The night was neither dark nor stormy; the times were neither worse nor better. Perhaps that was a lie. By most accounts they probably were worse. But there's only one account that matters.
This one bitch.
It was the summer of 1995. Severus Snape should have been back in rehab, but he'd managed to hide the cocaine and explain away most of the drinking. Kurt Cobain had been dead for over a year. The Dark Lord had returned, cloaked in pathetic nostalgia instead of glory. Most importantly it was hot as balls.
Which Snape had rather discovered he liked to have smacking against his face on a Friday night. It was the one instance in which his looks didn't seem to matter. Even with the poncy twats, his ability to deep throat beat out his ugly working class aesthetic.
The Dark Lord had enjoyed such memories. Rather he'd enjoyed the humiliating ones and perhaps found them all to be a spectacle of humiliation. Sometimes Snape thought that was what he was: a spectacle of humiliation. He was still poor, still alone. He still hadn't made anything of himself.
But he had made a cuppa and some toast while waiting for the base of his potion to reduce. He sipped his tea as he walked to the door for the mail. A bit of cream, a bit of sugar.
His bare feet slapped against the floor as he walked. Jeans and a wife beater, outdated furniture and wallpaper: he mostly fit in at Spinners End. He was still enough of the man his father was.
He picked up the stack of letters and carried them back to the kitchen where he flopped through with disinterest. Bills mostly. He'd lost track of how much money he owed. A Muggle bank never would have let him take a loan as a child. But the Goblins had no morals when it came to making money and the Wizarding World had no protections for minors. $20, 000 per year for 7 years taken at an unreasonably high rate due to his age.
Of course, if he'd been a pure blood he could have just taken the funds by using his blood as collateral. That's how the Weasleys did it. He suspected the Goblins allowed it because they thought the lines would breed themselves out of purity. They wouldn't though, or at least Snape suspected they wouldn't.
Things hadn't changed so much. The old families still believed themselves superior. Even if their blood dirtied, their money wouldn't. But the children of those families knew their place. They knew their place when picking spouses and careers- picking for honor and glory as if happiness were a foreign concept. They knew their place when paying people off and engaging in matter of honor. They knew their place when being molested, for how else do you build a proper English gentleman?
When he got to the envelope at the bottom of the pile, he almost put down his tea.
GRANVILLE
SNAPE
SPINNERS END
Granville was not a name he wanted to read. It was not a family he desired contact with. Even so, it was not a family he was positioned to ignore.
He noticed old thoughts of Granville Sr. floating up and allowed it. When was the last time he'd allowed himself thought of the man?
Tiberius Granville III. Known mostly for his ward carting, he was also a master of the ancient arts, whatever that meant. There had been a time when he'd wanted to tell Snape what that meant.
Granville was on the taller ride for an English man at 6' 2" compared to Snape's mere 5' 10". He kept his hair short, unlike most of his pure blood contemporaries, and maintained a muscular physique. It was the first thing Snape noticed when they met in 1975.
Slughorn's party, Halloween 1975. Snape is only there because Lily invited him. There's only room for one Mud blood in the Slug Club. He's aware that her being a Muggle born outright is more respectable than his bastardom.
Slughorn does his rounds with Granville. When they reach Snape and Lily, Snape takes half a step back. Perhaps Slughorn will do him the small mercy of a short introduction. He does not.
"Miss Evans and Mater Snape may I introduce you Tiberius Granville III, matter of many arts. You may well be aware that when last the Hogwarts wards needed renewing, it was Granville called upon."
"Indeed," Granville said with a smile.
"Miss Evans is easily the brightest of her year. I have never seen such a natural approach to potioneering. I expect great things from her." Slughorn looked at Snape for a moment. "Well then..."
Slughorn redirected Granville's attention then, but the man gave Snape an extra moment's consideration.
"Tell me, have you met James Potter. I know you're well acquainted with his father," Slughorn continued.
When they were gone. Lily turned to Snape, blushing.
She said, "Do you suppose Slughorn knew he was being rude just now?"
An hour later, Lily had busied herself talking with other people and Snape had the distinct feeling he'd overstayed his welcome. He was rather used to the feeling, given his working class background.
He saw an opportunity to exit and took it. He'd only taken a few steps down the corridor when a voice called after him.
"You there, Snape." It was Granville.
Snape turned toward him cautiously.
"Horace often forgets his manners. Muggle born, are you?"
"Half."
"In the same breath, Horace informed me that you do in fact have the top mark of your class and then that you are a mediocre student. Which is it?"
