WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC SEXUAL CONTENT.
Please don't read unless you are allowed to read "Mature" fiction.
No, I really mean it this time.
Oh, look! It's a DOUBLE CHAPTER! I actually wanted it to be all one chapter, or at least I wanted it to be read all at once… so that's why I waited to submit the first half. It really is (in my mind) one BIG chapter. Enjoy!
A major thanks to TheOriginalSheElf for being a great beta!
Thanks very much to Sasa and SilverWing129 for the lovely comments! Hope the update was quick enough for you!
Frayed Soul- Lawl! Thanks so much! I'm glad you liked Severus's mom. Writing her was so much fun, and so I hoped it was as much fun to read. I hope you enjoy this next chapter even though it's not as funny.
Thomas Hobbs- Yeah… the apple doesn't fall far from the toxic waste zone…
RoseNarc- Aw, thanks! Glad to have made your day/week/month! Yeah we have quite a few problems to get over. Remus/Sirius, a war, marriage, a baby and a dark overlord… I'm frankly swamped. Thanks for the review!
Noah-body- Sweeney/Judge Turpin equals Sev/James. Totally.
This is the disclaimer that I should be putting up every chapter. I don't own James or Severus or Harry. This is a non-profit production.
My hand-me-down dress robes are frayed at the cuffs. The more I pull at the strings, the more they become unraveled. It's my grandfather's robes. Tobias had found them in the attic in a trunk with the Slytherin mark on the clasp. The suit is dusty, and smells of peppermint and crisp flakes of dead skin, but at least the thing fits me. Nothing would compare to a new set of green satin or purple velvet robes- the latest rage- though I have always been at least ten years behind in fashion. And anyways, I like these robes… they're black. It's positively Victorian; the cuffs have thick, tarnished silver cufflinks the size of walnuts. Black buttons trail up the sides of the sleeves, with a small opening at the elbow where the puffy cotton shirt underneath pokes through. A neck-tie and a small black tie tack in the middle of the knot, wrap around the thick starchy collar. It's not modern, but it fits me in a comfortable way, like a leather glove that you put away for the winter and then slip on again with ease. My grandfather had good taste, and though it doesn't really belong in this century I feel sort of bad-ass and Goth sporting it. I withhold my smirk as I look over myself in the rusty, tarnished Slytherin mirror in the attic. They come with high-top black leather boots, too. I dig through the trunk to find them.
Letters, lots of them, are in packages tied together by brown tweed string. They are in clumps, I realize, each carrying a pack of letters from one girl. They're love-letters. I can tell because of the incredibly tidy scrawl and the perfume that wafts up from them, even after all these years. Apparently my grandfather was indeed the tramp he was always rumored to be. People said that he seduced young girls (barely out of Hogwarts), broke their hearts and then left them high and dry. There were rumors that he had even gotten one of them pregnant, a young tart, and- this is truly terrible, either because it's a lie or because it's true- his wife pretended that she was pregnant for eight months so when the girl gave birth, they took the baby. That girl had been muggle.
Eileen never was truly sure if she was a half-blood or a pureblood. No wonder Mr. Prince didn't keep this trunk in his household. His wife would have a fit to see how many girls this satyr seduced!
Curiosity getting the better of me, I thumb through some of the packages, catching glimpses of familiar names: Sandra Bones, Augusta Longbottom, Lucretia Prewett, Walburga Black (Sirius's mother? I think wryly, How could you sink so low, Grandfather?), Mary Potter…
What? That can't be right.
I rip my hands into the neatly bundled letters, loosening the thick brown tie with my teeth. Fingers shaking I hastily peel back the already-broken seal and lift the thick yellow parchment, gingerly placing it in front of my eyes.
My detestable, forlorn, pathetic Mr. Prince, she addresses.
Apparently this letter was at the end of their engagement- the parchment is neither scented nor nicely handwritten (in fact the scrawl is hasty, untidy and downright boyish, sort-of similar to my own). The packet itself is very thin compared to that of the others, which either indicates that their engagement was very short, or that it was very long and very sexual and there was hardly a need for words…
You are the most prideful arrogant fool that I have ever met, and yes, that includes 've spent your life duping young women into sex and pleasures and then leaving them to deal with pregnancies, diseases and embarrassment, and you spit fire if a woman ever dreamed of declining your advances- I will not be your secret midnight whore, chasing your every whim for a scrap of affection.
Wow, she has guts- Prince was a very important person who could have thrown her into an insane asylum for no reason as soon as you could say, "sexist pig".
You may, because I know of your ever-soaring and insecure self-esteem…
My regard for this woman swells with every word.
…conclude that this is because I do not care for you. You would be infinitely wrong. I do care for you. You would be an imbecile to think otherwise. I love you, and that is much more that I can say than the other little tarts that cling to you from their drugged-like infatuation. It is entirely of the reason that I love you that I must beckon you to leave me be. You will be angry with me for a long time, you might even hate me. I'm entitling you to hold one of the Prince's very long-standing, nearly permanent grudges on me. That's fine. Hate me if you like, but never say that I don't love you.
My eyebrows skyrocket to the top of my forehead- apparently this was a bit more than a fling. I wonder if William ever knew. Mary Potter… it's not her maiden name… that must mean she had already married him.
You are a lonely old man, Mr. Prince. You spend your time chasing girls and reading books and pretending that you are young. But you can't keep this flirtatious game up when your in one of your own mental wards at ninety-three. When I first met you, I found your mature-and-yet-youthful air charming. But you shouldn't pretend to be something you're not- you are a handsome, aging, married man falling towards his eventual death with grace and dignity. You are not a bachelor in his twenties. You are a kind gentleman. You are not a noble entitled to treating others as if they are beneath you (that includes your house elves, your servants and your wife).
I think perhaps that it is your own mortal fear of your age that keeps you running after these young women. And if that is true then it is a very foolish fear indeed. When you see yourself in the mirror you should not quiver at your wrinkles and gasp at your ever-whitening hair. You should see a handsome, beautiful man who is aging into adulthood like fine wine.
The way she says this makes one of the last pureblood noblemen in the wizarding world sound very pathetic. His suit weighs into my skin. I feel like I've aged twenty years, crouching on the floor of my muggle father's house. My heart quivers as if it were Mr. Prince's.
You are also kind and vulnerable, despite your sarcastic attempts to make yourself seem aloof and unreachable, harsh and unsympathetic, cool and composed. You care about other people, about your wife even, more than you would ever like them to know. It unsettles you. Though your occlumency skills and defense mechanisms attempt to shield you from harm, that heart that beats in your bosom is as ginger and fragile as a five-year-old's.
