Entry tags:

bill/snape, nc-17, slash

FIC: "As the Gentle Rain"
Author: joanwilder aka RaeWhit
Pairing: Bill Weasley/Severus Snape, Snape/Original Male Characters
Beta: jadzialove, as always, I'm in your debt for your time, encouragement, and expertise. A thank you to magic_helmet for the read-throughs and advice.
Rating: NC-17
Genres: Drama/Angst/Romance
Word Count: 29,000+
Warnings: BDSM, D/s. Highlight for specifics: erotic humiliation, extreme bondage, whipping, object penetration
Challenge: Written for thematic_hp Round Ten—BDSM, D/s challenge, for Prompt # 46—In public, he's in charge. In private, someone else is.
Disclaimer: All things Potter belong to J.K.Rowling and her book and film companies.
Summary: For Snape and Bill, obsession is only the beginning.


A/N: This story was inspired by my own obsession with a piece of artwork that appeared in this year's IJ hp_springsmut. After weeks of thinking about it, I contacted fanlay and received her blessing to write a story around it. Please, please take a look at her beautiful and haunting artwork Rain. My slightly insincere apologies to her for embellishing considerably upon her original vision of "an illicit, hurried liaison in heavy rain."

The story is completed. Chapters are linked.

As the Gentle Rain

"The quality of mercy is not strained; it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath; it is twice blessed—it blesseth him that gives, and him that takes.
'The Merchant of Venice'~~William Shakespeare



It was raining again, Snape realized. He'd noticed it the last time they were here, but had forgotten until now. He could hear it dripping down the gutter spouts, a comforting, forlorn sound. He wondered if it meant anything…that it always rained…

But then he couldn't hear it anymore, as his breathing became fast and deep and he had to concentrate to keep that small point of focus in his mind. He'd long ago learnt that letting his thoughts stray could be catastrophic, and had nearly once had to use his safe-word because he'd let his attention wander and had been caught up short by sensation.

He concentrated on his body and forced himself to relax. Even though there were few spoken words, Snape was always aware that he wasn't alone, and that for tonight, he was safe.

Flexing his neck, he savored the feel of the leather bit in his mouth, the stretch in his hamstrings, and the burn in the backs of his thighs as he struggled to hold his position; he sighed and looked straight ahead, the gentle but firm cinch of the collar around his neck making it impossible to look down.

When it was time, he moved awkwardly, grateful for the cool roughness of the stones as he crawled from room to room on hands and knees.

Snape had a four-poster bed at the castle, his rooms a prison in which he spent his restless nights, twisting in the sheets, wide-eyed and chasing sleep. But here, in this comparative hovel in Hogsmeade, where the mattress was lumpy and the sheets rough and threadbare, Snape was always taken care of. He was secure, his neediness disciplined by the skillful hands and mouth of his lover and master.

On these nights, Snape drifted easily off to sleep, thinking, If I should die before I wake, at least I'll die happy.

°°°§§§°°°

He'd had the dream so many times in his life that he'd come to that place of knowing, even as he dreamed it, that that's all it was—a dream.

What it was exactly that he needed saving from had changed as he grew older; as a small child, he'd been afraid of werewolves and hags, basilisks and his father; as a teen, it'd been disfigured caricatures of Hogwarts' staff, and then inevitably, the man who called himself Voldemort. Even, for a time, it'd been Albus, until Snape'd learnt that the man wasn't going to exact a debtor's price for saving his neck. More recently, though, it'd been something nameless, a void from which Snape tried to shrink back, even though he knew in his mind that retreat would only burrow him deeper under the coverlet.

But then, just when his fear reached the pinnacle that always awakened him, just before he did, he could sense him. The stuff of his nightmare would begin to fade and Snape would squint his eyes, straining to see, desperate for this to be the time when he'd find out who the man was, this savior walking confidently toward him, the light from behind him so intense that Snape could only see him in silhouette.

When the tall man was almost there, Snape would lift his face to the rain and fall to his knees. His eyes closed, he'd wait until he could sense the stranger stop just in front of him, until finally, he felt the man's hands on his shoulders.

