Entry tags:

art recs, bill/snape, fic, nc-17, slash

FIC: "As the Gentle Rain" Part Two
Title: 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 and will be posted in its entirety by Sunday night EDT.

Start from the beginning."



Year Six~~1987-88

"Percy Weasley."

The sound of the name pulled Snape out of his stupor. He looked up and watched as a skinny first-year confidently made his way to the front for his Sorting.

As the Hat was placed atop the inevitable head of red hair, Snape rationalized that this was, after all, his sixth Sorting, and one was as unremarkable as the next…although, here was another Weasley, freckled and brown-eyed, and gangly like the eldest, while the middle boy had been stouter and shorter.

With only two more students to be Sorted, Snape glanced over to the Gryffindor table, then squinted slightly as he let his eyes run the length of the table, looking for…there he was.

Oblivious to the Sorting, Bill Weasley sat at the end of the table, a shoulder taller than the rest of his house. And as Snape considered him, the most curious sensation stole over him, making his breath catch and his heart hammer.

Snape could see his long legs stretched out under the table; in one hand he held a book open on the tabletop, his head bent in to read, his neck elegantly arched so that a cascade of longer than usual auburn hair fell into his face. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the silhouette and coloring brought to mind another redheaded Gryffindor, who once upon a time had spent mealtimes bent over a book, unaware that a certain Slytherin was studying her.

Pulled from his reverie by the headmaster's voice, Snape lowered his eyes and took in a shaky breath. In an instant, the food appeared on the tables.

It was pudding before Snape had the nerve to look to the Gryffindor table again, but Weasley was gone. Wiping his mouth with his napkin, Snape wasn't sure whether he was disappointed or relieved. To be honest, it felt suspiciously like both.

***

He didn't think about it beforehand. It was one of those circumstances in life, he later reasoned, when one's subconscious mind dwelled on a matter, then injected its will into a waking act. It was over before he had a chance to stop himself.

Scribbling the note on parchment, he strode to the back of the class where Bill Weasley sat alone at a table. Sliding the folded note to the side of the cauldron, he murmured when the boy looked up, "Your pass for the Restricted Section." Not waiting for a reply, he turned to the table opposite to critique their potion.

***

Over the next several weeks, Snape agonized over what was happening to him. At meals in the Great Hall, in the corridors, and most of all in his sixth-year NEWT class, he found himself watching Bill Weasley. The more he tried to control the impulse, the greater the struggle seemed to become.

And now, it was to the point that Weasley had noticed; Snape was certain of it, having been caught staring several times in just the past few days. To his credit, and Snape's chagrin, the boy didn't ignore him—which Snape would've preferred—but gazed somberly back, before nodding his head slightly and returning to his work.

On a Wednesday evening, Snape finally tossed his marking aside, irritated that he was unable to concentrate. Restless, he poured himself a glass of whisky, then sat in front of the fire. It was time, he decided, to think his way through this growing obsession and have done with it.

If there was one thing he knew he wasn't, it was deluded. He'd recognized the origins of this nightmare the moment it'd begun. It hadn't been a trick of the light, that night of the Sorting; no, he'd only done what he'd done literally hundreds of times since he'd begun teaching. Sometimes it was reflexive, looking to the Gryffindor table where Lily used to sit. Sometimes it was deliberate, and those were the worst times, because on those occasions he'd close his eyes for a brief moment, and imagine he saw her sitting there.

He could be gentler with himself when he looked without thinking, but when it was intentional, he'd ruthlessly castigate himself, often muttering under his breath as he stabbed at his plate, earning himself a few nervous glances from his neighbors.

But that night at the Sorting, he'd been thrown. He'd had to envision very little, because what he'd seen at the table, coupled with his wishful and vivid imagination, had for a short space of moments become the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things he knew, in his heart of hearts, he'd never see again.

Bill Weasley was not Lily. Snape knew this, so why in god's name was he battling this obsession with the boy at every turn? Why had his heart seemed to come alive in a way it hadn't done for years? Why couldn't he stop looking? What was he hoping for, if anything? Where could this lead, this unnerving preoccupation that gave him sweaty palms and a sudden arousal that steeped him in self-loathing?

He could only hope that the phenomenon (he snorted at the word, knowing full well it was a feeble attempt to avoid responsibility) would fade over time. He resolved to do his utmost to control his own actions; he was strong-willed and self-directed; he'd been a Death Eater, god damn it, and he wasn't about to be reduced to a heap of quivering jelly by the specter of Lily Evans embodied in a six-foot-tall Weasley!

Slamming his glass down, Snape Summoned the bottle and defiantly drank from it. Yes, he could control his fate. And fuck it all, he'd begin this very moment. Discipline was key, he thought, and discipline was something at which he excelled.

As he moodily stared into the fire, a thought drifted through his mind.

But Weasley himself…he knows what I'm doing—not why, of course, but he's seen me watching him, and his reaction has been odd. Most boys his age would be embarrassed, or perhaps even frightened.

But him…he seems to take it as a matter of course, and now that I think of it, there've been a few times of late when I've looked up, he's already been watching…so, why would he be watching me? And just today, I almost thought he was about to…smile.

I'm fucked¸ he thought as he threw the bottle to the side. Jumping up from the settee, he headed for the doorway, grabbed his cloak, then after a quick flight through the corridors, he broke free from the castle and strode for the gates.

So much for discipline.

So it was that Snape spent a weeknight at the Hog's Head, further drowning his sorrows at the end of the bar, as the disapproving barkeep filled glass after glass. And when the opportunity presented itself, Snape left with the first man who propositioned him.

When he fucked the stranger, wherever it was they ended up, Snape didn't even try to fight the fantasy, which was still that of a tall, willowy redhead, but bore little resemblance to his friend of a decade ago.

***

Of all of Snape's lovers, David was the best with a flogger. After chastising himself endlessly over the past several months, battling a libido that roared to life at just the sight of his student, Snape came to their Friday night appointment knowing exactly what he wanted.