And I love that heart. I wish you would not shield it so thoroughly from view. I feel like I am the only one in years to get a glimpse of that kindness, and it is a true shame. I wish for you to share it with whomever you feel worthy.
The ink is blotchy in this area of the page, wet droplets dot the next paragraph. Tear stains? I hardly think Mary Potter had cried while writing it. I can imagine him now, my grandfather, crying over this little sheet of paper, maybe in the same suit that I wear now…
But I am not that person. I love you more than I could say, but I am not meant to be your l-ver o-your wife.
Spots smear some of the letters. It's difficult to make out-
Hate me because I am selfish. I love W—liam. He's my s—lmate. He's the other half I ne—r knew I was m-ssing. We're mar-ied and I can'- wa-t to have his ch—dren. We'-e going to h—e a family. We're already so happy together, difficult though you may find that to understand.
She broke his damned old heart. I feel it cracking in my own chest.
My wish is that you will someday find the sort of happiness that I have found with William. But until then I cannot sympathize an old, kind man who is looking everywhere in the world for affection except for in his own home. You must learn to love yourself first before I can ever begin to become close to you.
Your despised friend,
Mary Potter
P.S. Please don't come to my house again.
I let out a breath that I'd been holding.
My first thought is of Lily…
This could be then same letter, but with different addresses. The letters switch to more recent ones in front of my eyes: To my most pathetic and detestable Mr. Snape, Your once-best Friend, Lily Potter. I love J-mes. He's the other half I ne—r knew I was m-ssing. I stop myself before I crumple the decades old parchment in my fist. I set it gingerly back into the fold of the envelope and lay it in the trunk.
I am that man. The heartache is as much mine as his. I have his low self-confidence and his five-year-old heart. He believes that only one person in the world could ever thaw the icy castle surrounding his ginger, protected heart… and that one person is so far out of reach…
My heartbeat struggles to become regular again. It thumps beneath my grandfather's suit that I wish didn't fit me so well.
It feels like the letter had been addressed to me. That all of the words unsaid between me and Lily have already been stated by Mary Potter. We are over. I should've known this from the moment she left me naked in my apartment. I feel like I'm giving up on the girl of my dreams. Lily hasn't talked to me since James' and my fight in that alley outside of the Warehouse. And now seeing her analogous perspective in a different time, a different place, makes me realize why. She doesn't love me. She couldn't love a person who can't love himself. She finds me pathetic and forlorn. It's all here, on paper, in this trunk. Her and James are going to ride off in the sunset and…
But there is a difference in our stories:
James.
He's my lover. My heart swells in an odd triumph. Somebody loves me. James loves me. And I love him too. See, Lily Evans? I can love and be loved. It's well within my power. I'm not nearly as pathetic as you think.
I smile as my thoughts wander to James, his goofy grin popping into my mind. It makes me feel warm and tingly when I think of him, where thinking of Lily makes me feel cold and damp like a cat left out in the rain. I don't understand it, this strange and opposite way to love a person. I suddenly feel the need to see his face again. What am I doing in this attic anyway? Pulling on the shoes, I close the trunk with a snap, catching a final glimpse of myself in the rusty silver mirror.
A small portrait labeled Edward Prince III hangs on the wall behind it. My grandfather is depicted in his early twenties. He looks like my twin, wearing the same clothes, the same nose and eyebrows, the same boots, the same pallid visage… he opens his mouth to say something to me…
I apparate.
James' front door is a welcome sight. I thump my knuckles against thick, white-washed wood, and realize too late that it's only 4:30. I'm a half an hour early. Oh well. He can suffer through my company for an extra half hour. I stuff my hands in the silk-lined pockets, growing hot in the retreating sun.
James opens the door, squinting into space with a confused expression.
He looks remarkably handsome. An oxford collar lines his thick neck, his polo shirt taught and thin around his square muscular shoulders. A plaid sweater-vest tugs around his midsection, hiding the tight abs underneath. The thin, ironed, almost white khaki pants ride high on his hips, one of the tails of his polo spills over the brown belt around his middle, not tucked in. His eyes and hair reflect a different shade of brown in the lazy sunset, a sort of golden auburn but mixed in with the colors of honey, rust, sand and twilit. It takes me a moment to realize that the reason his boyish face seems a bit rounder and more handsome is because the black glasses on his nose are conspicuously missing.
"Oh bugger." He mumbles.
I'm so wrapped up in his handsome appearance that I almost don't catch this expression of dislike. A small grin tugs his lips, squaring the muscles in his jaw so that he looks like the muggle Superman. His masculinity is bowling me over. "Nice to see you too," I say, my figurative tail between my legs. I'll probably look like a freak next to him.
"No, it's just…" his grin widens and he tries to wipe it off with two fingers, "I forgot to tell you that it was a muggle party."
Well, that would be an essential bit of information. Looking down at my black robes and boots, I feel immensely foolish and regret ever putting them on, ever coming to know about Mr. Prince and Mary. "I'll go back and change, then."
"No, wait," His wide, sweaty palm grasps my arm as I retreat. His eyes graze over my robes, taking in every gothic detail. I blush, feeling embarrassed at the puffy shirt sticking out of my sleeve. "You look…" he says, voice as hot as the air around us, "good." His newly colorful eyes pour up and down my outfit. Suddenly I feel like I'm not wearing anything at all.
He pulls me inside. As my eyes adjust to the dark hall, I feel a slobbery kiss on my bottom lip. James has me lined up against the inside of the door, sending dribbles of kisses down my jaw. "James…" I blush crimson, "get a hold of yourself, you bloody animal."
"Can't help it," he keens around my earlobe, "too sexy for your own good."
Doesn't he understand that he's the sexy one? I push him, softly, off me, smoothing my wet mouth with my knuckles, mind going abruptly to, what if his mother saw us here? Somehow I think she would be accepting…
He clutches my cool hand in his warm one. I raise my eyebrows, and smirk.
"You've got plenty of time to change anyway."
I don't know why he feels the need to conspiratorially whisper his hot breath in my ear, even though this information is hardly secret. He begins to tug me in the direction of the lightened kitchen, the smell of rhubarb pie wafting into my nostrils. "I thought the party is at five o'clock…" I whisper back.
"It is," says James, "but it's Potter legacy to arrive fashionably late. No time sooner than seven would do."
"Ah. So now I'm two and a half hours early. Brilliant."
At this he turns, twirling a strand of my hair around his finger, "Surely there's something we can do to pass the time."
