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The Gift Horse	By : Quillusion Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 9838 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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The Gift Horse

by Quillusion

An Answer to the Seducing Severus Snape Challenge

Anti-Litigation Charm: Not mine, not making any money off of this, not very happy about either but apparently have relatively healthy coping mechanisms. These marvelous characters belong to J. K. Rowling and none other. But I still would like to think that Professor Snape would rather spend his free time in my computer instead of hers- the entertainment is better, and he gets top billing. *pause*

OK, OK, I'll send him back when I've done, and I'll even clean him up before he goes. <VEG>

Rating: R for adult themes

Summary: Severus finds himself frazzled beyond endurance. His salvation cometh....

The castle was, as usual, full of noise and light and students. It was the end of the school year, nearly time for finals but not quite, and spirits were high as the holidays loomed large in the immediate future. Only exams stood in their way, and while the students were wearied with studying, the faculty were weary with exam- writing. McGonagall sported several hairs straying from the confines of her usually immaculate bun, Binns was a little more translucent than usual, and Flitwick had taken to giggling to himself and shushing himself constantly when anyone got near.

Professor Severus Snape sat with uncharacteristic listlessness in his usual seat at the staff table as dinner appeared magically on the Great Hall's charmed platters. It was a moment before he registered this fact and began, rather mechanically, to serve himself. No use starving, he thought tiredly. There was nothing to do get get through what must be done. Exams, papers, grades... and the summons he didn't doubt would follow the dismissal of the students. It always did. And every year it became harder to decline without raising suspicion. Last year he'd had no choice but to go, and this year he would not only be expected to attend, but perhaps to participate. The very idea made his blood ice over in his veins.

He shook his head to clear it, wincing as he remembered- a moment too late- that he'd had a headache since yesterday morning. The sudden movement fanned the embers of pain into full flame, and he felt his brows draw together.

Lovely, he thought dryly. Now this day can end as it began.

He murmured a soft charm to dull the roaring sound of Student Body as it washed around and through him, and felt a slight lessening of the pain. Sighing, he began to methodically apply himself to his plate. His eyes remained fixed on the table before him, and he did not see the worried glances that flicked his way throughout dinner.

Albus Dumbledore studied his Potions Master with dismay in his heart. Severus had not been well the last six months or so. The fight against Voldemort was near to coming out in the open, and he had walked an ever-finer line with the Dark Lord; he was now being subjected to the Cruciatus curse almost as often as once a week, and still he returned each time he was summoned. It was taking a dreadful toll on the young man, and Albus could not allow it to go on much longer.

He knew Severus would never object on his own behalf, would never acknowledge that he had limits that could be exceeded. But it was plain to those who knew him that the man's reflexes were slowed by the effects of the Unforgiveables, and he was well past the onset of emotional exhaustion. He'd worked nearly around the clock for six weeks to produce the large volumes of panic-banishing potion and hex repellant they knew they'd need for the students when the time came, at the same time developing a hybrid restorative and memory-dampening potion to be used on those who were subjected during the coming war to what he endured weekly. His grim remark that it showed promise in his rather limited clinical trials had not improved anyone's spirits, for they knew he had only himself to test it on. He had grown so wild-eyed and insensible with fatigue that at one point Lupin and Pomfrey had succeeded in sneaking up on him and dosing him heavily with Dreamless Sleep to get him to lie down; such was his mental state that he had not heard their approach. He had slept heavily for seventy-nine hours straight before awakening to wordlessly rn ton to his labors.

Had his intensity and single-mindedness of purpose been accompanied by anything like energy, he might have seemed manic. But instead, he seemed driven by the desperation of a man who thinks he has too little time to finish what he must do, before it is past all use in doing it. That he would let anyone, let alone everyone, see the degree of fatigue he was feeling was further proof to the faculty that he was not fully in command of himself. Severus Snape had not admitted to anything approximating a weakness in twenty-four years, and they had almost begun to believe that he had none. To be reminded of it in such a visible way was a blow to the faculty, as it eroded part of their faith in the order of the universe.