Then he would awaken. Every single time, in that precise moment when Snape knew it would happen, his eyes would fly open and he'd stare at the ceiling until his heart stopped pounding.

°°°§§§°°°

January 1982

"They've not had a proper Potions master this year," Dumbledore warned, smoothing the lines of his forehead with two fingertips. "Professor Slughorn's retirement came at an inopportune time," he continued, staring at Snape in the chair opposite him. "I was preoccupied…with other matters, and there weren't many candidates from which to choose, in any case."

"So I've heard," Snape replied shortly, sitting ramrod straight in his chair.

Dumbledore seemed puzzled, on the verge of saying something, then dropped his hand to the arm of his chair, still considering Snape thoughtfully.

"Severus," he finally said as he sat forward, his forearms on his knees, "I don't think you'll have any problems. They've heard stories, of course, but I will make it absolutely clear—"

Making a dismissive gesture, Snape interrupted, "The fifth years will hardly remember me at all—but the sixth and seventh years…" he paused. "No trouble from the Slytherins, but the rest of them?" He shook his head. "It won't be because they remember me. If there's any trouble at all, it'll be because they're old enough to read the Prophet and listen to their parents." He shrugged. "I'll manage."

"I've no doubt that you will." Dumbledore was studying him shrewdly. "My advice, if you'll have it, is to be firm and brook no nonsense from the start; then, once you've established your position, you might soften your stance a bit."

***

The old man was right, Snape had occasion to reflect. He could see it in their eyes, when he caught them unawares. Just for an instant, there would be contempt, even disgust, before they slid downward in embarrassment.

But he ruled with an iron fist; he was, as Dumbledore had recommended, firm; he tolerated no nonsense as he ruthlessly and methodically dealt with even the barest trace of insubordination.

It wasn't too long before any possibility of reading respect in their eyes had been completely destroyed. Snape had decided to forego the 'soften your stance' part of Dumbledore's two-part plan. In truth, he had no idea how he'd even go about such a strategy, let alone why such a thing would be desirable. He knew by the universal fear in their eyes that he was in control.

He presented a persona that was cold, hard and impenetrable: merciless in meting out consequences for poor performance, and even crueler when it was willful misbehavior they dared to present.

Snape brooded from January until the end of term. He was alone, so very much alone; none of the staff befriended him, and he understood why. Dumbledore was his only conversant, and even that occurred only when Snape was ordered to the old man's office.

It was just as Snape preferred it, actually. Solitude, to lick his wounds, private moments to rage over his misfortunes and personal loss, seclusion in which to marvel over having somehow landed on his feet.

He didn't know whether to weep over the pieces of his life, or to laugh at having been the one to come through it the best.

Where were his tormenters now? Two of them were dead, one was imprisoned, another afflicted by a cursed existence. And here he was, Severus Snape, Potions master, who could silence a room with his mere presence…

Snape wasn't certain how he felt about how his life was turning out.

He'd killed…but he'd never been kissed.

He'd never been on holiday…but he'd been to hell and back.

Parts of him were like the tender underbelly of a snake, so fragile to the touch and vulnerable. But the rest of him was as rough and unforgiving as dragon hide.

That June when the students left, Snape stayed. He didn't have anywhere else to go, and he decided he didn't give a damn that there wasn't one person on the face of this godforsaken earth who'd care to change that fact.

°°°§§§°°°

Year One~~1982-83

When Snape'd finally had reason to look back and think about that September of his first full year as Potions master, he had only the vaguest of recollections that there'd even been a Weasley.

So many firsts, that year…watching the Sorting from the other side of the High Table, taking on duties as Head of Slytherin house, the thrill of terrifying two sets of first-year Potions classes, and the unexpected camaraderie of the staff. He appeared to have passed some 'test.'

Snape hadn't attended Hogwarts with any Weasleys; it wasn't until a staff meeting in late autumn that the name even caught his interest. The first-year's name was Bill, and it seemed that Bill's parents had six other children who would trickle into Hogwarts over the next decade or so. Only then did Snape remember the quiet red-headed child who seemed too small for his arms and legs. He was a Gryffindor, but Snape had never had any cause to find fault with the boy, who was punctual, respectful and so far as first-years went, harmless in front of a cauldron. He hoped his siblings would follow suit.