My face feels a hundred degrees hotter as he lets go of my hair and pokes his head into the kitchen.
"Need our help, mum?"
She doesn't answer. The noise of the kitchen, pots and pans clanging as they clean themselves in the sink, the mechanical noise of the fan in the corner of the room, the gibbering of a house elf, and the soft whuuurr of a muggle egg-beater swirling in a bowl by itself drown out his voice. She is carrying a glass bowl of freshly chopped strawberries, waltzing towards us. She looks down into her work, pleased, and suddenly sees me in my grandfather's robes and drops it.
Her dark eyes open up like the iris of a lens. The contents of the bowl splatter across the floor, across her ankles. Red juice sprays into the air, too bright to be blood. The glass cracks in half. That second lasts for an eternity; I can see the mistake in her eyes. I stand here before her like a ghost of her past, and she feels the sudden rush of inertia… as if time had stopped and her son, and William had passed her in history and she is but a girl and I am standing here, the devil, Mr. Prince. The moment passes when she emits a little, "Oh!" realizing it's just me, just Severus. She shudders out a little laugh, "You frightened me, dear."
She bends over, taking the towel from her shoulder and begins to sop up the mess, but her son is there within two seconds, wand out, insisting quietly that she not bend over with that bad hip. His khaki pants press to the floor as he kneels down to scourgify the remains.
"Mr. Potter," I say and nod to the bearded man who is sitting in the corner of the kitchen, cutting strawberries and cleaning blackberries. "Mrs. Potter," I nod to the woman who is gingerly picking herself upright. That comment my mum had made about my manners had left somewhat of a scar on my ego. I'm trying to be as polite as possible.
Suddenly, Mary Potter's ragged face breaks into a smile and she gives me a limp-wrist hug, patting me twice on the shoulder. "Severus," she grins, "no need to be so formal." She eyes my attire, "Look at you, dressed to the nines." Begging me to give an explanation with her eyes, she clutches my arm a bit too tight.
"Found it in the attic," I mutter, feigning innocence, but silently scolding myself for my insensitivity. I should have changed…
"Oh," she says, "It must've been your grandfather's." She fingers the cuffs and the sleeve somewhat lovingly. "I recognized it, you see."
We're skating on slim ice.
Potter and his father are across the room, slicing strawberries and berries and eating every third or fourth. They both look as giddy as schoolboys, popping berries in their mouths, staining their fingertips with red and blue… while Mary Potter is speaking in loud tones about her adultery and young infatuation.
"Did you?"
"You look so much like him," she says with a womanly sigh. "You don't speak with your grandfather, do you?" It was a statement more than a question. "Eileen estranged him before you were born."
I nod, not really sure what she is getting at.
"Shame," she whispers.
I defensively bite my lip, "It's not like I don't want to talk to him; he doesn't want to speak to me. The first time I spoke to him I was five and he boxed my ears."
Her wrinkled lips press together tightly, and she smoothes the edge of the velvet sleeve. "He's a harsh, unforgiving man. He throws daggers at whoever wants to be too emotionally close to him. But underneath he is actually sweet and tender. He just can't handle heartache." Her single white eyebrow raises and she glances at her son, whose rosy lips are wrapped around a strawberry, eyes glittering in the direction of the window, and then at me, who, blushing, notices the pointed accusation in her stare. "Not unlike someone we both know."
I feel like I should apologize to her, though what for and how I don't know.
I glance at James again, as his father slaps his wrist when his hand tries to wander into the bowl again. He grins sheepishly and winks at me.
She grips my arm, the sudden squeeze as hard and as wincing as that muggle contraption that doctors use to check your blood pressure. She pulls me down to her height. "You love him… don't you?" she whispers her old breath in my ear.
My heart squeezes so painfully that my eyes tear of their own accord. Very slightly, I nod. Her grip loosens as if the contraption were letting out steam. When she backs away from my ear, I see that the bottom eyelids of her mascara-covered eyes have become dripping. She grins, and the wrinkles around her mouth become smooth in the action. She pats my cheek. Grabbing a straying strand of black hair with two fingers, she pulls it behind my ear fondly. It's such a motherly motion that no one has done to me in a long time.
"Thought so. You two will be good for each other," she whispers, playing with my hair still. Not for the first time, I wonder what I've done to gain her blatant approval…
"Mum…" James says, mouth covered in red juice, "you don't seem to need us, so can we go upstairs? Please?" She grips my wrist tightly for a moment, and then nods to her son. She grabs a napkin.
"Get over here first," Mrs. Potter wipes his son's juicy chin.
"Aw, mum," James blushes like a ten-year-old as she licks the napkin and tenderly dabs the corner of his mouth. "Stop it." Perhaps he had been planning for me to lick it off.
She leaves a kiss on James's cheek, where a big red lipstick smudge remains. He rubs it off with the back of his hand and skips toward the door, clutching my hand. He's such a boy.
My heart races. I bound through the door.
I've got Severus here. In my room. For two hours.
I'm hard already.
You don't understand, though. I've spent the past three days wanking. In the shower. In my bed at the middle of the night. On the toilet. At my desk. Envisioning his pale body over me, his lips devouring mine. He drives me crazy. The blood in my system immediately went to my groin the moment he walked through my door.
About two days ago, when I could deny my attraction no longer, I decided against my better judgment to journey down to an adult bookstore in Knockturn Alley (by the dubious name of Which Wand), and to read up on the subject that I knew so little about. I've spent my teenage years sticking my fingers in my ears whenever somebody but mentioned sex with another wizard. When it comes to the mechanics, I remained woefully ignorant.
Well. No longer. Blushing like a tomato, I stuffed my arms with Karma Sutra for the Gay Male, How to Wax Your Partner's Wand: A Guide for Wonky Wizards, and a copy of a lewd magazine called Lucky Warlocks. On the cover of Lucky Warlocks was a very tattooed man that had Snape's hair and a wanton expression lying in the grass. Horrified by the idea of purchasing only these items, I added to my pile Transfiguration Today and a book of Dark but Not Dangerous Magic (which looked dangerous, a upside-down pentagram decorated the cover), and… after some consideration, a Charm book that included a section on sexual spells. So, at least when checking out I appeared as a smart, well-educated horny homosexual, rather than just a horny homosexual.
I brought them home in a paper bag, and when Dad asked me what it was I just said, "Light reading." I cursed the drawer of my desk so that only I can open it and everybody else would suddenly remember a dentist appointment and run out the door.