Dumbledore decided with careful finality that the next gathering would be Severus' last one. He did not think his friend realized that he was in no condition to watch his own back; the Potions teacher had not noticed several infringements of his personal space this evening which normally would have prompted a scowl, withdrawal, and a sharp retort. If Minerva's sympathetic squeeze on his shoulder had gone unremarked, he was further gone than anyone had thought.

Even the students were aware of his uncharacteristic behavior. Seamus and Dean had expected twenty points from Gryffindor for accidentally spilling rooster urine on one of Professor Snape's textbooks during their detention last night, but had been astounded when he shook his head tiredly and said only, "Out. Get out." He'd sounded angry, but the usual acid content of his voice was lacking. Harry and Ron had not had points deducted in class for nearly a week, and they were both getting worried- not that either would admit to worrying about Snape. Hermione tsked with concern, but said next to nothing when Ron and Harry brought the matter up, merely moved her plate aside to make room for her Arithmancy textbook. She hated wasting time between courses talking when she could get a few more pages read.

Within twenty minutes, things were winding down. Severus' plate was largely cleared, and his headache was marginally better; he waited only for the Headmaster's address, and when it was done he could retire to his quarters and throw together something for his head. And his back. And his shoulders... he smiled humorlessly. Forty-one years old, and falling apart already. His lip curled a little; his mother had always scorned wizards who had aches and pains before seventy, calling them 'Muggleized'. She would have had a field day with him- but then, his body had withstood more wear and tear than most wizards of even Dumbledore's age. He rather thought he'd earned the right to ache with dignity.

Dumbledore's voice rose above the crowd mellifluously, and Snape realized he'd missed the opening remarks. His internal monologue was so intense these days, that if it didn't produce pain instantly, any external stimulus was hard-pressed to intrude. Not good; he needed to try to stay focused. Inattention was a good way to get oneself killed around Death Eaters. He forced himself, with some difficulty, to pay at least cursory attention to the remarks the Headmaster made. Something about the upcoming exams, and the last Quidditch match of the year- Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor, at least he didn't have to care much about that- and a request that students stop taunting Sir Cadogan when he was the worse for drink.

Snape took a last sip of his own drink, feeling the warm burn of the sweet wine as it slid toward his stomach, and contemplated his rooms. Yes, it was time.

The dungeons were always quiet, but at night, the quiet became almost sepulchral. To Snape, it was comforting; it was home. His strides slowed as his agitation was soothed by familiar surroundings and the soft flicker of torchlights. His temper was not, however, improved when he ran across Peeves tinkering with the Potions classroom door, something he had been warned many times not to do. This irritation, on top of a bad day in a horrid month in the worst year he'd had in memory, was too much to bear. And the temptation to let off a little steam by delivering a bit of comeuppance to someone who really had it coming- thus removing the need for guilt on his own part- was just too much to resist.

The Potions Master had always moved silently, and even in his present wreck of a state, he made nearly no noise. He glided up beside the oblivious poltergeist, reached out with his wand, and casually poked the tip through the back of Peeves' incorporeal head to emerge from his right eye. A quick swizzling movement distorted the poltergeist's face like a whirlpool, startling Peeves to no end. He squealed, and jumped satisfyingly. Dignity in shreds, he fled down the hall, gibbering unintelligibly.

Snape couldn't quite smile, but he felt a nasty sort of satisfaction in seeing the specter out of sorts. "It all rolls downhill, Peeves my boy, and I'm not quite at the bottom of the heap yet."

He carefully inspected the Potions classroom door for damage from Peeves's tinkering, relieved to find nothing that required disarming or hex breaking. The door swung heavily open on silent hinges, closed behind him with the same well-oiled movement, and he sighed with relief. Home.