It was a Gryffindor, though, who'd presented his first challenge of the year. Snape was expecting it, so wasn't surprised when he stepped through the door and spied the chalk drawing on the blackboard.

He was aware of every eye on him as he strode to the front of the room, where he stood to critically examine the sketch of a masked Death Eater kneeling in front of a grisly looking Dementor.

One could've heard a pin drop in the room as the students waited for Snape to erupt and rain vengeance down on their idiot classmate. Snape turned and leveled a dark glare at the one Gryffindor who defiantly refused to look away, then swiveled back to the board and picked up the chalk.

"Mister Fawcett," he said in his most boring and conversational of teacher voices, "pay attention. Note how the mask bears four filigree tracings out from the eyes, not two. And you entirely left out the vertical bars over the mouth piece." He carefully revised the drawing, using a finger to correct a smudge. "The Dementor, however, is beyond the pale. I'm afraid you must scrap it and start again." He turned after replacing the chalk in the tray, dusting his hands together as he fixed the seventh-year with his eyes. "Sloppy work that will earn you only a 'D.'"

Snape watched as the boy's face flushed, then as the relief crept into his eyes, Snape struck. "Fifty points from Gryffindor for unauthorized and wasteful use of chalk. Fifty more for shabby work. And considering that your intention was to attract my attention, I'll see you here every Friday night until Yule, eight sharp."

The fool looked as if he were about to argue, but Snape's expression must've convinced him that things possibly could get worse, so he chose to swallow visibly instead, and bite his tongue.

Snape turned back to the board and said with a scowl, "Scourgify."

°°°§§§°°°

Year Two~~1983-84

By mid-year, Snape found that the most daring maneuver in the seventh-years' arsenal against him was a bit of well-timed eye-rolling and an occasional muffled snicker.

He ruled his other classes solely with the timbre of his voice and the adjustment of his expression—rarely challenged, and nary a trace of ridicule. They didn't dare.

He prided himself on being able to handle his students and any 'problems' they might present all on his own. Until the unthinkable occurred…. He'd tried everything—scorn, derision, outright threats and a near tantrum—but by the end of March, he knew it was time to throw in the towel and admit defeat.

"I've not encouraged her in any way," Snape told Dumbledore stiffly.

Pursing his lips, Dumbledore sat back in his chair. "Oh, I've no doubt you haven't. What surprises me is that she's the first. I'd've thought this would've happened far sooner." He scrutinized Snape with a small smile. "You're young, carry yourself well, and possess a…rather individual beauty."

Snape scowled. "There've been others. But they…weren't nearly as obtuse as this one."

"What have you said to her?"

Still trying to decide if the old man was enjoying himself, Snape stroked his chin with his thumb. "I've been harsher than usual, humiliated her in class, taken points, and threatened to ban her from next year's NEWT-levels." He shook his head. "If anything, the additional attention has made things worse. She's now writing me letters, which," he sneered, "I return unopened, in front of the entire class."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, then surprised Snape with his next words. "I know you didn't court anyone when you were a student. Have you since?"

Snape frowned. "No," he answered reluctantly, wishing he felt free enough to tell the old man to fuck off.

"I only asked because courting might've given you some understanding of the female psyche." Dumbledore was eyeing him with curiosity.

"You're aware of my circumstances; there was little time for socializing, and despite my regard for Lily Evans, I'd've been more inclined to seek the company of a man."

The blue eyes widened. "Would you have indeed?" When Snape didn't reply, but simply stared, the old man smiled. "Pity that we cannot make that little detail known to your lovesick student." When Snape grumbled and pulled at his collar, Dumbledore smiled wider and stood as he said, "Ordinarily, I would refer such a matter to her Head of house; since you are he, that would only compound the problem. No, I'll send for her myself."

Snape nodded. "Thank you, Headmaster. I regret that I had to involve you at all." Turning to go, he stopped when he felt the hand on his arm.

