Title: Riddles and Rhymes
Author: bewarethesmirk
Recipient: iamisaac
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Snape/Draco, mention of past Draco/other
Summary: Draco would have to be an idiot of Potteresque proportions not to understand what had just happened, and he was not that much of an idiot. Still, he didn't know to what extent Snape would have to take this. To what extent they would take this.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work
Warning(s): Set between HBP and DH, underage (Draco is 17), D/s, depraved sexual situations (e.g. a nasty blow job), dirty talk, exhibitionism, spanking, dub!con of a sort.
Word Count: ~22,000
Author's Notes: First of all, I must thank the mods, especially softly_sweetly, who responded to all my abusing-of-extension requests with much grace. This fic was meant to be a shorter PWP and became something much larger and much more personal. I hope you enjoy this, iamissac. I chose your first pairing, Snape/Draco, because it was my favourite, and I love their dynamic. I apologize if this is not hardcore enough for your taste. It’s D/s light. There’s a healthy mix of what I call Slytherinesque fluff and angst.

lavillanueva is a goddess, always there for multiple re-reads and hand-holding. Thanks to joanwilder and femmequixotic for completing such a thorough beta on such short notice. chiralove for beta’d earlier portions and offering support. Kudos, also, to lux_astraea for her help!

For everyone else: enjoy!

 

Draco was on his knees. His legs throbbed whenever he shifted to balance his weight, his knees grating against the granite floor. In the aftermath of the Dark Lord's favourite hobby, his limbs trembled, but Draco tried to be still. He knew signs of weakness would only encourage the Dark Lord further.

"Severus," the Dark Lord said, drawing out the name as if relishing its full flavour, “you do realize that after the boy's travesty of an attempt to murder Dumbledore, I would have been well within my right to execute him two months ago."

As if the Dark Lord needed rights to do anything.

"Absolutely," Snape drawled. Draco gritted his teeth when they began to chatter. A tide of chills swept his body in the otherwise stifling room.

Through the strands of fair hair veiling Draco's eyes, he could see the Dark Lord's white feet pacing the floor, scant inches from Draco's bowed head. "You assured me that Mr. Malfoy would prove himself useful to the cause." The fire crackled and Draco wondered if the Dark Lord was using wandless magic for dramatic effect. "I'm afraid he's been nothing of the sort, unless you count belligerence and sheer cheek as useful."

Snape snorted. "Certainly not." Snape sighed as if exhausted by the world's stupidity. "I have endured Draco's infinitely childish behaviour. It is indeed unfortunate: he harbours great intellect and desires nothing more than to serve you in your quest to rid the world of Mudblood filth—"

Draco almost snorted, too.

"—but he does hail from a pampered childhood." Snape's robes rustled as he moved away from Draco. "I have a proposition, if I may?"

Few of the Dark Lord's Death Eaters would dare approach their Master with an idea. Straightening his spine, the tumultuous trembling having eased, Draco held his breath in anticipation.

"I believe Draco suffers from bloated arrogance. He envies the power of his superiors, but he does not yet know what it means to yield to that power. His condition necessitates that he be taught to subject himself to those more powerful, and by extension, yourself."

Draco's mind latched onto the word "arrogance" and he fought the urge to clench his fists. Belatedly, he tried to work through the muddle of words.

The Dark Lord chuckled and Draco was struck with a horrible suspicion that some insinuation in Snape's words had eluded him.

"How intriguing." The Dark Lord chuckled again as if he couldn't contain himself. "Intriguing, indeed, Severus. Am I to assume you would like to be the one on whom these responsibilities are bestowed?"

Snape's voice was imbued with shared amusement and gratitude, as if the Dark Lord had just given him a rare potions ingredient of his very own. "I daresay I'm capable of reining in Draco. I suspect he will fall into line easily enough. He's accustomed to me presiding over him in the classroom, after all."

"Mmm, and is that all you did in the classroom, Severus? Preside?"

Draco imagined the Dark Lord was shaking with laughter and found that even more disturbing than Snape's insinuations.

"You are amusing, my Lord, but the answer is--much to my dismay--yes."

There was a prevailing silence in which Snape was obviously waiting to be granted permission.

"By all means, give it a try," the Dark Lord said. "I am not sure how…violent your tastes run, but do try not to damage Draco toobadly. I would be most concerned."

"I have no desire to hurt him," Snape said, and Draco, knowing Snape in a way fostered only by living in close quarters for a seemingly endless month, recognized his claim as sincere.

The Dark Lord ceased laughing. "I will leave you to it."

"We will start tomorrow," Snape said.

"Ah, allowing the boy time to recuperate? I never suspected you as a pantywaist," the Dark Lord said, disgusted.

There was a moment of silence before Snape said, "Hardly," sounding equally as disgusted. "Come along, Draco."

Draco looked up for the first time since entering the room. He found himself the subject of an introspective red gaze, but Draco glanced away and sought refuge—however temporary—in impenetrable black eyes.

When Draco rose from the floor, weak-kneed and humiliated, he was still shaking.