Snape shrugged. Not the conversation he'd expected. There was no way out of it though. Just the two of them in the corridor left little room for excuses to leave.
"A verbal answer it you please."
But Slughorn appeared then and saved Snape from having to answer.
Snape took a long sip of tea and thought about the letter in his hand. He could wait a few days to open it. Claim trouble with the post. But curiosity nagged at him. He knew how Granville looked at him, and how he looked at Granville. If he'd been pure blood, perhaps Granville would have chosen him.
But no, like Lily, Grenville had chosen Potter. Who could blame them? He tossed the letter aside. A problem for another day.
Or another night. He quite enjoyed the summers. If he could adjust his teaching schedule to his preferred sleep schedule, perhaps teaching would be less awful. Up until 8 or so every morning, wake some time around 3, then brew, groom.
He had another slice of toast, already tired of toast. He could move on to his usual 2nd meal of salad or have some hot cereal. He chewed the bland bread for a while before remembering he forgot to put some olive oil on it. He did and it became slightly more enjoyable.
If only they knew.
His grooming habits hadn't mattered so much back when he was tossing a different trick every night. But now that there were only two men and the schedule was set, it was on his mind constantly. Maybe because he'd aged. Maybe because he actually liked them.
William Cartwright right and Cecil Fisher. Arguably the most powerful man in Wizarding Britain and an Auror. Not men he'd necessarily won the favor of, but men who knew he'd take their secrets to the grave. Men who paid well-enough.
He continued on with the potion, adding in the ingredients he'd prepared. As always, Dumbledore had asked him to brew the school a yearly potion supply at scale and he'd refused. There simply wasn't enough money in potions. Not when he was younger and not now. His heart hadn't been in it then, wasn't in it now.
He enjoyed potions well enough, but mostly he enjoyed creating. There was adrenaline in experimenting and creating. In continuing to make the same potion there was... well there
wasn't serotonin, that's for damn sure. Then of course, in teaching there was cortisol. Cortisol and anxiety. Neither of which the greater Wizarding World seemed to have heard of. Not that those things were necessarily awful. He'd first gone to work at the tender age of 9, under the table of course.
But working in the mill was different. Just as working as a... well at the end of the day he supposed he was nothing more than a prostitute- a gigolo, a rent boy. He did his work and was paid his dues and then his time was his. In his opinion, that was how work ought to be. Hogwarts wasn't work, rather prison. What else does one call a place where their entire schedule is dictated?
He checked the time and set a reminder for the potion. Mostly he wanted to eat. Pizza
would be excellent. Or a juicy, medium rare steak, mashed potatoes and gravy. But that wouldn't do. He'd learned his lesson about deviating from his strict diet. On this particular night, he figured he should probably take it extra light.
Cartwright had something special planned. It might be too much to hope special equated to genuinely pleasurable. He'd put on a good show either way. Cartwright was an nice lay, on the occasion where he bothered to take his time.
Snape walked into the room that might have otherwise been a dining room. But he had no use for a dining room. Instead it served as a yoga studio. Yoga was something he'd picked up mostly by mistake on a trip to India. He'd been looking for a rare ingredient and instead found spiritual salvation. It didn't hurt that his spiritual salvation doubled to keep his ass and thighs tight.
Hours later, during the second simmer period of his potion, he made a salad. Greens, canned beans, some left over grilled chicken, some speed, and olive oil. It was always olive oil. He avowed dairy outright- difficult in England. He loved olive oil the way he imagined the ancient Greeks loved olive oil. It made sex easy from both directions. Eat it and it'll lubricate you. Put it on a cock, and, well, it'll lubricate you.
He watched the potion carefully while he ate. This particular potion was rather delicate as it was for Muggles instead of Wizards. He'd never publicly admit that such a potion was possible. Muggles were inferior after all, with their guns and nuclear weapons. And airplanes. He rather enjoyed airplanes. And automobiles. There was another life where he became a mechanic, surely.
He put down his salad to take the potion off the heat at just the right moment.
Later yet, he drew himself a bath at a much hotter temperature than he preferred and began his routine. He emptied his bowels around the same time as always and then did a quick wash- out with a bulb. It wasn't a proper enema. He hadn't bothered with one of those for some time.
Once the cleaning out bit was finished, he went over her asshole with a bit of wax. This bit at the routine was a bit much, he would admit. Neither Cartwright nor Fisher had ever stated an opinion on body hair. For all he knew they might prefer a bit of it. But he was a professional. They were paying for fantasy.