Leveling a solemn look at him, the headmaster told him, "It's been two years, Severus. Time to get on with your life. Meet some people. I'm dining in Diagon Alley this Friday evening, and you're coming with me. No excuses."

Sighing, Snape replied, "Yes, sir."

°°°§§§°°°

Year Three~~1984-85


It was sometime during his third year of teaching that Snape had to admit he actually enjoyed Albus Dumbledore's company. They shared a drink in the old man's office on an odd night, and at least once a month, an entire evening over a chess board.

This development was due in no small part to the fact that Albus had taken it upon himself to literally push Snape through the doors of a gentleman's establishment in Diagon Alley.

And now, six months later, Snape had a small cadre of acquaintances with whom he 'explored' his sexuality. Far from being a brothel, it was a cooperative venture where membership was attained after months of 'harmless' dinners and get-togethers. Snape had met his mentor at that very first dinner where Albus had introduced him.

"Albus tells me you're queer," David said conversationally, then smiled when Snape swallowed his wine in a single gulp. "No worries. We all are."

"Everyone?" Snape asked as he cast as discreet a glance as he could around the table.

David nodded, flicking his eyes in Albus' direction. "Everyone."

"Severus, it's your move, did you know?" Snape looked up, his eyes slightly unfocused. "Severus?" Albus chided him.

"Sorry," Snape mumbled, "a bit preoccupied." After a moment's thought, he moved his knight to E-5, then sat back in his chair, watching as Albus tried to suppress a twitch of his lips. Damn it¸ Snape thought, staring at the board as he wondered what the old man saw. His attention was caught by the motion of fingers drumming on the armrest. Albus' fingers—long and tapered, the skin almost translucent.

It was the hands he remembered afterward.

Sven was one of his regular partners, one of only three men whom he continued to seek out after the first several months. These few that he favored, he trusted. There was something about all of them, something he'd sensed as their encounters moved from dinners, to intimate conversations, to sexual trysts.

Most of the time, though, Snape spent his evenings with more casual acquaintances, but that was never his preference.

On his knees, Sven braced himself against the sheets, his long fingers splayed out like spokes of a wheel. His fingernails were bloodless as he bore the weight of both their bodies, with Snape pounding into him from behind.

Afterward, Snape watched one of the graceful fingers reach out to trace the line of his nose.

"You bottom lately?" Sven asked him softly.

Snape's nose twitched involuntarily, making Sven laugh. "I have," he answered.

"Do you have a preference?" Sven queried.

Snape thought for a moment; not that he didn't know the answer, but this was Sven, and he wanted to be entirely truthful. "In general, I prefer to top. That's considering that most of my fucks are one-time occasions with someone I've just met in the pub. But…" He flushed, suddenly afraid. Not that Sven's reaction worried him, but he'd never ever felt quite so vulnerable, at least willingly…

"Severus, what?" Sven asked, coming up on an elbow to face him.

Snape groped for words. "There are times…when I like to bottom. But only with you or David, and maybe Christian. And I like…" He groaned and brought his arm up to cover his eyes. Why had he started this?

"You like something we did…when we were trying out new things with David?" Sven reached out and pulled Snape's arm away.

"Yes," Snape finally admitted.

Sven's eyes glittered as he sat up in the bed, then motioned with an imperious hand. "Up on your knees, and put your hands against the headboard. And don't you dare make a sound, or there'll be consequences. Understood?"

His cock was half hard already, as Snape struggled to obey.

"Severus," Albus seemed to say from afar. "Are you playing or not?"

Snape shook his head. "I was thinking about the weekend. Let's finish this, so we can both get to bed."

Albus caught his hand as he made to move his queen. "You're only half-here. Go on, I'll put this away," he said kindly.

Narrowing his eyes, Snape countered, "You forfeit, then."

The old man pursed his lips, then sat back in his chair with an overly dramatic sigh. "You drive a hard bargain, but yes, I'll forfeit."

"Albus, you knew there'd be another Weasley boy this year?" Snape asked out of the blue as he stood.