There was a brief interlude of Snape kneeling obediently in front of his master, waiting for a scene to be chosen. Chin on his chest, Snape kept his eyes down until David reached out and stroked the side of his cheek, then forced his head up with his fingers. The man knew him so well, and after a moment of staring into the misery of Snape's eyes, David nodded, seeming to know exactly what Snape needed.

Naked and bound over top of the barrel, Snape couldn't make a sound or budge an inch. This time it was a ball-gag that widely spread his lips, the straps flat across his cheeks, just missing the tip of his earlobes before they fastened at the back of his well-worn leather collar. He was spread-eagled, a limb attached to each of the four wooden legs, his knees and elbows aching with the stretch of the bonds. The barrel was narrow, which pitched his arse high in the air, at the same time as his bound, throbbing cock was painfully crushed into the scratchy thin padding beneath him.

There were times when David chose to whip him as he dangled on a chain from ceiling, his hands the only thing bound; the allure of that scenario was that it gave Snape the fleeting impression, just before each stroke, that he could escape it by moving. Of course, this wasn't true at all, but it succeeded in heightening his arousal, as he tried to shift his hips and pedal with his feet, and only managed to make himself a better target.

David had guessed this time, though, that Snape needed to be completely helpless, that he needed to willingly accept every single act of submission, from placing the gag himself, to positioning his arms and legs, to lying still and not moving a muscle or making a sound.

He couldn't help but involuntarily tense at the sound of the swish of the cat o' nine tails. David knew what he liked, so held nothing back as he worked his way down Snape's torso to his buttocks, pinking the backs of his thighs, placing his strokes deftly enough so that Snape felt the tips of the leather curls strike the bottom of his balls. He bit down forcefully on the gag, squeezing his fingers hard around the ropes that bound him. He felt as if he were on fire, his back and buttocks a blaze of agony, as David struck again and again, a predictable rhythm of sound and sensation that blurred into pain that Snape was powerless to escape.

Not that he wanted to…

At the end of the series, when David's face drifted into view, Snape's eyes were blurred with tears, his nostrils flaring as he struggled to take in enough air.

"Severus?" he heard David call, but before the man could ask, Snape gave him the prearranged signal for another round of twenty-five. Blinking rapidly three times in succession, his vision cleared enough for him to see David's nod of understanding.

Before he began again, though, David took his time to run his hands over the hot and swollen skin he'd just punished. Then Snape felt the cool slide of the anal hook as David inserted it, the slow tug as it was drawn upward, stretching him open as its cord was cinched tight. He felt as if he were about to be split in two, as the cord was drawn through the O ring on the back of his collar. New tears filled his eyes as David playfully tugged on the tautly stretched line. Snape knew he'd be feeling that streak of pain over and over.

When the whipping began again, Snape closed his eyes and thought of nothing, nothing but the sting of the whip and the ache in his arse. And though he was bound and gagged, for the first time in weeks Snape was able to breathe deeply, without that damnable knot in his diaphragm. He sighed around the gag, flexed his fingers and toes, and mentally counted off the stripes as they fell.

***

"So, he reminds you of someone?" David asked as they lay facing each other on the bed.

Snape grimaced. "He did at first. It's why I noticed him, actually."

David seemed to hold back a smile. "So, he's been your student for…"

"Five years. Well, five and a half," Snape answered with a sigh, knowing how ridiculous it all was.

"Right. And he's how old?"

"Seventeen. Just."

"Well, then. You were subconsciously waiting until he was legal, before allowing yourself to ogle him." Now he did smile. Before Snape could counter with a retort, David added, "Why is this worrying you at all? It's only natural that a good-looking man might catch your eye. There's barely a decade between you."

"He's my student," Snape ground out, deciding he'd seem childish if he added the 'and a Gryffindor' part.

"So, look but don't touch. Severus, listen. I'm certain you're not going to embarrass yourself by doing something foolish. You forget how well I know you. You're the epitome of decorum."

"If only he were as clueless as I was at that age," Snape murmured. "You should see how he looks at me. Almost as if…" He shook his head.

"As if…?" David prompted.

"As if he can read my thoughts," Snape confessed.

"Well…can he?" David asked doubtfully.

Snape curled a lip as he scoffed, "A Legilimens at his age?"

Tilting his head to the side, David queried, "How old were you?"

Snape shivered. "Seventeen," he muttered.

***

Lifting his face to the rain, Snape closed his eyes and waited while the water trickled down his temples, along the bridge of his nose, soaking into his hair, and dripping off his chin. He leant back against the parapet of the tower, then slowly opened his eyes as he heard a faint sound from the other side of the battlement.

It was a steady rain of April, one that'd begun days ago and had yet to let up. There was no moon at all, so he inched his way cautiously, letting his hand trail along the stone wall of the tower perimeter. Silently, he drew closer to the sounds, which he could now identify as whispers and grinding of shoes in the tower-top gravel.

He stopped, slowly pulling out his wand, listening to noises that he knew all too well. Idly, he wondered who it was this time, and which house was about to lose points.

"Lumos," he murmured as he stretched his arm out toward the muffled sounds.

In the arc of wand light, he could make out the frantic attempts to put robes and trousers in order, even as the two miscreants took a futile step away from each other. He wondered if they'd try to deny what they'd so obviously been up to….

"Stand still, both of you," he commanded as he took a step closer, holding his wand higher. He recognized the seventh year Slytherin, who stared at him fearlessly. Snape returned the look until the boy was the first to look down, then he turned his attention to the other student, and had to control the urge to lash out when he saw who it was.

Gripping his wand tighter, Snape turned back to the Slytherin to allow himself time to recover his sang-froid. "Mr. McGinn, consider yourself fortunate that it was I who found you, as you most certainly would've earned the ire of your house mates for a considerable loss of points." The boy seemed unrepentant, but Snape determined to handle him later. "Get back to your room, and do not allow yourself to be caught in the future. Do you understand?"

McGinn cast a sideways look at his partner-in-crime, then muttered, "Yes, sir." With a nod at Snape, he pulled his robes tight around him and headed for the stairwell.

