- long enough, certainly, to send an uneasy prickle along Voldemort's
  spine, to plant a flicker of doubt in the very back of his mind. The giving
  of the Mark was a ceremony of immense power, Voldemort's will made flesh by
  the darkest magic he could devise, and no one had ever managed to defy him
  in its throes, ever. No one had ever even tried.

  Until now.

  It troubled him. It troubled him even more that he didn't know what had
  fueled it. Perhaps this one actually had a conscience? A few of them did,
  at first, whether they liked it or not, though usually that type had had
  lives far sunnier and easier than Severus Snape's. Or perhaps it was just
  sheer cussedness, just plain old-fashioned teenage rebelliousness -- a not-
  uncommon reaction, given the ages of some of his followers. He did indeed
  love the young ones, but that love was very much a double-edged sword; too
  often, along with the firm bodies and wide eyes and sweet, trembling fear
  came that tiresome adolescent need to be defiant at all costs.

  Or -- and he had to consider it; he was a man who stayed alive by
  considering everything -- perhaps Severus was not truly committed to him.

  On its face, it seemed absurd. The boy was the most perfect clay for the
  Dark Lord's particular brand of shaping that Voldemort had ever
  encountered. Emotionally ravaged. Physically abused. Strong enough to want
  something more, something better, yet not so strong as to believe he could
  ever get it on his own. And he was so damned smart, so logical and coldly
  precise in his thinking. He did not seem the type to allow something as
  useless and self-defeating as conventional morality get in his way just as
  the means to his end were within his grasp at last.

  Absently, Voldemort sent another orgasm through him. The spasms looked
  actually painful now, and he felt a childish sort of satisfaction. If he
  could know for certain that Severus was not his, completely and
  irrevocably, he could kill him here and now. Wouldkill him now -- perhaps,
  even, with this very spell. He had heard of some Muggle doing that, the
  Marquis of something or other, bringing his victims to climax after climax
  until their hearts simply gave out, like rusty old pumps. Not as clean as
  Avada Kedavra,perhaps, but infinitely more entertaining.

  But he didn't know for certain. Even with his Leglimency skills, even with
  the boy's mind laid wide open and senseless before him, he could not be
  completely sure. And without that certainty, he could not kill the boy. He
  didn't wantto kill the boy, really. He was quite tasty; more importantly,
  he was clever and curious and immensely talented. Human life per se meant
  nothing to Lord Voldemort -- Muggles, for instance, were parasites, with no
  more reason to take up space and air than the fleas on a dog -- but the
  taking of a talented life was wasteful and tragic.

  So...no. He would not kill young Snape. Not now. Not yet. But he would
  watch him. Every thought the boy had, every move he made, every command he
  did (or did not) leap gladly to obey, would be examined and judged and
  measured down to the last detail. And if he saw even a trace of that
  troubling resistance, even the baresthint that Severus Snape believed he
  still belonged to Severus Snape, he would make Severus Snape very sorry
  indeed. He would make Severus Snape dead.He would hate to do that, but he
  would do it anyway.

  Wresting one final violent orgasm from the boy, Voldemort at last lowered
  his wand. Severus collapsed onto the unforgiving marble like a marionette
  whose strings have been cut, face slack, eyes glazed. For a second or two,
  the Dark Lord was alarmed -- had he killed the brat after all? -- before he
  realized that Severus was simply passed out.

  Again.

  What a lovely little thing he was, really.

  The Death Eaters stirred, shifting with eager, rustling restlessness,
  moving closer to the altar. They knew what came next, what always came
  next. Flesh has its own memory, and all of them, Obliviatedor not, knew
  that much.

  Pushing away his doubts, Voldemort bent over the pale form on the altar and
  gently kissed his lips. There was mild magic in even that soft touch, and
  Severus stirred. As Voldemort drew away to search his face, Severus's eyes
  fluttered open, lost and confused at first, then sharpening on the Dark
  Lord's face.

  "You are mine now, child," Voldemort whispered, and though it was not a
  question -- and though the boy did not know it -- Severus Snape's very life
  rested on the answer.

  "Yes, my Lord," he whispered back. "I am yours."

  Yes.Simple. Without hesitation. And he meant it: Voldemort searched his
  mind for deceit, for doubt, for some carefully-concealed nugget of
  defiance, and found nothing but love, a devotion so pure and uncalculated -
  - and so foreign to the boy -- that it seemed to frighten him a little. A
  devotion that, in his own pleasure at the boy's response, Voldemort was
  able to return.

  With a benign smile and a tender caress to Severus's cheek, Lord Voldemort
  straightened and raised his arms dramatically skyward. "It is time, my
  children, to give your brother a proper welcome." He lowered his arms and
  paused, wanting Severus's eyes again, wanting to see them change at his
  next words. Normally at this point, he would simply back away and let the
  others have at the new initiate, without all the drama, and certainly
  without any hint of what was to come. It was easier for them that way. Less
  frightening.

  But not this time. This time, he would give Severus a moment or two of
  terrified apprehension before the rite began. He did love the boy, and was
  very pleased with him...but that did not mean his earlier behavior could go
  completely unpunished.

  "You may do with him as you please."

  Like a swarm of hungry beetles, the circle closed. The last the Dark Lord
  saw of him, before the mass of robes and hands and feverish, jostling
  bodies obscured Severus completely from view, were indeed the boy's eyes,
  full of crumbling hurt and dismay. So naive, so vulnerable...Voldemort gave
  a dark chuckle as he slipped from the room and locked the door behind him.

  Sweet Salazar, but he justlovedthe young ones.
***** The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 8 *****
The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 8




  Chapter 8 - Solution

  Tuesday, 25 April, 1977

  When Severus awoke, his first thought was that he was at home. His second thought
  was that he must have done something terribly wrong, because it felt like his father
  had given him the worst beating of his life. He hurt everywhere.

  Then his sleep fuzz cleared and he saw the green velvet curtains hanging on all
  sides of him, and he remembered that he was at Hogwarts. In those first few foggy
  moments, that was all he remembered, and he frowned fiercely up at the canopy
  overhead, trying to get his bearings.

  When realization came, it did so with a wallop he could almost feel, as if his old
  man had just hauled off and belted him a good one along the side of his head. The
  weekend. Lord Voldemort. The ceremony. The Dark Mark.

  He was now a Death Eater.

  He rolled the thought around in his mind, testing it, trying it on for size. He,
  Severus Augustus Snape, was a Death Eater, one of the Dark Lord's chosen disciples.
  He rolled it around, and he decided he didn't like it. Didn't like how it made him
  feel, all shivery and hot at the same time, all loose and fluttery in the pit of his
  stomach. He knew how it wassupposed to make him feel, all right -- it was supposed
  to make him feel thrilled and flattered, honored and empowered -- and the fact that
  it did not frightened him in a way he did not understand.

  Oh, Merlin. What have Idone?

  He remembered some of what he had done -- or, rather, what hadbeendone to him.
  Fragments of memory came to him, some random and fleeting, others burned into his
  mind. He remembered the Dark Lord taking him, of course, and others, too, after
  the...well, afterward. He remembered Lucius, his touch as familiar and unmistakable
  as the silver-grey eyes burning from his mask. He remembered Bellatrix, riding him,
  her breasts like heavy ripe fruit in his hands, her soft heat pulsing all around
  him. He remembered pain so intense he had thought he would go insane and pleasure,
  equally intense and just as terrible in its relentless way, pleasure so vast he had
  wanted to die. He remembered the Dark Lord in his mind,rapinghis mind as surely as
  he was raping his body, flaying open every hurt and humiliation Severus had ever
  suffered and filling him with a merciless, killing rage. He remembered hating, and
  that hate morphing into images so twisted, so sick, that his saner self had turned
  from them in an agony of horror. Potter's head, smashed to jelly. Pettigrew vomiting
  his own entrails. Black, his screams dying to wet gurgles as his throat was torn
  open. His father--

  The flutter in his belly became a surge of greasy nausea, and Severus lurched from
  the bed, clawing at the curtains, crying out as the sudden movements jolted his
  stiff, screaming muscles. He stumbled and staggered for the bathroom at the far end
  of the room and made it with not a moment to spare: as he hit his knees on the cold
  tile in front of the toilet, everything came up and out in a sour, burning rush.

  He vomited for almost fifteen minutes, until there was nothing left in his stomach
  and black sparkles danced before his eyes. He closed them and groped for the flush,
  sending the mess away. He sank down on his haunches, shivering as the dungeon air
  chilled the sweat running down his body. He curled up as tightly as he could and
  waited for his strength to return and for the shakes to stop, his only coherent
  thought the same one he had had since waking. What have I done, what have I done,
  what have I done?

  He drifted. His stomach still didn't feel very good, and his face felt hot and
  flushed even as the shivers wracked his body. He wondered if he was getting sick. Or
  perhaps he'd eaten something bad, something that hadn't agreed with him. Sure. At
  Malfoy Manor, probably. He just wasn't used to all that rich-people food.

  You didn't eat it, you dolt. It's eating you. It's eating intoyou, right now. If you
  look, you'll see it. It's invisible to outsiders, but you'll see it, all right. You
  can even feel it.

  And he could feel it, the Mark newly-burned into his arm, throbbing painlessly but
  stubbornly just under the skin -- but he didn't want to look. Just that cold
  pulsing, like something alien was alive in there and struggling to get out, was
  enough to make his stomach heave miserably again.

  Grimly, he gulped a deep breath, then another, and another, until the nausea passed.
  It wasn't the Mark that was making him sick, it wasn't. That was absurd. As if the
  Dark Lord went around welcoming his chosen ones with poison tattoos! It was
  just...just him. He'd always had a bad stomach anyway; whenever he was nervous or
  upset, that was where it hit him. A bitter chuckle slipped from him at the thought.
  A Death Eater with a weak stomach. How ironic. How hilarious. Funny as a dead
  Muggle,as Lucius would say.

  He drifted some more. He didn't hear the light, quick footsteps behind him. Only
  when Madam Pomfrey spoke did he jerk and turn, his sore, sprung muscles screaming in
  protest again.

  "Severus! There you are! Mercy, child, are you all right?"

  Startled, disoriented -- he had actually been dozing, dozing whilst curled up in a
  shivering ball next to a filthy toilet, and how wasthatfor exhausted? -- Severus
  scrambled to his feet. Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts mediwitch, stood in the doorway.
  Beside her was Professor Prozac. Both of them were staring at him with slightly
  shocked expressions, and Severus had to look down at himself before he remembered
  that he was naked. He glanced around frantically for something with which to cover
  himself, finally grabbing a towel and draping it over as much as he could.

  Still, they stared. Something in their faces told him they were seeing more than
  just his nakedness, and he looked down at himself again.

  Merlin! No wonder they looked shocked. He was a mess. Every place he could see (and,
  no doubt, quite a few places he couldn't) there were scratches, cuts, whip wheals,
  bruises and bites. Some of the bites were decorated with little circlets of dried
  blood, and an incriminating number of them were in places no nice boy would ever
  allow himself to be bitten.

  "Good gods, boy!" Prozac said. "What happenedto you?"

  I don't know was what trembled on the tip of his tongue, but of course he couldn't
  say that out loud. In truth, he didn't know what to say. His usual knack for
  effortless lies seemed to have abandoned him for the moment. Abandoned him just when
  he needed it most, and wasn'tthatthe fucking story of his life.

  Instead of answering Prozac's question, he answered Pomfrey's. "I'm quite all right,
  thank you. Just a bit...I was sick to my stomach earlier, but I'm feeling better
  now." He wasn't, not at all -- his insides were churning again, the nausea rising
  and falling like a dinghy on storm-roughened seas -- but he wanted them to leave.
  They hadn't seen the Mark -- they couldn't see that, not if what Lucius had told him
  was true -- but they had seen enough to make them ask questions, questions he
  probably couldn't answer even if he wanted to. "I'm sorry if I've worried anyone."

  "You got in very late last night," Prozac said. His voice was clipped, curt. "You
  missed curfew." Severus opened his mouth to protest this, and Prozac forestalled him
  with an impatient wave of his hand. "Yes, yes, Mr. Snape, it's quite all right, I
  got Mr. Malfoy's owl saying you'd be late. But you also missed breakfast this
  morning, as well as your first three classes, and I became concerned."

  Severus frowned. Breakfast? Classes? Threeclasses? "What time is it, sir?"

  "It is well past noon, Mr. Snape." Prozac didn't even glance at his watch. "I
  thought perhaps you were ill, and I went to the hospital wing to see if you were
  there, but Madam Pomfrey hadn't seen you either. And, as none of your Housemates
  were either able or willing to tell me anything about your whereabouts, I came down
  here to check for myself." He folded his spindly arms and gave a single, shrewd
  blink. "And you still haven't answered my question, child."

  Child. Severus wished they'd stop calling him that. Bad enough that it was what Lord
  Voldemort had called him; worse yet that it wasn't even true. He wasn't a child, not
  anymore. Not after last night. Children were pure. Children were innocent. Children
  did not go around joining secret, evil organizations without a second thought and
  letting Dark wizards brand terrible promises into their flesh. "Question, sir?"

  Prozac scowled. "Look at yourself! For the gods' sakes, boy, you look" -
  - debauchedwas the word that sprang to the teacher's mind; even without his wand,
  without Reaching, Severus caught that one word quite clearly -- "terrible. How did
  you get all those marks on you?"

  "I fell down the stairs, sir." It came popping out of Severus's mouth before he
  quite knew he was going to say anything, and he tensed, expecting Prozac, and maybe
  Pomfrey, too, to burst into laughter.Hewould have, in their shoes; it was an utterly
  ludicrous explanation. Even the image it conjured -- scrawny old Snape, all arms and
  legs and hair as he bounced down a flight of stairs -- was funny. Oh, yes. Funny as
  a dead Muggle.

  But neither of them laughed. They simply stood, glancing at each other briefly, then
  back at him, their expressions identical, speculative and a little sad. No, they
  weren't laughing, but they weren't buying it, either, and Severus heard himself
  rushing on, trying to fill that awful, we-don't-believe-yousilence before they could
  fill it for him.

  "I -- I spent the holidays at Malfoy Manor, you see, and, well, you know how it is
  when you're in an unfamiliar place, and it was dark and I didn't bring a torch or
  even light my wand, stupid of me, I know, and I couldn't see where I was going, and
  there's this enormous marble staircase, not stone, at least, rather lucky for me,
  and I--"

  "You're bleeding." Pomfrey's voice cut him off, flat and dismayed.

  Severus looked at her, then down at himself. The towel he still held clasped to his
  front was small; it covered his genitals but not much else, and he could see almost
  all of his body, his chest and belly, his legs, even the very edge of his pubic
  hairline. But he saw no blood. He lifted his head and looked a question at her, a
  question suddenly touched with fear. Shewas a mediwitch, she had her wand out now,
  pointing at him and murmuring under her breath, clearly analyzing his condition -
  - and did she see something he couldn't, some internal bleeding, some damage hidden
  deep within?

  "Severus," she said gently, "would you please turn around?"

  He colored a bit, embarrassment joining his confusion, his unease. "I beg your
  pardon?"

  "Please, Severus." Her gentle tone did not change. "Please, don't make this harder
  than it must be."

  "I don't even know what you're--" he flared at her, then stopped. Of course he knew
  what she was on about. He could feel it now. Feel them now, sticky streams of blood,
  no more than trickles really, sliding down the backs of his thighs. As soon as he
  felt them, he also felt the fierce sting of the torn flesh that was producing them,
  and he winced before he could help it. Gods, it burned like acid, and he wondered
  how he could have been so oblivious to it until now. Perhaps, when he'd first
  awakened, he'd been too sore all over to isolate a single pain, even one as bad as
  this. Or perhaps he had aggravated the injuries while he was vomiting, tearing the
  small wounds open afresh.

  "Severus, you've nothing to be ashamed of," Pomfrey said now. Still in that
  maddening, oh-so-gentle tone. "Even if -- even if this is what I believe it is,
  you've done nothing wrong. You are the victim here. You understand that, don't you?"

  Prozac was looking from her to Severus and back again, obviously lost. "Poppy--" he
  began, but Pomfrey silenced him with a tiny shake of her head, her eyes locked on
  Severus.

  "Please, Severus. You must turn around. You must let me see."

  Mutely, Severus shook his head. Panic was moving in on him now, in nasty, sharp-
  fanged little bursts. If she saw, if she realized what happened, she would take him
  down to the hospital wing, she would examine him, she would realize he had been
  raped. There would be questions. The Malfoys would get dragged into it -- everyone
  at Hogwarts knew where Snape had been for the past two weeks. And if the Malfoys got
  involved, others would as well. Perhaps even he -- thehethat no one wanted to get
  involved, thehe that no one even wanted to mention -- might get involved.

  Worst of all, Dumbledore would get involved, and Dumbledore would find out what
  Severus had done. No matter that the Mark was invisible; Dumbledore would see it.
  Severus just knew it, the same way he knew he himself would see it, if he dared to
  look -- not with his eyes, but with his mind.

  As if mocking him, the Mark flared into sharp life. The pain was so sudden and so
  intense that Severus cried out, grabbing at his forearm. At the same time the nausea
  rolling around in his belly surged into his throat, and he turned and vomited into
  the toilet again, bent double, bracing himself on one trembling arm. There wasn't
  much to come up now, and the spasms were all the more violent for it, ripping
  through him so hard they brought tears to his eyes. Even through the thudding of the
  blood pounding in his ears, he heard Pomfrey gasp, and he realized he was giving her
  the good long look she needed after all, but for now, he was too sick to care.