Looking amused and surprised, Albus answered, "Of course, I did. And I'm glad to see he's not escaped your notice, as he's been one of your first-years for months." All he received in return was an indecipherable murmur.

He waited until Snape had said his goodnight before he smiled outright, humming as he boxed the pieces.

°°°§§§°°°

Year Four~~1985-86

This second Weasley boy wasn't any more memorable than the first one. Perhaps more gregarious. Certainly displayed more of that 'pack' mentality that was so common to Gryffindors. In any case, just like his older sibling, he was an obedient and adequate student, and that was all Snape counted as important.

Until halfway through the year when he was forced to deal with the eldest, Bill, outside of class, in his own dungeon corridor.

Snape walked stealthily, by force of habit; that evening he rounded the end of the corridor just after dinner and was brought up short by the sight of two of his Slytherins in the process of soundly thrashing Bill, whom they'd pinned against the stone wall.

Moving instantly, but not speaking yet, Snape sailed down the corridor, timing his arrival so that they only heard his footsteps a moment before. As they turned, he noted there was blood, and saw for the first time the trembling and very young Ravenclaw huddled at his feet on the floor.

The battered Gryffindor was immediately released, as his tormentors stepped to the side, smart enough not to open their mouths to protest their innocence. Bill slumped against the damp stone, but Snape didn't fail to note that he held his feet, even though with difficulty.

The two Slytherins shifted from one foot to the other, eyeing Snape warily. The Ravenclaw, now aware that Snape was there, was struggling to his feet, making small whimpering noises; his nose was bloody, Snape saw.

Leaning against the opposite wall, Snape nonchalantly crossed his arms and waited for maximum anxiety. After a few moments, he pulled his wand, but kept it down at his side. It was enough for them to see it there. "What happened?" When everyone started to speak at once, he pointed to the first year. "You tell me. You're Richey, aren't you?"

Rubbing his nose against his robe sleeve, the child nodded. "Yes, sir." He cast a furtive look at the two older boys. "They grabbed me just outside the Great Hall and dragged me down here; except when we got here, he tried to tell them to let me go." He pointed at Weasley.

Snape didn't doubt this was true. The boy was a Ravenclaw and scared out of his wits, that much was clear. He addressed his seventh-years next. "Is this true? You brought him here without provocation?" If they'd expected any support from their Head of house, his tone of voice cured them of that notion.

"He's a whiny first-year, and we just wanted to have a—"

"Mr. Weasley, you saw them and followed? Was that the only reason?"

The boy's nose was obviously broken, and both of his eyes would be black as well. Despite his injuries, he looked at Snape directly and said without hesitation, "I saw them, and I already knew what they'd done to Duff McCreary last week."

"Brave Gryffindor. Deciding to take on two students three years ahead of you," Snape lightly taunted, then was surprised by the boy's answer.

"If I were him," he paused and pointed at the Richey boy, "I'd want someone to come after me. Wouldn't you?" There was no challenge, just a mild attempt to defend his decision.

"I think I would've considered reinforcements," Snape murmured, thinking that the boy was looking decidedly pale. "You take Richey to the infirmary. Can you make it?" When Bill nodded, Snape turned on heel and waved with a hand to his Slytherins. "You two, follow me. I regret that you'll be clearing your social calendar for the next several months."

As he sat and watched the two of them clean the small glass panes of the ingredients cabinets, he wondered where he'd gone wrong this time. He'd started this year to make a concerted effort to be harder on the Gryffindors in his classes, mostly because they deserved it—thinking they were above the rules, gallivanting wherever they wanted whenever they wanted. Snape wasn't stupid; he knew his favoritism had something to do with his own past. He wasn’t certain which was more fulfilling: taking points from Gryffindor or awarding them to Slytherin.

But tonight, he'd done just the opposite, hadn't he? Something in his past had made him side with the boy who stood up to bullies for the sake of a child not even in his own house. He'd shown himself brave and honorable, albeit somewhat naïve, and although Snape might outwardly ridicule those qualities, in this instance he found them admirable. If he were honest, it hadn't been so long ago that he'd been on the wrong end of a bully's pranking.