He soaked in the bath a while, meticulously cleaning every bit of grime off. He washed his hair, not that it would be noticeable in another hour when Cartwright started fucking him. Sweat, baby.
He dried off and tied his hair back. Thong or g-string? Cartwright hadn't given him any indication of what the special event might involve. Perhaps he should do something fun- fun like tights under a pair of leather pants and a harness. Yes. That would be delicious. And he could get Cartwright to tie him up...
He eventually came back to earth and put on the thong. Cartwright seemed to prefer a thong. Slacks and a sweater, something respectable in case he was seen coming or going. He flexed his fingers, looked absentmindedly at the tattoos, and then hid them under a good glamor.
He arrived at Cartwright's 2 minutes early by his watch and used the extra time to have a smoke. The early morning was beautiful. He focused on his breaths. Cartwright would want him to start flaccid. A difficult thing since his body was anticipating.
He knocked. The butler opened the door. They exchanged pleasantries. Like always. He went to the sitting room and poured himself a whiskey. It took a few moments, but he let Cartwright sneak up on him. Let Cartwright cart a silencing spell and pretended not to notice.
"Mister Snape."
Snape attempted to respond with 'Mister Cartwright.'
Cartwright tutted. "Your mouth in only good for one thing this morning."
He hated being silenced. He hadn't ever told Cartwright no and likely never would, but he liked having the option.
He took Cartwright's finger into his mouth and thought how nice it must be to wake every morning and have a man at your beck and call. He then wondered if Cartwright wanted to hurt him but didn't have the heart to hear him scream. That would be new. They'd never done pain, just light bondage.
Cartwright withdrew her fingers and Snape tossed back the whiskey. He took a moment to appreciate Cartwright's body. Cartwright had clearly been muscular once, but with time that had given way to upper class softness... particularly in the med section.
"I have some... energy I'd like to let out,"
Cartwright said. He seemed nervous.
Snape nodded and let Cartwright lead him upstairs. In the bedroom, Snape took off and folded his clothes, set the pile on the dresser. He went over and attempted to comfort the insecurities out of Cartwright. Do whatever you want to me. I'll bleed for you, die for your pleasure. He said it not with words but with a kiss.
"I want you to bend over the bed."
Snape did it with no hesitation. Cartwright should fuck him with no preparation or lube. Let Snape prove what a slut he is.
Instead, Cartwright smacks his ass. Snape buries his face in the sheets to hide his smile. Cartwright continued on, pulling his smacks.
If Snape could speak, he'd beg- more, harder, hit me like you mean it old man. But he couldn't, so he settled for pushing her hips back and up. Only 10 slaps and then Cartwright was pushing into him. He relaxed the muscles he'd been clenching and took it with a silent grunt.
Cartwright's thrusting was slow, painfully slow. Snape wasn't sure that either of them was enjoying it. He could feel the tension in Cartwright's body, like he wanted to ask for more but didn't know how or what to ask.
The first year of the agreement, they'd stayed in the sitting room, talking. A man as wealthy and powerful as Cartwright had to be careful who he kept close association with. Propriety should dictates that he associate only with those of his own station, for who else could understand the duty of a Lord?
Only recently… after almost 10 years of constant companionship, had Cartwright elected to add anal rex to the daily routine. But even so it was the anal penetration of a respectable, heterosexual gentleman. The sort of bored dicking a professor might give his student at an independent school. The sort of dicking you don't enjoy but learn to tolerate.
Not that he would say he'd been molested at Hogwarts. He'd fucked a few professors, sure, but at his discretion. He'd been hypersexual even then. Maybe it was because he'd watched his father brutalize his mother; Maybe it was because of that time he'd been wandering about on his own at age 6 and had come across a man masturbating and had sat with him instead of running away. He'd eat with him frequently over the years because he was kind and interesting.
Cartwright starting thrusting harder and Snape wanted to reach down and touch himself. God he wanted to touch himself.
He let out a frustrated ugh. Then he realized the silencing charm had been cancelled.
"Are you well?" Cartwright asked. "Perhaps I should stop."
What a stupid mistake. He'd never made such a stupid mistake.
"Don't stop."
But he did. Car thought pulled out, visibly crestfallen.
Snape rolled over. Her mind was racing, looking for a way to quietly make things better. On his back, Cartwright would have to see his erection. He sat up, pulled his legs up, keeping them spread.
Cartwright came back to him without him needing to say anything. He reentered Snape's body loudly. He did his damndest not to look at Snape's erection.
Snape moaned and arched his back.
"Harder," he said, knowing he'd already pushed too far. But if this was going to be their last time together, make it worth it.
