They had captured Severus Snape, somewhere around the corner from Knockturn Alley, He'd been told, and now He, the Dark Lord, had to do something about it. Set an example. Hang, draw and quarter Snape, have him publicly cursed and disembowelled, that kind of thing. It shouldn't be too difficult, He told Himself – after all, He had some expert torturers among His minions. There was only one little problem, He mused. But maybe there wasn't. After all, He hadn't even seen the wizard yet.
Reclining on his throne in the restored and enlarged Riddle mansion, the Dark Lord remembered Severus Snape as he had been in 1977, freshly graduated from Hogwarts, talented, unsociable, proud and somehow of an awkward nature. In spite of his imperfections, He had noticed the boy at once when the young Death Eater recruit had been introduced to Him. There had been something about him, an ardent ambition, a keen mind – and yet, something else as well. The Dark Lord had not been able to name it until at one of the routinely raucous Death Eater orgies, He'd seen the boy naked. Hips to die for. Narrow, porcelain-white hips set off by gently curving, almost feminine thighs which led to wiry calves. The whole body was sinewy and strong, but without any excess bulges of fat or muscles. The Dark Lord had felt the silly desire to send for a sculpturer, but even worse, He had felt something He had never felt before, something He should have been physically unable to feel: He had felt overwhelming desire for the boy.
It was absurd. After all, immortality did not come without its price. In 1943, the Dark Lord had been more than willing to pay it. His good looks? A passing pleasure, suitable to get people's attention at the beginning of His career – but in 1943, He had preferred the fear His altered appearance would invoke in His followers. The same was true for His sonorous voice changed into a high-pitched shriek. As for the other thing, the one which made so many mighty wizards recoil from immortality – well, He'd always found sex overvalued, anyway, a brief, messy, sweaty affair not really worth changing the sheets for it. Well, of course, He'd never done it with a man. It just hadn't occurred to Him. Maybe his life, maybe His decisions would have been different if He had found pleasure in shagging men. Now it was too late; he'd never know.
When He had encountered the naked Severus Snape, the Dark Lord would have gladly given up His immortality only to get back what He had paid for it – His looks, His voice, but most of all, His dick. True, it wasn't like the thing was gone – however, as an immortal, He simply didn't have any bodily functions, and He certainly couldn't f... er, procreate any longer. There was no device left for the games of love and lust; all had been lost in the transformation, making it impossible to enjoy the physical nearness of the boy. There was no way back; it had been too late to change His mind, and He would never know what Severus Snape' embraces might have done for Him. Of course, in 1977 He had already passed fifty, and in some idle moments He wondered whether, even in His human form, He would have been able to seduce the boy. But the old saying that there was no fool like an old fool wasn't exactly true – there was no fool like an impotent immortal, the Dark Lord thought bitterly.
He'd kept the boy close to him nevertheless, training him to be His second-in-command one day, not because the boy was more than averagely qualified for the job, but rather because of a personal whim. He even permitted the boy to leave His headquarters and go on spying missions, trusting him above everyone else – without having good reasons to trust him. There were rumours that Snape was a double-agent, but He ignored them, turning a blind eye. Not until His second rise in 1995 did the Dark Lord believe in Snape's betrayal, when the former Death Eater had failed to show up at His bidding. After all these years, the Dark Lord had still felt the hurt, and had used the Cruciatus Curse to make His other followers feel His pain. Severus Snape had left His service; Severus Snape had betrayed Him.
Perhaps, Snape's betrayal had even been bigger than assumed – he had continuously nagged to his Lord about killing off the Potters, some old enemies of his, on the ground of a highly ambiguous prophecy. The Dark Lord had followed His favourite's advice, only to be reduced to a weak spirit. Hips to die for, indeed. If not for these hips, He might not even have lost His first war.
Now His true followers had captured the traitor, and He had to decide what to do with him. To him. He wondered whether He would find it easy to have him killed. Had Snape grown old and ugly? Would He still feel the old attraction? Maybe He could make Snape disappear, tell His minions the traitor had suffered a painful death, and keep him hidden somewhere? Maybe.
He had told his guards to scare their prisoner, but not to damage him permanently. When the guards brought Snape in at His bidding, the Dark Lord could see the wizard was adequately bruised, but still walking upright yet. Good for him.
"Aren't you going to beg for my forgiveness?" He screeched when Snape stood before His throne. The wizard looked haggard and weary, but nonetheless, still arrogant.
"Why should I?" Snape replied with his usual insolence. "You will torture me to death anyway."
"Yes, I will," the Dark Lord screeched. "You will feel a lot of pain before the day is over. I will make you cry and beg after all."
There was fear in the wizard's eyes, but he didn't reply. He looked like a man trying to mentally prepare himself for a painful death, if such thing was possible.
The Dark Lord rose from His throne and walked towards the Snape. He raised His wand and pointed it at Snape's body. "Annihilata!" He screeched. The wizard's robes, torn and dirty, disappeared.
Surprised, Snape looked down at his naked body – porcelain-white, a little more sinewy than twenty years ago, but certainly not any fatter. Hips to die for.
"What will you do with me?" Snape whispered, disconcerted, maybe even embarrassed by his own porcelain-white erection.
The Dark Lord thought for a moment; then he got down to His stiff, immortal knees. "I could give you a blow-job," He suggested.