After grading papers, he decided to take the stairs to the infirmary and check on the Weasley boy's condition. It felt vaguely odd and wrong to even care, but he told himself it was reasonable; he had, after all, been the one to discover the incident.

The infirmary was cool and dimly lit; Poppy caught him the moment he walked through the door.

"Severus! Tell me you've dealt with them! A broken nose and ribs go far beyond boyish carousing. My stars!" She stood her ground, her hands on her hips. "He'll have to stay the night. Can't dose him with Skele-gro and just let him go. What has the headmaster had to say?"

Snape glanced toward the end of the room at the only occupied bed, then back to the woman. "Madam, trust me to see to the perpetrators. They're students of my house, as I'm sure Mr. Weasley's told you, and I'll alert the headmaster in the morning."

"Hmm, all right, and no, he was tight-lipped. Refused to tell me who it was, only that you saved the day," she muttered. "No permanent damage. He's awake," she told him, waving him toward the bed, "but not for long, so you'd better be quick if you want to see him."

Now Snape wondered why he'd come. Reluctantly, he made his way to the bedside, only to find that the boy appeared to be asleep. Although now that Snape was seeing him close up, chest and bare legs uncovered, he decided that Bill was more man than boy. A well-muscled torso and upper arms…long, lightly haired legs, one dangling over the side of the bed. Snape found himself dry-mouthed and….

"Professor?"

Startled, Snape looked up. "Mr. Weasley. I thought you asleep."

A drowsy smile. "Almost. But I could feel you watching me."

Snape stared at him. "Madam Pomfrey informed me you'll be recovered by morning, for the most part."

Bill lifted a hand and gingerly prodded the swelling around an eye. "Yeah, I'm not worried. Nuisance, it is, staying here."

Frowning, Snape stated, "It was very foolish of you to take them on—even though you're large for your age, they're older and there were two of them. I suggest you look before you leap, in the future. Consider the odds of success."

The smile gone, Bill said simply, "Sounds like what a Slytherin would do."

"Your injuries will not stop me from taking points. Mind your mouth, Mr. Weasley," Snape told him firmly, but knowing he wouldn't.

Eyes drifting shut, Bill smiled again. "Only telling it like it is. Gryffindors rush in where fools fear to tread." He yawned.

Snape smiled ironically, standing for a moment until Bill started to lightly snore. "For that truism, I'm tempted to award points, but not quite." The smile gone, Snape watched for a moment longer, then turned on heel, muttering, "Imbecile."

That night, Snape dreamed again, his usual dream. And like always, he was being pursued, this time through the corridors of Hogwarts, but not those of the dungeons. He leapt onto a moving staircase, then took the steps three at a time. It was dark, but he could hear them just behind him. Raspy breathing, derisive laughter, following almost on his heels.

He knew it was wrong, all wrong, as he sped to the top of the last staircase, and a voice from behind yelled out something undecipherable, causing the wall in front of him to dissolve.

He skidded to a stop, horrified. The darkness was gone, and he grieved the loss of it. For here he stood, in the brightly lit Gryffindor common room, and all around him, stepping closer, leering faces from his past, mocking him, jeering, reaching out to pull at his clothes and tug at his hair, making it hard for him to maintain his balance. There was no escape as they tightened the circle; he wrapped his arms around his head and sank to the ground, folding in on himself as they began to kick at him with their feet.

Snape heard it first, then felt it: the rain. And it made perfect sense that it would rain in a common room. The sound of their voices started to fade, the blows stopped, and Snape could sense the light from behind his eyelids.

Dropping his arms, he lifted his face to the rain, then finally he opened his eyes. Striding toward him was his savior, silhouetted by the light behind him. This dream was different, though, as Snape noticed for the very first time that the man was more slender than he'd thought, and as he drew closer, Snape could just make out that the man's hair was tied back, the end of the tail swinging as he walked, his trousers bloused out from the top of his boots.

Snape closed his eyes, then, waiting for the familiar weight of the man's hands on his shoulders. Taking a breath, licking the rain from his lips, Snape opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his bedchamber.