Snape waited until the boy's footsteps had faded, all the while watching the face of the remaining culprit, who, strangely, faced him as the Slytherin did—without fear. But where McGinn had been defiant, this student seemed…unperturbed, his hazel eyes serene, his mouth relaxed…. Snape felt almost mesmerized for a moment by a tendril of wet hair that had curled on the lightly freckled cheek. He watched as a casual hand came up to brush it away and tuck it behind a delicately boned earlobe….

It was past time to speak, Snape knew, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of what to say. He sensed he was at a crossroads, at a turning point rife with possibility, where he would have his chance now or lose it altogether….

Suddenly his mind rebelled at the ludicrous thought. What possibility? And what bloody chance? Chance at what? He was tempted to laugh out loud at himself, then remembered that there was a sixth year—given, a sixth-year who was driving him to distraction—standing, waiting to hear his punishment.

The boy stood gracefully in the rain, waiting patiently, rivulets of water dripping from the ends of his hair, his breath coming out in white little puffs. His eyes were clear, his lips slightly turned up at the corners, as if he could easily be persuaded to smile.

Snape swallowed, then said in a tone that he knew was much too mild, and much too familiar. "Mr. Weasley, fifty points…." Snape stopped.

Fuck. It. All.

He began again, this time nodding toward the stairwell, knowing he had to get them both back into the castle where there was safety in numbers. "Mr. Weasley, I'll see you on Friday evening at seven for detention. Straight back to your house now."

So much for safety in numbers, he thought ruefully, as he followed the Gryffindor down the winding staircase.

Snape accompanied the boy to his house entrance, then told him shortly before he turned on heel, "On Friday, bring your 'research' project notebooks with you." He couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of pleasure at the surprise in Weasley's eyes.

***

"I've decided to help you," Snape told Bill Weasley, who sat at a front table in the Potions classroom. Sitting on the far edge of the table, he added, "It's not often that a student shows an interest in anything beyond what's required. I myself while at school…conducted some independent research." He pulled a stray thread from his cuff. "There was little encouragement to do so, you understand. I had to make my own way. There will be a few conditions," he continued, watching the boy's face.

For a moment Snape was afraid Weasley was about to smile, and was relieved when he didn't, offering instead, "Whatever you say, sir. I'd be glad of the help. I'm sort of foundering, stuck where I am."

Snape frowned as he watched his student spread his notes on the table, then came to a decision. Standing, he rounded the table and took the seat beside him. If Weasley were surprised, he didn't show it, opening a book and sliding it over so that Snape could see it.

"Like I told you last year, this is all about curse-breaking. You know, some curses are actually anchored by physical objects. Say, something close by, or in some instances, they're bound to the surface of the cursed object, and that's where the potions come in." Bill shot him a look. "Spell-work alone won't break it; sometimes it takes a potion."

Snape nodded as he bent over the notes. "A magical solvent, yes."

"Exactly." He tapped another notebook. "That's what I've been looking for in the Restricted Section."

"It's a very specialized branch of Potions. I'm surprised you found anything at all," Snape said distractedly, glancing up to squint at the bookshelves behind his desk.

"Well, there wasn’t much," Bill agreed, following Snape's gaze to the shelves. "I'm at an impasse, sort of."

Snape stood and walked to the bookshelf, but knew that what was needed was in his private quarters. It would be a taxing investment of his time, surely, but it was the first occasion of a student asking for anything even remotely supplemental, and ….oh hell, he knew exactly why he was about to say yes. It had nothing to do with Potions or teaching or the pursuit of knowledge.

Turning, he met Bill's eyes. "I can help you."

***

When the term ended two months later, he sent the Weasley boy home for his summer hols, armed with texts and formulae and treatises on the brewing of magical solvents. It was all that he could give him at that point, as anything further would require the two of them brewing together, and then analyzing data.

What Snape had to show for his two months of Friday evenings spent with the boy was something entirely different, however.

Their study sessions required that he miss his regular appointments in Diagon Alley; strangely, though, he didn't feel overwhelmed with need or even lust. The time with the boy seemed to somehow satisfy him, and on the occasions where he found himself in need of companionship and release, he'd go down to the Hog's Head for a quick fuck with a local.

He was three weeks into the holidays before it even occurred to him to return to his regular routine. But every time he had occasion to walk through the empty Potions classroom, he'd stop and stare at the last table on the left. It took only a bit of imagination for Snape to see him there, bent over his cauldron, the red hair lank on his shoulder…the easy rotation of a slender wrist as he stirred. And all at once, Snape would feel a flash of hot and then cold, desire and confusion.

°°°§§§°°°

Year Seven~~1988-89

Snape and Christian were dining together in the Diagon Alley establishment, an intimate party of eight that often began their Friday evening trysts gathered around a common table.

Of course, as they usually did on these occasions, the two of them had started out in the upstairs room to which they'd eventually retire. Snape suspected that there were others at the table who, like himself, were wearing 'accessories' beneath their formal attire.

If he tilted his head just so¸ Snape could feel the soft rim of the slender collar snugly fastened around his neck; when he reached out to pour himself more wine, his arm brushed against his chest, causing a sudden, sharp stab of pain where the heavy fabric of his coat compressed a tightly clamped nipple.

Biting back a gasp, Snape filled his goblet, then met Christian's eyes. A look of understanding passed between them: Christian was pleased with Snape, and Snape reveled in that knowledge. Even though his arse was plugged up tight, his cock and balls bound and tied mercilessly down to the inside of his thigh…

Even though there was the prospect of a long and unpredictable night, one in which Snape would ache and yearn, and then ache some more…

Even though Snape had no idea whether or not he'd be permitted to find release tonight…

He was content.

***

The next morning at breakfast, Christian listened as Snape told him about Bill Weasley's potions research.

"I've tried to ignore him and treat him as I would any other student," Snape finished.

"And failed miserably," Christian replied succinctly as he buttered his scone.

Snape frowned. "Despite my…preoccupation, I don't believe that to be true."