  When he was through he sank to his knees, shaking all over, aching all over, sicker
  and weaker than he'd ever been in his life. He closed his eyes. Pomfrey murmured
  again, pointed her wand again, and there was a soft rustle as the warm cotton
  dressing gown she'd conjured settled and molded itself to his body. Severus spared a
  moment to be grateful -- he was cold, so cold -- and then Prozac was pressing a
  slender vial to his lips.

  "Drink this, boy. It will settle your stomach."

  Severus opened his eyes and tried to glare at him. He knew perfectly well what it
  was and what it would do; he didn't need some useless old brew-hack like Pavel
  Prozac to tell him. The smell alone was a dead giveaway. Chai, mint, ginger, a few
  other, stronger elements-- he had made similar draughts himself on dozens of
  occasions. Well, of course he had. He was a potions prodigy with a weak stomach.

  Correction,he thought. You're a Death Eaterpotions prodigy with a weak stomach, and
  that made his stomach clench all over again even as he barked a short laugh, a laugh
  that sounded more like a sob.

  He took the vial and drank.

  "Severus." Pomfrey again. "Who did this to you?"

  He handed the empty vial back to Prozac and clenched his hands together in his lap,
  looking down at them, saying nothing.

  "Severus--"

  A soft hand touched his shoulder and he twisted away from it, sliding back on his
  knees. He glared up at her through the sweaty mat of his hair. "Get away from me,
  get away! Why can't you just leave me alone?"

  Pomfrey straightened, but she did not back away. "Because I can't," she said, and he
  saw with a sinking heart that that was the simple truth of it. It was in her eyes,
  sad and angry at the time, in her set white face and the grim, trembling press of
  her lips. She was doing what she had to do, and she would keep right on doing it
  until he cracked.

  Oh, I am in so much trouble here, he thought.

  "I need you to stand up now, Severus, if you can. We're going to take you to the
  hospital wing."

  "No."

  Prozac's scowl returned, and a single, swift glance at him told Severus that the
  stupid berk still hadn't a clue what was going on here. Maybe I should have an arrow
  down my back, Severus sniped silently,with a big sign that says RECTAL TEARING AND
  BLEEDING, THIS WAY. "You'll be doing what Madam Pomfrey asked, young man, or you'll
  be in detention so long you'll think you were born there. Now get up."

  Still, Severus didn't budge. "You don't have the authority to examine me without my
  permission." He directed this at Pomfrey. He had no idea if it was true or not, but
  it was a shot in the dark.

  He was surprised when she nodded. "That's quite correct, Severus," she said. "Only
  the Headmaster can authorize an exam without your consent, and, as luck would have
  it, he is not here at the moment. He was called away to the Ministry early this
  morning."

  Severus tried, and undoubtedly failed, not to look relieved.

  "However," she continued, "even in his absence, I dohave the authority to admit you
  to the infirmary and keep you there for as long as I deem necessary."

  Severus narrowed his eyes at her, a terrible suspicion blooming in his mind. Oh, you
  sneaky,sneakyold bitch. "And how long is that?"

  "Until the Headmaster returns," she replied evenly.

  Severus sagged, appalled at how neatly he'd been trapped. He hated adults sometimes,
  just fuckinghatedthem. No matter how smart you were, no matter how careful you were,
  they always seemed to be just one step ahead of you. Every last bloody one of them
  was a Slytherin at heart.

  "Please get up now, Severus. I've no wish to make this harder on you, child, but
  Iwillget you to the hospital wing, one way or another. Can you stand?"

  He could, though just barely. Pomfrey eyed his swaying figure with concern. "Pavel,"
  she addressed Prozac, "could you assist him, please? He's weak as a kitten. There,
  now, Severus, if you'll just put your arm around the professor's shoulders--"

  "I can walk."

  But again, just barely. His belly and back ached from vomiting, his ass burned and
  throbbed with every step, and Pomfrey was right, he felt alarmingly weak. The potion
  had indeed quelled his nausea, but his legs were water. He managed only a shuffling
  step or two toward the doorway before he collapsed.

  Prozac caught him, steadied him on his feet, and looked at Pomfrey doubtfully.
  "He'll never make it to the hospital wing, Poppy."

  "No, I think not. Can you carry him, Pavel?"

  "Yes, if we use the Floo."

  "Of course. The last thing he needs right now is the rest of the school staring and
  pointing."

  Prozac nodded. He bent and scooped Severus into his arms, easily, as if he were a
  child. Severus tried to struggle -- he was nota child, damn it, not, he'd said it
  before, weren't they listening? -- but nothing happened. His body simply refused to
  punch or kick or squirm or do any of the things he told it to do. It refused to do
  anything but loll in Prozac's arms like an oversized rag doll and ignore his wishes
  completely.

  The potion, the bloody potion, sneaky old Slytherin fuck put something in the potion
  and now I'm stuck, can't fight, can't get away--

  Except right now he couldn't recall exactly why he wanted to get away. They weren't
  taking him to some torture chamber, after all, just to the hospital wing. There were
  beds in the hospital wing, lots of them, lovely soft beds with warm blankets and fat
  pillows. He could sleep. He needed to sleep. He lustedfor sleep. His body felt so
  tired, his eyes so heavy. They weren't going to hurt him, they were going to help
  him, let him sleep. And Prozac's arms around him were comforting, warm and
  surprisingly strong.

  Stronger than he looks. Must be from slogging all those cauldrons around all day
  long. Builds muscles. 'Course it does. Look what it did for me. Gave me a body for
  the first time in my life. A body loads of people want. Gryffindors. Slytherins.
  Even dogs! I could get me a king with this body, maybe. Or a lord. Sure. ADarkLord.

  His own bitter laugh was the last thing he heard before the blackness swelled and
  swallowed him whole.

  ********************************************************************************

  When Snape didn't show up at breakfast, Sirius Black's only reaction was contempt,
  tinged with a trace of jealous anger. It was faint contempt, faint jealousy and
  faint anger -- but, then, most everything he felt these days was faint. He had been
  in a listless funk for weeks, ever since the night he had so forcibly introduced
  Snape to Padfoot, and not even the thought of Snape skiving off school to shag
  Malfoy a little longer could generate much of a response.

  Although any response was more than Snape deserved, the lying little slut, and
  Sirius was disgusted with himself, disgusted that he'd even noticed the Slytherin's
  absence in the first place.

  Well,faintly disgusted, anyway.

  It was only when Snape also missed Transfiguration, and then Herbology, that Sirius
  began to feel the first little ripples of unease. Breakfast was one thing, but
  classes? Snape was an absolute grind when it came to his studies, and Sirius could
  count on one hand the number of classes he had missed over the last six years. Would
  he actually jeopardize his grades just to whack the donkey with Malfoy and the rest
  of his pervert friends for an extra hour or two? Sirius didn't think so. The only
  way he could see that happening was if--

  (oh don't be so stupid, don't, it's just such crazy, overdramatic crap)

  --was if Snape really didn't have any choice in the matter.

  Sirius sighed. Because it was crazy, overdramatic crap, and he knew it. As if Malfoy
  had Snape imprisoned somewhere, like a princess in a tower in some dumb Muggle fairy
  tale! Sure. Absolutely. Repulsive, Repulsive, let down your greasy hair, he thought,
  and laughed mirthlessly to himself. You, Sirius old mate, are one great bloody
  idiot.

  But was he? Even in school, Lucius Malfoy had been controlling, manipulative, more
  than a bit sadistic -- why would his sexual proclivities be any less twisted than
  his social ones? Poor old Snape probablywaschained to a wall somewhere, maybe in the
  dank, dark bowels of Malfoy Manor, everything from his nipples to his nuts tortured
  or teased, bound or clamped or strapped or caged. Tied up, maybe laid out on an
  altar, maybe with a big red ribbon round his head or even his cock. An offering, a
  living sacrifice to the great dark god of sex. Our Almighty Lord Hardonus,as James
  liked to say.

  Speaking of whom -- Sirius shifted in his seat, adjusting his slight erection
  gingerly, and with some surprise. Lord Hardonus had not visited Sirius in quite a
  while, a few weeks at least. Not since the night he had...the night of the first.

  You fucking coward. The night you turned into a dog and raped him, you mean.

  Sirius pushed that thought away. He was donefeeling bad about that, done. Yes, okay,
  perhaps it had been the wrong thing to do, a nasty trick even by Marauder standards,
  but there was no law that said he had to think about it the rest of his life, was
  there? It was done, it could not be undone no matter how much he might wish
  it...and, anyway, Snape had deserved it. He had, damn it.

  Of course he did. Just like he probably deserved whatever Malfoy and Company did to
  him over the fortnight. It's like you told James all those months ago, right? Snape
  pretty much deserves whatever he gets.

  And Sirius had enjoyed it. That was the worst part, how much he had enjoyed it. He
  had literally become an animal, and not just in flesh, as he normally did, but
  totally, completely. Afraid his rage and his hatred of Snape would push him to
  attack the other boy, he had submerged his human mind deep and allowed the dog's
  natural instincts and urges to take over -- and he had liked it. The Padfoot part of
  his brain was the ultimate in uncomplicated -- no words, no real thoughts, just a
  delicious, unending cycle of sensation and response -- and he had reveled in it.

  He deserved it. He did, gods damn it.

  His face. The look on Snape's face when Padfoot had finished with him and the Room
  had returned to normal. The look in his eyes. It had all frightened Sirius quite
  badly at the time, and it haunted him still. Not even the miserable, sick spasms,
  the idea that Snape was so traumatized by the assault that he was actually
  physically ill, had scared Sirius the way the look in his eyes had. There had been
  nothing there, absolutely nothing: no fear, no hate, no anger, no anything. Just a
  blank, staring void where there was usually black fire...and how close had he come
  to sending Snape into that void for good? It was a question that came back to Sirius
  again and again in the days that followed.

  He was faking.This was what Sirius told himself every time the memory recurred. He
  was faking, he was trying to scare me, that's all. He's "a marvelous little actor,"
  remember?

  Yes, he remembered. But he just wasn't sure. If Snape could fake that well, he
  deserved one of those Muggle movie awards, Omars, or whatever they were called. He
  couldn'thave faked that look. Or the sickness, or the terror, or even the way his
  voice had sounded when he had asked Sirius, "Why?"There had been no mistaking the
  bewildered anguish in that single word, an anguish that had pierced Sirius's heart
  then and continued to do so every single time he recalled it. Thatithad been real,
  Sirius had no doubt. Nobody was that good an actor.

  Which all begged the question: DidSnape deserve it? Did he know, was he in on it -
  - or was it all just Bella, tarting things up to impress Malfoy? Or Bella andMalfoy,
  together, plotting and tricking and trapping them both?

  He had never gotten the chance to find out. Snape had avoided him like the clap
  after that night -- not that Sirius would have gone to him anyway, though he had
  been powerfully tempted. Whenever those nagging questions surfaced, late on
  sleepless nights or during a particularly empty stretch of class time, Sirius had
  been very tempted indeed. Tempted to go to Snape, confront him honestly, demand the
  truth...and even, maybe, offer some explanations of his own. Explain how the Room of
  Requirement worked. Explain that none of it had been real, none of it, that not even
  Prongs and Moony and Wormy had been real, but merely doppelgangers -- doppelgangers
  so alive that Sirius had almost lost control of them, so accurate that even Sirius
  had forgotten, at times, that they were fictions, created wholly from his mind by
  the room's relentless magic. Explain that nothing had been real except for Padfoot -
  - and that even he wasn't exactly your run-of-the-mill street mutt.

  Small comfort to Snape, perhaps -- you weren't really fucked by a dog, Sniv; it was
  just me, with a dog's pecker, in a furry suit -- and a terrible risk for
  Sirius...but if it could ease even a little of the guilt eating him alive night
  after night, it would be worth it.

  But he hadn't gone to Snape. A week later, Snape had gone off to Malfoy's for the
  fortnight. And now, Snape was missing.

  You are so stupid, he'snotmissing, he's sleeping in or he's ill but he's notmissing-
  -

  Then he walked into Potions and there was still no sign of Snape, and he completed
  the thought. Completed it rather predictably, given his state of mind. No, he's not
  missing. He's dead.

  And, honestly, Sirius couldn't think of anything short of that which would keep
  Snape away from his beloved vials and nostrums.

  The sight of Professor Sinistra standing at the front of the room, announcing that
  she was a substitute for Professor Prozac because he was "otherwise detained," did
  nothing to allay his fears. Something hadhappened to Snape. Snape was absent, Snape
  was a Slytherin, and Prozac was his Head of House -- he would be the first one
  notified if something had had happened to a Slytherin.

  It was the longest forty minutes of Sirius Black's life. As Sinistra knew nothing
  about potions (a fact she admitted not just willingly, but cheerfully), she turned
  the class into a free study period. Brilliant,Sirius thought moodily. Just what I
  need. More time to think.

  He yanked his Potions text out of his bag and slapped it on the desk. He opened it
  at random and scowled down at it fiercely, as if it had offended him in some way. He
  hated potions as much as Snape loved them -- but he supposed, if he was stuck here
  with nothing else to do, he might as well study. Who knew, maybe he'd even find a
  cure for his hopeless addiction to lying Slytherin assholes.

  He read, or tried to, for fifteen minutes before he gave it up as a bad job. He just
  couldn't concentrate; there were too many distractions, even without the chaotic
  thoughts buzzing through his head. Professor Sinistra, such an amiable taskmaster in
  her own classroom, apparently had no such concerns here, and before too long,
  students were getting up, moving about the room, changing seats, and talking ever
  more boisterously in little huddles of twos and threes. At one point, James caught
  his eye and mouthed Do you want me to come over there? but, after a moment's
  hesitation, Sirius shook his head. He knew he shouldn't decline if the other
  Marauders wanted to join him -- he'd been avoiding them too much for the past few
  weeks as it was -- but he just didn't want any company right now. James looked
  disappointed, but he seemed to understand.

  Remus and Peter never bothered to look at him at all.

  What Sirius really wanted to do right now was listen. Half the class was Slytherin,
  after all, and he had the faint hope he might hear something about Snape. Where he
  was, how he was...hell, ifhe was. He picked up his book and opened it again, not
  seeing it as he strained to hear, blocking out all other sound as he focused on each
  conversation in turn, but the only person he heard even mention Snape's name was
  Lily Evans. She asked Victor Crabbe if Severus was ill.

  Crabbe -- who was just as stupid as his buddy Goyle, but considerably more good-
  hearted -- shrugged his massive shoulders. "He missed curfew last night, but his
  curtains were closed this morning, so I guess he was in there. I don't know for
  sure, though."

  Oh, there'sa surprise, Sirius snorted to himself.Next time, try asking someone with
  a brain, you goody-two-shoes priss.Still, it bothered him a bit that even Evans
  didn't know anything about Snape's whereabouts, as she was the closest thing to a
  real confidante that Snape had.

  By the time the period was almost over, he was so bothered, and so hungry for any
  news of Snape at all, that when Bella approached and slipped into the chair beside
  him, he was almost civil to her.

  "Something I can do for you, Bella?"

  "Not at all, Ri-Ri, not at all." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs
  too high. Today she was wearing her robe unbuttoned from the waist down, with one of
  those Muggle miniskirts underneath. It was a very nice view, even if it was Bella's,
  but Sirius found he wasn't all that interested; it seemed Lord Hardonus had taken a
  powder on him again. "It's more a question of what Ican do for you."

  "You could drop dead," Sirius suggested, as nicely as possible. "Failing that, you
  could leave."

  "I could, and I will. But not before I do my good deed for the day and tell you that
  Severus is perfectly fine."

  His heart sped up, though he gave no outward sign. Christ! Was he that obvious to
  everyone, or did Bella just know him too well? "And I would care why?"

  She dimpled. "Oh, come now, Ri-Ri. I saw you eavesdropping on Vic and the Evans
  bitch. And you looked positively stricken when you walked in here and didn't see
  Severus! Since you seem to be so worried about him, I just wanted to let you to know
  that you needn't be. He's absolutely safe and sound."

  "Really."

  "Yes, really. He's most likely just having a bit of a lie-in. I expect he's utterly
  exhausted. It was quite a party at Malfoy Manor over the fortnight, and Severus was
  the belle of the ball."

  He gave her no reaction. "Really."

  "Oh, yes. I can vouch for it personally. You know, I'm finally beginning to see why
  you're so taken with him. I still say he's not overmuch to look at, but he is a
  scrumptiousfuck."

  As if he needed even one more reason to hate her, Sirius thought, words
  likescrumptious were actually part of her vocabulary. "Of course he is. I taught him
  everything he knows."

  "I doubt you had to teach him much," she snickered. "That one's a natural, he is."
  She gave Sirius a sad little head shake. "I understand now why you've been moping
  about so the past few weeks. I imagine you miss him terribly, don't you, dear?"

  "I haven't been mo--" Sirius began, but he caught himself in time. He was not going
  to get into this with her. "Bella, you've had your fun. Be a good little slag, now,
  and go back to your corner."