What could it mean? For the first time since his childhood, the dream had been altered. Snape experienced a moment of premonition…and shivered.

°°°§§§°°°

Year Five~~1986-87

When Snape went to Diagon Alley now, it was always by appointment. They'd long ago sorted out what each of them preferred, so that few unnecessary words were exchanged once they were closeted away with their partner of the evening.

The rooms were large and magically soundproofed, several stories above the ground floor where Snape had attended his first dinner nearly two years ago.

No windows, sparsely furnished, except for the specialized equipment of a veritable sexual playground: a large, sturdy cannonball bed, its head and footboard fitted with hooks, O-rings and assorted straps for tying; a leather sling suspended from the ceiling in one corner of the room; chains attached high on the walls, hanging loosely to the floor; a wooden table along one wall holding cuffs and collars, gags and bits, floggers and paddles, cock-rings and clamps and imaginative insertables.

There were two comfortable armchairs separated by a small table, a low wooden barrel covered with a coarse hemp-like fabric, a study straight-backed wooden chair fitted with spreader bars at both top and bottom (affectionately referred to as 'the throne'), and a rolled up rug to be spread in front of the fireplace in the cooler months.

Snape was watching Christian as he read. Slender and short, he was the polar opposite of the Potions master fixed to the chair by the cuffs of the spreaders. As he turned a page, his blue eyes drifted up and met Snape's, causing the latter to moan as arousal spiked through his belly again, making his cock bob and reminding him how badly he needed to take a piss.

Christian smiled, watching him for a moment, then stood and stepped to Snape's side. Leaning down, he tipped Snape's chin up, as far as the thick rigid collar would allow, then kissed him slowly, mouthing over his lips, sucking noisily.

When he straightened, he picked up a large goblet from the table, murmured, "Aguamenti," then placed it to Snape's lips. "This will be the last of it. You can do it."

Snape wanted to groan, but he knew he didn't dare. He had to obey, he had to please his master; it was difficult when he felt as if one more mouthful would make him burst, but he had to try; he wanted to try. "I can do it," he said thickly, licking his lips as he focused on the goblet.

It was difficult to drink, as he couldn't tip his head back very far, but Snape knew he had to manage without spilling. He felt the glass pressed against his teeth as he drank, as he swallowed over and over. Struggling to keep up with the liquid, Snape almost cried out when he felt Christian's hand on his stomach, firmly pushing, making rolling motions, prodding his distended belly until Snape could feel the tears at the corners of his eyes.

The goblet set to the side, Christian stood before him, reaching out to smooth his tears away with a fingertip. "Do you want the belt?" he asked.

No, Snape didn't think he could bear it, but when he looked at Christian's shining eyes, he knew that it wasn't what he wanted that was important; it was enough that Christian wanted it for him. "Yes," Snape almost whispered.

On his knees in front of him, Christian drew the wide leather belt from the back of the chair, then threaded the loose end through the buckle before he slowly cinched it tight.

Snape couldn't help it; he let out a strangled gasp, as a fine sheen of perspiration blossomed on his skin. He was fighting the rolling wave of nausea, barely aware that Christian had stood and retaken his chair. Gulping for air, he focused on Christian reading his book, as he tried valiantly to ignore an almost unbearable urge to let go, to end his suffering. Every nerve ending in his body cried out: his wrists and ankles in the shackles, the collar digging into the soft flesh of his chin, the harsh leather around his midriff, the ache in his cock, although he doubted he'd be able to come anytime soon, due to the state of his bladder.

He lost track of time, of how long he remained there in agony; tortured in the flesh, yes, but these were the times when Snape felt a deep satisfaction, a startling connection to who he really was, on the inside. It wasn't something he'd sought to understand, although he did wonder….

But when the time came, and Christian gently undid his bonds, when he led Snape by the hand and stood him in the shower, fitting snugly against him and penetrating him from behind; as he took hold of Snape's cock and commanded him to release his stream… Then, as Snape let go, he was free. Time after time, with each repeated occasion, it was as if Snape were being leached of a poison, and for a short while, he was at peace.