"Severus, tell me with a straight face that his Potions class is like all the others. And that you had a good reason for not taking points when you found…who was it?....him and a Slytherin snogging each other in the rain?" He smiled at the chagrin on Snape's face. "Tell me you don't fix your chair so you can watch him in the Great Hall…and you don't look forward to his tutoring sessions." Taking his time to bite into his scone, chew thoughtfully, then take a sip of tea, Christian finally looked up.

Snape was staring at him, then at the smug expression on Christian's face, muttered, "Touché."

Christian reached across the table to touch his hand. "You know, you might want to consider what will happen next."

"Next?" Snape asked, puzzled.

"When the year's over," Christian gently chided. "He'll be eighteen, and not a student anymore."

Snape shrugged, filled with a sudden panic. He refused to meet Christian's eyes as he said, "There won't be any 'next' so far as the two of us are concerned. Whatever gave you such an idea?" He tried to affect disinterest, but should've known better than to take such a tack with Christian.

Christian guffawed. "No worry. You have the entire year to figure it out."

***

The tables had just become magically laden with the stunning bounty of the Welcoming Feast. As students and staff alike tucked in, Snape sat still, his hands in his lap, struggling to comprehend what'd just happened.

As Minerva'd called out, "Ellie Noonan," Snape had for some reason looked beyond the girl as she sat on the stool, to the far table of Gryffindor house. His eyes moved from the center, down toward the front, knowing exactly where the boy sat, but for some reason he drew the moment out.

He wasn't expecting to be found out in such a blatant display of curiosity; the moment their eyes connected, the instant the boy raised an eyebrow and had the audacity to discreetly nod his head, not to mention what Snape was now certain had been a smile, Snape had been forcefully faced with the fact that Weasley was no longer a boy at all. No, as often happened with sixth and seventh years, a child had gone home on the Express, only to return at the start of next term as a full-grown adult.

Snape was painfully aware of this transformation, as he took in the ghost of whiskers along his jaw, his hair longer than ever and tied completely back in the wizarding tradition of pureblood men, his shoulders broad and muscled beneath his robes. Even more startling was the self-assurance and self-possession he read in Weasley's eyes and face—surely these were new attributes, Snape reasoned. He didn't recall having seen them in his student before, at least to such an extent.

Fighting the urge to look away, Snape stared, his heart hammering, the noise of the room oddly dulled as the two of them ignored everything but each other.

Finally, because he knew he had to look away, or worse, blush, Snape slightly inclined his head, holding his breath until Weasley once again gave a slight nod. He toyed with his hands in his lap, as he allowed his eyes to slide to rest on the student being Sorted.

The whole episode had lasted only a minute, but Snape, remembering Christian's words of not too long ago, suddenly wondered what would come next.

He wasn't aware of much else that took place that evening, except that he made certain to keep his eyes from straying too far afield.

***

Snape was running in his dream.

His legs ached with the effort, as he pumped his arms as hard as he could, running full out. Every minute or so, he threw a panicked and hurried look over his shoulder, trying in vain to discern his pursuer's identity.

It had started to rain, and Snape had to slow his footsteps to keep himself from falling on the slippery grass. He frantically swiped the lank, wet hair from his face, glancing backward in fear, all too aware that the man was gaining on him now.

His lungs were on fire, his legs heavy as lead. This was the point in his dreams at which he'd collapse, full of despair, but then…then he'd see him, in silhouette of course, the one who would come to rescue him…like he did every single time.

Only this time, something happened that'd never happened before. As Snape slowed, as he cast one last fearful look over his shoulder, he saw the face of the monster that pursued him.

Hair plastered against his cheeks by the rain, dark eyes glittering with fury, his nostrils flaring with suppressed emotion, Hogwarts' Potions master, Severus Snape, stared back at him.

Throwing up his arms to prevent a collision, Snape gasped as the two of them merged into one with the sound of a thunderclap….

Opening his eyes, Snape stared at the ceiling.

***

Snape stood with his back to the table, watching as Bill fastidiously measured and chopped and sliced ingredients for his cauldron.

There was an undercurrent of anticipation between the two of them, as they'd prepared for weeks for this brewing session: they chosen a class of curses for which to fashion a solvent; researched ingredients and their uses and effects; constructed a designer potion that would be uniquely Bill's; and finally, they were about to begin the preparation of the potion itself. Although Snape had guided and instructed, it was Bill's creation, from start to finish, and the Potions professor was as proud as if it'd been his own accomplishment.

When Bill was finished, they sat side by side at the table, the gleaming phial on the surface between them.

"All that's needed now is to try it out," Bill said, tracing a fingertip across the label. He glanced up at Snape, a question in his eyes.

"Difficult, that." Snape shook his head. "It's not as if I have a store of cursed objects." He stroked his chin. "Perhaps if you speak to your father—he might have access to something Muggle that's been cursed."

Bill looked doubtful. "I don't think he'd bring something like that home. Probably not legal."

Drumming his fingertips atop the table, Snape took a moment to think. "I could speak to the headmaster…."

Bill turned to fully face him. "What about you? Couldn't you…you know?"

Snape pursed his lips. "Curse something?" he asked, accentuating the words that Bill'd been reticent to say.

Smiling ruefully, Bill nodded. "Yeah, curse something. It wouldn't have to be something really dangerous. Just…"

"Cursed. Oh for god's sake, say it," Snape scowled.

"Cursed." Bill didn't appear intimidated at all by Snape's ill humor.

Staring at him for a moment, Snape finally said dryly, "Even for you, I wouldn't do such a thing." At the startled look on his student's face, Snape mentally reviewed what he'd just said.

Even for you…. Wonderful. He sat up straighter in his chair, averting his eyes.

Bill, of course, didn't seem inclined to just let this pass. "Even for me… " He hesitated, and Snape detested himself as he gave in and looked up again. Bill's head was tilted to the side as he intently studied Snape, his eyes larger than usual.

"What does that mean…even for me?" Bill asked him softly. "You mean…you'd do things for me…things you wouldn't do for other students?"

