Chapter 18: Stag Do—or Don't

The muffled tinkling of a glass shattering punctuated the air, followed by laughter. The party was spreading throughout the house and would soon be unavoidable.

Snape fastened the last button on the stiff collar of his new coat and shut the door to his room, locking it behind him with a twist of his wand. He'd grumbled when Lucius had called him into Malfoy's suite on the third floor and ordered Snape up onto the tailor's block.

"No one will even see what I'm wearing under the dress robes," Snape had protested.

"Nonsense," Lucius said. "Narcissa would have my hide if you stood for me at the wedding in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat. We should see about a new pair of boots, while we're at it."

Snape had managed to escape a fitting with the cobbler as well, but he had to admit that the new coat had been a good idea now as he stepped out into the chilly autumn night.

At first, Snape hadn't been sure why Lucius was even having a stag weekend—marriage may make it more difficult with Narcissa on premises but it surely wouldn't put paid to Malfoy's extracurriculars. But as the guests filtered in, the reason became apparent.

Every single one of them were pure-blood, most from the Sacred Twenty-eight. It seemed every witch of age with an esteemed surname had come to Malfoy Manor for the handsome heir's last hurrah. There were even couples arriving, tossing their fur stoles to the harried house elves, who popped in and out of the foyer with goblets of champagne and trays of canapés.

Two witches were coming up the path now, looking so fresh-faced they might have snuck out of Hogwarts for the night. When they passed Snape on the steps, the one nearest sent an arch look over her shoulder before turning to her friend. As they entered the house, Snape heard her whisper, "Euphemia." The other girl glanced back with widened eyes. Their giggles faded as the door closed again. So they were Hogwarts students.

By the gate, he passed another guest, a lone witch Rodolphus' age with striking features and a tumble of dark hair. Seraphina Lestrange—no, Flint, now.

"Madame Flint," Snape said, inclining his head.

"Don't be cheeky, Severus, you'll make a woman feel old."

"Never," he said, meaning it. His eyes drew to the swell of her lips…he quickly asked, "Burgess indisposed tonight?"

"He's with Marcus."

Snape could feel the surprise show on his face. A pure-blood man playing nanny while the Missus went carousing in the night?

"Leaving already?" she asked. "What a shame this stag do has disappointed you. Surely there must be something to strike your fancy…"

Seraphina smiled and Snape felt himself warm. It was said she resembled her ancestor Leta, the famous beauty of the Lestrange family. How Seraphina could have married that ape-browed, hunkering Burgess Flint with teeth too big for his mouth was beyond Snape. Purebloods and their alliances.

He tore his gaze from her thickly-lashed brown eyes. It had been a month since the Dark Lord's curse, a month of his body waking every morning straining against his underpants, bollocks aching and tender when he bathed.

He had to get away from here, from her, before he followed this creature back into the house. He wasn't ready to die from exploding testicles just yet.

When Snape finally got clear of the gates, he Disapparated before anyone else could cross his path and remind him that he was missing what was likely his only opportunity to sink himself into every pure-blood pussy in Britain.

Snape appeared a moment later in the musty foyer at Spinner's End and strode into the dark parlor, dropping into the armchair without bothering to light a fire or remove his coat. It felt better to be buttoned up at the moment.

He hated this distraction. Snape had never lacked discipline, not in class, not in his daily routine—rising with the dawn even after an orgy night. So to have his own flesh drawing his attention away from his work with the Death Eaters was beyond irksome.

There was a straightaway solution to this. Do what the Dark Lord commanded. Go to Bellatrix. So why hadn't he?

He knew the reasons. They tasted sourly for his tongue to admit.

He was afraid.

That she would reject him.

He could force himself on her, but that was chancy, given what a powerful fighter she was. And that wasn't the command, was it? In order to gain his pleasure again, she had to gain hers.

That was the real fear he hated to acknowledge: that he might not know how to please her.

He brought his finger to his upper lip, subconsciously tracing it as the vague edges of an idea began to coalesce in his mind.

Ch 19 on its way...