When he was done, he dutifully placed both forearms against the wall of the shower, spreading his legs, going up on his toes, as Christian thrust into him from behind. Snape pushed back as hard as he could, barely able to stay on his feet when his partner cried out and pumped his arse full of spunk.

He hadn't expected to come tonight, something he readily accepted as Christian's decision. So he nearly sobbed out in relief when Christian turned him and fastened his hands above the showerhead; then he slid down Snape's slippery thighs, burying his face in the wet curls of his groin to tongue his balls and his cock. Restrained as he was, all that Snape could do was groan and arch his back, trying to push himself into the warmth and wickedness of Christian's mouth.

In a matter of moments, Snape gasped, his hips jutting forward as he spurted out his first orgasm in days. So good…so very, very good…and being deprived of it…not knowing when, or how, only made it that much more exquisite when finally…finally….

As Christian held him in the bed afterward, gently smoothing the flat planes of his belly, Snape told him, "Thank you."

***

Snape knew a game was afoot halfway through fifth-year Potions. He had the uncanny and disconcerting ability to scan the room without seeming to divert his attention from the matter at hand, and over the course of the double period, he'd caught the Weasley boy looking at him—sometimes outright, sometimes furtively, but often enough that it raised Snape's internal antennae. The boy had never paid any unusual attention to him before this.

Near the end of the class, Snape decided to call the Gryffindor's bluff, so just before he dismissed them, he stopped mid-sentence, hand raised in a gesture, and stared unrestrainedly and at length at the redhead whose eyes immediately widened.

Pity, thought Snape, with his coloring, I'd've thought I'd at least get a blush of embarrassment. Evidently not, he opined, as he watched the students file out. Then it was Snape's turn to display surprise, when instead of following his classmates, Bill Weasley picked up his pack, slung it over a shoulder, then leisurely made his way towards the lectern where Snape stood rooted to the spot, almost overcome with curiosity. Stepping down from the platform, Snape was surprised to notice that the fifth-year was almost as tall as he was.

Weasley stopped an arm's length away, then without a trace of nervousness, he nodded at Snape. "Professor, do you have a minute?"

For the first time, Snape saw how liberally freckled the boy was. Not that he found it unattractive at all. Large brown eyes, an unremarkable nose, and a pleasant mouth relaxed in an almost smile, and lips…lips that were full and slightly damp.

Snape stared at his student for a moment, then replied levelly, "A minute for what?"

Shrugging a shoulder so the strap of his pack slid down, Weasley answered as he pulled it to the front to undo the buckle. "I've been working on something, and I'm to the point where it would really be helpful if I had a pass to the Restricted Section." He looked down into his pack, then removed a well-thumbed notebook. After a moment's hesitation, he held it out to Snape. "I can show you, if you like."

Crossing his arms, Snape leant back against the lectern as he ignored the outstretched arm. "Is this a Potions problem?" He frowned. "I don't recall any assignment that would require reference materials from the Restricted Section."

Dropping his arm, Weasley said slowly, "It's not for an assignment. You could call it…personal research." He hesitated, then when Snape didn't speak, he barreled on. "There's an element of curse-breaking that's heavily invested in magical solvents. So, what I was trying to research was how exactly it—"

Now Snape did interrupt. "Mr. Weasley, as it does not relate to your class work, I suggest you ask Professor McGonagall for the pass."

The boy shook his head. "Since it's about potions, she said I'd have to clear it with you." His eyes steadily held Snape's. "I asked her first," he admitted, "since it wasn't actually for class."

"Then you're out of luck," Snape told him shortly as he turned and stepped up on the platform to collect his books and parchments. "Perhaps if you apply directly to the Headmaster."

Stuffing the notebook back in his pack, Weasley took his time to do the buckle, then slung it over his shoulder as he said, "I wouldn't do that. Go over your head." With a curt nod, he added, "Thank you, sir." Before Snape could think of a suitable retort, he'd turned on heel and headed for the door.

Snape watched him as he went, and felt immediate regret for his refusal to hear the boy out. And that made him feel confusion.

PART TWO