Snape couldn't breathe. He'd never come even remotely close to verbally acknowledging what both of them knew—that there was an attraction between them, as scandalous as that seemed. And now, Snape was afraid, terrified that even the slightest validation of that fact would send Bill off, running, because deep down inside, Snape couldn't for the life of him believe that this beautiful creature could see him as anything other than his eccentric and commonly ugly Potions professor.

Not that he'd agonized over this, but he was a realist, even though he knew that his student considered him as more than just a professor. A mentor, perhaps, or even a casual confidant, given that they'd talked at length about Bill's plans to work for Gringotts, and in one uncomfortable and amazing conversation, about where Snape had spent his holidays. The sanitized version, of course.

Snape was suddenly brought up short by the look on Bill's face. Not the face of a student admiring his mentor, or even a friend waiting on a friend; no, this was the face of…Snape didn't know what to call it. Lust? Desire? Definitely admiration.

More than likely, adolescent infatuation.

But even as he thought this, Snape knew he was wrong. Everything about Weasley screamed just the opposite: he was mature where his peers were not; he always thought before he spoke; he took his studies seriously and had made plans for his future. In most ways, Snape thought wryly, he was more responsible than Snape had ever been. No, this was an adult, and try as he might, Snape was not free to pick and choose which parts of Bill he'd take seriously and which he'd write off to immaturity.

But it was difficult; who had ever wanted him, besides his prearranged acquaintances on his Friday nights in Diagon Alley?

No one.

What had Bill asked him? Would I do things for him that I wouldn't do for other students? The answer came easily now.

"I already have," he said quietly. "I've not taken any student for private tutoring as I have you. I've not given up my Friday evenings, nor my Sunday afternoons for anyone else. I've not had to adjust to anyone's cheekiness but yours." He stopped and scrutinized Bill's face, mentally cataloguing the things he couldn't bring himself to say, all of which could best be summarized by the words, 'I'm obsessed with you.'

Instead, he answered, "I will not curse an object for you. Rather, I cannot. You should understand why."

Bill's eyes were sad as he replied, "Yeah, I've just figured that out. Sorry for asking—I should've realized."

Snape shrugged. "It's rather…heartening that you forgot. However, as I said, I'll speak to the headmaster, or perhaps the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor will have something he can supply."

But Bill seemed not to have heard him. "I know I say thank you, but really, it's so inadequate, you know, for what you're doing for me. I wish there was some way I could repay you," he murmured, a slight smile on his face, enough to make Snape want to squirm in his seat.

"Oh, I'll think of something," Snape replied sourly, making Bill's eyes widen as he laughed out loud.

"I'll count on it, then," Bill agreed. The look on his face as he said it sent a shiver of anticipation through Snape, and filled him with self-loathing.

***

It was the weekend before NEWTs, and Hogwarts was eerily quiet, although Snape swore he could feel the magical tension in the air, as students revised and crammed until all hours of the night.

Except for supervisory duties, Snape's year was essentially over. He'd learnt in past Junes that it was senseless to try to teach anything new to the lower forms at this point, so he concentrated on revising and repeating the more difficult potions.

Looming on the horizon was the Leaving Feast (and the loss of something Snape didn't want to consider). It was this awareness and his end of term restlessness that drove him out of the castle and down to Hogsmeade on Saturday night, where he took up his usual station in the corner booth at the Hog's Head.

The inn was unusually crowded, and Snape was slightly disgusted to see that there were a dozen or so seventh year students huddled around two tables that had been pushed together in the center of the room. Although not prohibited, he was surprised to see them there, firstly because they were squandering precious study time, and lastly because the Three Broomsticks was the watering hole of choice for most students. The Hog's Head was a bit seedy, attracted questionable characters, and sported rather dirty loos. But since most of its clientele were like Snape—only wanting to drown their sorrows or find a sexual partner for an hour or two—no one complained.

Well into his cups, Snape sat with his forehead resting in his palm, listening to the wrock band on the wireless pounding out its rhythms, each beat of the drum and clash of a chord finding a sympathetic vibration in his head. Once again, he'd had too much to drink, and he regretted it, if only because he'd now have to walk the entire way back, or risk splinching himself.

Standing unsteadily to his feet, he held onto the table for a moment, then started off for one more trip to the loo before he headed home. He had to use his hands to thread himself through the crowd on the tiny dance floor; he was certain some of them were his students, when the way opened suddenly before him, but he didn't look up and he didn't break stride.

The two-stall loo was deserted when he pushed through the crooked swinging door. He took the one against the wall, unzipped his flies, then stood with his head against the wall as he pissed. He was vaguely aware that someone had come in behind him and occupied the remaining stall. He was shaking himself off when a slight movement to his left caught his eye.

Snape smiled crookedly as he zipped himself up, then leant back against the wall opposite the partition between the two stalls. Halfway up the rickety, warped divider was the Hog's Head's infamous glory hole. Snape had never been too keen on letting someone whose face he'd never seen suck him off, nor did he think he'd like to be on the receiving end of a bodiless cock. That didn't mean that it hadn't been useful on occasion; many a proposition had been made or accepted through that hole.

Tonight, buzzed by the firewhisky, he watched in fascination as two slender fingers circled the hole suggestively. Impulsively, he reached out and stroked a finger with his own. The hand froze and let him for a moment, then withdrew suddenly.

Snape waited, then watched as a cock as large as his own peeped through the glory hole, the head of it glistening, the shaft hard and red, bobbing slightly upward in invitation. Pushing off of the wall, Snape put down the lid of the toilet, then sat, thinking to himself that he must be mad to even consider it.

Fuck it, he thought. Why not? Maybe he'll be interested in the alley afterward.

Taking hold of the cock with his hand, Snape pumped once downward, using his thumb to press firmly in at the root. He heard a muffled groan from the other side of the wall, and felt his own cock growing stiff. Leaning forward, he sucked in the head and stopped, swirling his tongue around it as he got his other hand into position. Without breaking contact, Snape slid from the lid to the filthy floor, twisting as he knelt so that he was able to draw in the entire length.

