Title: Mistakes (1)
Author: schf. M.
Rating: PG
Pairing: SS/BC(jr)
Warnings: See above. Angst, SLASH, Snape, before The Boy Who Lived.
Series: Possibly. Still, angst is not my forte.
Notes: There is no evidence FOR this pairing, but there is also no evidence AGAINST this pairing. My apologies for the weird style.
Disclaimer: Let's hope and pray Rowling never finds out. Ah, who am I kidding? She writes about British boarding schools, she should know what people are going to glean from that.
Repeat after me: I will NOT flame.
Thanks.
***
You begin with the realization that he is not eyeing you with suspicion, as all of your pulsing paranoia suggests every time anyone regards you lingeringly, but with a sort of hormone-induced desire. You continue with the extension of reasoning that it's not points taken away from Ravenclaw that he wants, but detention alone with you, that his suddenly defiant behavior might be a ploy to catch your eye.
You know how utterly stupid contact would be, even if he is over the age of consent and attractive enough. Secretly, though, you recognize in his fair, fine face a poor copy of someone you'd fantasize about in the deeper, darker, more dangerous hours of the night, of pain and pleasure and every conceivable combination. No, he was not so much as that but softer and a bit awkward, a few pale and unfortunate freckles and a snub nose, common eyes and hair. Not graceful and beautiful like one ideal, not artlessly charming like another, but sort of cute and very hungry and staring, constantly staring, at you.
You were currently working for Dumbledore pretending to work for Voldemort by pretending you're spying on Dumbledore under the premise of reporting to him on Voldemort. You can't quite express it either, but it has left you with solitary, suspicious leanings and a Dark Mark burned into your skin, and the boy happens to be the son of Bartemius Crouch, a man who would flay every Death Eater he got his hands on. So, of course, you know to be even more cautious. Of course.
You eventually end up giving him detention because, face it, he asks for it too much to wave off, and you wind up alone with him in the dungeons in the sunset-soaked evening, and you don't know what to do or say beyond ordering him around.
You start and shudder as he disobeys. He strides toward toward you, takes up your left hand in his right and kisses it thoroughly, swipes at it with his tongue, uses his free arm to bring you closer and closer, transfixing you with his need. He pushes back your sleeve to trail his lips up your arm and freezes, stares for a long and tense second at the Dark Mark on your arm.
You try to pull away then, hit him with a memory charm if you can, but he smiles and kisses it tenderly, loosing his left arm to roll up his own robes and reveal to you a twin copy of the mark crimson against the skin of his forearm.
You understand. Your eyes widen. And then you, because you can do nothing else, really, you lean forward and kiss it, and then him, and try not to think; you do too much cold contemplation in your life as it is.
You wake up months later, on the morning of his graduation, legs tangled together and heartbeats skipping in and out of sync in an eerie rhythm, and you stare down into his face and at his Dark mark, and you wonder.
You realize that it's all just a matter of mistakes and that, sooner or later, you will pay for it.