Several revealing spells and ward-keys later, he collapsed with a soft groan in the chair beside his cold fireplace. The darkness of his unlit chambers eased the strain on his eyes, and he felt the line between his brows relax a notch.

What a long day. It had begun with Double Potions with Gryffindor and Slytherin. That particular class, he had long since decided, was punishment for something he'd done in his youth, though he couldn't think of a single crime, or even a set of offenses, great enough to warrant it. A dismal staff meeting at noon, an eternal afternoon session with Ravenclaw, and a list from Madam Pomfrey of twenty-seven things the infirmary needed brewed by next Tuesday had taken up the rest of his day. And just before dinner, his Mark had begun to ache.

It was not a summons; no, Voldemort liked to send this sort of signal as a wake-up call to warn Death Eaters of an imminent 'invitation'. In particular, he sent it to torment Death Eaters who had earned his disapproval. And Snape knew that he was close to the end of his sustainable life as a double-agent. One wrong move, and...

Well. No point considering that. It wasn't as if it would bother him to die; he'd promised Albus not to take his own life, but that hadn't stopped him from habitually contemplating death with something suspiciously like anticipation. Heaven knew the things he'd endured over the last six months were nothing, if not a prelude to the final event; he didn't doubt that Voldemort would use him while it suited his purposes, then kill him for past disloyalty and present lack of other entertainment. He almost wished it were already over. He carefully put that thought aside, remembering the promise he'd made.

But still... he'd never been this conscious of approaching the end of his life. Or- if he allowed himself to admit it- afraid of it.

He shook his head, gingerly this time, and wearily rose to clink through glass phials in search of his proprietary headache formula. He tended to keep a lot on hand, especially since Voldemort had been calling him back so often. Cruciatus tended to produce migraines worthy of epic poetry.

He found the little smoke-grey bottles in their usual place, uncorked one, and swallowed its contents in one swift movement. He shuddered convulsively at the flavor, but kept it down; what it lacked in taste, it more than made up in efficacy.

Snape returned to his chair as the headache began to fade, and sank back gratefully into the soft upholstery that had learned his shape over many years of fond use. He tipped his head back, breathing slowly and deeply, and tried to relax.

He was so stiff and sore from frequent and repeated Cruciatus with insufficient recovery between times, from lack of sleep, from stress, and from a lifetime of working over a cauldron, that it was difficult at first. He finally settled on a relaxation technique he'd picked up from a Muggle textbook in Dumbledore's office, tensing and relaxing all his muscles and finally feeling himself melt a little more into the chair. He proceeded with the technique, considering briefly what it would take to really relax him. A massage, most likely. Ah, what heaven that would be- assuming, he reminded himself with an accompanying increase in his tension level, that he could find a masseuse who would touch him. Few enough people did.

But wouldn't that be lovely, he thought wistfully. A massage. He decided to imagine it, as the Muggle book had suggested; if anyone knew the power of endorphins released from the central nervous system, it was a Potions Master. And if anyone's mind had the capacity to conjure sensations of pleasure with no basis for comparison in reality, it was Severus Snape's.

His lips twisted wryly at the irony of it. He'd had much practice- and, if it was not immodest to say so, success- at getting his mind to convince his body that he didn't feel the pain of Cruciatus, the bruises, the breaks, the innumerable tortures he'd endured at Voldemort's hands, and those of his followers. It would only be fitting if that same mind could now convince that same body that he was feeling something pleasaSuddSuddenly feeling a faint spark of interest in the idea, he decided to try.

He cautiously imagined a warm room with a comfortable chair, the scent of cedarwood in the air. He inhaled deeply without realizing it, feeling better already. He let his mind still, finding relief in the simple surcease of mental overload.

A massage. Gentle hands sliding through his hair, gathering it out of the way, softly murmuring a spell to hold it up. He sighed softly, relaxing into this most casual of touches, feeling warmth creep across his shoulders as her gentle hands made the first stroke.