The sounds from his secret partner became louder, and Snape plunged as far as the wall would allow him, keeping just his fingertips at the base, tangling in the hair there. As he drew back, Snape opened his eyes, and looked down the shaft he was about to suck again, when the man pulled slightly back, allowing Snape to see a bit of his body.

A beautiful cock and ball sac, surrounded by a nest of curly red hair, backed by the line of a slender thigh.

Snape froze, and when the cock jutted insistently forward, he stood quickly to his feet, swiped a hand across his mouth, then was out of the stall in a flash, slamming the door so hard the structure shuddered. Pushing the other stall door open, his heart dropped to his toes, even though, he'd known….

Filled with a fury he didn't stop to question, Snape reached out and grabbled hold of Bill Weasley's jumper, then dragged him out of the stall and pushed him against the wash basin. Bill's face was flushed, his eyes wild as tried to tuck himself back into his pants.

Once he did, Snape pointed to the door with a monosyllabic, "Out."

Bill hesitated, but the look on Snape's face must've decided him. Out through the crowd, they headed for the door, after Snape motioned for Bill to forget his friends at the table. In the alley, Snape took the lead, and didn't look back to see if Bill was behind him; he knew he wouldn't fail to follow. Once they were out of shouting distance of the inn, Snape wheeled around, causing Bill to almost run into him.

"Are you drunk?" Snape asked abruptly.

Bill shook his head. "No, not at all," he replied.

"Can you Apparate safely?" Snape demanded.

"Yeah, I can, but I'm not sure if you—"

"You'll Side-Along me. To the front of the gates." Snape didn't wait for an answer, but took hold of Bill's arm, then growled at his ear, "Now!"

It wasn't the smoothest of landings, but Snape was impressed in spite of himself. He'd not been half so good at it at Bill's age. Once they regained their footing, Snape took off through the gates, making a brusque gesture for Bill to follow.

He headed for his rooms, and once Bill had the gist of their destination, he walked alongside Snape, not behind him. Still seething, Snape had no idea what he was going to do once they got there; all he knew was that he was going to have to struggle to control himself, as he was in danger of being undone by an unhealthy combination of rage and arousal. When he thought of it…of what he might've done in the squalor of that tiny room, on his knees in the damp and dirt…he trembled with fury and relief.

He sensed Bill hesitate as they passed by his office, down the corridor to his private rooms. Unwarding the door, he entered first, then waited as Bill tentatively stepped in, closing the door behind them.



Snape was tempted to laugh at the irony; after years of preoccupation, and one of downright obsession, here he had the boy, and knew that nothing would come of it. For a moment, he mourned that glimpse of wiry red hair through a glory hole. If only he'd sucked and not seen….

Snape muttered, "Incendio," in the direction of the hearth, then turned and leant against the wall, crossing his arms. Bill stopped just a foot away, seeming surprised that they were not going to take seats. He eyed Snape uncertainly, and seemed suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands, and ended by shoving both in his robe pockets.

"I'm disappointed," Snape said as he narrowed his eyes.

Bill replied almost immediately, "So am I."

I'm fucked.

Snape scowled. "I'm disappointed that you displayed so little good sense! You're about to leave school, so I'll not belabor the point of where you were, but I bloody hell have something to say about what you did!" he spat out. "Do you have any idea of the sort of patron who frequents the Hog's Head? Did you even happen to think that sticking your prick through a hole in a wall for god knows who on the other side could end badly?" he thundered.

Bill drew himself up to his full height, and straightened his shoulders, as he calmly delivered the coup de grace. "I knew it was you," he said quietly.

Snape's mouth, half-open to begin the next volley, clamped abruptly shut. He felt his heart skip a beat, and while he stalled for time to consider his next words, he reached up and unbuttoned his collar. He knew instantly that this had been a mistake, as he saw Bill lick his lips, his eyes riveted on Snape's hand.

The moment stretched out, and Snape realized that time wasn't going to give him the words, so he dumbly repeated, "You knew it was me."

Taking a deep breath, Bill nodded. "I saw you go in, and I…I didn't even think about it. I got up and watched as I walked; no one else went in. And you were the only one in there, so I knew it was you." He stopped, seeming to realize what he'd just said. Flushing slightly, he added, "Everyone knows about the glory hole—it's one of those things we always talk about doing." He hesitated, then asked, "Was it there when you were a student?"

Snape frowned. "Mr. Weasley, you put us both at risk tonight. Do you know that staff can be dismissed for what I almost did? And tell me," he commanded, his anger on the rise again, "how did you think this was all going to turn out? A little cock-sucking in the loo, then you'd waltz out the door and back to your table?" If looks could wither, Bill would've been wilted. "It seldom ends there, for your information, so the next time, and there'd better not be a next time while you're a student, you'd best think before you…dip," he finished, pushing off from the wall as he glared at his student.

Bill seemed undaunted, and determined to have his say. "I'm leaving in three weeks, and I…I…" he faltered, then looked away for a moment. Snape waited, his lips pursed, until Bill looked back. "I wanted to…be with you like that," he hurriedly added at the end. "Because I'm going away, and you're staying here, and for years, I've wanted…oh god, do you even know how much I've wanted to—"

Snape knew he had to end this and end it fast. He moved, a swift fluid motion that caught Bill off guard as Snape pinned him against the wall, his arm against Bill's chest, his thigh pushed between the boy's legs. It was an agony to be so close, but Snape needed maximum intimidation.

"Tell me, Weasley, what do you want?" he murmured, tilting his head to the side, fixing the boy's eyes with his own. "Legilimens," he almost whispered.

The hazel eyes widened in shock, and Snape had to push harder to keep Bill against the wall. There was a flash of light as he entered the boy's mind; the first thing he saw was the inside of the loo, and his own feet under the door, then he was viewing the typical rolling kaleidoscope of images: a woman on the ground screaming at a group of boys on brooms, the face of another seventh year, his head thrown back, as he moaned through an orgasm, the dark night sky, full of stars; he saw himself, being watched as he took ingredients off of a shelf.

