Chapter Text
After bidding goodnight to the staff and students, you make your way back to your quarters, unescorted for the first time since your arrival. There’s a chill in the air that you can’t seem to shake off even as you light the parlor fireplace. A hot bath seems like the perfect remedy, so you head to the ensuite to take advantage of its comforts.
Bubbles and oil spill from the tub’s numerous spelled spouts and the air soon fills with pops of color and a sweet perfume. The steam chases away the cold and you languish in the waters for a good long while. It’s hard to move when you’re so comfortable, but time ticks away and it would be best to get ready for Snape’s arrival. Your legs press together in delicious anticipation.
You wash up, cast a few cosmetic charms to tidy yourself, and change into the pretty number you promised Snape. It’s a sheer teddy made of dyed acromantula silk, and it leaves little to the imagination. It's a delicate and expensive piece that you’d sometimes pull out for Nikolai, for anniversaries or for special occasions. A small part of you feels guilty wearing it for another man and your mind wanders - how has Nikolai been? Is he eating well? Sleeping properly? Is he taking his pleasure from someone else too?
You resent him and love him in equal measure. You were young when he came into your life. First mentor, then friend, then lover. He made you who you are, and even now you crave his presence. It sickens you.
The smell of Pepper-Up, lingering in your quarters, drags you away from your thoughts. You’ll worry about him another time. Tonight is about indulging yourself, and guilt is nothing short of the greatest mood killer.
After pulling on a matching silk robe, you wander into the living room to await Snape’s arrival. You pour yourself two fingers of Ogden's despite your general distaste for the drink, select a leather-bound tome from one of the shelves, and make yourself comfortable on the couch.
The text itself is dry and uninspiring, but there are stunning illustrations of magical creatures to keep your attention. You watch as a unicorn weaves in and out of a charcoal forest, and sip your whisky. The alcohol effects you more than you expect and soon you’re warm and drowsy. It’s a fight to keep your eyes open.
Eventually, you lose.
Hours later, you awaken to a cold fire. A quick tempus reveals that it is near midnight… and yet you are still alone. Had Snape seen you asleep and left? Surely not. You’re rather sensitive to sound, and you would’ve heard the door open. You restart the fire with a flick of your wrist, and watch as the embers spit and dance.
You wait.
And wait.
You try to concentrate on your book, but you can’t stop glancing at the door every few sentences. After two chapters, you push the tome away. What are you? Some dog awaiting their master’s return? You pull your robe on tight and glare at the door, as if it would conjure your missing guest. It’s clear what’s happened. You've been stood up.
It would be a lie to say that your pride is not hurt. You’ve never had a man deny you like this, and your cheeks flare hot in quiet humiliation. Scowling, you head to your room, strip off the lingerie, and change into some boring cotton knickers and a worn out shirt from the Faelun Dueling Club. It was once Nikolai’s, and it’s more of a dress on you than a shirt. You tuck yourself into the bed, annoyed that the smell of Pepper-Up is soaked into your sheets, and fall into a fitful slumber.
You awake for the second time that night, startled. Before your consciousness catches up with you, you have pointed your wand towards the shadowy figure standing at the foot of your bed.
Snape. Of course. You lower your wand hesitantly, the anger in your chest flaring up again. You scold yourself for being so stupid.
“I forgot to lock the door.”
“Oh? Planning to keep me out after all your demands?”
Snape seems to sense your sour mood yet he toes off his shoes and undresses regardless. He’s stripped down to his pants when he slides into the bed. With a wave of his hand, a single blue flame lights up the room, spilling shadows upon the sheets. He looks at you in your ratty shirt, brow arched.
“If that’s what you call pretty…”
“I changed,” you say shortly, watching the light play on his face. “I had assumed I'd be sleeping alone tonight.”
“It’s fortunate I don’t need such adornments,” he says nonplussed.