Hence, more wanking. And more well-educated wanking. I now have some idea of how it all works, positions, frotting, blowjobs, and the like… but I have a feeling that reading up on it will hardly make a difference… I'm still probably going to be a bumbling idiot…
I mean… I don't even know if I prefer bottom or top! I, tentatively, hypothetically, asked Sirius about it… I mean… which one he was, and he told me, unabashedly, "Oh, I'm a bottom. Why do you ask?"
Trying not to get caught with my real intentions, I asked, "Well, what made you so sure?" He blushed. I blushed. It was very awkward.
"Well, you know… I just… liked being touched there," he said.
"Where?" I had asked, befuddled.
"You know," he ran his fingers through his smooth hair. "Just, don't make me say it, you pounce."
We then moved to different topics of conversation, Sirius talking at length about Remus and his hair. Yuck.
Later in my room by myself, I figured out what the hullabaloo was about. There. Lifting my knee to the corner of my desk after one very long, hot shower, I touched myself there. I felt the breath leave my lungs. Stoking myself with one hand, the nail of one finger skated over that tight, sacred ring of muscle, I gasped, my lips hanging open. Never had I ever touched myself in such a strange and awkward spot. It felt so indecent. So good.
In my head I knew that nobody should touch a man there, but when I imagined Severus's finger there instead of my own, padding at my opening, I came with a muffled cry, spilling on my chest.
James Potter touched himself there. And he imagined Severus Snape doing it.
And he came.
What is the world coming to these days? In any case. I still really don't know if that makes me a "bottom" or not. Surely I'll find out.
And now Severus is standing in front of me in a made-by-the-devil-God-of-sex outfit with a smirk on his face and I'm about to burst with sexual energy streaming out of my pores.
"You should probably take those clothes off," I suggest, trying to stay cool and coy.
"Probably," he seems a little too pensive right now. Severus, honestly. Less thinking, more sex. He gives a sheepish grin and begins to unbutton the mammoth clasps.
I feel myself sit on the bed, readying myself. I'm more excited than ever just by the sight of his pale neck emerging from the high collar. That translucent bit of skin is so erotic.
"Mind averting your gaze, Prince Potter?" Severus mutters, while unbuttoning the next clasp. The edge of his collarbone pokes over the drooping collar.
I wriggle to the edge of my seat, "No, I'd rather not."
He finally notices the bulge straining out of my trousers. He raises one black, snarky (gods he's so sexy) eyebrow. "Want a lap dance too?" his low sardonic voice reveals the faintest hint of annoyance.
Uh-oh, he sounds angry. "Whatever you're in the mood for." I palm myself through the light fabric at my crotch.
He rolls his eyes and grins, as though he thought I was the funniest thing in the world but wants to hide it. The next button pops loose. His bare breast seems to glow like an opal, one side of his robe falling down his shoulder. A dark nipple is rubbing against the edge of his robe. He stands before me, the thick black cloth hanging off of his body, chest pale as moonlight. I lick my lips. My mirror in the corner of the room reflects his back, his long slender neck and the smooth black hair skating over it. He looks like a creature of the night, a geisha, a harlot… it hurts to breath.
His cool, thin fingers grip the fabric of my pants, nails diving into my kneecap. I jump. His other palm smoothes over the top of my thigh, maintaining a respectable distance from my groin, but the blood still flows there, chilled by his cold hands. He lowers his head, pieces of hair flittering over his face.
He kisses me, tenderly at first. His tongue dabs at my lips, gaining entry, and diving into my mouth, tasting like chocolate and mint. He bites my bottom lip. When I moan, his tongue thrusts further into the back of my mouth. His canine dives into my tender flesh, leaving a mark but not making it bleed. He drives me crazy.
A strange wave of inertia rocks my center and even though I can't see my surroundings I can feel myself falling backward. I hit the mattress. My legs widen of their own accord. His hot, hot, silky tongue flitters against mine. I chance a glance up at him as he draws for breath. He's bent nearly double, hands digging into the mattress to stay upright. "Severus…" I whisper, barely a breath.
His cold fingers sting on my neck, just below my jawbone. He could choke me, but the motion of his fingers feels so gentle. He licks the hollow, indented skin where my bottom lip becomes chin, no doubt tasting aftershave and slight stubble. My mouth opens wide, wishing silently for his lips to return to mine. He bites my jaw. With a sudden daring, I jerk my hips upwards, nearly a meter off of the bed. I find the warmth at his hips, rubbing myself at that mysterious pulsating something between his lean legs.
He gasps. His hips thrust downward and pin me to the bed. He sends shivers of thrusts that make my hips sink into the mattress. I cannot move. When his tongue finally meets mine again I let out a moan of contentment. A stray strand of spittle strings between out tongues. The very tip of his tongue flutters against the tip of mine. He holds down my chin, the tease.
I rub against him more firmly, pants becoming tight. Our lips mesh together again tongues dueling against each other.
His little thrusts push me deeper and deeper into the mattress, until he says, "Fuckin'… take that off…" He yanks my well-pressed shirt out of my trousers and unbuckles my belt. "Mm… all of that."
Obediently I pull my shirt off, hastily popping a button across the room as I do so. His cold palm touches my penis through my pants. I let out a moan.
"Shh…" he says, one finger on my lip, pulling his wand out of his sleeve and casting a quick Silencio on the doors and walls and floors. "Quiet down, you don't want your parents to walk in on us?"
"Lock the door too," I say as for good measure. "Please."
The Slytherin's snarky grin widens at my quiet plea. "So polite," he says, but he does it all the same.
I lick my lips. His hot tongue dabs in a circle around my tightening nipple. He bites me. "Harder…" I whisper, face burning because that is such a girly thing to say.
His knees hit the carpet with a dull thud. I pull my zipper down with haste as he gingerly unbuttons the clasp. His big, beaky nose is at my crotch, sniffing with gulping breaths the stench of my manhood through my underwear. My blood turns to mercury.
"Shall we resume where we left off?"
I give a shameful smile as he strips me of my socks and pants and underwear. I stretch back across the bed, stuffing my face into the crook of my arm.
"Gods, you're gorgeous," he whispers against the head of my penis.
Gorgeous makes me feel like one of those blond movie stars or witches preparing for a ball. It makes me think of too much makeup and frilly dresses. Suddenly I feel so pouncy. "No I'm not," I blush to my ears.
He licks me, from base to tip. I suck air through my teeth.
Severus' eyelids flutter open, "Mmm…" he licks, "but you are. You're bloody… fucking… beautiful."
With that, he twitches my left nipple with one hand. I feel so naked.