Then suddenly, Snape knew that he was delving into the part of the boy's mind that housed not memories, but dreams and wishes. There was a swirling of colors, impressions of indefinite shapes, and a cacophony of voices that swelled and receded as each image became clear and then faded. Snape's breath caught, at the final scene, where he ended his search; there he lay, Severus Snape, bound to a bed, knees bent, ankles tethered to his thighs, his black eyes glittering as Bill Weasley approached him, naked and clearly aroused.

"You're mine. Mine to do with as I will," Bill said as he climbed onto the bed, his hand smoothing Snape's hair, then drifting down to brush over his lips. "Do you want this?"

Snape saw himself nod, seeming unable to speak. And as he watched in astonishment, he felt it—the barest hint of a nudge, as Bill tried to push Snape out of his mind.

The shock of it all was enough to make Snape withdraw suddenly, as he reeled at the image of himself with a student who wanted to master him. The boy suddenly sagged against him, and for a moment, Snape just stood there, his arms around Bill as he supported his weight. He allowed himself just the briefest moment to bury his nose in his hair, then as he felt him recover, Snape pushed him brusquely away.

Bill straightened slowly, then leant against the wall, his hands up at his temples. He dropped them when Snape finally spoke.

"Who taught you Occlumency?"

Bill seemed incredulous. "You saw all of that, and this is what you want to know?" He laughed, and suddenly Snape felt exposed and ashamed. "The headmaster did. He thought I showed promise." He paused. "And Legilimency too."

Snape was all of a sudden weary, worn out by more than one adrenaline rush that evening. Waving toward the door, he simply said, "I learnt my lesson long ago, the difference between wanting something and having it. Get out. Make a life for yourself." Turning away, he headed for the sideboard. As he stood pondering whether or not it would be a good thing to drink anything else, he heard the quiet snick of the door as it shut.

That night, he dreamed of dining in the gentleman's club in Diagon Alley; when they retired to the room upstairs, it was Bill who closed the door behind them.

***

There was a fine line of perspiration beading his upper lip. The room was uncomfortably warm, it was true, but it was the need to come that was making him sweat. It seemed like they'd been at it for hours and hours this time, but Snape knew it could barely be two.

Sven was a master who loved to tease, when struck by the mood. He'd brought Snape to the brink multiple times tonight, then had expertly left him literally hanging on the edge. When all Snape'd needed was the simple contact of the bed, where just one quick rub would've had him coming, Sven had suddenly flipped him over and bound his limbs tightly to the posters, so that his cock bobbed free in the air. Snape had suffered in silence as Sven stretched out beside him to read a book, every once in a while stopping to stroke Snape's cheek, but otherwise didn't touch him, wanting his erection to soften.

Only to slowly bring him to full arousal again, this time by trussing his wrists and ankles together in front of him, then using a chain to suspend him slightly off the bed. He upped the ante, using a penis-gag so large that Snape could feel the saliva escaping at the edges of his mouth and dripping down into his ears. Sven's fingers played with his arse, then Snape felt something slippery and warm being applied, which rapidly became a burning fire that had him clenching his hole as hard as he could, knowing that Sven wouldn't stop there. He heard a soft laugh, then Sven commanded him to relax, something that Snape found almost impossible to do. He gurgled around the gag as whatever Sven was inserting stretched him wide, and the fire in his arse brought tears to his eyes.

He hung there, trussed and tortured, aching and hard, for what felt like an eternity. Sven knelt up on the bed and affectionately wiped away his tears and cleaned the drool from his face, stroking his neck, encouraging Snape to swallow. After a while, when he was no longer hard, Sven lowered him to the bed, and changed the trussing so that his bound ankles-to-wrists were behind him, tied looser so that his muscles were no longer stretched taut. Lying him on his side, Sven then turned away from the bed and rummaged in the drawer of the bureau, returning with a leather cock and balls harness. After applying it snugly, Sven sucked him until he was fully engorged again, laughing softly at the misery in Snape's eyes.

Positioning Snape's head comfortably on a pillow, Sven lay facing him, then removed the gag and kissed him thoroughly. Pulling away, he asked softly, "Why is this distressing you so much? You did nothing wrong."

Snape grimaced. "That's not the point. I humiliated myself."

Sven made a tsking noise. "I think thou dost protest too much. He would've been happy had you not found him out. He wanted you, didn't he say?" Reaching out, he brushed a stray strand of hair from Snape's eyes.

"He's eighteen," Snape muttered. "He has no idea of what he wants."

Shaking his head, Sven disagreed, "Think of yourself at eighteen; you knew exactly what you wanted, and if you ask me, he's more mature than most boys his age." He grinned when Snape winced at the word 'boy.' "Not a boy, Severus. Not a boy at all."

Snape sighed as he flexed his shoulders. "None of it matters anyway. He'll be gone at the end of the week."

Sven eyed him speculatively. "True. But I wonder… A man who's obviously as obsessed with you as you are with him, who's pictured the two of you in a very…interesting relationship. Who pursued you, Severus, then when caught, was unashamed and if you ask me, he'd not hesitate to do it again. And this time, taking more care not to get caught before he got what he wanted."

Sighing as he closed his eyes, Snape said, "A nice thought, that."

His master of the evening had the last word. "I don't think your Mr. Weasley will give up so easily. And you can take it out in trade if I'm wrong, but I'd wager you're going to be seeing each other quite often."

***

Prophetic words, Snape would have occasion to remember, on the night of the Leaving Feast, when everyone in the castle was most likely in bed. Everyone except for himself and the student who stared at him from across the threshold. Snape wondered, too, why Bill seemed so sure of himself; what was it that fueled his persistence in the face of almost certain rejection?

Or did Bill know…could he possibly imagine…or believe…that Snape's first impulse was to drag him into the room, and make his last night at Hogwarts a memorable one?

He lifted an ironic eyebrow when Bill seemed determined to say nothing. Not that he needed to say anything; Snape knew why he was there.

Squaring his shoulders, Snape caved first. "Mr. Weasley, do you know that it's after two? Or did you lose your way to the kitchens?"

