Hero Worship, Part 20 of 25

[ravenna_c_tan]

By the way, just a note regarding Severus' furniture. I really do mean that he has a settle, and not a settee. A settee, to me, would be too feminine for his chambers, whereas a settle--which is a very high-backed wooden bench suitable for drafty castles (the high back kept the draft out) and often found in British manor houses--seems more fitting to his dungeon setting. You'll note I padded it, though. (The medieval ones tended to be just hard wood.)


Title: Hero Worship, Part 20/25
Author: Ravenna C. Tan
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Word Count: 36,901 total, 2151 this part
Disclaimer: This is non-commercial fanfiction. Trademarked characters are used for non-commercial purposes.
Beta: miraba, jordangrant
Author's Note: A gift for regan_v, as a request she made about submissive!snape brought this on.
Warnings: A touch of BDSM/power exchange sex.
Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm (The Fest was due to begin Nov. 10th--now pushed back 1 month, but authors may post in their own journals).
Challenge/Summary: "What if...?" What if Snape did not escape at the end of Half-Blood Prince? What if Kingsley Shacklebolt caught him before he could Apparate away? Not trusted by the Order, but still determined to bring down Voldemort, Snape agrees to undergo an unusual spell.
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve, Chapter Thirteen, Chapter Fourteen, Chapter Fifteen, Chapter Sixteen, Chapter Seventeen, Chapter Eighteen, Chapter Nineteen




Hero Worship, Chapter Twenty
by Ravenna C. Tan

"About time, Snape," Vance snaps as I step into the room and close the door behind me.

"Pardon me," I say. "Other duties kept me."

He narrows his thin eyebrows, peering at me over his small wire-rimmed spectacles. "And just what, pray tell, are your other duties?"

I lift a glass rod out of a stand and swirl it slowly in the cauldron on the center table. "Didn't you know? I am at Potter's beck and call." I am curious to see Vance's reaction.

"Hmm, yes, I knew he had some kind of monitor spell on you but I count myself curious about it." He peers into the cauldron and, like me, is satisfied with the contents' color and consistency. "When the two of you disappeared from the meeting the other day it came as something of a shock."

"Purely precautionary, I assure you," I say. "Potter's way of separating Moody and myself."

"Yes, well." He clears his throat, and for a moment I wonder if he is going to complain about Moody. But he is more interested in me. "McGonagall and Shacklebolt have played it very close to the vest, you know."

I didn't know. I thought they had taken a vote on what spell to use on me. Intriguing.

He goes to the workbench on the side where he has already prepared the distillate of acromantula venom. As he measures it, he continues speaking with forced casualness. "His beck and call, eh? Some form of Servitus, then?" He cannot keep the prurient interest from his voice entirely; he fairly chortles at my plight. "Or Vindicta? I can see why they wouldn't want the Ministry to get wind of that."

"They gave me little choice," I reply smoothly, taking the vial of venom from him and adding two drops to the cauldron. That he believes the Order capable of inflicting such a Dark spell as Vindicta, which compels obedience through intense punishment, shows he either does not know them very well--or that the Order thinks even worse of me than I thought.

I do not correct his impression. The instinct to spread misinformation is too deeply ingrained in me, and if Minerva wants my exact status a secret, then this is the best way to keep it.

"You needn't stay, Vance," I say. "I will add the venom as needed."

"Two drops per hour," he says, as if I were a seventh year apprentice, and I remember again that I dislike this man. "No more."

"I shall see you tomorrow." If I say any more we will either begin to argue or I shall hex him into next week for being a supercilious arse.

He leaves, and I set to my work while thinking over our conversation. I retrieve the jar of dried Osmanthus flowers from the store room. His knowledge of Vindicta must be limited, as the spell can only be used for short periods of time and wouldn't be applicable to a long-term situation. Servitus is a whole family of spells, all of them banned, but the knowledge of their existence persists in Wizarding culture at large through titillating gossip and schoolyard talk. No doubt he has filled his head with fantasies about what kind of paces Potter must put me through.

My hand falters in crushing the tiny yellow flowers as I realize his prurience is not far from the truth. But I am not going to think about that, am I? We are doing it Potter's way and that is that.

I add two more drops of acromantula venom to the potion and then return to the pestle. The steam rising from the cauldron sweetens noticeably as I tip the yellow powder into the mixture.

"That almost smells good," comes Potter's voice from behind me.

"Trust me, you wouldn't enjoy the taste of this one," I say, taking a seat at the workbench.

He is levitating two trays in front of him. One floats over to me, while the other settles in front of him as he pulls up a stool. My eyes linger a little too long on his plate and he shrugs and says, "No one should have to eat alone."

Loath as I may be to admit it, I find the gesture somewhat affecting.

"So how is the potion going?" he asks, when we have both taken the edge off our hunger.

"As expected. Vance is a bit of a pill."

He snorts. "That's funny, coming from you."

"Perhaps it is something about potions that embitters one." Well, that and having your wife killed in his case. I lift the lid on the teapot and toss a pinch of whole Osmanthus buds into the water. "I take it Vance is not part of the inner circle."

He wrinkles his nose at that. "He's still sort of new, so, no."

"Dumbledore's Army," I say softly.

"What?"

"He probably never will be. Those who fought at Dumbledore's side will always be in higher esteem in the group than those who came after." I pour for both of us.

He sips. "It is sweet. Not sugar-sweet, but... nice." His eyes cloud for a moment. "And this is the thing you put in the potion for Remus?"

I nod.

"You thought of it on your own? I mean... I thought you hated him..." He sputters to a stop as he realizes he is bordering on accusation.