"You're not still mad at me, are you?"
The question came bursting out of my lips. What timing, James, honestly…
Snape's deep black eyes grow wide, looking mildly concerned. "What about?"
What a time for this! Honestly, James, can't you wait a few more minutes, till, say, we're done having sex?
But I can still hear, I hate you more than I love her, in my ears, and I feel naked and used at that thought. Am I going to sleep with someone who hates me?
When I don't answer, he raises one eyebrow, but not in the snarky, sexy way as before. His look is shrewd, cold. "James…" he said my name again. Damn myself, my cock is trickling pre-come. "What's this all about?"
My cheeks burn. "Nevermind… I dunno…" I lay further back on the bed. "I just-"
The soft, kind touches on my thigh, and his big eyes, dark egg me on. "What?"
"Ijustthinkyoustillhateme, that's all."
"Hate you?" His mouth hangs open for a moment.
I swing my head away, not meeting his eyes, eyelids burning.
"James," he whispers soothingly. I feel his fingertips brush through my bangs, and at the small cool space behind my earlobe; he motherly pushes my hair out of my face. When I chance a glance he is smiling. "You know I don't."
My eyebrows knit together. "You don't?" He shakes his head as I hum in remembrance of all the bad things in that notebook that I'd done to him.
"Not really. Not anymore."
"Really?" I mumble.
"No…" when he touches my ear my whole body shivers. "Let's be honest. I've not forgiven you of everything you did at school, but look…" he grasps my chin and tugs it in his direction. He's smiling slightly, that honest grin. "You're a different person than you were then. Even your face has changed."
His smooth cool palms hold up my face as he kisses me on the forehead. The soft "smech" sound permeates the room.
"I want to hear you say it," I demand. Go on, say it. Say that you love me.
He frowns, knowing exactly the phrase I want to hear.
"Please. You know the whole 'I-want-to-say-it-when-I-mean-it' thing is just a way for guys to shut up their girlfriends anyway. I want you to say it."
My heartbeat is fluttering fifty times a second. Please.
"Is that what you really want?" He whispers, fingers trailing up and down my thighs, "This… us?"
"Yes," I whisper, "Of course."
His lips quirk into small smile. Fingernails scrape down my chest. I let out a hiss. He finally, finally, touches me there. As one hand grips my still-hard penis, thumb running over the slit, the other fingers run over my cleft. His pinky finger pads over the opening, one pointed nail biting into flesh.
He leans over, running his teeth over my ginger earlobe, and whispers, "I love you." His hot breath steams the inside of my ear, turning my brains into soup. The words puff into my ear again and again like a mantra. "I love you, I love you, I love you…"the hand on my cock moving with that rhythm.
I nearly come.
And then he invades me, the fingernail at my entrance bites underneath the surface and I let out a holler so loud that I think thank God for silencing charms. His hand clutches over my mouth to stifle me anyway, and then his middle finger dips between my lips. I coat his finger with spit as his fucks his finger in my mouth all the way to the second knuckle. "Mmph!" I mummer. The dry finger gingerly probing my arsehole circles the muscle gently.
"So fucking beautiful…" Severus mutters, "Gods, you don't even know."
There's so many other things that I want to say back to him, like No one has ever done this to me, and you're the only one who ever made me feel so complete… but his fingers are fucking my mouth, and all I can do is moan, eyes rolling into the back of my head.
He removes his slippery fingers and his second hand begins to lazily stroke my cock nice and slow. "Gods, I love looking at you like this, so beautiful." From his angle he has a view of my asshole, which he is dabbing with his now-wet fingers, of my long hard cock, wanting him, of my chest, curling like a woman's, and of my face, wanton, fearful, in love. He drinks me in with his eyes greedily. "You're the only one…" he muffles the rest of his sentence in my crotch.
And suddenly… rippling pain, stretching and itching in that scarcely touched part of me. I let out a whimper of pain. He licks my cock at the head to appease me.
He has two fingers in my arse. His tongue dabs at the base of my cock. He makes long swipes from base to tip. He fucks me with his fingers.
The ripping, itching, pleasurable, rhythmic motions inside my hole shouldn't feel good, but they do. Sweet butterfly kisses stroke the head of my cock. It sends jolts all through my body. He licks it, and then fucks me deep, switching it into and alternating pattern of lick, fuck, lick…his eyes flutter closed…fuck, lick, deeper fuck, swirl around the head. My body totters in a see-saw of deep pleasurable emotion. Lick, fuck… until his smooth, hot lips tentatively wrap themselves around the head and he jolts his fingers all the way into me at the same time. "Ahh!" I moan, throwing my head back as my eyes roll back into my head. He fucks me harder, deeper.
He pauses and looks up at me with that Cheshire-cat stare, his lips abused and rosy red, "Like that?" His fingers dive into me, as far as they can go. But I realize they're only his ring and pinky fingers (Gods, they felt so big!) when he takes them out and swipes the pad of his middle finger across my opening. He's not going to suck me unless I say something.
"Yes, god damn it, yes, alright! Just…"
"Just what?" His big middle finger pushes further into my stretched hole, the wetness of spit making it more comforting. He swipes his tongue across my sac and I scream into the pillow. Further and further, deeper and deeper, "You like me fucking you don't you?" As if he needs me to say it. My thighs, widening for him is all the permission he needs…
He's staring at his own finger, coming in and out of my hole. He bites the inside of my right thigh when I don't respond.
"Go on. Say it. You like Severus Snape's fingers in your tight arse."
"Hmmm… ahhh…." His finger hits something and my entire body contracts.
"Say it!"
"Yes!"
He licks me from my sac to the tip of my penis. "Yes, what?"
"Oh! Severus, just-"
"Just what?"
"Fuck me!"
His eyes widen and his jaw loosens. He hadn't expected us to go so far, and suddenly I'm embarrassed for saying it.
But he smiles and pounds his middle finger into me, "Would you like that?" he whispers hotly, as if the idea was driving him wild, too. "Would you like my slimy, slytherin dick in your arse, you whore?" My mind tells me that I should be offended when he calls me a whore. I'm just turned on, more than I've ever been, and he knows it. His eyes are deep, black wells because his irises are so dilated. He's still wearing that mischievous grin. I feel like I'm hyperventilating from the panic of that's so hot, but I'm not ready! For a second my body tenses from the fear I feel… will it hurt? Sirius said it might hurt…
But Severus is inhaling the scent of my manhood with his big nostrils, sinking his nose into my black pubic hair, fucking me relentlessly with his finger, touching that… oh, really good… spot every time. "Severus," I whimper, trying to convey my nervousness. "I don't…"
Severus takes the head of my dick in his mouth and the lost "…think I'm ready" becomes a deep, throaty moan. He takes me in a little deeper, head bobbing up and down. Jerking me off with one hand, his eyes find mine as he licks along a vein along the side. "You would like that, wouldn't you, you little slut?"