  "Oh, but why?" she pouted. "I thought perhaps we could chat a bit. Compare notes and
  all that." She lowered her voice and leaned close to him. "What do you miss most
  about Severus, darling? Do you miss sucking his cock? I would. I quite enjoy it. He
  has such a unique taste, don't you agree? Like licorice, or anise, perhaps. Though
  Lucius says it's more like peaches."

  Sirius just looked at her.

  "Or is it his arse?" she continued. "Such a hard, tight arse. I do like a lad with a
  firm arse, don't you? I can't tell you how many times I had my legs wrapped around
  that arse over the weekend." A sly pause. "Actually, Icouldtell you -- but I expect
  you don't really want me to do that, do you, Ri-Ri?"

  The hell with this shit,Sirius thought.

  "I'll tell you what I miss, Bella," he said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial
  whisper. "I miss fucking him. I miss putting his legs over my shoulders and pulling
  his arse cheeks apart and just sliding into that tight pink hole of his, nice and
  slow and easy. I miss feeling him stretch around me. I miss feeling his arse sucking
  on my cock. I think he feels like velvet inside, don't you? So warm and soft." He
  eyed her faltering smirk with pleasure and flashed an insultingly big grin. "Oh, but
  I expect you don't really want me to talk about that, do you, Bella? You wouldn't
  know what that feels like, would you? You'll neverknow. You can't fuck him."

  Her expression didn't change, but he saw the anger in her eyes, her balked, startled
  fury at not getting the reaction she wanted. "You can't fuck him either," she spat,
  probably more viciously than she intended. "Not anymore."

  "Why, Bella," Sirius chuckled, ignoring the jab, "you look upset. What's the matter?
  Have I gone and spoiled all your fun?"

  He chucked her playfully under the chin; she wrenched her head away with a hiss.

  "Oh, you've spoiled a lot more than that," she said. Her voice was low and tense. "A
  lot more than you know, you stupid bastard."

  Sirius raised his eyebrows. "Name-calling now, Bella?" he clucked. "Why are you so
  mad? You were the one who wanted to compare notes, dear."

  "So I did." She narrowed her eyes. "And speaking of notes, dear, have you read any
  good ones lately?"

  Something in his belly fluttered and tightened. That was all, and at first he
  thought he had simply heard her wrong. "What?"

  "You heard me. You know, you're not only stupid, cousin, you're drearily
  predictable. If I didn't loathe you so much, I'd feel sorry for you. Anyone with
  half a brain could see what was going on, but not you. You couldn't see past a few
  lines on a scrap of parchment."

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about." But he did; he had a terrible
  sinking certainty he knew exactlywhat she was talking about, and that flutter in his
  gut became a full-fledged spasm.

  "No? Shall I refresh your memory, then?" She closed her eyes, a theatrical frown
  creasing her brow. "`That poor, friendless waif bit of his has my idiot cousin
  mooning about after him like a lovestruck first-year.' `What a marvelous little
  actor he is! If he were just a bit prettier, he could be on the stage.' `From what I
  can gather, even the sex isn't all that spectacular. Dolpho said Severus told him
  that fucking Sirius is like fucking a dog. All panting and licking and not much
  else.'" She opened her eyes and gave him a smile brimming with vindictive pleasure.
  "Any of that ringing a bell, cousin? Or would you care to hear more?"

  Sirius could only stare at her speechlessly. Her words -- those hateful, hateful
  words from the letter-- seemed to hang in the air between them.

  She laughed outright at his expression. "Oh, don't look so shocked, Ri-Ri! It took
  me nearly a dozen drafts to get it right, so of course every word is engraved in my
  memory." She paused, her smile fading as she searched his face thoughtfully. "Yours
  as well, I imagine."

  "You dropped it." Sirius's voice sounded strange even to his own ears, hollow and
  distant. "I bumped into you, and you dropped it."

  "No, dear. Ibumped into you. I followed you around half the day, waiting for an
  opportunity -- and you can imagine my delight when you went up to the Owlery! I
  couldn't have planned it better. It added just the right touch of credibility, don't
  you think?"

  "You dropped it on purpose."

  "Yes."

  "You wantedme to read it."

  "Yes." Amused. Triumphant.

  "You're a liar." His voice shook. "You're the biggest fucking liar in the school,
  why should I--?"

  "And you're a fool." She laughed outright. "Sweet Salazar! Did you honestly believe
  I'd put things like that down in writing if I didn'twantthem to be read? Or that
  Lucius Malfoy would actually bring a piece of Gryffindor scum like you into his home
  for anyreason, even an evening's amusement? You're pathetic, Sirius, truly pathetic.
  And predictable, as I said. It was like taking candy from a baby."

  Of course it was, he thought wretchedly. Because I've never been the sharpest wand
  in the shop. "Why, Bella?"

  "Why what? Why did I do it?"

  "Yes."

  She looked honestly surprised. "You really don't know?"

  "Wouldn't be asking if I knew," he snarled. "Was it just spite, Bella? Would you
  actually go to all that trouble just to fuck up my life?"

  "Don't flatter yourself." She paused again, for so long that he began to wonder if
  she would answer at all. She was still regarding him with that thoughtful,
  considering look, and he thought he saw a shred of real pity buried deep beneath the
  mocking gravity. He didn't like it, not on her: it was too human. "Severus was
  falling in love with you," she said finally. "Lucius saw it, even if you didn't, and
  it infuriated him. He told Severus to break it off with you, but when Severus
  didn't, or wouldn't, or couldn't, well..." She shrugged. "At any rate, I was glad
  enough to help. A fellow Slytherin in need, and all that."

  The period was nearly over; people were gathering up their books and bags, shifting
  restlessly, glancing at their watches and at Sinistra, who was standing rather
  eagerly herself, waiting to dismiss them. Sirius registered none of it. Even her
  words, those impossible words -- Severus was falling in love with you -- didn't
  fully hit him, not then. His head felt airy and dizzy and distant, his body
  strangely numb, and, for a terrifying few seconds, he thought he was going to faint.

  Abruptly he stood and stuffed his Potions text into his bag. Bella cocked her head
  and smiled pertly up at him.

  "Ohhh. Leaving so soon, Ri-Ri? Was it something I said?"

  He ignored her and turned away. He walked to the front of the room. Even as he
  approached Sinistra, he had no idea what he was going to say. He wasn't thinking; he
  couldn'tthink, not until he got out of here, not until he was alone. His head still
  felt like a balloon filled with volatile gas -- one spark, one wrong word or wayward
  thought, and it would explode. "Professor?"

  "Yes, Mr. Black?"

  "May I be excused now? I don't -- I don't feel very well. I'd like to go up to my
  room and lie down."

  She frowned, already starting to shake her head, searching his face. Whatever she
  saw there apparently changed her mind, for she nodded immediately, without any
  questions. She even offered to make his excuses to Professor Flitwick.

  He thanked her and left, feeling her curious eyes on his back. James's, too, and
  Remus's, Peter's -- but not Bella's, of course. Good old Bella knew exactly why
  Sirius was leaving, just as she knew -- as they both knew -- it wasn't really
  leaving he was doing at all, but running away.

  ************************************************************************************

  The bastard had drugged him.

  The bastard had drugged him, but not very effectively. Obviously, Prozac's
  incompetence extended even to the simplest of narcotic draughts; Severus estimated
  he'd been asleep no more than half an hour. There was no clock in the room, and he
  wasn't wearing his watch, but the slant of the light filtering in through the
  infirmary windows suggested it was not much past one. And Prozac was still here in
  the hospital wing; Severus could hear him in Pomfrey's office, talking with her and
  someone else in hushed tones.

  "--you're suggesting seems unfathomable," Prozac was saying. "I find it impossible
  to believe that anyone at Hogwarts, not a student, certainly not a teacher, would do
  such a thing."

  "You may believe what you like," Pomfrey responded, a trifle coldly. "I know what I
  saw. Nothing else could have caused injuries of that type. And the vomiting, the
  trembling -- I know the signs of trauma when I see them, Pavel. That boy was raped."

  Severus's heart began to pound unpleasantly. He leaned forward even further,
  straining to hear every word.

  "Can the Headmaster truly authorize such an...an intimate examination, without the
  boy's consent?"

  "Certainly, with proper cause."

  "And such an exam could prove he'd been assaulted?"

  "The tearing and hemorrhaging are enough to prove that even without an exam. But
  there may be internal damage as well -- and, more importantly, a proper exam can
  tell us who did this to him."
                                                                                       
  Prozac sighed. "That's what I was afraid of," he muttered.

  "Pavel!" The third voice rose a bit, sounding thoroughly astounded, and Severus
  placed it. McGonagall. Well, of course she would be here -- she was Deputy
  Headmistress, and in charge of the school in Dumbledore's absence. "What on earth is
  wrong with you? One of the students -- one of yourstudents -- has been assaulted.
  You should be the first one to want to catch whoever did this."

  There was a pause. When Prozac spoke again, he had dropped his voice even lower, so
  low that Severus could scarcely hear him.

  "You know where he spent the holiday," he said. "Do you want to deal with the
  possibility that this might have happened at Malfoy Manor? With the power and the
  influence Lazarus Malfoy has? Sweet Salazar, Minerva! He'll have our jobs. If not
  our heads."

  "I don't care about politics," McGonagall informed him. "My only concern is for the
  safety and well-being of the students in this school. And, frankly, I'm rather
  appalled at your attitude, Pavel. You are that child's Head of House. Your priority
  right now should be Severus, not your tenure or your paycheque."

  "I quite agree." Pomfrey again, and now there was no mistaking the coldness in her
  tone. "And if you're for one moment suggesting we shouldn't investigate this, or
  that we should cover it up, I will not be a party to that."

  "I'm suggesting no such thing," Prozac growled. "All I'm saying is that I don't want
  to be the one who tells Lazarus Malfoy a boy was forcibly sodomized in his home
  while under his care."

  "Then don't," McGonagall said curtly. "Albus and I will handle Malfoy. If it even
  comes to that. We've no evidence that the Malfoys are guilty of anything, after all
  -- and, as much as I dislike Lazarus, we have no right to accuse him without proof."

  Another pause, longer than the first. Then Prozac spoke again. "There is one other
  possible suspect, though I daresay you won't like to hear it, Minerva."

  "Who?"

  "Sirius Black."

  Severus gasped audibly. Luckily for him, so did McGonagall. "What?"

  "Sirius Black," he repeated. "You've both heard the rumors about Black and Snape.
  We've all heard them, for months now. And given Black's history, I'd say he's a very
  likely suspect."

  "His `history'?" McGonagall's voice quivered with outrage. Severus made a face. He
  liked McGonagall all right -- she'd always been decent to him, and for the most part
  fair -- but she was blind as a bat when it came to the Marauders. They were her
  little Gryffindor princes, the lot of them. "To what `history' are you referring?"

  "He and Potter are the biggest troublemakers in this school, Minerva, and you know
  it. They're both swaggering, insolent little bullies, and Snape has always been one
  of their favorite targets. This wouldn't be the first time one of their so-called
  pranks on him went too far."

  "Forcible rape is hardly a prank, Pavel," Pomfrey demurred. "I know those boys, and
  I know they've let things get out of hand from time to time, but this is something
  else altogether. This is..."

  "Preposterous," McGonagall snapped. "Absurd, is what it is. Honestly, Pavel! Not
  five minutes ago you were saying you couldn't believe anyone at Hogwarts capable of
  such a thing, and now you're blaming a student? Are you that desperate to exonerate
  the Malfoys and protect your job?"

  "Sirius Black and Severus Snape have been involved in a sexual relationship for
  months," Prozac reiterated. "At the very least, Black has to be considered."

  "On the basis of some student rumors?"

  "Where there's smoke, there's fire."

  McGonagall said nothing, but even at this distance, Severus could feel the anger
  surging through her. He could even picture her face, deadly pale, jaw clenched, lips
  pressed so tightly together they had almost disappeared. He'd had that particular
  look directed at him only once, but it had made an indelible impression.

  It was Pomfrey who broke the uncomfortable silence. "There has been a great deal of
  talk about the two of them, Minerva. Pavel is right. We can't discount Black as a
  suspect completely."

  "I'm not discounting it, Poppy," McGonagall snapped, though she had just done
  exactly that. "But even if there is anything to the gossip, a consensual sexual
  relationship is a far cry from rape. And perhaps it has escaped your attention,
  Pavel, that Severus has alsobeen rumored to be involved with Lucius Malfoy?"

  "Oh, I see," Prozac bristled. "So we're attacking the victim, now, is that it? It
  wasn't your student's fault. Snape's promiscuityis the reason he was assaulted."

  Well, that was a nice dodge,Severus thought. He couldn't help but admire how deftly
  Prozac had deflected the point; he hadn't thought the old fool was nearly that
  slick.

  "How dare you." McGonagall's voice was low and dangerous. "I would never suggest
  anything of the sort. And if --if -- it turns out that Black, or any other
  Gryffindor, had anything to do with this, rest assured I shall be the first to see
  him punished. Unlike certain other people on this staff, I try to be objective when
  it comes to the students in my House."

  "`Certain other people'?" Prozac echoed. "I don't think I quite care for what you're
  insinuating, Professor."

  "I am insinuating nothing, Pavel. I'm stating it, quite plainly. You are hopelessly
  biased toward your Slytherins and brutally unfair to the other three Houses.
  Particularly myHouse. You'd quite like it if Sirius Black were to be found guilty,
  wouldn't you, simply because he's a Gryffindor?"

  "That's utterly absurd--" he blustered, but Pomfrey's angry voice cut him off.

  "Stop it!" she said sharply. "Stop it, both of you, please! None of this is helping
  Severus in the slightest. We'll find the answers we need after I examine him, but,
  in the meantime, I'll thank you to confine your House rivalry to the Quidditch
  pitch."

  Another long silence. Severus lay back quickly and closed his eyes, half-expecting
  Pomfrey to storm out of her office and into the ward, but she remained where she
  was.

  "I'm sorry, Poppy," McGonagall said at last. "She's right, of course, Pavel. We're
  behaving like children ourselves. There's no point in insults or unfounded
  accusations -- we're supposed to be on the same side."

  To her credit, she sounded sincere; to Severus's surprise, so did Prozac. "It is a
  most distressing business," the Potions master admitted stiffly, "and perhaps I have
  not handled it as well as I might have. My apologies, ladies."

  They murmured awkwardly in response.

  Prozac cleared his throat. "Poppy, I imagine you can do nothing further for the boy
  until Albus returns?"

  "Just keep him comfortable -- and heavily sedated," she added with an uneasy sigh.
  "I can't stand guard over him all afternoon, and I don't want him trying to get rid
  of the evidence, or trying to escape."

  "You believe he would?" McGonagall sounded startled.

  "Oh, no doubt. We've no idea how badly this has scarred him emotionally, or
  psychologically. And he's scared to death, Minerva. In complete denial. I'm sure he
  wishes it would all just go away, and he could pretend it never happened."

  "How odd," McGonagall mused. "As if he's protecting someone, perhaps?"

  Pomfrey sighed. "Perhaps, but not necessarily. From what I understand, it's a very
  common reaction in rape victims. I don't know, of course, I'm no expert...and I
  certainly never expected to become one. But I've read enough case studies to know
  that he might try to run."

  "Perhaps you should ward the room."

  "I can't. Students need access in case of an emergency."

  "Of course. How stupid of me."

  "Here," Prozac said, and Severus heard the faint clink of glass on glass. "Give him
  a swallow more of this. He'll be out for hours."

  That's whatyou think, imbecile,Severus snorted to himself.

  "Thank you, Pavel."

  There was some more muttering back and forth, too low and indistinct for Severus to
  understand. They seemed to be moving away from him as they talked. Headed for the
  fireplace, perhaps, to floo back to their own offices? Hopefully. Severus Reached,
  but nothing happened. Not even a flicker of a thought. He lay back with a frustrated
  sigh.

  The muttering continued for another minute or two. Then Severus heard the
  unmistakable soft fwumpof floo powder hitting flame. Good, they were leaving.
  Finally. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply and slowly,
  feigning sleep.

  Gods, she was quiet! Pomfrey was at his side before he was even aware of her
  approach.

  "Severus." She shook his shoulder gently; he cracked one eye, trying to look groggy.
  "Here, child. Drink this."

  She slid a hand under his hair, behind his neck, and tilted his head so that he
  could drink without choking. He drained the cool, minty, faintly fruity potion
  without protest and lay back down.

  "That's a good boy," Pomfrey murmured. "Rest now, dear. I'll be back in a little
  while."

  Severus lay still until he heard the door shut quietly behind her. As soon as she
  was gone, he sat up and spat the mouthful of potion into the basin on the bed stand.
  Like as not, it wouldn't have worked any better than the previous dose had, but he
  couldn't afford to take that chance. Indeed, he would have liked to go back to sleep
  -- he was still unutterably exhausted -- but he couldn't afford that, either. Right
  now, he needed his wits about him. He needed to be as alert and focused as possible.
  He needed to think.

  Pomfrey was right about one thing: he was scared to death. Stories his father had
  told him of Azkaban, the wizard prison, ran through his mind. Stories of the
  terrible guards, inhuman creatures called Dementors, grey and twisted beneath their
  dark robes, who drained the will to live from all who came near them. Stories of
  inmates driven mad, screaming and laughing hysterically, clawing their own eyes out,
  banging their heads against the walls, or sitting, senseless and silent, hour after
  hour after hour. Oh, yes, Severus knew all about Azkaban. Hadn't his father told him
  often enough that his Dark ways would land him at the prison's door one day, that it
  was somehow his destiny to die raving in one of its dank and stinking cells?