I indicate his tray of food, the evidence of his kindness. "And I thought you hated me."

"Yeah, well, things change." He sighs then. "Can you quit being such a teacher all the time?"

"No. No, I cannot," I say, and hide my smirk behind my teacup. I then rise and add another drop of venom to the potion. The surface is beginning to shimmer. One more drop and the surface turns as reflective as mercury.

I cast Stasis over the cauldron and step back. "This is finished for tonight."

I hear the stool scrape the floor as he gets to his feet. "Excellent." There is a tone to his voice that raises gooseflesh across the back of my shoulders. "So, your choice. Tonight or tomorrow morning?"

"I have no plans for tonight," I say casually, and he smirks.

We walk to my rooms mostly in silence, until he says, "There is another meeting tomorrow. I want you there."

"Of course."

He says nothing more about it, merely unlocks my door with the password and walks through.

He sits in the overstuffed chair as usual, and looks at me. I stand in front of the hearth waiting for him. I quiet my thoughts with the reminder once again that he is the one who must lead this. I may merely wait.

"I have some questions," he says, pushing some stray hair from his eyes.

I continue to wait.

"You said something once to me, about Ardeoflagello." He rubs his bottom lip with his index finger as he thinks. "About how you and Rosier invented it, because one of you could come from the sensation of being whipped."

"Yes, I said that."

"You didn't say which of you it was, and I don't know why, but I assumed at the time it must have been him. But from the memories I have and what you've told me, it was you, wasn't it?"

He already knows the answer, but he phrases it as a question so that I must respond. Affirm. "Yes."

"Do you think that's still true? Could you still come from it?" His eyes are intent on me. When I hesitate to answer he says, "Come here."

He does learn fast. I settle at his feet and suddenly it is easier. "I don't know. It has been a long time."

"I'd like to try it." His cheeks burn. "But only if you trust me enough to."

He did say he had been practicing the spell... and the thought that he had this in mind for the better part of a week stuns me momentarily. I remind myself that I have been the object of his fantasizing. My throat works as I try to respond. "I trust you enough to let you throw every manner of hex at me in the Room of Requirement."

He draws his wand from the pocket of his robe and taps his lips with it. "No, you trust your own ability to defend yourself."

"You've been practicing the spell," I point out. "Which raises my confidence in you greatly."

He sits back, contemplating. "Not yet, I think. We're not there yet, Severus."

I realize I am somewhat disappointed, but he is right. Once again it seems my impulsive, irrational side is trying to take over. And once again it is Potter who holds the reins. I rub my face against his robe, my body impatient for the release it has been promised. "And where are we?"

"We're in your sitting room," he says with a toothy grin. "And we're both hard."

"Does that mean you're not going to run away this time?"

His smile fades. "What do you mean?"

I suppress the urge to knock my head against his knees. How, how can two people who have read each others minds no less than a dozen times in a week still fail to understand each other? Proof that magic has its limits. "You know that I was goading you when I intimated that your actions were tantamount to rape, yes?"

"Yes, but..."

"And wasn't it you who said the ends would justify the means? That if we bring down the Dark Lord then any issues of age or propriety will be utterly insignificant?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then why won't you allow me to touch you?" My voice comes out much more hurt than I intend.

"You are touching me," he says.

"Let me be less ambiguous. Is there a reason you won't allow me to return your attentions?"

He looks away. "You know what? I think if I can keep that from you, I can keep my intentions from Voldemort."

"I don't mean this as a test, Potter."

He stands then, slipping from my grasp. "Well, I do. I'm serious." He puts his hands on the mantel, stretching his back and shoulders as he leans over.

I am at a loss for what to say. "You seemed to enjoy the frottage yesterday morning."

He turns to face me. "So did you, evidently." He gives me another measuring look. "But you agreed, my terms, my way."

"Yes, I did." And just talking like this, it seems reasonable that our interaction could be one-sided. But I know that if he makes me come--when he makes me come--I will start to ache to do the same for him.

"Then stop badgering me," he says. In other words, you'll take what I give you and be thankful for it, something I used to hear from my father's mouth all too often. "Let's take care of tonight."

"As you wish."

He sighs, but pushes aside whatever it is that is troubling him, turning bright eyes on me. Bright with triumph. He has hidden it, whatever it is, and I share a little thrill of success. We have a chance against the Dark Lord if he can...

He kneels next to me and searches through the layers of my clothing until he frees my erection. He circles my cock with one hand, my shoulders with his other arm, encouraging me to set my head on his shoulder.

It goes as it tends to, upward and upward, until I am straining and taut under his touch.

His voice. "Do I have to tell you to let go?"

"I..." I don't know. "I..." Letting go is a luxury I have not had in my adult life. I doubt he can understand that.

"Come for me, Severus. Don't keep me waiting." But I cannot quite do as he says. He huffs, then tilts his mouth toward mine, his lips and tongue feeding me the taste of desire. His desire.

My come fountains up through his fingers and he does not let my mouth go. Not until every part of me is limp. Then he withdraws, panting himself and quite flushed.

He stands up and jokes. "Minerva wouldn't approve, I think." The humor deflects my efforts to discern why he is now determined to leave.

"Indeed not. Minerva McGonagall would never let a guest leave in such a state."

"I'll be fine."

But I won't. Doesn't the damned spell tell him how I feel every time he walks out the door?

"You'll be good at the meeting tomorrow?"

"I shall refrain from outbursts, if that is what you mean."

"Yes, that's what I mean." He casts a Cleaning Charm nonverbally and Summons his glasses from the mantel. I had not noticed him taking them off. "Be good and I'll reward you," he says.

I can hope.

--

[Go on to Chapter twenty-one.]