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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 that Remus 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.


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 did catch 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.


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.



( 1 Thing We Said Today — Dear Sir or Madam )
Oct. 19th, 2005 10:32 am (UTC)
Oooh. Interesting how Sirius obsession just grows, although he tells himself it is in pursuit of winning a bet.

and the meeting in Hogsmeade? Yikes, how sitius is both right and wrong about what is going on. Or is he?
( 1 Thing We Said Today — Dear Sir or Madam )