You have half a mind to hex him for presuming he’s still welcome, but it’s late and your mind is groggy. You end up putting your wand away and when you do, Snape edges closer. He smells different. Sometime between your tryst in the Potions Lab and him standing you up, he’s washed. His hair is clean and he smells strongly of mint. You hate that you find this as alluring as the spicy-sweet smell of Pepper-Up.
“It’s rude to keep a lady waiting.”
“The Headmaster requested my help,” Snape explains calmly. “We’ve had… ongoing issues within the castle this year. It could not wait. Even for a ‘lady’.”
Your annoyance crackles, and you turn away from him onto your side.
“I’m tired,” you say petulantly.
Arms encircle your waist. Snape pulls your body tight against his. His chest is solid and warm, and he’s half-hard against your bum.
“Do you wish for me to leave?” he says, breath snaking across your ear. It turns you on despite your anger. His hands slide underneath Nikolai’s shirt. He maps your belly, counts your ribs. It’s delightful.
“Well? Just say the word.”
You turn your head into the pillow, saying nothing as he begins to trace the underside of your breast. His touch is featherlight, close to nothing, and you crave more.
“... stay,” you end up saying, half-muffled.
“Very well.” One hand cups your breast. “Just lay there. I'll do the work.”
He takes his time, petting you, warming you up. He starts playing with your nipples, twisting, tugging until they’re sore. You want his mouth on them but you say nothing, pride preventing you from vocalizing your desire. You begin to shake as he continues to tease you.
Snape’s hands wander down, to your arse, your thighs, encouraging you to bend at the knees and press back against his groin. He ignores the growing wetness between your legs, though his fingers trace the crease of your thighs and he can no doubt feel the moist heat coming off of you. Every one of his touches is both penitence and mockery.
The sheets slide off you completely. With your shirt rucked up and your skin exposed, you can't help but shiver - this time not from pleasure, but the cold dungeon air. Snape spreads a hand over your lower stomach and holds it there. He murmurs into your ear, and a sensation of liquid warmth spreads through your body, to the tips of your fingers and toes. A warming charm.
“How considerate,” you remark sarcastically, despite privately feeling touched at the gesture.
“Hush…”
He pulls you back against him once more and you do nothing except lie there, pretending to be unaffected. You shut your eyes and clench your jaw through the onslaught of pleasure, determined not to make a sound.
Your body inadvertently jerks whenever Snape manages to touch somewhere particularly sensitive, and he soon makes a game of it. He tests out his touches, trying to find a trigger that will have you squirming against him. When he manages it, he laughs in your ear. It’s quiet and deep. The sound of his baritone is almost as good as his hands. Absolutely maddening. You don’t think you can take his teasing any longer.
“Get on with it, already!” you eventually snap.
“But I quite like taking my time,” he murmurs.
One hand slides underneath your knickers and he begins teasing you, spreading your folds and your slick. He doesn’t push his fingers inside nor does he concentrate on that sensitive nub. He just continues petting. Playing. Exploring. You begin to feel so hot that the warming charm he’d cast transforms into something stifling. All you feel is fire in your veins.
Behind you, Snape takes off his pants. He keeps your knickers on, simply shoving the fabric towards the crease of your thigh, before sliding his curved member against your exposed folds. He pumps his hips back and forth. His cockhead brushes up against your clit every so often, not quite giving it the pressure you crave. You feel yourself throb, and a frustrated gasp erupts from your throat.
“Professor,” you moan, “please. ”
Any pride you were clinging to is long gone.
“Say my name,” Snape says against your neck. He presses your legs together and begins to fuck the artificial channel between your thighs. Each slide between them is a shoddy substitute for what you’re really aching for. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Sev- ahhh…”
“Not quite,” he admonishes. “Say it. And I’ll do as you like.”
Somehow, you find the strength to use your voice.
“Severus,” you gasp. “Severus… Severus… ”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Very good.”