A little deeper this time, sensitive fingers seeking and finding knots, smoothing them with rhythmic kneading motions, calling blood and warmth and healing to the places where they were needed. He moaned a little with the relief, feeling his shoulders flinch at the unexpected pleasure.

The hands swept downward across his skin- when had he taken off his shirt? Oh well, this was a fantasy, after all- and pressed firmly along the paraspinous muscles, sweeping a layer of tension away like rainwater down a dusty riverbed.

Oh...

Fingers slid through the hair at his nape, gently pressing and releasing, and a soft voice murmured with dismay at the tense ropes of muscle that rose under her touch. She gently tipped his head forward and braced it with her other hand...

... and Severus Snape realized that he was not alone in his rooms.

His head snapped up, breaking free of her ge gri grip, and he felt his heart pounding in his throat as he pivoted in his seat to search the darkness, his wand out. He noted almost blankly that his shirt- and the rest of his robes- were still tidily in place. And there was a woman standing behind his chair.

She was backlit by the moon, her hair loose around her shoulders, her silhouette all he could see in the silvery light.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she said softly, her voice calm.

He was surprised to find that he believed her. But years of training could not be entirely ignored, and he forced himself to rise from his chair as he recovered his poise.

"Who are you? How did you get through the wards and into my rooms?" he demanded.

She said nothing, but he could almost hear her smile in the darkness.

Wanting to gain the upper hand in this odd confrontation, Snape drew breath to cast Ignitio on the candles- but she spoke first.

"Don't."

Moved by something he didn't understand, he didn't. The modified Sneakoscope on his mantelpiece was not going off, which he took as a good sign, and this was intriguing. It grew much more so with her next words as she answered the unspoken question on the tip of his tongue.

"I am here because you need me to be here," she said, her tone serious.

He opened his mouth to make a snide retort, and was shocked when she stepped forward, her finger touching his lips to silence him. Questions whirled through his mind in a sudden storm of uncertainty. What was wrong with him? She could have been moving to kill him, and he'd done nothing to stop her. Was he that far gone, that he could miss such cues? Clearly his guard was so far down as to be useless; he wasn't even sure when she had started massaging him. His imagination had been so vivid that it had felt real from the beginning. Or had it been real from the beginning? But then how had she known to do what was in his mind?

Or was this something darker at work than the simple need for human contact, for some form of affection, however so slight? Was it a death wish? Did he no longer care what happened to him?

"I know what you're thinking," she said. "I am not going to hurt you- and I will not let you hurt yourself. You have been hurt enough. Too much. It shows in your face, in your body, in your mind. You w nev never let me approach you this way if you were well; I would never have gotten close enough to try. You aren't yourself anymore. You need rest, Severus." She gently pressed him back to his chair, and he went with only minimal resistance. The lure of human touch was too much to withstand. But he made an attempt, nonetheless.

"I cannot rest. There is no time-"

She interrupted him. "There is enough. You think you are alone, Severus. You think no one knows about what you do, or cares. You think you must carry this burden alone to make up for your past. You think no one could ever care about you..." soft trace of fingers along the nape of his neck. "Find you attractive..." smooth sweep of a palm to cup his jaw, feather a touch across his brow. "Love you." Her hands were gently, inexorably turning him to putty as she moved to stand behind him, her fingers finding knotted muscle and soothing, smoothing, massaging.

"You are wrong, Severus." Her hands slid forward to caress his collarbones, and he bit his lip to stifle a startled groan of delight. "I followed you in here tonight to show you just how wrong."

Severus found himself relaxing into her touch even as his mind whirled. He still had his wand in hand, for she had paid it no attention. He didn't know what he should do- put the wand away, or use it. Who was she? How had she gotten into his rooms? Was she telling him truth, or leading him on? She seemed to read his mind, and disturbing as it was, he was surprised to find relief that someone knew how he felt. That someone would speak up for him, as he could never have done for himself- even to himself.