  He told himself not to be ridiculous. Even if they did discover that he had joined
  the Dark Lord, they couldn't put him in prison. They couldn't do anything to him. It
  wasn't against the law to be a Death Eater, after all, not when Lord Voldemort still
  had a facade of respectability, not when only a handful of magic folk even knew what
  a Death Eater was. Still, his fear persisted, gut-deep and irrational. His mind was
  the one thing he could not afford to lose; his mind was all he had.

  He lay back again, slowly, throwing an arm across his eyes. He closed them and
  forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly, willing himself to relax, willing his
  racing heart to slow and his frantic mind to stop darting from one panicky thought
  to the next.Be logical. Calm and logical.That was how he had to approach this. It
  was a problem, just another problem, and any problem could be solved. If he thought
  about it rationally, if he took his time, he'd figure out what the hell he was going
  to do.

  But what the hell could he do? As far as he could tell, he had only two options, and
  he didn't care for either of them. If he destroyed the evidence and cleaned himself
  up before Pomfrey could examine him, it would be akin to signing a confession -
  - Pomfrey already knew he'd been raped, after all, and both she and McGonagall
  believed he might be protecting somebody. There would be questions. An
  investigation. They might discover that he had lied. If they really wanted to get
  tough with him, they could formally charge him with evidence tampering, possibly
  even interfering with a criminal investigation. But if he didn't destroy it...

  If I don't destroy it, I'm dead.

  Evidence. Physical evidence -- or trace evidence, as Augustus called it -- was
  another of the old man's pet subjects, and Severus knew a great deal about it, much
  more than most wizards even twice his age. He knew, for instance, that every magical
  human being had a chemical signature, recorded at birth, which was as unique to that
  witch or wizard as a fingerprint and as tangible, to the proper testing, as a drop
  of blood. According to Augustus, this signature was present in every physical aspect
  of a magical human: skin, hair, bone, blood, saliva, sweat, and semen. Trace
  evidence was extremely rare in their world -- most wizards who committed crimes did
  so from a distance, with wands or potions -- but when it was present, it was
  foolproof. And it was durable: its components would not degrade over time or under
  adverse conditions, as those in a blood sample would. As long as the host material
  survived, so, too, would the signature.

  Severus wondered whose signatures they would find on him. Inhim. Malfoy's? Avery's?
  The Dark Lord's? A violent shudder ripped through him at that thought. The Ministry
  was positively aching to find some crime, any crime, with which to bring down Lord
  Voldemort, and child-rape would no doubt do the trick. Were he to hand them the Dark
  Lord's downfall on such a platter, Severus knew, Azkaban would be the least of his
  worries.

  So those were his options. Destroy the evidence, or let it speak. Choose Azkaban, or
  choose death. Even to a boy well-accustomed to hard choices, it was an overwhelming
  dilemma. He had never felt so helpless in his life.

  Sochange the evidence.

  The thought came clearly and suddenly, like a little voice whispering in his ear.
  Except it didn't sound like his usual inner voice. It didn't sound like his own
  voice at all. It sounded like His Lord's voice -- and what it was suggesting was
  impossible.

  Is it? I think not. Clever, clever little one -- certainly this is not beyond you?

  His Mark was twitching, burning faintly beneath his skin. An observer looking at him
  would have believed him to be in a trance: his face was a still white mask, his eyes
  wide but blank, fixed on nothing. He was concentrating every muscle and fiber and
  inch of him on that voice.

  False evidence would do the trick nicely, he thought -- but how? He didn't even have
  his wand, and he certainly didn't have anyone available to give him a sperm sample.
  Unless he could find someone to fuck in the next twenty minutes or so, the whole
  argument was moot.

  Not just "someone." Not justanyone. You know who it must be.

  Of course he did. Hadn't Prozac supplied the name not ten minutes ago? Black. Black
  would be perfect. Indeed, if not for the small fact that Black now hated his guts
  more than ever and wouldn't come within fifty feet of him under threat of torture,
  Black would be ideal.

  He'll come. Send for him, Severus. Send. Reach.

  Could he? Could he Reach Black, could he Reachout, sending his thoughts to another
  mind instead of pulling them from someone else? He had never attempted such a thing
  before; he had never considered the possibility, even. And he didn't have his wand.
  But if he could do it...ifhe could...that would be brilliant.

  He closed his eyes. He concentrated all his will on picturing Black's face in his
  mind, that perfect, beautiful, hated face, and he narrowed his focus to a single,
  simple thought. Come to me. Come to me, please. I need you.

  The room grew very still around him. His trance deepened, became a light doze. He
  let himself drift in and out, keeping Black's face in his mind's eye, murmuring the
  words softly aloud, as if in prayer. At some point, his exhaustion took over and he
  fell asleep. His last conscious thought was It's working, and it was; he could
  actually feel the subtle brush of Black's mind against his.

  He slept for no more than twenty minutes or so, but awoke remarkably refreshed. His
  head felt clearer, his body, stronger; his resolve was restored, vigorous and
  unshakable. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked around, and he felt no
  surprise whatsoever when he saw Sirius Black standing in the doorway.

  His Mark burning, Severus Snape smiled.

  ************************************************************************************

  It was the smile, Sirius would think much later, that should have tipped him off.

  At the time, it merely caught him off-guard. It should not have done, perhaps;
  foreign as such an expression was on Severus Snape's sharp, brooding countenance, it
  was not a false smile. It was not sly or mocking or wicked or remotely threatening,
  but Sirius felt vaguely threatened by it nonetheless.

  He took a hesitant step forward, letting the door close behind him, then stepped
  back and pressed himself against it, confused and disoriented.

  He had only the fuzziest idea how he had come to be here. After leaving Potions, he
  had gone back to his room. He had gone to bed and he had remained there through
  lunch, replaying Bella's confession again and again. His initial shock at her
  revelations had passed quickly -- hadn't heknown all along, known somewhere deep
  inside him, that Snape was innocent? -- but the guilt and shame that followed had
  been a torture he couldn't have imagined. For the first time in his life, Sirius had
  found himself truly sorry for something he had done. Not sorry he had been caught,
  or sorry that he would be punished, but simply sorry for the deed itself, for
  hurting someone so badly, someone who had done nothing to deserve it. Someone, he
  realized, that he loved.

  And even in his remorse, he had been selfish, for the words that had haunted him
  most were Severus was falling in love with you.

  He remembered lying on his bed, wrestling with his bleeding conscience, trying to
  find some way to live with what he had done, trying not to think about what he had
  destroyed. He remembered falling asleep, and he remembered having a terrible dream.

  He was in Potions class. The teacher was not Pavel Prozac, but the man Sirius had
  seen with Malfoy and Snape in Hogsmeade, the dark, handsome stranger with the
  frightening red eyes. All of the Slytherins were in dark robes, with odd white masks
  over their faces; all of the Gryffindors were in chains. Snape was chained as well,
  blindfolded, gagged. He lay naked and splayed on the teacher's desk at the head of
  the room, like a sacrifice on an ancient altar. He struggled, his eyes wild with
  terror as they fixed on the dark man disrobing between his widespread legs.

  The dark man slid from his robes like a snake shedding its skin, revealing a long,
  pale, smooth body and a hideous cock, a monstrously deformed appendage covered with
  sharp thorn-like spikes. The head of his member was that of a snake, and Sirius's
  stomach turned over as a forked tongue flicked from the slit, tasting Snape's thigh.


  The dark man bent over Snape's writhing form; the tip of his inhuman phallus touched
  Snape's entrance, and the Slytherin's struggles became frenzied, his eyes nearly
  insane. Sirius thought, Jesus, Jesus,no, you can't fuck him with that thing,
  youcan't,sweet fucking Merlin, you'll kill him. Snape turned toward Sirius, begging
  with his desperate eyes. Come to me, he begged.Come to me, please. I need you.

  Sirius strained against the chains holding him, but he couldn't move. He tried to
  look away as the enormous barbed shaft plunged forward, driving deep into Snape's
  body, but he could not. Snape screamed -- Sirius couldhear him clearly, gag or no
  gag, terrible screams of agony pealing one right after another as flesh ripped and
  blood poured. Gods, gods, stop, stop, you're killing him, stop, for God's sake--

  The dark man, still thrusting, looked at him with bland curiosity. "Why would you
  spare this child?" he asked the staring Sirius. "He has hurt you. He will destroy
  you. He will kill all that you have ever loved."

  The man's face melted, seeming to run like water before it reformed itself into
  something else. Something heavy and coarse and furry. A dog, Sirius realized
  dismally. It was a dog fucking Snape now, a huge black dog. Sirius cringed in his
  bed; even in sleep, his shame was almost physically painful. And then the dog
  morphed again; the black fur turned grey, the grey eyes turned amber. It became a
  wolf. It became Moony, and it allowed Snape one final agonized shriek before it bent
  its foamy jaws and ripped out his throat.

  Sirius had awakened with his pillow stuffed in his mouth and the blankets a sweaty,
  twisted tangle about his thrashing legs. He was weeping, and a single thought was
  running through his head: Go to him. Go to him now, and set this right.

  His feet had carried him here. He had come blindly, obeying instinct, with no idea
  where he was going or what he would find. He had expected Snape to be in trouble,
  hurt, sick, injured. But, at first glance, Snape seemed fine. He was in one of the
  infirmary beds, true, but, except for his pallor and the heavy black circles under
  his eyes, he looked largely unharmed.

  And he wassmiling.

  "I...I need to talk to you," Sirius heard himself say. He took a hesitant step
  forward, then another. Snape watched him, his smile fading, his expression growing
  very still. Watchful, and almost sad.

  "Where's Pomfrey?" he asked.

  "Emergency. She got a note a few minutes ago. Supposedly from Hagrid. Said some
  first-years wandered too deep into the Forest and got themselves hurt."

  "Did they?"

  Sirius smiled faintly. "I'll never tell." He moved another few steps closer to Snape
  and paused again. The look on Snape's face was a bit wary now. Sirius licked his
  lips. He needed to tell Snape everything, wantedto tell him, but he didn't know
  where to begin. He cleared his throat, waved a hand at the bed. "Why are you in
  here?"

  "That's none of your business." Calm. Even. Cautious.

  Sirius shrugged. "True enough," he replied, just as evenly. "I just wondered if it
  was -- if Malfoy -- if Malfoy hurt you."

  "That's definitely none of your business." More fire in the words this time, but
  Sirius caught the slight flush, the brief drop of his eyes. Sirius moved closer
  still, close enough now to see the bruises and bites and other marks on Snape's
  body, and a furious hiss escaped him, his fists clenching at his sides. Snape gave
  him a defiant glare.

  "Oh, what are you sniffing about?" he flared. "You've no right to say anything about
  what I do."

  "Malfoy has no right to abuse you," Sirius said. Dull rage pounded behind his eyes.
  That beautiful, beautiful skin, like luscious cream to the taste, breathing silk to
  the touch. He had been aching for that skin for weeks, dreaming of it, hungry for
  it, and Malfoy and his sick clan had torn into it like a pack of wild animals. "I
  never marked you up like that."

  "No. And Lucius never let a dog fuck me up my arse."

  The tremble in his tone belied his angry face, his flippant words. That little-boy
  tremble, the sound of a child holding back explosive tears, broke Sirius's heart; it
  released something wound tight within him and unlocked his tongue, and the whole
  story came tumbling out in a tangled rush.

  "I wanted to punish you," he said. He crossed the rest of the space between them in
  three quick strides and sat on the bed, grabbing Snape's hands in his before Snape
  could pull them away, looking earnestly into his eyes. "I thought you were tricking
  me, Bellatrix and Lucius cooked up this fake letter and made me think you were
  setting me up, and I wanted to punish you, I did. I wanted to hurt you, so I set the
  whole thing up. But it wasn't real, Severus. You have to understand that, it wasn't
  real, not any of it. Even James and the others, they weren't there, Severus. They
  weren't. It was just an illusion." He saw Snape's confusion and rushed on. "That
  room -- where I took you -- it's special -- it's magical, and it made everything
  seem real, but it wasn't, none of it, I swear."

  Snape shook his head fiercely. There were tears in his eyes. "The dog was real."

  "No. Yes. Yes, but not -- not the way you think." Sirius hesitated. He couldn't
  confessthat, he knew; there was no guessing what Snape could do to him if armed with
  the knowledge that Sirius was an Animagus. "You just have to believe me. It wasn't
  what you thought it was. It feltreal, I know--"

  "No, you don't."

  "No." Shame tightened his chest again. "But it was all a trick. And I'm sorry for
  it, Severus. I'm sorrier for that than I've ever been for anything. You have to
  believe that."

  Snape opened his mouth -- it was already sneering around an undoubtedly ugly retort
  -- and Sirius leaned forward and kissed him. Oh, and it was a good kiss, unlike any
  they'd ever shared, soft and warm and deep, building and building. He brought one
  hand up to hold Snape's head and felt Snape lean into the touch; he shifted closer,
  both of them kissing harder, melting into the embrace. He heard himself moan into
  Snape's mouth -- then Snape stiffened and pulled away with a gasp.

  "I don't trust you," he said.

  "You smiled at me when I came in."

  "I -- what?"

  "You looked happy to see me. You looked like you missed me." Sirius ran his thumb
  over Snape's mouth, tracing the delicate curve of it. Snape shivered. "I missed
  you.You're a horrid, crazy, fucked-up little git, but I missed the hell out of you."
  He drew a deep breath. "There. I've said it. Now you can have a good laugh at me,
  take the mickey and send me crawling away, humiliated and rejected. I know you want
  to. Maybe I even deserve it. But I had to tell you the truth."

  Something flashed low in Snape's dark eyes, too quickly for Sirius to place. The
  rest of his face remained somber and still. He held out his hand.

  "Give me your wand," he said.

  Sirius raised his eyebrows, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. "I don't think so,
  Severus," he demurred.

  Snape did not smile. "You want me to trust you? Give me your wand...and close your
  eyes."

  Sirius's amusement faded. He gave Snape a long, speculative stare. His wand. His
  wand?So this was the price of Snape's faith, then -- and the ultimate test of his
  own.

  Which was exactly why he had to do it.

  He handed it over, closed his eyes, and braced himself for the worst.

  He heard some murmurs, barely audible, indistinct; he felt the unmistakable tingle
  of magic shimmering all around them, but nothing directed at him. He was tense,
  expecting a curse to hit him at any moment, certain he was going to be hexed. He was
  fairly sure Snape wouldn't actually kill him -- too public a venue, no chance to
  tidy up after -- but anything short of that was likely fair game.

  The warm crush of Snape's mouth on his made him jump, eyes flying open wide.

  "Mmph!" he gasped, and Snape seized the opportunity to slip in his tongue. Snape's
  hands were everywhere, sliding under Sirius's shirt, running through his hair, and,
  when Sirius responded and took the Slytherin in his arms, he felt nothing but smooth
  naked skin under his palms.

  "Fuck me," Snape whispered, and Sirius pulled back in astonishment to look at his
  face. What he saw there made him shiver. Snape was smiling at him again, a lazy,
  inviting smile, eyes adoring, body eager and pliant. It was so like his dreams of
  Snape it scarcely seemed real.

  Still, Sirius tried to be noble. "No...no, you're...you're hurt, you're sick..."

  But Snape would not be denied. The drowsy, hot voice caressed his ear again -- "Fuck
  me, please" -- and Sirius Black was lost.

  ********************************************************************************

  I shouldn't have smiled at him,Severus fretted.

  He realized his mistake almost immediately, even before Black confronted him with
  it. It was a forgivable response -- he was delighted by the discovery that he had
  brought Black to him with just the force of his mind, enthralled by this newfound
  dimension to his powers -- but it was not a believable one. Black reacted with
  wariness, if not outright suspicion, and Severus held his breath, certain he had
  overplayed his hand and scared the Gryffindor away.

  He searched for the proper tone and expression.Play it wounded,he decided. Sad and
  wounded, and a bit afraid.He sensed that Black was feeling terribly guilty about
  something; there was a haunted, shadowed look in his eyes. Lethim feel guilty. Let
  him know how badly he hurt you. Make him feel guilty.

  It seemed to work. Concentrating on his performance, and with one surreptitious eye
  on the clock, Severus barely absorbed Black's blather about Bella and Lucius, pranks
  and letters, fake Marauders and magical rooms, but he got the gist of it: he and
  Black had been set up, and broken up, by Lucius and his friends. And, yes, Black
  seemed genuinely remorseful for what he had done -- but that was none of Severus's
  concern. Black was just a tool now, a tool he needed to help him fix this mess; even
  if Severus had had the inclination, there was no room for sentiment in his plans.

  Besides, Black deserved to hang for something. Black had raped him all those months
  ago, and on several occasions since -- and then there was the small matter of the
  dog. No matter what crazy fictions Bella and Lucius had planted in Black's mind, no
  matter what Black believed Severus had done, it couldn't justify that cruelty, that
  abomination. Black could apologize until the stars winked out and the heavens fell,
  but as far as Severus was concerned, he was a day late and a sickle short. Some
  things were simply unforgivable.

  Then Black handed over his wand, and Severus, shocked to his core, felt his resolve
  falter. Relinquishing one's wand to another wizard was an enormous gesture, the
  ultimate expression of trust, and Severus had asked for it on an impulse -- he
  certainly hadn't believed Black would actually comply. Yet he had, and as Severus
  looked at the slender length of maple in his hand, he wondered how deep Black's
  guilt truly went.