Your knickers come off - whether it’s by magic or his maneuverings, you aren’t quite sure. Your mind is hazy with desire and you barely notice when Snape hitches your top leg up. He locks the bend of your knee with his arm, spreading you open. The world comes back into pinpoint focus once you feel him slide inside.
He’s so deep. So hot. So hard. It's all you can think about.
He fucks you slowly with long, brutal thrusts.
It’s a different pace from your usual coupling. Slower yet somehow more intense. Almost intimate. Like this, you feel his presence completely. The smell of him, the sound of him, the feel of his muscles flexing against you. It’s everywhere. It’s like how you felt crossing Hogwarts’ barriers for the first time. All-encompassing. Snape’s desire unfurls within you like magic.
You think you’re babbling his name. His thrusts go on, and on, and what feels like a millennium later Snape bites your neck. Hard. The pain and pleasure are too much. You cry out and start throbbing around his member, the intensity of all you’re experiencing erupting into orgasm. Snape follows your peak, grinding his hips against you as he spills. His seed is deep within you and it feels like you’ll never be cold again.
He releases your leg and you straighten out, boneless. Relaxed. Relieved. His cock slips out and leaves a wet trail behind.
“Am I forgiven?” he asks.
“Nnnghh…”
Snape chuckles.
You soon hear the sound of running water. A damp cloth slips between your legs, cleans you up with surprising gentleness. You might’ve murmured a thanks, but you’re not sure. Your mind is soup at this point. Darkness edges at your vision.
You think you hear, as if muffled through water, a voice saying, “Sleep well, (F/N)...”
The next time you wake up, Snape’s gone and your sheets are cold.
You snort, thinking of him stealing away into the night without a word. More than likely, he used a sound dampening charm to escape. You don’t see how else he could have left your bed without waking you. It irks you a bit, this hasty retreat. He’s been a considerate bedfellow so far, but last night felt… different. It would’ve been nice to have woken up, held.
Maybe Snape was simply done playing nice, knowing that you’d be leaving the next day.
Your sense of propriety rankles. It’s not like you were asking for a love confession or a promise to stay in touch. This was no youthful summer romance. A simple “have a safe journey” would have been appreciated. Expected. You and Snape have shared the last week exploring each other’s bodies. He’s literally been inside you. You’d have liked a cordial parting, a sign of respect or well-wishes. Or another round before you packed up.
Whatever.
You head to the shower and wash away the scent of mint and Pepper-Up. Once tidy, you pull a purple vial from your trunk and down it in one go, ensuring no mistakes come out of the previous night. After a moment of thought, you take another dose. There’s no real reason to dose yourself twice. Once was enough, according to the healer, but a second sip assuages your paranoia some and you feel better for it.
You pack away your things and later have breakfast with Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Poppy. They (at least, Dumbledore and Poppy) express that they’re sorry to see you go so soon. Apparently Flitwick and Hagrid (the groundskeeper you’ve heard mentioned, a time or two) were due back for a Christmas Eve party with the students.
“I hope to meet them in the future,” you say politely, not quite sure if you mean it.
A few students hurry to wish you farewell and good luck - news of your next tournament has apparently made its rounds - and Dumbledore personally escorts you out of the castle. When you say farewell at the front steps of the castle, he says “See you soon!” with that mad twinkle in his eye.
That same nervous coachman from the first night helps you into the carriage. You look back through the frosted windows as your transport pulls away. Soon, Hogwarts disappears behind endless crests of snow, and any comforts from the past week suddenly seem so far gone. All you can smell is the crisp air of Winter.
"Look at him! Swift. If we put him through the paces, Durmstrang may very well have the youngest seeker in the history of professional league Quidditch!"
Beyond the window, several small red smudges streak over the frozen lake. The one your Godfather fixates on is obvious - fifteen-year-old Viktor Krum takes point guard, leading the small chevron of Quidditch players by a monumental stretch. At that speed, you can only imagine how the wind would slice into your skin like the blade of a knife.