Yeah, I would, I think to myself, the fear still there in my chest but somehow warm and welcome. "Sev… uuhhhhh…"
He takes my whole length in his mouth, and slips a second finger in, a bigger one. My hole twitches in pain but soon familiarizes the steady burn. His tongue is doing wicked things to my penis, wicked things that Lily would never be able to do…
"Sev!" I cry.
His head is bobbing up and down, faster and faster. Lips forming a tight ring around my penis, "Uhhhnng… Sev!" I feel the pressure forming in my balls. I might come at any moment…
He pulls off of me with a "pop", searching and finding that spot inside me again. He searches the room with his eyes. I stuff my face into my pillow, focusing all my attention on the rippling pleasure inside me, further inside than anyone has been. I rotate against his fingers when he stills inside me. I'm not supposed to like this so much. Severus's smooth, supple fingers are almost touching my soul through the flesh. "Uhh. Oh gods, Sev. You're so good." He smirks, as if to say, I know, but just wait. Fingers squeeze out of me, slipping off and leaving my hole wide and wanting, empty; I let out a whimpering plea of a sound. He kisses the inside of my thigh. Lunging upwards, he saunters, walking with difficulty to the corner of the room where my Nimbus lays against my desk. He grasps it, looking back at me with a ridiculous mischievous arousal in his eyes.
A broomstick?
But then he limply walks across the room feeling the delicate, perfectly rounded end. I had sandpapered it again and again until it ceased to give me such harsh calloused blisters where I gripped it. And now it is smooth and soft under the touch, the rounded end smooth as a…
Oh, God.
His grins widens as I gape at him. Pulling his wand out of one of the pockets from the inside of his robes, he casts a silent, hissing spell, and the end of broomstick seems to glisten. He claws one thigh, nails digging into the fatty underside, preventing me from wriggling away.
"No!" I say resolutely.
He pouts. "Aw, come one now. You've always liked quidditch." I let out a mewl of annoyance as the rounded head rubs against my agape hole.
He licks one nipple with the small tip of his tongue. "Mmm… you were always good at riding the broom, weren't you?" He smirks. The broomstick pushes inward, much bigger than his fingers, than anything that was ever put there before…
I have the strangest feeling. Even though he said he loved me, I feel like this is another way of having sick, sweet revenge.
All those years I flaunted over being a quidditch star, the proud jock of Gryffindor… and here I am writhing underneath him as he fucks me with my broom. It must be savagely wonderful knowing that however powerful I was over him, he is now so completely powerful over me. I wriggle limply underneath him, like a puppet on loose strings. With the thing I was most proud of, he fucks me. Not just with some odd object, but with the source of my boyish pride. And to add insult to injury…
…I like it. I like it a lot.
However much I want to deny it and say no and scream rape, my cock on my stomach is trickling pre-cum all along my abs. My abs that I got from playing quidditch. "Buggering fucking fuck!" I mutter. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I attempt to push his shoulders away. At that he lifts his wand. Wordlessly, my wrists attach themselves to the headboard.
I, the main popular jock of Hogwarts, have never felt so vulnerable. "Severus…" I whisper. Rotating my hips, I join him as he fucks me with calculated perfection. "Huh!"
His body leaves mine for the second time. I watch with eyes hooded by lust as he pulls the beautiful black robes over his head, his hairless chest taught with the action. He wriggles out of his underwear as it falls to the floor. My face falls in shock. I can't help it.
I had never really gotten a good look at his hard cock before. Even when I threatened to pull off his trousers at Hogwarts, he had always given in by that point, as if embarrassed. I had always assessed that that meant he had a very small penis. How wrong I was.
It's gigantic. No, gigantic wouldn't even begin to describe… I had thought my penis size was very large, and that I was well endowed. His is nearly two inches longer, and really thick… He described mine as big? Well, his is huge! Way back inside the animal part of my brain this makes me angry for some reason. But at the sight of his monster cock mine twitches contentedly.
He grins sheepishly at my gasping face, pulling his manhood through his fingers. He eyes mine with a certain savage longing. He leans over me. Once again our tongues entangle, his wriggling and slithering into my mouth. My balls tighten again. Incredible heat, as he finally moves on top of me. I gasp and writhe against the headboard, as his sweet, silky, hard cock comes in contact with mine. "Ohhh!" Around the broomstick still logged in my arse, the ring of muscles tightens. His whole body and all of it's warmth touches mine, from his arms wrapping around my back, to his nipples poking against my chest, to our long, flat stomachs against each other. All to soon I let out an uncontrollable cry.
His hand worms between us, grasping our cocks in his now hot palm. It takes one-two-three strokes and I'm orgasming, coming in silky white strings, all over our stomachs. "Ahhh! SEV!" My whole body shudders and seizes up against him, lips hanging wide and loose. Damn it, I came too quickly.
His eyes flutter close, and his drives his face onto my neck whispering nothings like, "God so good", "Holy Merlin", "James" and "I love you." He thrusts against me through my orgasm, coming in spurts shortly after. His come mixes with mine on my stomach. I've never felt so complete.
He gasps, dead weight falling on top of me. "James…" he kisses me, pulling the broom out of my sore pucker without moving off me and whispering a counter curse so that my hands fall, wobbling, to my side. Our cocks make a funny nose when they squelch wetly together. He cleans my chest with a near-by tissue. Light touches that make me shiver… he falls against me.
Deep, calm breaths against my neck.
I whisper, "I love you too."
And I fall asleep.
My eyelids flutter. I let out a sigh as I see James's closed eyes, his handsome, naked form against mine. We must've fallen asleep. I nudge my overlong pointed nose against his boyish one. His hair is sweaty and askew, sticking to his forehead. I gently touch his forehead, rubbing the hairs out of his calm face. He looks so young when he's asleep. Luckily I didn't wake him up by my snoring this time.
I crane my neck to see the clock on the side of his bed. 18:00. We'd better get up. If James is anything like me, then he probably doesn't like waking up abruptly. I tap his forehead more firmly. Between his eyebrows the crease deepens, but he doesn't wake up.