Suddenly, the risk didn't matter. None of it mattered. She was right, about everything, and if that meant what he found himself hoping that it meant, then he was happy to be wrong. Because, lonely man that he was, he was near to breaking, and he needed help to heal. He needed her.

Even if he didn't know who she was.

She continued to massage him in great sweeping strokes, warm skin on warm skin, muscles sliding and flexing and stretching in a symphony of relaxation. Their breathing synchronized, deep breath in with long, slow breath out, her soft grunts of exertion matched by his muffled groans. He fought to keep silent, reluctant even in this intimate setting to let his need be seen, and she laughed low.

"Let it out, Severus. I won't tell."

I'll just bet you won't, he thought to himself, unable to stop the habitual acid thought from forming even though there was no conviction behind it. He was surprised that his preternaturally paranoid psyche had accepted the tacit rules of this enchanted world they had created, but he was not about to question his luck. And he did not doubt she would keep her word. It was just one more in a long list of actions and thoughts unlike him- his cynical, bitter, and pessimistic outlook seemed to have been checked at the door.

Despite all of this, he did wonder who she was. When he had asked, "Who are you?" the soft voice had replied- with only a hint of wistfulness-

"You don't really want to know the answer to that, do you?"

He had reluctantly admitted to himself that she was right again. It was easier to let her have her anonymity, easier to simply cut out the emotional baggage from his generally troubled relationships in the real world. If he did know her, odds were they did not have a relationship in daylight that would allow... this. He wasn't even sure what 'this' would grow to involve- but she was touching him, reassuring him- treating him as a man, a person, and that was more healing balm to his wounds than anything St. Mungo's could produce.

The darkness sharpened his other senses even as it blindfolded him with velvet nothingness. Her scent, the soft sound of her voice, her breathing, her sighs, all seemed more intense. Feelings he'd ruthlessly suppresfor for decades began to slip again to the surface, taking advantage of the dark to escape their prison and seep through his consciousness, heightening it and sharpening it. He felt his blood quicken, felt the nerve endings in his skin begin to hum with desire. Her touch seemed to change, too, the intuitive kneading slowly giving way to caresses of a decidedly less professional nature.

He tipped his head back, not bothering to smother the moan of pleasure that slipped from his lips. He thought she knew how she was making him feel, but he wanted to be sure. He wanted to be encouraging. Her hands gradually worked their way from his shoulders down to his chest, her fingers then finding the buttons on his clothing and working delicately. The taut fabric made a muffled thump as each button snicked through its hole, and before a minute was through, her warm hands slid under his shirt to touch his chest.

That was all the confirmation Severus needed. He arched into her touch, suddenly craving everything she would givel rel reserve and hesitation gone. When her fingertips found and gently grazed his nipples, he growled low in his throat, a soft hiss of pleasure escaping as he gasped for breath.

"You like that," she said teasingly.

"I like many things," he said, and reached up and caught her wrists in his h. Wi. With a swift movement, he had her in front of him, and then he was pulling her down onto his lap with a hunger that had gone unappeased far too long.

His mouth found hers with searing heat, tongue pressing into her mouth with a skill he'd forgotten he possessed. The kiss was not gentle, and it took both of them over completely, becoming a living thing all its own. She writhed against him this time, her hands tangling in the black silk of his hair, and he felt a fierce stab of arousal at her moan of delight.

"Severus," she said, and his name was a sentence all on its own. She reached for the buttons on his robe again, undoing the rest of them with flattering haste, and then she shifted on his lap to push the fabric away with a rich rustling sound. He held still, enjoying the novelty of being undressed by an amorous woman.