Quidditch has never held your interest, but you can respect the amount of effort any athlete would have to put into their craft. You're especially grateful that professional dueling, generally, takes place indoors.
"That's a lot of pressure, for a boy," you remark, watching as Igor grins with manic glee as the smudges dive down towards the water, pulling up only at the last second.
"Pah! What good is steel if it's not been tempered?”
“If you say so,” you laugh, going to take a seat by the fire. “I don’t know how they can stand training in winter. I’m freezing even indoors. Tea?”
Igor nods, still looking out of the window distractedly. It’s nice to see him passionate about something, even if he was ignoring you. There was a time when all he did was lay in bed, regardless of your father's constant reprimands and attempts to motivate him out of it. You leave him to it and fix two cups of black from the service laid out on the table. Double sugar and lemon for yourself, a single sugar for your Godfather.
“We’ve invested a significant amount of gold upgrading their brooms,” Igor continues in a tone that’s quite self-congratulatory. “Warming charms, wind buffering charms, anti-ice! It would be a waste not to push them to their limits.”
You’re not quite convinced, but you keep your silence. Igor is an unconventional educator, but his methods have always yielded results. It’s how he was able to become the Headmaster despite his controversial past. That, and a handful of gold from your family.
You wonder, not for the first time, what school would have been like had he been Headmaster. He would’ve doted on you, you think.
“Your tea’s getting cold,” you note. “Come away from the window and join me. Unless that boy is more important to you than your own goddaughter?”
“Ah, I’m sorry koshechka,” he chortles, coming to sit beside you. “Very rude of me considering how long it’s been. Please. Tell me about your trip.”
You begin to recount your stay at Hogwarts - Dumbledore’s wily attitude hidden between a veneer of grandfatherly charm, the food, the impressive castle and your suite, their abysmal library, and how you made an enemy of McGonagall.
“And Snape? Was he there?” Igor eventually asked. You wonder how long he was holding that question in.
“He was,” you say.
“How is the old bat doing?”
You shrug, acting as if you didn’t know him at all - acting as if your body still doesn't bear his bites and bruises, hidden under furs and velvet.
"The Professor seemed very busy brewing. I hardly ever saw him in the Great Hall."
You leave it at that. Not total honesty, but not a lie either. You love your Godfather and share much of your life with him, but he hardly needs any details of your sex life, particularly with a compatriot from the war. One that he both respects and dislikes very much.
“I see…” His lips thin. “Well, just being alive is good enough for the likes of us.”
You watch him from the corner of your eye, considering.
“How well did you know the Professor during the war?” you ask, keeping your tone light and inquisitive. “I knew you were in meetings together, sometimes… but the extent of his activities as a Death Eater-”
Igor puts his cup down hard, and it rattles in its saucer somewhat. His eyes have darkened and he suddenly looks so far away, as if a Dementor had him in its grips. You hate seeing him like this. The Igor of your childhood was never like this - he was boisterous, jovial. He’d put you on his knee and spin tall tales. He was so full of passion.
Now there’s only what you can describe as a spiritual thinness about him. Even after years free from Azkaban, over a decade since the Dark Lord’s disappearance, a part of him is lacking. He twists his goatee, lost in his past.
“Godfather?”
He startles at the sound of your voice.
“Pardon me, koshechka…”
You refresh his tea and push the cup back into his hands. They tremble slightly, and you avert your eyes to spare his dignity.
“Severus and I ran in the same circles but… our parts in the war were very different. I was on the frontlines, doing glorious deeds for the Dark Lord… Glorious and terrible. It was like fever had taken hold of my brain-” he takes a fortifying sip, shaking his head. “Snape, however… he’s always been a creature suited to the shadows. I was never privy to what he had to do for the Dark Lord, but I have no doubt his hands are as dirty as mine.”
Igor laughs mirthlessly.
“If only I knew. I might’ve spared myself some time in Azkaban. Alas, Snape was already in Albus’ protection.”