  He glanced up at Black's face. Black's eyes were closed, his expression tense and
  expectant, as if anticipating a lengthy and painful curse to hit him at any moment.
  Severus was tempted to oblige him -- but he did not. Black needed to believe that
  Severus was touched by the gesture, needed to believe that he had earned Severus's
  trust; now was the time to reciprocate, to earn Black's trust in return, and the
  best way to do that was to do nothing to Black at all.

  Instead, he turned the wand on himself. He cleaned his injuries carefully, without
  healing them. He cast a mild anesthetic charm on the worst of them and a comfort
  spell all over his body, to ease the aches and pains Prozac's inferior potions
  hadn't touched. Lastly, he conjured a glamour around the bed, which would make it
  appear that he was alone and still sleeping. He had no idea how long Black's ruse
  would keep Pomfrey away -- and, hopefully, she would not check on him straight off
  once she returned -- and they would need privacy for the next part of his plan.

  He stripped out of his robes and launched himself at Black, kissing him, whispering
  "Fuck me" in the Gryffindor's ear. He told himself he was only doing what he had to
  do, what he must. He certainly didn't intend to get any pleasure from it.

  But when Black began making love to him, it was with a tenderness that Severus never
  would have credited, and Severus's body reacted as if starved. Black moved along the
  bruised and battered length of him, kissing and caressing his small hurts and
  murmuring angrily at each. Severus trembled like a wide-eyed virgin in his arms, and
  when Black whispered in his ear, "I've missed you," and Severus responded in kind,
  he was shocked to find it was the truth: he had missed Black terribly.

  There was still a great deal of pain when Black entered him, pain his makeshift
  charms couldn't begin to ease, but he hid it, wrapping his arms around Black,
  pulling him close, burying his face in Black's shoulder so the Gryffindor would not
  see him flinch and bite his lip.

  What hurt even worse was Black's gentleness. He clearly did not know the level of
  Severus's pain, and he did not know the extent of his injuries, but he showed
  remarkable restraint just the same. He entered Severus as slowly as he had on their
  first night together -- so long ago, it seemed now! -- but with a concern that
  Severus had never seen before, his eyes fixed on Severus's the entire time, watching
  for any sign of pain or hesitation. His thrusts were slow, too, easy and gliding;
  each stroke was like being filled with warm, rich oils and then gently emptied
  again, soothing as well as exciting.

  Severus closed his eyes against sudden tears. Oh you stupid, stupidbastard!he
  thought, his heart swelling with heartsick fury. If you had been like this with me
  before, even once,we wouldn't be here right now. I wouldn't be in this mess.

  He opened his mouth to say the words, needing to say them, needing Black to know -
  - and his Mark flared again, a burst of glassy pain that made him gasp.

  Black hesitated in his rhythm, started to pull away, but Severus clutched him tight
  and pulled him right back. Black had to finish. The pain had cleared his head,
  firmed his grim resolve: the plan was what mattered, was all that mattered, and
  sentiment and foolish regrets be damned. Black hadto finish.

  His Mark burned. His eyes burned. Severus pressed his face to Black's smooth
  shoulder and shuddered, waiting for it to be over.

  ********************************************************************************

  It was justlike his dreams. It was tender and passionate and superbly right,and not
  even the daunting possibility that Madam Pomfrey could walk in at any moment could
  stop him now. This was Severus Snape as Sirius had wanted him for so long, wanting
  him, urging him on, offering himself completely, and Sirius couldn't get enough.

  He was ravenous for Snape after all these weeks, but he forced himself to go slowly,
  to be gentle. He saw the marks Malfoy and his merry band had left on Snape's body,
  and he suspected there were other injuries he could not see. He had even tried to
  look, under the pretense of kissing and licking Snape where he so loved to be kissed
  and licked, but Snape had pulled his head up and said again, "Never mind that, just
  fuck me," and Sirius had been overwhelmed. He knew Snape was hurting, and the fact
  that he would offer his body, sore and sex-weary as it was, touched Sirius as much
  as it aroused him.

  "I'm going to make you come harder than you've ever come in your life," he whispered
  in Snape's ear, and then set out to do just that.

  ********************************************************************************

  Severus knew he was going to come. Despite the pain still radiating from the torn,
  bruised entrance to his body, Black's gentle rhythm and urgent kisses and soft,
  stroking hands had him writhing and moaning with the same old abandon. Pleasure was
  building, uncoiling in his belly like a snake; soon it would explode, and he would
  be gasping out his climax as he had with this man so many times before. Just as
  well,he thought, in the corner of his mind that could still think at all. At least
  you won't have to fake it.

  But he didn't anticipate the force of his climax. It hit him out of nowhere and
  washed over him in hard, fast waves, crushing the breath out of him; it made even
  the most powerful orgasms he had had at the Dark Lord's hands feel like kisses from
  a spinster aunt.

  Like flying,he thought incoherently, it is just...just like...like flying...

  He arched against Black's straining body and froze, Black's arms strong around his
  back, Black's breath warm and broken in his ear. He felt a wetness against his neck
  and realized that Black was crying.

  "I'm sorry," Black muttered. "So sorry, so sorry," and these were the words Severus
  carried with him into the dark.

  ********************************************************************************

  It was evenbetterthan his dreams, Sirius realized. Snape was wild, absolutely wild;
  his hands were all over Sirius, running through his hair, stroking his back,
  kneading his ass; his mouth bit and sucked every inch of flesh it could find. Sirius
  shared his hunger -- after all this time, he wanted nothing more than to bury
  himself in that lovely white ass and fuck himself dry -- but he refused to indulge
  it. Snape had been hurt, Snape had been abused, and Sirius needed to atone for his
  part in all of that the only way he knew how.

  So he took his time. He coaxed and teased, nuzzled and nibbled, drawing out every
  scrap of sensation from the other boy's body until the hands clutching at him turned
  to claws, until Snape was cursing him between frantic gasps and throaty groans.
  Sirius was entranced. He had used this approach on Snape before, but it had never
  thrilled him like this. This was the first time his efforts were unhindered by
  selfishness or conceit, it was the only time he put Snape's pleasure ahead of his
  own, and the satisfaction that brought him amazed him.

  Snape's orgasm took Sirius by surprise. It came fast, without warning, and with a
  force that shook them both. The look on Snape's face was almost frightened, and
  Sirius pulled him close even as his own control shattered. Overwhelmed by emotion,
  he hid his face in Snape's neck to hide his tears.

  "I'm sorry," he muttered. "So sorry, so sorry," and he came in a lazy sweet spiral
  as Snape went limp in his arms.

  ********************************************************************************

  That wasn't an orgasm,Severus thought when he regained consciousness. That was a
  fucking tsunami.

  Black was still holding him, and Severus began to settle deeper into the embrace,
  relishing the warmth and security of strong arms about him, before he remembered.
  Pomfrey! Pomfrey could walk in at any moment, and if she did, if she saw him curled
  up in Sirius's Black's arms, his plans were ruined.

  Adrenaline flooded him in a panicky burst and he struggled beneath Black's weight,
  pushing at him, whispering frantically in his ear. "Black! Black, get up, get up
  now! You've got to go!"

  Black sighed and stretched, lifted his head, and smiled broadly down at him. He
  looked remarkably idiotic, and dislike joined the alarm surging through Severus, but
  he suppressed it as well as he could and forced a smile of his own.

  "Please, you've got to go," he urged. "You can't be caught here, not with me, not
  like this--"

  Black leaned down and kissed him thoroughly, cutting off his words. Severus fought
  the urge to bite down on the roving tongue and pulled away instead. "Lovely," he
  lied, "but dangerous."

  Black smiled. "I live for dangerous," he said, and kissed him again.

  ********************************************************************************

  Sirius could have kissed him forever.

  He knew Snape was right, of course, knew he had to leave -- and now; they had
  already pushed their luck as far as it was likely to go. But it was just so hard, to
  finally have Severus back in his arms again after all the restless nights without
  him, after coming so close to losing him for good, to have to let him go all over
  again, even for a brief spell. He wished he could stay. He wished he could lie with
  Snape, hold him and pet him and touch him, perhaps, to make sure he was real. Hell,
  he'd even watch the little prat sleep, if that was what Snape wanted.

  Most of all, he wished they could talk. He had so much to say to Severus that it was
  choking him, aching heavy and tight in his chest and throat, like a brick wall of
  words. It wasn't enough to say he was sorry, or even to show it, he thought; he
  needed to make Snape understand. He had come here for that purpose, had gotten
  blissfully misdirected, and now it was too late.

  No. Not too late. You can tell him tomorrow. And just knowing there would bea
  tomorrow for them, after all the mess and fuss, was enough to buoy his spirits.

  "Please,Bl -- Sirius," Snape said again, when Sirius finally let him talk. He was
  nearly begging now, his face desperate. "Please, you absolutely must--"

  "Go," Sirius finished for him. "Yes, dear, I know. There's no need to nag."

  He rose from the bed, careful of Snape's mending body tangled with his, and
  retrieved his wand from the twist of sheet and blanket beneath him. He removed
  Snape's glamour with an easy flick of his wrist -- he couldn't conjure one for shit,
  gods knew, but he was most adept at taking them down -- and leaned down for a last
  kiss.

  "Here," he teased, tugging Snape's hospital gown back around his shoulders, "button
  up. Don't want you giving old Pomfrey any thrills, do we?"

  "Will you just GO?"Snape hissed. He yanked the gown out of Sirius's hands, fingers
  stabbing buttons frantically through the holes.

  "Well, I don't need a cauldron dropped on my head." Sirius straightened with a
  chuckle and a sigh. He crossed to the door, opened it a crack, and peered cautiously
  out. The hall was empty and quiet. He turned back to look at Snape and hesitated,
  suddenly uncertain. "I'll...I'll see you tomorrow, maybe."

  Snape waved an impatient hand, still buttoning, one cold eye on the wedge of hallway
  visible beyond Sirius's head.Fine, alright, whatever, the gesture said. With another
  chuckle, Sirius slipped from the room.

  Tomorrow it would be, then. If he could wait that long. Already, he wanted another
  go at Snape (and another, and another), his heart far hungrier than his flesh.
  Walking back to Gryffindor Tower to lie on his bed and replay the last hour in his
  head again and again, he wondered how he could possibly get through the next twenty-
  four hours without going completely mental.

  He needn't have worried. As it turned out, it wasn't twenty-four hours before he saw
  Snape again, but less than six. A little after ten that evening, Sirius found
  himself back in the hospital wing, with Snape and an unwelcome host of others -- and
  he was being accused of rape.
***** The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 9 *****
The Miseducation of Severus Snape, Chapter 9




  Chapter 9 - Resolution

  Monday, 25 April, 1977

  10:20 PM

  "You think I what?" Black demanded.

  He stood in the middle of the room, the nucleus of a tight circle formed by
  Prozac, Poppy Pomfrey, Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Severus himself, sitting up
  in his hospital bed. Like one of those old Muggle witch trials, Severus thought,
  and the ironic image brought him neither guilt nor pleasure. Like we're about to
  close in with our torches and our Bibles and burn him at the stake.

  "I believe you heard the charges clearly enough, Mr. Black," Prozac said coldly.


  "I heard them. Sir." Black glared at him. "And they're rubbish." He turned to
  Severus, his face a study in frustration and dismay. It was a look Severus would
  have relished under normal circumstances, but not now. Now he just wanted this
  all to be over, just wanted this incredibly long and exhausting day to finally
  end. "Why are you doing this?"

  Dumbledore spoke up. "Severus has not done anything, Sirius," he said. "Severus
  has no recollection of his assailant, nor even of the assault itself."

  "Then why am I here? What the hell did you all do, draw straws?"

  Dumbledore glanced at Madam Pomfrey; she nodded and took a step forward,
  crossing her arms over her breasts. She got right to the point.

  "Mr. Black, your semen was found in Severus's body." She explained about wizards
  and witches and magical signatures, adding, "We have the signatures of everyone
  in this school on file, students and staff alike." She cast him a shrewd glance.
  "I trust you didn't know that?"

  "No."

  "Of course he didn't know it," Prozac snorted. "Otherwise, he would have been
  more careful."

  Black spun on him furiously. "I don'thave to be careful! I haven't done anything
  wrong!"

  "That will do, Sirius," McGonagall said firmly. "Have you an explanation for
  this or not?"

  "Do you really need one?" he asked. McGonagall's face tightened into that hard-
  ass look of hers -- that dead-pale, clenched-jaw, no-lips-left Look -- and he
  blushed and dropped his eyes. "Oh, for Merlin's sake! Yes, all right, we had
  sex. But it was hardly the first time, and it bloody well wasn't rape. He wanted
  it more than I did."

  Pomfrey gave him a hard look. "I find that very difficult to believe, Mr. Black.
  I saw Severus's injuries; I treated them myself, and they were extensive. No one
  in his right mind would ever consent to such brutality."

  "I saw his injuries, too," Black retorted, "and they were extensive. What's that
  got to do with me?"

  Dumbledore frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "Just what I said. He had all that going on before I ever laid a finger on him."

  "And when was that?"

  "This afternoon." Black gave Severus a puzzled, slightly exasperated look -
  - didn't you tell them? -- and turned to Madam Pomfrey with a sigh. "I'm the one
  who sent you the note, Madam. You know. Hagrid's `emergency'?"

  Her face didn't change, but her eyes darkened with anger. "I see. May I assume
  there was a purpose to this deliberate waste of my time?"

  "I wanted to get you out of the infirmary. I wanted to see Severus alone."

  Prozac was appalled.

  "You despicable little animal," he breathed. "You assaulted the boy once, wasn't
  that enough for you? You had to return to the scene of the crime and repeat your
  vile actions?"

  "What are you talking about?" Fury made his voice rise helplessly, a fury so
  great it sounded like agony. "INEVER assaulted him! Not once, not twice, not
  ever!" He clenched his fists, controlling himself with a visible effort. "I
  didn't even come down here to...to do anything. I just wanted to talk to him."

  "It would seem that you did a bit more than that." Dumbledore's voice was
  gentle; his eyes were not.

  Black blushed again. "No...I mean, yes. Yes, that's true, but...but it wasn't
  rape. He wanted me to fu -- to have sex with him."

  Prozac snorted again.

  Black stiffened. He turned to Severus and spread his hands imploringly. "For
  Christ's sake, Snape, will you help me here? Tell them!"

  Severus cringed back against his pillows -- oh, a good move, he noted; Pomfrey
  immediately stepped forward, as if to protect him -- and shook his head. "Tell
  them what?" he whispered.

  Black blinked. He frowned, a little. "Tell them what happened between us this
  afternoon."

  Severus drew a calming breath. Every eye in the room was on him. Here it is,
  Sev,he thought. The spotlight. Your big moment.

  "I don't remember," he said.

  Black's mouth dropped open. He didn't even look angry, not at this point -- he
  looked stricken. "You don't remember? It was less than six hours ago, and you
  don't remember?"

  Suddenly hating himself, Severus pressed harder against Pomfrey and shook his
  head.

  Black kept on staring. "You're lying."

  "No--"

  "I didn't hurt you, I didn't rape you. No trauma, no pain. I didn't do anything
  to you that you didn't want me to do, so why wouldn'tyou be able to remember
  it?"

  "No! No, I swear to you, I don't remember! I..." He let his voice falter, adding
  the tearful little tremble that had worked so well on Black earlier, and Pomfrey
  tightened her arms around him. "I...I suppose I must have blocked it all out."

  Black exploded. "Blocked all what out? How you were all over me this afternoon?
  How you kissed me and begged me to fuck you, is that what you've blocked out?"

  "Mr. Black!" Pomfrey hissed. "Stop that this instant! This boy is my patient,
  and I won't have you upsetting him. Haven't you done enough to him as it is?"

  "Not half what I should," Black muttered. The wounded shock was gone from his
  face; his handsome features were twisted, enraged, ugly with hate. "I should
  kill you, you lying sack of Slytherin shit."

  He lunged for Severus, but Dumbledore, clearly expecting it, grabbed him and
  held him back. Severus had expected it, too, but he flinched anyway, just for
  appearances' sake.

  Black struggled in Dumbledore's grip, but apparently the old wizard was stronger
  than he looked; Black went nowhere. "You will calm yourself, Sirius," he said,
  not even out of breath. "You will restrain yourself, right now, or I shall do it
  for you."

  Black stopped struggling, but he would not be calmed. He looked at Dumbledore
  almost pleadingly. "Gods, don't you see what he did? He set me up! He arranged
  this, all of this. Malfoyraped him, don't you see? Malfoy, or one of his
  friends, and he's protecting them by framing me!" He wrenched himself from
  Dumbledore's grasp and stood back, trembling, red-faced, panting. "As soon as I
  walked in here this afternoon, he was on me. He kissed me, he begged me to fu -
  - to have sex with him. And now I know why."

  "Rubbish." Pomfrey's voice was ice. "Severus was in no condition to engage in
  intimacy of any kind. It would have been excruciating. Even if you didn't attack
  him" -- her tone made it clear that this was a very big `if' -- "you obviously
  misconstrued his words."

  "It's hard to misconstrue `Fuck me, please, fuck me right now,'" Black spat.