"James…" I whisper. Now that we are, somewhat officially, lovers (gag me, I hate saying it like that- it makes us sound like characters in a bad witch romance novel) perhaps it would be pertinent for me to come up with a pet name. But I can't imagine ever calling him honey, love or sweetie. It's just too disgustingly sweet and sugarcoated. Even though I want to forget all of what happened at school, I still can't call him anything so vomit-inducing. Beloved is a bit more serious, but far too Shakespearean. Maybe since he loves Americans so much I should start calling him Baby. I smirk to myself. Hey James, baby, come over here. I'm sure he'd love that…
Sniggering to myself giddily, I reason that there are worse ones, like booboo and Pookie, but I'm sure if I used anything as bad as baby he would hit me. I'd deserve it. But then there is a better term. I wish I had thought of it before:
"Darling," I say. It rolls off my tongue. There's something sort of masculine and official about it, like Sir Soul mate or Mr. Lover. Not too cute, not too vain… Darling. It's perfect.
Brown eyes peak behind tired eyelids. He smiles happily.
He seems to like it too. I grin a little. He exhales a large breath, stretching his whole body, his toes, his back, and his arms link over his head. "Hi," he whispers. I rub my nose against his again. "What time is it?" His breath skates over my face.
"Time to get up."
He rolls his eyes.
"After six," I say. "And we'd better get dressed… erm… again." I run my fingers through the black-and-brown hair, tugging at the little hairs on the back of his neck. "Sorry I had to go and ruin your beautiful outfit. You looked so handsome earlier."
He makes a hurt expression, his bottom lip bulging.
"…not… that you don't look beautiful now," I purse my lips. "It just might not be proper etiquette if you went to the party naked."
This sends James into a fit of giggles, his nose scrunching up, looking kissable. He laughs for quite longer than usual. "I'm sorry… I just can imagine everyone's face when I go up for trifle completely stalkers."
The image of James Potter standing behind some poor old man in queue for pudding, his tall nude body looming over him with a natural grin plastered to his face permeates my brain.
"No, we can't have that," I pat his bum under the sheets. He leans in for a very shivery, and a very giggly kiss. His shoulders shake with laughter even as he tries to keep his lips still. I kiss back.
My lone, indecent finger worms between his cheeks to check on the wide, ruby-red opening. I pad the loose, hot hole as gingerly as if I were petting a robin's wing. He hisses air through his teeth and I wonder if this is good or bad, "Sore?" I mumble.
I feel blood returning downwards at the thought.
"What made you use the broom?" he asks with accusing eyes.
My face cracks a smile before I try to hide it. "Actually, I had dreamt of impaling you with your own broom when we were at Hogwarts. After you had hit me and made my armpit hair grow to my ankles, remember that one?"
"Er…" he pales, "I think Sirius thought of that."
"Anyway. I thought about taking revenge by trying to come up with a spell that made your broom go through your entire body, so that one day at quidditch practice I would hit you with it, and it would shoot through so that the tail would come up to your ass." James looks stricken, as if he doesn't know whether to laugh or tell me that's morbid, disgusting and dark. So I continue, "And then I saw your broom in the corner… and I thought, well here's a revenge fantasy that can come to fruition! Maybe not the exact way I had planned it with your brains going out your nose, but…"
"Sorry to have failed your expectations," he mutters, looking downtrodden.
"No, no. This was sufficiently better. I never expected to get revenge and get off at the same time," I beam. "Not to mention, that I don't want to spoil those beautiful brains anymore."
"Well if you want revenges so much w…"He bit out before I had said beautiful brains. "W-why's that?"
I trail a hand and push his hair out of his eyes, touching that hot, blushing forehead with a few fingers. "I dunno. There are some things in there I like." I give him a sheepish smile.
"Really?" He asks, eyelids drooping, looking sleepy again.
"Well, sure. But it's really the heart that I don't want to damage. I need that."
In my mind's eye I see a cedar wooden box in my desk labeled "James's Heart", locked and kept for safe-keeping, where inside lies a still-beating bit of raw tissue. And then I remember that I've said something sweet.
He locks his lips to mine.
"Love it when you talk like that," he says breathlessly.
Five kisses in quick succession grace my lips. He wriggles his hips against mine and I realize that he's half-hard again already. I blush, realizing that I'm getting hard again too. "James!"
He makes a disparaging noise.
"We have to go to the party."
Rolling into an upright position, he lets out a moan like an old man, and starts dressing, socks first, rolling thick polo socks over hairy legs. His whole body is covered with a sheen of sweat. I watch his taught back, leaning on one fist.
And then suddenly I remember why we we're going to his room in the first place, "Fuck."
"What?" He asks.
"Forgot," I land a slobbery kiss on his shoulder, "May I borrow some of your clothes, please?" I straddle behind him, holding his waist and kissing along the back of his neck. His shoulders wriggle into gooseflesh.
James shivers, pants in one hand and shirt in the other.
"Erm…" he blushes, sliding on his underwear while I remain naked behind him. "Do you think you will fit?"
He has a point. I'm thinner around the shoulders and slightly taller. Not to mention I have gigantic clown feet compared to him.
After he dresses himself in pants and his now-wrinkled polo shirt, we try an extra pair of his khakis. They're highwaters on me. My hairy ankles show beneath them. His shirts are too wide around the collar and shoulders and too short in the sleeves…
He sighs. "Be right back," he says mysteriously.
I sit on his bed, wearing a pair of tight highwater trousers that make me look like a teenage boy. I stare scowling at my reflection in the full-length mirror. A big shirt hangs on my shoulders. I feel sixteen again.
I hope he isn't scared of me now, with the broom thing. I thought he would like it. He did like it. But to say it I didn't do it out of hatred would be lying.
Mary Potter's lipstick-ed grin peeks through the door, she beckons me to her with one wrinkled knuckle. I leap up like a boy being called his name in kindergarten. James is blushing outside the door, scratching his elbow vicariously.
"I've got just the thing," she whispers vaguely. I just remember that she's talking about clothes, "Come with me, Severus."
"Mum," says James. "Can you fix my button?" He points towards his stomach. A loose string hangs where another button should be on his shirt. We must've ripped it off in our passion.
She stares at his shirt, concentrating hard, "Wadiwasi!" The button zooms from inside the room and latches itself to James's shirt as if it had never broken off.
"Can never do it quite like you," James scratches the back of his head.
"You'd better fix that shirt up too. Vestis Tersus," she brandishes her wand and his shirt looks ironed again.
I never understood why my mum couldn't use spells like those. She was always so obsessed with her "hard work" that she never wanted to do anything by spells, which left my shirts unwashed and my hair uncombed for weeks on end.