Bill smiled, then had the audacity to take a step forward and lean a shoulder against the doorjamb. Snape had to struggle not to take a step backward.

"No, I was waiting for everyone to go to bed. I wanted to come and say goodbye."

Be strong. Cut him off at the knees.

"You could've saved yourself the trouble, as we'll both be at breakfast," Snape said stonily, his hand on door, making ready to close it.

"No! I mean, yes, you're right, I could've but…." He swallowed once, then took a deep breath. "I wanted to say it here. And I thought that you…" His eyes were pleading as they searched Snape's. "Well…goodbye…I guess," he said quietly and reluctantly as he stood up straight, starting to turn away, his disappointment palpable.

Let him go. Let him go. If you know what's good for both of you, let him go.

"Would you like to come in for a drink?" Snape asked suddenly, pleased with himself that he'd not reached out to stop him.

Victory. Well, of a sort.

Bill turned back, his eyes bright as he nodded and said, "Yes, I'd like that very much…if it's not too late."

Waving wearily, Snape gestured him into the room, then went to the sideboard to pour two glasses of… "What do you drink?" he asked.

His hands in his pockets, Bill stood beside him. "Whatever you're having."

Choking back the urge to say something inane and inappropriate, Snape poured them both a snifter of brandy. Handing one to Bill, he raised his glass. "To the rest of your life." They clinked glasses, and Snape downed his in one, then watched, amused, as Bill took a tentative sip first, then followed suit, draining his glass in a single gulp. Snape had to fight not to grin evilly when Bill let out a gasp, his eyes immediately watering.

"That was…good," Bill said as he set the snifter down, his voice raspy.

Snape had had enough. "It's late, and I'm tired. We're both adults, are we not? Tell me, then, what are your intentions?"

Bill looked surprised, but not intimidated. He stood in front of Snape, his arms relaxed at his sides as he thought, then soberly answered, "I want to spend time with you. Now that I'm not your student. There are things I'd like to know…" His eyes fastened on Snape's lips, as he said, softer, "And do with you." The eyes drifted up, then, to lock with Snape's. "And I could be wrong, but I think it's what you want as well."

Scrutinizing him for a moment, Snape reached out suddenly with one arm, and pulled Bill forward by the back of his neck, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that was rough and frantic, a frenzy of tongues, timed perfectly so that the kiss ended when they both ran out of air. When Snape pulled away, Bill teetered unsteadily on his feet at the abrupt withdrawal, bringing a hand up to touch his mouth as he stared hungrily at Snape.

"Never here," Snape told him, as he took Bill's hand and pulled him toward the door. Opening it, he pushed the man out into the corridor, sighing inwardly in triumph, although he couldn't help but mourn the loss of such an opportunity for the second time in so many weeks.

Bill stood uncertainly, where he'd stood only a moment before. "Never here?"

Snape nodded. "Never here. When do you move to London?"

Eyes glittering, Bill answered, "Beginning of August."

Poking him in the chest with a finger for emphasis, Snape told him, "Very well. Once you're settled, if you're still of a mind to spend time with me, let me know when and where. I'll need to make several trips to the Alley in August anyway." He tried to ignore the blissful look on Bill's face. "Is that agreeable?" He dropped his hand, and waited for the answer, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

"Yes, sir," Bill replied, then laughed when Snape rolled his eyes. "I guess no 'sirs' from here on out, eh?"

"Not from you," Snape confirmed obliquely, then jerked his head toward the corridor. "We've said our goodbyes, so there's no need in the morning. I'll see you in August, if you're still so inclined. If not, I'll understand," he finished, about to take a step back.

Liar, his brain automatically supplied, just as Bill vaulted forward and landed a rather sloppy kiss before he tore off down the hallway. He'd halfway missed Snape's lips, but Snape didn't care—it was the sentiment that counted, he told himself as he headed for bed.

He lay, staring at the ceiling, thinking that there must be some sort of disconnect deep inside him. How else to explain the gap between what he meant to say and what he said, what he knew he should do and what he felt in his heart?

°°°§§§°°°

Summer 1989

Snape spent the summer at Hogwarts as he usually did; Albus was there part of the time, along with Hagrid and Filch. Being a creature of habit, Snape kept a rhythm to his days, rising and retiring at the same time, setting for himself a schedule of reading, brewing and walking about on the grounds, as well as evenings spent with Albus in his rooms. They dined together there on occasion, played some games of skill, and had long rambling talks about everything under the sun. Besides Lily Evans and his mother, Albus was the only other person for whom Snape had formed an attachment. Well, there was one other, but that was private and undecided at the moment…

"I see you received an owl this morning," Dumbledore commented as he sorted his cards.

"Hmm, yes, I did," Snape replied, slightly thrilled that he'd been dealt an amazing hand.

"Am I mistaken, but wasn't that the elder Weasley boy's owl—Bill's?"

Perhaps not so private after all.

Snape studied his cards for a moment, then laid them face down on the table. "Yes, it was his." He narrowed his eyes, waiting to see where this would go. He refused to satisfy the old man's prurient inquisitiveness.

Dumbledore smiled, as he laid out his first card. "None of my affair, but might I say that you're well-suited? It was obvious the two of you were taken with each other." He nodded toward the table. "Your turn."

"It was obvious?" Snape murmured as he laid a card atop Dumbledore's, hesitated for a moment, then slid both to his side of the table. Frowning at his hand, he selected a another, then laid it precisely in the space between them. "Obvious how?"

"Ah, only obvious to myself. I notice these things, especially where my staff are concerned."

Snape stiffened. "I was entirely appropriate."

"I've no doubt about it, but I suggest that now you must adjust your behavior."

Almost leering, Snape replied, "You're assuming a great deal."

Shaking his head, Dumbledore looked up from his cards. "No, I rarely assume anything that's not as clear as the nose on my face." He smiled. "Let your hair down a bit, Severus. It's long overdue."

Grumbling, Snape added two more cards to his stack. "None of your affair, eh?"

Dumbledore snorted softly, then reached out to pat Snape's hand. "Certainly not."

PART THREE