  Prozac looked outraged; Pomfrey, furious. Even Dumbledore frowned a bit. "I
  believe that's quite enough vulgarity for one night, Mr. Black. I'll thank you
  to watch your language from hereon."

  Black shrugged, sullen and unrepentant. "It's what he said."

  "No," Prozac sniffed. "It is what you claim he said, and a more ridiculous
  version of events I've never heard. Are you deliberately lying, Mr. Black, or
  have you deluded yourself into believing this drivel merely to salve your
  conscience?"

  "Askhim, then." Black turned his hard grey stare on Severus. "Ask him where he
  spent the last two weeks. Ask him how long he's been sleeping with Lucius
  Malfoy, and ask him about those special `parties' Malfoy likes to throw with
  Daddy's money. Maybe it'll jog his poor little sex-blown brain."

  "We all know where Mr. Snape spent the holiday," Prozac said impatiently, "and
  it is irrelevant. Lest we forget, Mr. Black, the" -- here his mouth curved down
  in delicate distaste -- "emissionsMadam Pomfrey found were yours."

  "Yes, sir. I believe I've explained that, sir. Perhaps you need a Sound-Boost
  Potion, or one of those Muggle hearing aids. Sir."

  "Why, you insolent little thug! I've a good mind to--"

  "Gentlemen, if you please." Dumbledore looked as close to irritated as
  Dumbledore could. "Pavel, Sirius is understandably distraught; Sirius, you are
  not helping your case; and I would be most grateful to both of you if you would
  just shut up."

  They stared at him in astonishment.

  Dumbledore turned to Pomfrey. "Poppy, when you examined Severus, did you find
  any evidence that he had been with anyone other than Mr. Black?"

  "No."

  "And he did not have his wand when you brought him here."

  "No. He had nothing. He was unconscious; Pavel carried him here."

  "I see." Dumbledore nodded, bent his head, pulled at his long white beard.
  Severus watched him uneasily. The gestures, the absent air, the furrowed brow -
  - all of it made him extremely nervous. Dumbledore was on to something, or
  thought he was, and Severus could only pray it was the wrong scent. "Then it is
  not possible that Severus could have disposed of such evidence."

  "Of course not. You can't just wash away a magical signature."

  Black, watching this exchange back and forth, suddenly groaned aloud. "Oh,
  shit," he said, almost to himself. "He did have a wand."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Black explained.

  "Oh, I see," Prozac sneered. "So he asked you for your wand and told you to
  close your eyes, and you just did it, without any questions at all?"

  "Yes, I did. I -- he said it would prove he could trust me." For a moment,
  Black's contemptuous smirk faltered, and Severus could see the raw hurt still
  there, stamped hard in the lines of his face, in his eyes. "I don't know what he
  did with it. I gave it to him and closed my eyes, and I didn't hear any of his
  spells, but--"

  "That's a lie." Gods, Severus was starting to impress himselfwith this
  performance -- his voice shook with just the right amount of outrage, just the
  barest hint of hurt. "That's alie, why would I do any of that?"

  "How do you know it's a lie?" Black countered. His voice was very soft. "You
  don't remember anything. You've blocked it all out, isn't that right, Severus?"

  They were all staring at him again; even Prozac looked interested. Shit! Had he
  overplayed his hand? Well, no matter. He was stuck with it now.

  He turned his head and looked at Pomfrey -- the softest of the lot of them, and
  definitely the weak link in the chain -- and made his face scared and confused,
  all big dark eyes brimming with tears. "But...if I had had a wand, I...I could
  have stopped him. I wouldhave stopped him...wouldn't I?"

  She patted him soothingly. "Perhaps, dear. Perhaps not. After what you'd been
  through, it isn't likely you were thinking very clearly."

  "Oh, yes, the poor darling," Black mocked her. "He was thinking clearly enough
  to pull me into his bed and get himself some nice new `evidence,' though, wasn't
  he?"

  "You forget yourself, Mr. Black." Pomfrey laid a protective hand on Severus's
  shoulder; he trembled convincingly beneath it, not entirely acting now. "Severus
  had suffered an intensely traumatic experience. He was frightened, he was
  confused, he was in pain. And he had been heavily sedated. It isn't likely that
  he was thinking at all; most certainly, he was not capable of formulating some,
  some diabolical master plan."

  "You don't know Snape," Black sneered. "He was born with a diabolical master
  plan."

  He and Severus exchanged scorching glares, Severus hiding his behind his hair.

  "Sirius," Dumbledore said, "do you have your wand with you now?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you kindly give it to me, please?"

  Black complied. Severus watched, biting back a small smile. He wasn't sure, but
  he had an idea that Black might have just outsmarted himself. He had an idea
  Black didn't know about--

  "Prior Incatato!"Dumbledore intoned, holding the wand tip-to-tip with his own. A
  ghostly shimmer shot out from the end. It was indistinct at first, but it
  quickly clarified: an image of this room, Severus in his bed, sleeping
  peacefully, all of it as flat and still as a Muggle painting. Prozac and Pomfrey
  looked at it blankly; only Dumbledore seemed to recognize the spell for what it
  was.

  He also seemed intensely troubled by it, and Severus's triumph evaporated.

  "Albus?" Prozac prompted.

  "A glamour," Dumbledore said. "Quite complex, most advanced. A glamour, conjured
  around Severus's bed to give the illusion that he was sleeping."

  "In case Madam Pomfrey returned at an inopportune moment, no doubt." Prozac
  curled his lip at Black. "Is there no limit to your audacity, boy?"

  Black looked thunderstruck. "You don't think I did that?"

  "It is your wand, is it not?"

  "But I just told you, I gave it to him!For Christ's sake, I couldn't conjure a
  glamour like that to save my life. Ask anybody! Ask Flitwick, he'll tell you!"
  His eyes narrowed on Severus again. "Just as he'll tell you how Snape's a bloody
  prodigy with them."

  No one said anything.

  Black turned to Dumbledore again, desperately. "I didn't do this, any of this, I
  swear it! I swear it on my life! What do I have to do to prove that? Take a
  test? Take a truth potion? Whatever it is you want me to do, I'll do it, I'll do
  it right now."

  Severus froze. Truth potion? Was Black insane? Black had nearly as much to lose
  as Severus if the truth -- the whole truth -- came spilling out. Even if he was
  innocent of this attack, what of all the other times? Did he really want them to
  learn how he'd raped Severus in his own bed on the night after Christmas, or try
  to explain how he'd used a magic room to restrain the Slytherin so he could be
  fucked by a dog? Did he really want to answer questions about ropes and
  handcuffs, spankings and sex toys and spells?

  No, Severus decided. No, Black was bluffing. Had to be. He wouldn't dare risk it
  -- not with everything else that might come out.

  "I don't believe that will be necessary, Mr. Black," a new voice said.

  It was McGonagall, standing in the doorway. In all the tumult, Severus had not
  even missed her, and he wondered when she had slipped away. And why. Then he saw
  the slight, sleep-rumpled figure standing close behind her, and his stomach gave
  another uneasy lurch. Remus Lupin. Never a welcome sight even at the best of
  times -- and what was the mealy-mouthed asshole doing here, now?

  "Minerva." Dumbledore nodded. "I expected you might have a Gryffindor or two in
  tow. Has Mr. Lupin something to say to me?"

  "Mr. Lupin has something to say to all of you. Remus?"

  Lupin stepped forward. He nodded politely all around, even to Severus, who was
  struggling to maintain his sad facade. That was something else he hated about
  Lupin: the little prick was unfailingly well-mannered, even in the face of the
  most blatant hostility. It was maddening, irritating...it was downright
  unnatural.

  But, then again, so was Lupin.

  "I don't really know what this is all about, or what it means," Lupin said in
  his soft, pleasant voice, "but Professor McGonagall thought I should tell you
  anyway. Sirius never left Gryffindor Tower last night. He went to bed around
  ten, and he didn't leave until breakfast this morning."

  "And how do you know this, Remus?" Dumbledore asked.

  "I was up all night, studying in the Common Room," he said. "I missed a big
  Charms test last full -- last month, and Professor Flitwick is letting me make
  it up tomorrow."

  Severus caught the slip, and his contempt increased. Full moon,he'd started to
  say. Bloody freak! Did he actually think no one knew? Any fool with a calendar
  and a pair of eyes could put it together. And that nickname--oh, yes. Very
  subtle, that.

  "He's lying," Severus said, before he could stop himself.

  "No." Lupin turned to him with that mild, puzzled frown that he so despised.
  "No...why would I lie, Severus?"

  Dumbledore cocked his head at Severus. "You seem very certain of a sudden,
  Severus," he said pointedly. "Has your memory returned?"

  "No, but..." He was caught. He struggled to get back into victim mode, to look
  helpless and confused; inside, he was burning with frustration...and with fear.
  "He must be lying...Black came to me this afternoon, we know that, he's admitted
  as much, and...well, it's hardly likely that he attacked me today, but someone
  else did it last night, is it?"

  "No, Severus." Dumbledore was still looking at him intently. "It is hardly
  likely at all." He turned back to Lupin. "You truly don't know what this is
  about?"

  Lupin shook his head. "I told him nothing," McGonagall confirmed.

  Prozac was not convinced. "Please don't be coy, Minerva. Whether you told him
  anything or you didn't, the boy is not stupid. He may not know all that goes on
  here, but any idiot can see that Mr. Black is in trouble and needs an alibi for
  something. That's reason enough for him to lie right there."

  "Remus Lupin is one of the most honest, honorable, and rule-abiding students in
  this school," McGonagall huffed. "I trust him utterly."

  "He is also one of Sirius Black's closest friends," Prozac snapped back, "and I
  don't trust him as far as I can throw him."

  McGonagall looked like she might hit him.

  That's telling her, Severus applauded silently. In a normal argument, he might
  have been on McGonagall's side -- he generally liked her better, and Prozac had
  never been especially supportive or protective of him before. But he was making
  up for it tonight. Of course, Severus knew it was only because Prozac was scared
  shitless of the Malfoys, and liked to screw the Gryffindors every chance he got
  besides, but what was that Muggle saying Lily liked so much? Never look a gift
  horse in the mouth?

  "Minerva, Pavel, that will do," Dumbledore said, stepping in before things could
  get really ugly. "Remus, is there anyone else who can confirm that Mr. Black was
  in his room all night?"

  Lupin didn't even have think about it. "Well, Lily Evans was there. You know, in
  the Common Room with me. She was helping me study."

  "All night?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Severus's heart sank. Lily? Lily?Lily was as close to an unimpeachable source as
  Dumbledore could get -- she liked Severus, she couldn't stand Black, and she
  always, bloody always, told the truth. And how ironic -- how like his blasted
  luck -- that Lily, of all people, should prove to be the final nail in his
  coffin.

  He glared at Lupin, not even bothering to hide it now. Gods damn him anyway!
  Severus had been so careful in all of this. So careful not to accuse Black of
  anything directly; so careful to not remember anything, any details which might
  later be refuted or challenged. Most of all, he'd been very careful not to
  establish a time frame for the rape, a time frame for which Black might prove to
  have an alibi -- and now, thanks to Lupin, the bastard had an alibi for the
  entire night.It was hard to believe sometimes, the luck these Gryffindors had.

  Freak, freak, freak! Severus thought, in a frenzy of childish spite. Gods, if he
  got out of this mess and got even the slimmest chance, he promised himself he
  would ruin Lupin, he would tell the whole fucking school, the whole fucking
  world, what Remus Lupin really was.

  An awkward silence fell. After the name "Lily Evans" was dropped, even Prozac
  seemed out of arguments.

  Dumbledore spoke first. "Minerva, would you kindly escort Messrs. Lupin and
  Black back to Gryffindor Tower?"

  McGonagall looked startled. "What -- right now?"

  He nodded.

  "But--"

  "Please, Minerva. I'd like to speak with Severus alone."

  Severus's heart began to pound again, thudding in his throat and behind his
  eyes.

  McGonagall bit her lip and nodded. Her expression went carefully blank, and she
  motioned to Black and Lupin. "Of course, Albus. Come along, boys."

  "That's it, then?" Black asked. His face spun from Dumbledore to McGonagall and
  back again, simultaneously incredulous and hopeful. "I'm free to go?"

  "You are free to go back to your room," Dumbledore corrected, "where you will
  kindly remain until further notice."

  "But -- I thought -- what Remus --"

  "While it would appear that you have been exonerated on one charge, Mr. Black,
  there is still a conflicting version of later events. I hope to get to the
  bottom of that matter soon, and when I do, you shall be informed of my
  decision."

  Black's face fell, but he assented. "Yes, sir."

  Cheer up, idiot, Severus thought, watching Black and Lupin follow McGonagall out
  the door. You've won, even if youare too stupid to see it.

  "And Pavel, Poppy, if I may trouble you to leave us as well...?"

  "Albus, can't it wait?" Pomfrey asked. "Severus is still not well. He needs to
  rest."

  "I shall be as brief as possible, Poppy, and I shall not tax him."

  With some ungracious muttering under her breath, she stalked to the door.
  Prozac, however, hovered, obviously reluctant to leave.

  "Albus," he said, "you have evidence."

  "That I do."

  "Irrefutable, physicalevidence."

  "Yes."

  "Alibi for last night or not, Black was here this afternoon."

  "It would seem so."

  Prozac clenched his bony fists. "You have all of this, you know all of this, yet
  you still believe his version of events over Snape's, just...just like that?"

  "At the moment, Pavel, I believe no one."

  Prozac studied the old wizard's face, tired and lined, eyes heavy with sadness,
  and the anger drained from his own. He sighed and nodded, tossed Severus an
  inscrutable glance, and followed Pomfrey from the room.

  When they were alone, Dumbledore waved a hand and drew a chair up to Severus's
  bedside. He settled into it with his usual easy grace and propped his chin in
  his hand, as if they were old mates about to have a leisurely chin-wag. "Is
  there something you wish to tell me, Severus?"

  Severus swallowed, but he met the gaze straight on. "I believe you wished to
  speak to me, Headmaster."

  "Indeed." Dumbledore paused again, a long pause, no doubt calculated to make him
  nervous. He needn't have bothered; Severus was well past nervous and much closer
  to sheer panic by now, but he'd be damned if he'd let Dumbledore see that. "That
  was a most intricate spell I reproduced from Mr. Black's wand."

  It wasn't a question; Severus said nothing.

  "Both you and Mr. Black studied rudimentary glamours in Charms this semester,
  did you not?"

  "Yes."

  "May I ask how you fared with them, Severus?"

  "Fine, sir." Calm. Polite. Succinct. "I passed."

  "With what grade?"

  Severus frowned. As if the old coot didn't know! "`Outstanding,' sir," he said
  reluctantly.

  "Ah," Dumbledore nodded. "Sirius Black failed them."

  Severus didn't move. Not a muscle, not an eyelash.

  "Oh, yes," Dumbledore continued, just as if Severus had responded. "Professor
  Flitwick mentioned it to me in passing a few weeks back. Just an offhand remark,
  you understand, and I doubt I would have recalled it tonight had Sirius not
  mentioned the professor's name. But it is true, just the same: Sirius Black
  failed glamours most miserably.

  "With that said, Severus, I will repeat my question: is there something you wish
  to tell me?"

  Silence spun out between them. They stared at each other for a very long time,
  neither of them moving. Dumbledore's eyes, that amazing shade of gas-flame blue,
  held his steadily, not allowing him to look away or duck his head or hide his
  face in the long fall of hair. Yet, strangely, Severus was no longer frightened.
  Dumbledore's eyes demanded the truth, but they did not threaten or condemn, and
  there was something both soothing and stimulating in their deep blue depths,
  like sliding through cool water on a stifling day.

  Yet he was reminded forcibly of the Dark Lord, too. The almost physical weight
  of his stare, the deadly-sweet pull of even his most poisonous thoughts. How
  much difference was there, really, between these two powerful men, his two
  father figures, the Dark and the light? Severus was startled that he'd never
  made the comparison before, and he wondered: did he really want to trade one
  Master for another?

  "I have told you all that I know, Headmaster," he said. "You may choose to
  believe or not believe as you wish." He lay back against the headboard, where
  Pomfrey had piled a half-dozen exquisitely fat pillows, and closed his eyes. A
  child's trick, at best -- you're not there, I'm ignoring you -- but Dumbledore
  was still a child himself half the time; perhaps it would work.

  A strong hand landed on his cheek, too hard to be a caress, too caressing to be
  a slap. He opened his eyes with a start.

  "You are so frightened, Severus. You burn with it, as though with a fever, a
  terrible sickness. Why are you so frightened that you would burn, so frightened
  that you would go to such improbable lengths to escape?"

  Severus fought the urge to lean into that exquisite touch, to close his eyes
  again and nuzzle the warm, gnarled hand like a babe at the breast. Like the Dark
  Lord, Dumbledore had wondrous power in his hands, power that surged into Severus
  and through him, leaving him dizzy and weak. Yet, here, too, there was a
  difference: there was no lechery in Dumbledore's touch, nothing shaming or dirty
  or sly. When Voldemort touched him, Severus felt owned; when Dumbledore touched
  him, he felt only loved.

  Bah. He doesn't loveyou. He loves his Gryffindors. He loves the Sirius Blacks
  and James Potters of the world. He loveswinners.

  And even if Dumbledore did, by some miracle, actually care for him, Dumbledore
  didn't know what he was now. What he had become. He didn't know the snake he was
  clasping to his bosom.