"Thanks, mum," James says.
She kisses him on the chin and whispers, "Go help your father."
He races down the steps, kicking his heels like a schoolboy. "Now then," Mary turns toward me, "if you don't mind me saying, you look quite ridiculous."
I nod.
"Mind if I assist you?" She turns her head like a tired owl.
I shake my head, following her up the stairs as she heaves in shaky breaths on each step. We enter the master bedroom. It's far less grand than I had expected.
Thick brown quilts are tucked in neatly on top of the high master bed. Tall windows, shuttered by thick expensive-looking curtains, let in just a sliver of light. When Mary opens them, I have to squint my eyes and lift my right hand to shield myself from the blinding rays, like a vampire. Now the sun is just over the horizon.
She digs through a brown wardrobe, lined with runes and celtic knots. She opens the sides, surveying what appears like a normal closet space, until she hobbles her elderly frame inside of it, pushes the coats aside and disappears into the back.
Through two thick woolen coats, one lone arm extends, beckoning with one finger for me to follow.
I gape.
Gingerly, I thrust my bare toes through the layers of cloth and I land on moss-like carpet.
"Let's see now…" Mary mutters to herself.
A whole other room appears as I swivel through the coats, wall-to-wall with clothes. Multicolored robes and hats hang from every available surface. A whole wall is just for shoes…
A small white door in the back is labeled "Muggle". She pulls open the door (a closet within a closet?) to reveal a smaller closet, fit to the brim with tuxes, suits, ties, dresses and jeans.
"Hmm…" she lifts a plain brown suit. She lays the fabric against my shoulders, judging the length. And then she glances at my face. She shakes her head. "Umm-hmm."
Other suits and ties and jackets get the same silent treatment. I feel like I'm at Olivander's again. "Nope," she says grumbling. "We'll try somebody else…"
She then folds back a layer of jeans reveal another secret, but far more cryptic, doorway that is only marked by a black letter "X". The paint had been smeared over a small bit of wall. She knocks it twice and the door springs open. She grunts and has to bend over to get into the hobbit-hole.
This room looks like an attic more than anything. It is not much other than dark plywood and that damp-dewy smell. Odd mismatched furniture, a few paintings, and a trunk… a trunk that matches my grandfather's in my attic exactly.
She opens it and dusts off one of the most handsome suits I've ever seen. Long dark pants, a starch, stiff collared shirt, and a thin black suit-vest hang underneath a tight suit-jacket. "This ought to do," she sniffs the suit and, seemingly not appalled by the odor, hands it over to me for inspecting.
It must be Italian. Hand-crafted. I don't need to ask her but I do anyway, "Who's…?"
She merely nods and smiles.
Her trunk, too, is full of letters, but when I peer inside she snaps it shut. "I think the jacket would be a bit much, dear, but it ought to look handsome and…" she tries to act like she doesn't care about the owner of the jacket, "it'll fit you far better than any clothing of the Potter family. You're tall and thin… you look like him… and, well, as far as I'm concerned it's yours anyway."
I run my fingers over the soft silky fabric. "What made you choose him?"
She dusts off one of the nearby chairs, ignoring me.
"Mary…" I say, stepping over the invisible boundary, becoming far more informal, "What made you choose William and not… not my grandfather?"
"Do you regret my decision?" she asks with a white raised eyebrow, eyes alighting with malice and mischief.
"Of course not," I flicker my head as if to siphon off a fly, "If you hadn't married William you wouldn't have had James… but what made you choose one over the other? I mean, you loved both of them, didn't you?"
She stares at me long and hard, studying the boy in front of her clutching his grandfather's robes, "One had money and the other didn't?" she smiles.
I blanch.
"Just kidding," she grins, "actually your grandfather was the one with the money and my husband was as poor when I married him. No, it wasn't anything like that."
"What was it then?" I pursue. "I need to know."
She continues to stare, until she takes me by both arms and says, "Severus, people like us are good at loving other people. But we're not so good at letting other people love us."
I feel the synapses in my brain trying to emit new impulses. It's malfunctioning.
"We like to do the loving. It makes us feel more responsible, more in control…" she sways her head slowly from side to side. "It might be difficult to admit but you are worthy of being loved too, Severus."
A strange quivering feeling graces my chest, as if Mrs. Potter could see through my skin at my very soul hiding within my body.
She places both hands on my face. "When your busy taking care of everybody else sometimes it's hard to tell who loves you. My advice is to take a moment to realize who truly cares about you and who just wants your attention."
I nod vigorously.
"Is that too cryptic?" She pulls my hair behind my ears again, like a nervous habit already formed, "Bollocks, I'm old. I'm sure this makes no sense to you at all."
"No…" I bite my lip, "It makes sense." It makes too much sense.
She smiles. "Now go put that on and go to that party!"
Footnotes:
To those who may be wondering about how Severus's grandfather was able to hook up with James's mum, age-wise, I've sort of figured it out. I think. So, according to JK Rowling, Mr. and Mrs. Potter were "very old, even by wizarding standards" at this time. Mrs. Potter couldn't have been incredibly old, considering that she had to have given birth to James twenty years previous. Women, or muggle women, usually don't give birth past their late forties (around 48 I would think) and even considering the fact that she had magical medicine and healers at the time of James's birth, I can hardly imagine her being past 60. Let's call it 55. Twenty-one years later she would be 76. Which isn't necessarily "very old" in general but it may have been in the seventies and considering she was still James's mother this is fairly old.
Now for Severus's grandfather. As previous mentioned in chapter two I believe Eileen was young when she had had Severus (which may or may not be cannon). Severus is also twenty-one, so Eileen, if she indeed had her son at, let's say, twenty-one, would now be forty-two. Which is young but not indecently young. Tobias might be around Forty-four or so. So Severus's grandfather, Eileen's father, Mr. Prince would not be quite as old as first though, even if he had Eileen at perhaps an old age of fifty-two. This would make him currently ninety-four. Which is nearly a twenty-year difference. That isn't an incredible gap. You might consider that Mary may have been twenty-five and he fourty-three when they had an affair (in the thirties, right before William began to "woo" his bride-to-be with "Minnie the Moocher"). Which is young enough for her not to be married yet and old enough for her to regard Mr. Prince as an aging, lonely old man. Not to mention it would be an eyebrow-raiser to anyone acquainted with him.
Wow, that's confusing! But I figured somebody would ask about it, so I posted my mental rational.
Darling- as defined my Wikipedia, "means "my only one", as in there is no other."