You purse your lips. Another question rises in your mind. It’s something that’s rankled you, ever since that last conversation with Dumbledore.
“The Headmaster… he said you thought it would do me good to spend time outside of Russia. You want me to take the job. You think this is wise?”
“I do.”
“But… why?”
Igor is silent. You touch his arm and he flinches. Belatedly, you remember it’s the one that holds his faded Dark Mark. He’s silent for a time, and you wait.
“There have been rumors,” Igor whispers finally, so quietly you’re forced to lean closer. “Dark rumors, coming out of Albania. Of a presence gathering strength...”
He’s very pale and you know of only one thing that could inspire such fear within him.
“But… you surely don’t mean-”
“I don’t know what I mean!” he snaps. When he looks at you his eyes are watery and mad. “There’s nothing real yet. But if there were… the safest place in the world is under Dumbledore's watch.”
“I… I had thought this was about Nikolai.”
He snorts and straightens up. His eyes are sharp. Lucid. It’s as if with this change of topic, any fear he felt has fled his body.
“I hate that man, but you will do as you please. Just as you have always done.” His smile is tired. “Just consider Dumbledore’s offer, koshechka.”
“Dumbledore said that the war was long over,” you can’t help but point out.
Igor smiles at you, sharp yellowed teeth gleaming in the firelight.
“Severus was a spy. A very good liar. But Dumbledore was even better.”
Life goes on.
Igor teaches, and you go back to your club. You meet with Nikolai and your relationship smooths over after polite conversations and blunt critiques of your wandwork.
There’s still something between you simmering under the surface, but by silent agreement you both put feelings aside and focus on training. One early morning, in the changing room, he sees the bites and bruises Snape’s left behind. Faded, but there. Nikolai says nothing and turns away. You wonder if he has his own souvenirs underneath his tracksuit. A vein throbs at the side of his neck and you want to lick it.
It’s hard to get back into training after that. Over the last year, you’ve learned to indulge. Sweets, sleep, sex. There’s none of that now. There are only restricted plates of wholesome foods, waking up at the crack of dawn for mile-long runs, session upon session of meditation and magical exercises to expand your core.
It feels endless.
You want to quit.
You take Gold in the Kempen Cup, and you remember the reason why you chose this profession in the first place.
At the celebratory gala, you shed all of your inhibitions. You accept glass after glass of champagne. You dance with countless men before Nikolai’s eyes. You flirt with many and kiss a few. There’s a handsome Hungarian from the lower league you consider taking home.
And yet, by the end of the night, you find yourself in Nikolai’s bed.
Snape’s bruises and bites have long since faded, and it’s like you and Nikolai never ended. He fucks you on your side softly and murmurs sweet things. He’s missed you. You’re brilliant. His shining star, his golden ring, his darling fox. It feels so good and so right that you weep afterwards. He holds you close and everything in the world is in perfect synergy.
But then his hand moves from where it was resting on your ribs to low on your belly.
“We can try again,” he whispers. “We won't be taken by surprise, next time. We’ll be more careful.”
Even as he holds you, you’ve never felt so cold.
Nikolai has always expected you to be a winner. He’s always expected perfection, both as an athlete and as a lover. You thought you’d proven yourself tonight. You just won the Kempen Cup. And yet, even after indulging in the thrill of that victory, he reminds you of your failures.
You never wanted to be a mother. You never grieved for the lemon-sized lump that died inside of you. When your body failed to protect the new life in your womb, you felt an elation not unlike that of winning a tournament. It was freedom. You were happy.
And he hated you for it.
It all comes rushing back.
The sun rises red, and Nikolai is still sleeping when you slip out from under him.
You head to the writing desk situated in the parlor. There, with a steady hand, you ink a letter to Albus Dumbledore informing him that you’ll be returning to Hogwarts in the fall.
Your head throbs from last night’s champagne, and you seek out a Pepper-Up.