  "I -- I cannot speak of it," Severus whispered. Something tickled his cheek; he
  thought he might be crying. "Not yet."

  Dumbledore nodded, smiling a fraction at the tiny concession. "All right. Until
  then, may I give you a piece of advice?"

  Severus sighed. "`The answer is in your heart, not your head,'" he quoted. "It
  was something like that, was it not, Headmaster?"

  Dumbledore's smile broadened. "Such profound words," he chuckled. "I daresay you
  are quoting a very wise man."

  Too wise by half,Severus thought, but he merely nodded.

  "Do you remember the rest?"

  Severus shrugged. "Not precisely. Something about trusting my instincts." He
  laughed, a brittle, bitter sound. "My instincts are what landed me in this
  mess."

  "On the contrary. Your instincts are telling you to get out." The old wizard's
  smile was gone; his face was grave. "I'm telling you to get out, Severus. Now,
  before it is too late. He is not the answer to your troubles. Nor does he want
  to be. He wants you to keep your pain, your hate, your rage; he wants to feed
  them, and he wants to feed on them, as a vampire feeds on blood."

  There was no mistaking who "he" was, and suddenly Severus couldn't breathe. He
  stared at Dumbledore, his eyes huge in a white mask of face.

  "Severus." Dumbledore's voice was both tired and amused. "Did you actually
  believe you could re-enter this school ablaze with Dark magic, and I would not
  know it?"

  Severus opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

  "Perhaps Tom even meant for me to know," Dumbledore continued. "Why else would
  he allow you to return to the castle so bruised and battered, so obviously taken
  and used? Perhaps he thought it a grand joke, to steal one of my best and
  brightest right out from under my nose and then flaunt it so boldly, so
  daringly. To taunt me with it." He sighed. "Of course, in doing so, he put you
  in a most untenable position, but I doubt that was of any concern to him.
  Perhaps you should bear that in mind, Severus, the next time you seek his
  counsel. "

  Severus ignored the slight rebuke; he had more immediate concerns.
  "But...you...with Black, you let me...you knew all this time, and you let me go
  on with this?"

  "I had to be sure. There was the small matter of Mr. Black's signature, after
  all...and the two of you do have a remarkably complex history." He shrugged and
  repeated simply, "I had to be sure."

  Severus fell back against the pillows. His head was spinning. Dumbledore knew.
  Dumbledore knew -- yet he didn't seem angry. He had touched Severus with the
  same gentleness as ever, was speaking to him with the same patient kindness as
  he always had. Dumbledore knew what he had done -- yet all that mattered to him
  were Severus's feelings, Severus's fate. There was fear in the old wizard's
  eyes, yes, but it was fear for Severus, not of him.

  He was crying now, just a little, and making no attempt to hide it. Nor did
  Dumbledore attempt to stop him, or offer words of false comfort. He simply sat
  and held the young wizard's hand and allowed the small storm to pass.

  It didn't take very long -- expressing any emotion but anger had never been
  Severus's strong suit. He swiped a sleeve over his damp face and spoke softly,
  looking down at his lap. "What now?"

  "That, Severus, is up to you."

  "But...you're not...you're not going to report me?"

  "Report you? For what? You've broken no law or even school rule of which I am
  aware. Your political activities are your own business; your sexual preferences,
  the same."

  "Stop it," Severus said tightly. "You know what I mean. I'm a" -- he tried to
  say Death Eater,but the words seemed to lodge in his throat. "I'm a Dark
  wizard."

  "Only if you choose to be."

  Severus was startled. He hadn't thought of it that way before, ever, but now
  that Dumbledore had voiced it, it seemed so obvious, so basic. It was all a
  matter of choices, wasn't it? The fact that he had made one bad choice, even one
  as monumentally stupid as going to the Dark Lord, did not preclude taking other,
  wiser paths in the future.

  If, of course, he had the courage.

  "Everything is so simple to you, isn't it?" he sighed, and his tone was not
  bitter, but envious.

  "My brother Aberforth has a rather appropriate saying on the subject. `Don't
  sweat the small stuff.'"

  Small stuff.Severus brayed a short laugh. "You're taking all of this remarkably
  lightly."

  "No." Dumbledore sobered. "I am frightened for you, Severus. What you've done
  can only be undone at great risk. I believe you have the courage" -- Severus
  went wide-eyed again at that-- "but I fear for you nonetheless."

  "You should." He couldn't suppress a shiver; Dumbledore squeezed his hand.
                                                                                   
  "Know, at least, that I am here to help you. Help will always be given at
  Hogwarts to those who ask for it, and I promise I shall do all that I can to
  help you, and protect you."

  He withdrew his hand from Severus's -- Severus mourned the loss -- and pushed
  back his chair. He was a tall man, and when he stood, he seemed to tower over
  the troubled boy lying in the bed, like a god filling the sky.

  "I must go now, Severus. Poppy hasn't been able to hover and fuss for nearly
  fifteen minutes; she must be apoplectic by now. And you do need your rest."

  Severus nodded. He'd never wanted to rest so badly in his life. But he had one
  last question. He didn't want to ask it, didn't even want to bring it up, but he
  had to know.

  "What about Black?" What he meant was What about what I tried to do to
  Black?,but he couldn't bring himself to be that candid. He could only hope that
  Dumbledore, as he so often did, would understand the meaning beneath the words.

  "I shall advise him that this was all an unfortunate misunderstanding, and that
  he is exonerated," Dumbledore replied. He raised his eyebrows. "I shall also
  advise him that pressing charges of any kind might not be the wisest course of
  action, given the circumstances."

  Severus could scarcely believe his ears -- or his luck. "C-circumstances, sir?"

  "I have observed the rather aggressive nature of Sirius's relationship with you
  for almost six years, Severus," Dumbledore shrugged. "I feel it safe to assume
  your physical involvement has been no less...intense."

  Severus could only stare at him. Again. Sweet Salazar, did he know this, too?
  Did he know that it had been rape that had started this whole terrible chain of
  events, that it had been rape that had driven Severus from Black's arms to an
  even darker, more dangerous embrace? Was there anything the man didn't know -
  - anything at all?

  "Don't look so shocked, Severus." Dumbledore's smile was rather sad. "It is
  plain to see. You and Sirius were wrong, right from the start. A volatile
  combination. I blame neither of you. Some perfectly stable, normal people should
  not be put together, that's all. Just as some perfectly normal ingredients
  should not be mixed in the same potion, lest they explode."

  "I'm not normal," Severus muttered, "and neither is Black."

  Dumbledore laughed. "No one is normal at sixteen."

  There was a sharp rap on the door. Severus jumped; Dumbledore shook his head.
  "Poppy," he said affectionately. "I had better take my leave of you before she
  breaks down the door."

  "I wish you could stay," Severus said, without thinking.

  "I'll be here when you awaken." He leaned over the bed, his long beard tickling
  Severus's arm, where the Mark now lay dormant and harmless. He cupped Severus's
  chin and lifted it, and then he did what he had done on that other night so many
  months ago, another night when Severus had been agonizing and Sirius Black had
  been at the heart of it: he kissed the teenager's forehead. "Good night, my boy.
  Sleep tonight; think tomorrow."

  As before, the kiss lingered on his skin long after Dumbledore had left. It was
  warm, tingling with the man's power. And the words...they were good words,
  Severus thought. It was a drowsy, hazy thought. He was very sleepy, wasn't he?
  He had much to think about, it was true, and none of it was going to be very
  pleasant, but...but he didn't have to think about it now. Like the girl in that
  silly Muggle movie his mother used to love so much, he would do as Dumbledore
  said: he would think about that tomorrow.

  For years after, Severus would wonder what sly magic was in that kiss, those
  words; Dumbledore would never say. But even before Pomfrey had ceased her
  endless clucking and hovering and general bustling about him and retired for the
  night, Severus had drifted into the last untroubled sleep of his life.

  ********************************************************************************

  Monday, 25 April, 1977

  11:30 PM

  Sirius didn't look at Snape as he and Lupin followed McGonagall from the
  infirmary. He didn't dare. He knew that even the barest glimpse of that
  treacherous bastard's face would snap the tight rein he had on his emotions, and
  he couldn't let that happen, not here, not now. Not until he was alone. They
  were ugly emotions, some of them weak, some brutal, all of them shaming, and he
  refused to share them with anyone.

  Nothing had ever hurt like this. He remembered the day he'd read Bellatrix's
  letter, the rage and pain he had felt at that perceived betrayal. He remembered
  how he'd felt this morning -- was it really only this morning? -- when she'd
  confessed her trickery. Had he actually believed he was angry at those
  discoveries, stunned by them, hurt? What a fool he'd been. What a child.

  Nothing had ever hurt like this.

  He managed to keep himself together well enough. The only time he almost lost it
  was when McGonagall, leaving them at the entrance to the Common Room, cautioned
  them to keep quiet about what had happened. Sirius gave her such a scathing look
  that she recoiled from it a little. As if he'd tell anyone about this night,
  ever! he thought wretchedly. As if he wouldn't rather pretend it never happened
  at all.

  He left her and Moony at the Fat Lady, ignoring Lupin's scramble through the
  portrait hole to catch up, dismissing Peter's questions and James's concern with
  a tired wave of his hand. He went straight up the stairs, feeling their eyes,
  hearing their whispers as Lupin joined their little huddle, and he was again
  reminded unpleasantly of that morning, of Potions class and Bella's "confession"
  and another listless, gutless retreat with his tail between his legs.

  He got into bed and drew the curtains, warding them as he had that afternoon. He
  lay back and stared up at the canopy, waiting for the storm inside him to break.
  It didn't come right away. Held in check for so long, his emotions took awhile
  to let go, but when they did, they rolled over him in crushing waves.

  He wept. He cursed into his pillow. He balled it up and punched it repeatedly,
  helplessly. At some point he began to pound it, imagining it was Snape's face
  growing bloodier and bloodier under his pumping fists, until he was exhausted.
  Then he wept again.

  He went on like that for most of the night. Punching and cursing, cursing and
  weeping. At last, close to dawn, he fell into a thin sleep. And he had the dream
  again.

  Everything was the same. The Potions classroom, the red-eyed man, the Slytherin
  students, white-masked, eerily silent. And Snape, spread naked across the
  teacher's desk, trying to escape his chains as the man's monstrous cock was
  revealed, trying to scream through the rag in his mouth as the spiked shaft
  ripped its way into his body.

  Sirius's own screams pounded through his head.Gods, gods, stop, stop, you're
  killing him, stop, for God's sake--

  "Why would you spare him?" the dark man asked him again, and Sirius had no
  answer for that, really. Why, indeed?

  Then the man became the dog, as before, and the dog became the wolf. The dog
  became Moony, and Sirius tensed, bracing himself for the killing, the single,
  almost casual thrust of its jaws that would tear Snape's throat open and end his
  life. The wolf lowered its head, and--

  --and here, the dream changed. Instead of killing Snape instantly, the wolf
  pressed its muzzle to the long white throat, the thin skin that quivered with
  the tortured boy's pulse. He looked at Sirius and whined, and Sirius understood
  that it was a question. Snape's life was now in Sirius's hands.

  The dark man's words came back, words he had said in another where, another
  when. Words about Snape.He has hurt you. He will destroy you. He will kill all
  that you have ever loved.

  Moony whined again. His tongue lapped out, gently tasting the skin over the
  jugular. His tawny eyes never left Sirius's.

  He has hurt you.

  Snapehad hurt him, hadn't he? And it would be easy this way. So easy to just let
  the wolf do what it wanted to do.

  He will destroy you.

  It wasn't really murder, after all.

  He has hurt you.

  Wasn't murder at all. Besides...Snape was dead already. As far as Sirius was
  concerned, Severus Snape didn't exist anymore.

  Like an emperor standing over a fallen gladiator, Sirius looked at the wolf
  again... and nodded.

  The amber eyes flashed gold; a growl swelled into a snarl from deep in the heavy
  chest. There was a blur of fangs, a muffled shriek, and then Snape went still,
  blood spraying from his throat in a gaudy fountain.

  In his dream, Sirius smiled.

  In his bed, Sirius wept.

  ********************************************************************************

  Friday, 27 May, 1977

  8:00 AM

  "Don't tell me you don't want to, Snivvy," Black taunted. "We both know you've
  been dying to find out where Remus goes each month for years."

  That gave him a jolt. Dying to find out.What a chilling choice of words. If he
  took Black up on his dare, Severus coulddie, easily enough. He wouldn't, of
  course -- he knew their sick little secret, and he knew what to expect -- but
  Black didn't know that he knew. Black thought he was sending his unsuspecting
  ex-lover to meet a werewolf, and if the likelihood that Snape could be killed as
  a result had ever crossed his mind, it hadn't touched his conscience. Black knew
  the consequences of what he was doing -- and he was doing it anyway.

  Why that should upset him so much, Severus didn't know...but it did upset him,
  terribly. Black wanted him dead. Even after all the unspeakable things they had
  done to each other, even though his own hatred for Black still simmered along
  with other, more complex emotions, Severus found this a stunning realization.
  Sirius Black wanted himdead.

  "What's the matter, Snape?" Black prodded. "You afraid it's another trick,
  another trap? Afraid you'll crawl under the Whomping Willow and find yourself
  arse-up under another dog?" He laughed as Severus flushed brightly. "Well, don't
  worry. I'll never do anything like that again. It's too cruel to the dog."

  It hurt -- those wounds were still very raw, and always would be -- but it
  angered him, too. He welcomed the anger. Anger wasn't the most pleasant way to
  feel, perhaps, but at least it was familiar to him. More familiar, certainly,
  than the shaken dismay of knowing his lover was plotting his murder.

  "You never had any complaints," Severus spat. He made his voice a little higher,
  a little rougher -- a perfect mimic of Black's husky tenor. "`Oh, Severus,
  you're so hot, you're so tight.' `Oh, Severus, let me fuck your gorgeous little
  arse.' `Oh, Severus, please, please fuck me harder.'" He paused, watching
  Black's jaw clench tighter with each word, saving the best for last. "`Oh,
  Severus, I love you.'"

  Black's smirk might have been slapped off his face, so quickly did it vanish.

  "Shut your filthy mouth!" He took a step forward, his hands clenched into
  shaking fists. "Glad you have so many fond memories, shitbag. Hope you enjoy
  them. I've no intention of touching you ever again."

  "Good." Severus stepped forward, trying to push past; Black blocked his path.

  "'Course, if I did, you'd just have Dumbledore protect you, wouldn't you? It's a
  good job his robes are so long, Sniv -- more skirt for you to hide behind."

  "It isn't my fault Dumbledore finally sees you for what you are," Severus said
  coldly. "Now piss off, I have nothing else to say to you."

  "So you are a coward, then."

  Severus arched an eyebrow.

  "Tonight?" Black prompted. "You still haven't given me an answer."

  "My answer is `no,'" Severus said. "I don't think I'm a coward, but I know I'm
  not stupid." He gave the Gryffindor a pitying look. "And a bit of advice, Black,
  if I may: the next time you want someone to do something, act like you don't."

  Black shrugged. "I couldn't care less what you do," he said. "I told you, this
  is James's idea. And Moony's. They're bloody tired of you snooping around all
  the time."

  This was patently absurd -- Severus had had far too much on his own plate for
  months to care a fig where the hairball and his cronies went, or what they did -
  - but even a clever lie would have failed, betrayed by Black's face. It was
  always in the eyes, Severus knew, and Black's eyes were too avid, too bright -
  - the eyes of a man contemplating something immensely exciting. Another wave of
  sick, sinking dismay washed over him. Bad enough Black was trying to get him
  killed; did the bastard have to look so happy about it?

  "Oh, that makes perfect sense," he sneered. "They're so tired of it they're
  going to show me all their clubby little secrets, is that it?"

  Black shrugged again. "If it finally gets you out of our hair, why not?"

  Why not.Severus thought about that. Why notworked for him, too, didn't it?
  Especially with Black standing there, so bright-eyed and jovial, virtually
  salivating over the prospect of his dismemberment and death. It would be nice to
  turn the tables on Black for once, maybe for all. And not just him, either.
  Lupin and Potter were part of this as well, maybe even that blob Pettigrew...and
  why settle for reckoning with only one of them when he could -- maybe -- get all
  four of the fuckers expelled at once?

  He was, he realized, angry again. Very angry. The sheer effrontery of them, the
  lot of them, was infuriating. Who did they think they were? What gave them the
  right to play games with his life? What had he done to any of them, even to
  Black, that their hatred should be so vicious and so violent, that they should
  want to see him maimed or dead? In the six years of shitty give-and-take one-
  upmanship that constituted his relationship with the Marauders, it had been
  Severus who had done most of the taking. And even his worst offense -- perhaps
  his only truly unforgivable offense -- had been an act of desperation, not
  malice.

  Severus looked at Black's face again, the careful handsome blankness of it, the
  eager, almost hungry eyes. The old hate welled and burst within him like a
  poison bubble, and he smiled.

  "All right, Black," he agreed. "Why not?"

  ********************************************************************************

  Friday, 27 May, 1977

  9:45 PM

  "I don't know who looks more done in," James said. "You, or me."

  Sirius didn't know, either -- he felt shaken and sickened, and probably looked
  no better than he felt -- but had he been forced to choose, he would have picked
  James. His clothes were ripped and mud-caked from his scramble under the Willow,
  and three long gouges on his face still oozed blood, marking his cheeks like war
  paint; he was also sporting the beginnings of a fairly impressive black eye.