She had the robe and shirt pushed back to his shoulders, leaving his chest bare. His trousers were still in place, but she decided to leave them for later. Trailing her fingers just above the line of his belt, she murmured,

"One treat at a time, I think." She settled back into his lap then, nestling her knees down between the outside of his thighs and the chair's soft upholstery. As she snuggled down into the curve of his body, she gave a delighted "Mmmm" of pleasure as the hard, warm evidence of his appreciation pressed eagerly into her groin. He caught her mouth with his again, kissing her hungrily, letting the sharp craving for contact rule his actions. He dared to slide his hands down over her breasts, enticing soft swells that he never would have thought any woman would let him touch.

Her breathing was coming in harsh, breathy gasps, and she reluctantly broke the kiss.

"Given what you're making me feel, I suppose I ought to declare my intentions now," she said, her tone husky. "They are strictly honorable, of course- but the rest is up to you, Professor." The wicked note in her voice made his title a caressing tease.

"Meaning?" He realized that desire was thickening his voice, making it even more velvety than usual; he rather liked the change.

"Meaning... do you want a light and revitalizing massage?" Herds rds rose to his shoulders and massaged again for a moment. "Or would you rather have something... deeper?" Her voice lilted suggestively on the last word, and her hands stilled, slid down to his nipples and past- stopping just below his navel. Severus felt excitement and relief and nervousness and sheer unstoppable want rush through him all at once. Giving it one last moment of rational thought, he realized that he was in no condition to fight anyone off anyway. And if she was planning on killing him this evening, it was a better prelude to death than he knew he'd get form Voldemort himself. As long as she finished this first, he'd die happy, which was more than he had ever expected.

Well, why the hell not? he thought, his usual dark sense of humor asserting itself, and his decision was made. His voice failed him, so he answered with actions.

Reaching in dar darkness for her hand, he drew it down to where their bodies joined, and curled her fingers around the erection straining so eagerly against the front of his trousers. He moaned as she touched him, involuntarily thrusting himself into her hand, and thrilled at the soft moan she let out in reply.

"I love how you sound," she said, and he felt a jolt of emotional pleasure go through him. He chuckled darkly.

"That's a first," he said. "Most people cringe when I speak."

Soft feel of her lips on his neck- deep gasp from him as he registered the touch. Her voice came in the darkness then:

"I'm not most people. And I've always loved your voice... even when you were being sarcastic or cruel or harsh or... well... Snape-ish."

He grasped her face in his hands, stared at the pinpoints of moonlight that were all he could see, reflecting in her shining eyes.

"Are you a student?" he growled.

"One never stops learning," she replied.

"Look. I don't care if you are a student," he said hoarsely, peppering little kisses across her neck, licking her collarbone. "I need you enough to ignore what little conscience I have left, even if you are. You appear to know exactly how to prey on a lonely man, and frankly I don't care if you do kill me- just finish what you've started first. Now tell me- are you one of my students?"

He heard a little laugh as she considered his question. "That's hard to answer," she said. "Yes... and no."

"Oh, bloody hell," he said then, and set his hands on her clothing.

It was then that he realized she was not wearing school robes... or indeed, any robes at all. Thin silk met his questing fingertips, and he felt himself harden further than he'd thought possible. Gently, he slid his fingers along her body, seeking and finding the tie that held the wrap onto her body. He wistfully wondered what color it was- he loved the idea of a woman in purple silk- as he let it whisper to the floor. Reaching carefully out, he felt warm, living satin slide into his arms, and in the next instant he felt the enticing weight of her settling onto his lap again.

"Damn trousers," he muttered, but she silenced him with a kiss and reached between them to unbutton the fly.

She sat back then, amusedly, and considered for a moment.

"Intermission," she said, and he groaned.

"I haven't done this in nearly twenty years," he admitted hoarsely. "What makes you think I could stand an intermission?"

The feminine voice was tantalizingly sensual when it produced laughter. "You're a strong man, Severus Snape," it said. "I think you can stand a great deal." She got to her feet, and he immediately wanted to get up to retrieve her and put her right back in his lap where she could continue to stimulate his already- aching erection. But he held himself still, and was rewarded a moment later when she returned, carrying something in her hand.
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The Gift Horse