  Still, it could have been worse. Much worse. For everyone.

  Sirius collapsed into a chair and waved a hand toward James's face. "Did Snape
  do that?"

  James touched his eye gingerly. "Who else? Your precious damsel didn't much want
  to be rescued. He fought me like a wildcat all the way out of the tunnel." He
  grimaced. "This must be the happiest night of Snape's life. I actually helped
  him, for once, and he got to thump me anyway."

  "He's not happy," Sirius said. "He thinks I tried to kill him."

  "Didn't you?"

  "No! No, I just wanted--" He stopped. "Ah, hell. I don't know what I wanted."

  "Bollocks. You know. You wanted him dead."

  "No." Sirius shook his head adamantly. "No. Not dead. Not dead, just--"

  "Merlin's balls, Paddy! You don't send someone down a dark tunnel with a fucking
  werewolf at the end of it just so you can yell `gotcha'! If I hadn't pulled
  Snape out when I did, he'd be in pieces by now, so don't try to bullshit me. I
  was there."

  "Well, you're quite the hero then, aren't you?" Sirius flared. "Will a `thank
  you' be good enough for you, Mr. Potter, or should I just get on my knees and
  open my mouth?"

  James didn't even blink. "You should shutyour mouth, Paddy, and keep it shut.
  Whenever you open your gob, the rest of us pay for it."

  Sirius was trembling, whether with outrage or something else, he didn't know. He
  had expected anger, maybe even horror, from James, but this disgust and quiet
  contempt were harder to take than either of them. "I never asked you to go after
  him, James."

  "No. You never asked."

  "I never wanted you to go after him."

  "No? Then why'd you tell me what you'd done?"

  Sirius said nothing. James nodded anyway.

  "That's what I thought." He touched his eye again and winced. "Anyway, I'm glad
  you did. No, really. I'm glad you changed your mind before it was too late. I
  can look the other way on a lot of things, Paddy, but murder's not one of them."

  Sirius shook harder. He moved closer to the fire, suddenly cold to the bone.
  What he had done-- what he had almost done -- was finally starting to hit him.
  "I don't think I could have lived with it," he mumbled, more to himself than his
  friend. "If I actually...you know...got somebody killed."

  "Somebody?"

  "Anybody."

  "Snape, you mean."

  "Yes. Even him."

  "Especially him."

  Sirius shook his head. "No. That's over. I'm done with him, Prongs. Done."

  "You'll never be done with him. You're poisoned with him, Paddy. He's all you
  think of, day and night, for good or bad...nothing else exists anymore."

  "No," Sirius repeated stubbornly. "Not now. It's not like that now, not
  anymore."

  James was silent for a moment. "He saw Moony, you know."

  Sirius winced. "Yeah, I know. He told Dumbledore after you left."

  "He may talk."

  "I don't think so. He'll listen to Dumbledore. He's Dumbledore's new little pet
  now, don't you know?" He couldn't keep a trace of scorn out of his voice.
  "Anyway, I've a few secrets of his as well. He starts talking, I'll start
  talking. He wants to play, I'll play. The things I know about him, Prongs -
  - things you can't imagine. And I'll use them. I don't care. If he tries to hurt
  Moony, I'll make him sorry he was ever born."

  "I thought it was over." James spoke very softly. "Thought you were done with
  him."

  Sirius gave him an incredulous look. "I'm done fucking him, James. But if you
  think for a moment I'm just going to walk away from this and let him win, you're
  daft. This is war now. This is personal. He made it personal when he hollered
  rape, the bastard, the scum, and I'm going to make him pay for it if it takes me
  the rest of my life." He stopped, frowned. "Where are you going?"

  "Bed." James had gotten to his feet; now he stripped off his filthy shirt,
  rolled it into a ball, and tossed it on the fire. He watched it burn; the flames
  shot higher, lighting his face, and Sirius saw the same expression there that he
  had seen earlier: frustration, pity, weary contempt. "Like I said, Paddy.
  Poisoned."

  ********************************************************************************

  Friday, 27 May, 1977

  10:00 PM

  "That's it?" Severus was in shock, staring at Dumbledore in utter disbelief.
  "Two months of detention, one month's House confinement -- that's all he gets
  for trying to kill me?"

  "I believe it a fair punishment," Dumbledore said.

  "Fair?"Severus shrieked. "There aren't even three months left in the term!"

  "I am aware of that fact, Severus. Sirius will complete the remainder of his
  punishment when school resumes next fall."

  "He should be completing his punishment in fucking Azkaban! He tried to kill
  me!"

  Several of the portraits clucked disapprovingly.

  "Language, Severus," Dumbledore rebuked, though his tone was mild, even slightly
  amused. "You are upsetting the sleep of Headmasters past."

  Severus cast an ugly look all around. "Well, fuck them, too," he said, and the
  walls fairly shook with outrage.

  "That boy needs a good thrashing, if you ask me." "The way children talk these
  days! Why, in my day--" "Foul-mouthed little thing, isn't he? And would you look
  at that hair! When I was Headmaster, boys didn't run about spewing nasty words
  and looking like girls. I tell you, I wouldn't have stood for it."

  Dumbledore silenced the chatter with a wave of his hand.

  He, and they, watched as Severus prowled the vast room, restlessly picking up
  and putting down this artifact or that. He stopped at Fawke's perch, putting out
  a finger to scratch the phoenix's head; Fawkes stretched his neck and chirruped
  softly. Touching the beautiful bird usually soothed him, but tonight it was not
  calm that descended over him, only a heavy sadness. Perhaps Fawkes felt it, too;
  as Severus stroked him, the creature's strange, powerful tears fell on the boy's
  extended arm, as if to heal the Dark wound he could sense but not see. "So this
  is how you're going to protect me, then."

  "I don't understand."

  "You told me you'd protect me. That you'd do whatever you could to help me."

  "I did," Dumbledore nodded. "And I shall."

  Severus turned his back on Fawkes. "But you're not, and you didn't! You gave
  Black a slap on the wrist, you gave Potter nothing at all--"

  "James Potter saved your life, Severus. That hardly constitutes a punishable
  offense."

  "Saved my life!" Severus scoffed. "Saved his arse, more likely! And Black's as
  well. He knew you'd have to expel the lot of them if I were killed." He laughed
  his bitter laugh. "Though I daresay he needn't have bothered. You'd have made
  some excuse for them, even for that, wouldn't you? Gods forbid you don't protect
  your precious Gryffindors at any cost."

  Dumbledore's face hardened. "Stop it, Severus. It is time to stop this nonsense
  once and for all. This has nothing to do with mindless House rivalries. I didn't
  punish James because I don't believe he had anything to do with this other than
  pulling you from that tunnel. And I didn't punish Sirius more severely because I
  don't believe he intended you any real harm."

  Stunned, infuriated, Severus opened his mouth to reply, but Dumbledore raised a
  hand.

  "Any more, Severus, than I believe you tried to send Sirius to Azkaban for a
  rape he did not commit simply out of spite." He sighed. "You've no wish to hear
  it, I'm sure, but at the moment you sound uncannily like Sirius himself did,
  that night. He was quite upset when I told him of your punishment for that
  little charade."

  Severus looked blank. "What punishment?"

  Dumbledore smiled. "Precisely."

  Oh, so that'sit, Severus thought. The old wizard was reminding him of what he
  owed, the cost to be paid in silent obedience. Bartering, Gryffindors liked to
  call it, but any Slytherin worth his wand knew it for what it really was:
  blackmail.

  "Calling in your debts, Headmaster?" he asked softly. "Very well. I'll let it
  go. I'll even keep my mouth shut about Lupin, as you've asked. But forgive me if
  I'm not overwhelmed with gratitude. I have a few galleons' worth of reckoning
  owed to me as well, you see. I'd have to frame Black for a thousand crimes to
  make a dent in the misery he and his friends have caused me. Six years of it!
  Six years of dirty tricks and insults and attacks -- and you've never done a
  thing about it."

  "I know," Dumbledore said, and Severus blinked in surprise. "And I am sorry,
  Severus. I have been short-sighted to the point of blindness, and you have paid
  for it. I am just realizing that now."

  "Bloody quick, aren't you?" Severus jabbed. He was still shocked that Dumbledore
  would admit any wrong-doing on the Marauders' part -- much less constant,
  systematic abuse -- but he wasn't about to let the old wizard off that easy.
  "And you're still blind if you think this was just some prank that went bad.
  They tried to kill me -- and they would have done, if Potter hadn't gotten cold
  feet at the last minute."

  Dumbledore leaned against his desk and folded his arms. "Severus, how long have
  you known that Remus Lupin is a werewolf?"

  Stunned, Severus could only shake his head. The man was unbelievable.

  "I surmise that you must have known," Dumbledore continued. "Otherwise, you
  would never have gone into the tunnel at all. You are too smart, and too
  suspicious by your very nature, and you have no cause to trust Sirius Black
  whatsoever. I therefore must assume that you knew beforehand what you would
  find."

  Such impeccable logic. Impressive from a Gryffindor. Certainly not lost on a
  Slytherin. Severus considered lying for all of thirty, forty seconds before
  deciding against it.

  "More than a year," he said.

  "An extraordinary piece of deduction, dear boy, if I may say so."

  "Not at all. All the clues were there. Afterwards, I was ashamed it took me as
  long as it did." He gave Dumbledore a hard look. "Perhaps I simply couldn't
  believe you'd ever allow an abomination like that into the school."

  "You would be amazed at what I allow in this school, Severus"-- Severus
  stiffened; he could take that personally if he wanted to, couldn't he? The
  newest Death Eater, poncing about Hogwarts with the Headmaster's full knowledge?
  -- "but that is beside the point. You knew about Remus's affliction all this
  time, yet you still went into the tunnel. Why?"

  Severus frowned. "What difference does that make?"

  "A great deal, I'm afraid. You went into this with your eyes open, Severus. You
  cannot now say that you were tricked or deceived. You deliberately put yourself
  in a dangerous situation, for whatever reasons, and you must accept at least a
  measure of responsibility for your own actions."

  "Responsibility?" Severus echoed disbelievingly. "Responsibility? Why are you
  trying to blame me for this? I was tricked and deceived, damn it! Can't you see
  that? Black didn't know that I knew about Lupin! He thought he was sending me to
  face that monster blind!" He was astonished, utterly astounded; even he hadn't
  thought that Dumbledore could take his Gryffindor bias so far, be so blatantly,
  absurdly unfair. His voice dropped to a wounded whisper. "You really would do
  anything to protect them, wouldn't you?"

  "I am trying to protect all of you, Severus." Exasperation now colored his tone.
  "I feel that there is ample accountability to go around. And my own culpability
  is easily the deepest. As you yourself pointed out, I am the one who allowed the
  situation to escalate to this point."

  "Give yourself two months' detention, then," Severus snarled, "and expel those
  gods damned Gryffindors as you should."

  "And what would that accomplish, Severus?"

  "What would it...?" Severus trailed off, amazed all over again. He set his jaw.
  "Justice, Professor. It would accomplish justice."

  Dumbledore shook his head. "You don't want justice, my boy. You want revenge.
  That's what all of you want; that's what this has been about, from the very
  beginning. You want revenge on them, not merely for tonight, but for all of the
  injuries and slights of the past six years. Sirius wanted revenge on you, for
  accusing him of rape, for going off with Lucius Malfoy, for God alone knows what
  else. And on and on it goes.

  "I will not feed that cycle, Severus, nor will I allow any of you to, any
  longer. It has to stop. It shall stop, here, tonight, with me. Forever."

  He sounded tired and sad. He sounded, for the first time in all the years
  Severus had known him, old.

  "So that's it, then," Severus said. "That's the end of it." He spoke quietly,
  with little emotion now -- a scientist, just trying to get his facts straight.
  He felt...numb. All the things Dumbledore had said to him that night in the
  infirmary, about instincts and choices, all those things that had given him a
  tiny measure of hope even as he agonized over the decisions before him -- all of
  it had been a lie. Perhaps it had been no more than a kindness on the
  headmaster's part, anyway, thin comfort thrown to an injured, frightened boy. Or
  perhaps it had been a purely calculated act of self-defense from the beginning -
  - keep the little Death Eater happy, lest he run amuck and blow up the school,
  or something. Whatever the reason, it had been a lie. He saw that now.
  Dumbledore could stroke and soothe, drop warm kisses on troubled brows and
  murmur all the pretty words he wanted, but at the end of the day, when it came
  down to making his choice, he would pick his Gryffindors every time.

  It hurt. Severus was surprised at how much it hurt. He was used to people
  failing him -- his parents, his teachers, Lucius, Black, even Lily, unknowingly
  -- but, somehow, this betrayal hurt more than any of those. Perhaps he knew,
  instinctively, that it was the last. There was no one left who cared, no one
  left he could trust even a little; Dumbledore had been his one remaining hope to
  save himself, his last line of defense against the bleak future he had chosen.
  There was no one left to turn on him now.

  "It has to be the end, Severus."

  Severus nodded. "Very well. May I be excused?"

  "Of course. Though perhaps Madam Pomfrey should take a look--"

  "No," Severus said sharply. He softened his tone. "No, I am uninjured,
  Headmaster. I am quite well."

  "Are you? You're very pale, my boy, and obviously still very shaken." His voice
  was rich and warm with the same old affection, the same concern. Severus wished
  with all his heart that he could believe in it again.

  As if he could read Severus's mind -- and for all Severus knew, he probably
  could -- Dumbledore said, "I'm sorry if I've hurt you, Severus. I know you don't
  understand the decisions I have made here tonight, but I hope, in time, that you
  will. You're just so young, Severus, and to be very young is to be inherently
  selfish. You see only your part in this, your grievance and what you have
  suffered, but I...well, I must see all sides. I must do what I feel is best for
  all involved. Perhaps when you are older, and your perspective is broader, you
  will realize that."

  "Yes," Severus said shortly. "I'm sure I will."

  He turned without waiting to be excused and walked toward the door. For the
  first time in weeks, the Mark on his arm stirred to life. Severus barely
  noticed. He needed no reminders, no signs; he knew what he would do. He knew now
  that he would go to the Dark Lord again -- at the end of term, throughout the
  summer, throughout his seventh year. Dumbledore wouldn't stop him; that much was
  clear. Dumbledore didn't care enough to stop him. Oh, he'd hide it well enough -
  - he'd sugar-coat it and say things like, "It's your life, Severus" or "I'm not
  your father, dear boy, I've no right to tell you what to do," but Severus knew
  better now. Dumbledore didn't care. Didn't care if he stayed a Death Eater or
  didn't, didn't care if he chose the light path or the Dark, didn't care if he
  lived or died. Certainly not the way he would have cared had it been one of
  them.

  He would go back. Not as he had the first time, ablaze with righteous anger and
  seeking revenge, and not -- as he had imagined it countless times over the last
  month -- with his heart back here at Hogwarts, in Dumbledore's hands, while he
  looked carefully, furtively, for a way out. This time, when he went to
  Voldemort, it would be because he had nowhere else to go.

  "Severus?"

  He half-turned, his hand on the doorknob.

  "This changes nothing, you know. Everything I said to you before, the advice I
  have given and the sanctuary I have offered, remains as it ever was. You still
  have the same choices as you ever did, and Hogwarts is still one of them."

  Severus nearly laughed out loud. Gods, he was so bloody predictable!Same old
  riddles and proverbs, same old pretty, prattling nonsense. "Yes, sir," he agreed
  bitterly. "Choices are marvelous things to have, aren't they?"

  "Yes!Yes, they are, but they -- " Dumbledore broke off. He took a step toward
  Severus, then another, his bright blue gaze intense, impassioned, demanding to
  be met, and in that moment Severus saw what the rest of their world only talked
  about: the fire and the power of the greatest sorcerer alive. "But they are not
  always easy, Severus. Not the right ones."

  The blazing blue eyes held his, and Severus could not look away. The old
  wizard's thoughts rushed into his head, screamedinto his head, the impact like
  the blow of a hammer, making him sway slightly on his feet.

  Don't go to him, Severus, I beg of you, please, child, for he will hurt you in
  ways you cannot imagine, in ways Black and Potter and even your father never
  dreamed. He will destroy you, and your life will be the least of what he takes
  from you.

  Severus trembled. The Mark on his arm flared once, a bright, soaring streak of
  pain, of protest, before subsiding again.Say it, then!he implored silently,
  staring into Dumbledore's eyes. Say it out loud, say it so youknowthat I hear
  you. If you want me to listen, if you want me to believe in you again,tell me
  not to go.

  The silence spun out between them, the young man and the old, black eyes on
  blue, minds Reaching and being Reached. Severus tightened his grip on the door
  handle, loosened it, tightened it again. Waiting, just waiting--

  The flow of thoughts ceased. Severus's body shuddered slightly as the connection
  between them snapped like a thread.

  "That is all I...all I wished to say," Dumbledore said. The bright fire had left
  his eyes; he looked old again, so old. "Goodnight, Severus."

  Severus's head dropped. His vision doubled, trebled; he cleared it with a fierce
  blink of his eyes. His hand tightened on the handle of the door one last time,
  and he yanked it open.

  "Goodnight, Headmaster," he said. As the door closed behind him, Fawkes gave a
  single, mournful cry.

  ~finis
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