*

They navigated the winding labyrinth of tunnels as they made their way back to their quarters. The stone walls were covered with moss, each wall as monotonous as the next, and there was no light save for that provided by their Lumos-spelled wands.

Even in the shadow and shifting light, Draco detected the tense line of Snape's shoulders. Snape's body was always held taut, but now there was an added level of tenseness: an indication Snape was ready to unleash a lethal attack at the slightest provocation.

Draco's own body was still shaking and he could hardly keep pace with Snape's stride. Snape, who walked quickly at the best of times, was currently prowling as if chasing down some quarry.

Then Draco remembered that, from then on, he was the quarry.

What had happened before the Dark Lord was a blur. All Draco could remember were the ceaseless trembles and the immense and unbearable pain. Draco should have been used to Cruciatus by now—what, after having been cursed nearly every other day for two months—but nothing would ever make him numb to the Dark Lord's own brand of the curse, which was easily twice as powerful as Aunt Bella's Cruciatus. Were it not for the temporary pain-relieving potion Snape had slipped him once they had taken their leave of the Dark Lord, Draco doubted he would have been able to walk at all.

Draco would have to be an idiot of Potteresque proportions not to understand what had just happened, and he was not thatmuch of an idiot. Still, he didn't know to what extent Snape would have to take this. To what extent they would take this.

Draco badly wanted to know what Snape expected, but he knew better than to speak in these tunnels, where anyone at headquarters could overhear them.

When they returned to their quarters—how odd, still, to think of it that way—Draco closed the door behind him and recast the locking charms and anti-eavesdropping spells Snape had taken down before they had left. They didn't keep the charms up all the time, else it would arouse suspicion.

Draco looked up to see that Snape had made a beeline for the sideboard. Brandy sloshed in the snifter, ruby red in the dim light as Snape poured it.

The room was silent as Snape sipped. Draco's fear eased as the seconds slipped by, Snape with his head down. How could Snape not look at him after what had just happened? Forcing himself to stand still and stop trembling, Draco reminded himself that his father had been made fool enough by the Dark Lord, and he would not be treated like a fool by the Dark Lord or Snape. He didn't do fear. Or tension. Or being ignored.

"Severus," he said, drawling the word, and Severus whirled around, pinning him with eyes that communicated his urge to commit several painful acts of violence.

Draco stepped forward, waving his wand in a lazy arc and set the fire to blazing. The red-yellow light danced across Snape's waxen face, and Draco smirked. Snape had no right to be pale or to be nervous, not when it had been Draco who had just been tortured.

"I had no idea you wanted me or that your proclivities ran to such extremes," Draco said. "Does my mother know how eager you are to debauch me?"

Snape neglected his brandy in favour of staring at Draco for a moment, quiet as death. A vein was pulsing at his temple. Draco had never seen Snape so still in his life, but he knew no other way to respond, no other way to diffuse this damnable tension.

"Really, Severus," the name still tasted weird in his mouth, "if you'd wanted to fuc—"

"Don't you dare," Snape said, voice low and so sinister that Draco halted. Snape's expression was no longer blank. His eyes were venomous and the hand that held the brandy rivalled Draco's own in its shaking.

Snape stepped forward. "I cannot believe—" He stopped. "I cannot believe you have the gall to joke about this."

"I wasn't joking," Draco said.

The snifter hit the wall above the fireplace with an almighty crash, glass showering down and brandy feeding the fire in a whoosh.

Draco blinked.

Snape took four steps forward until his robes scratched at Draco's arm. His breath was sour.

"No?" Snape whispered. Draco looked up, compelled by the inexplicable emotion in Snape’s voice. Draco couldn't look away, couldn't fling the words on his tongue.

Draco backed up a step.

"And I'm sure you would have been so willing if my—ah—proclivities did extend to such extremes?" Snape edged nearer. His boot nudged Draco's shoe. Angling his head as if in genuine curiosity, Snape said in a lower voice that set tension coiling in Draco's lower belly, "If I had asked you to bend over my desk, would you have obliged?"

Snape’s eyes were nearly at an even level with his own, and Draco looked into them as he smirked. "Perhaps I would have been honoured to bend over your desk, sir," he said and savoured the catch in Snape's breath.

One second Draco was a hair's-breadth away from Snape, the next he was flat on his arse on the floor.

Forgetting what he'd even been saying, he looked up at Snape. "You pushed me—you bastard!"

There was a dull flush in Snape's cheeks as he sneered. "Well spotted, Draco."

They remained silent for several moments, Snape standing and Draco slumped on the floor, staring at one another and breathing hard. The fire crackled merrily in the background.

Snape's eyes were still angry even as his shoulders slumped a bit. He studied Draco for a moment, gaze roving from booted toe to flaxen hair, and the pressure already wrung tight in Draco's belly escalated a notch.

Seeming to come to some conclusion, Snape nodded to himself and extended his hand, long fingers outstretched. Draco tried hard not to stare at them and chased away memories of those dexterous fingers wrapped around a stirring rod. He grasped Snape's hand and righted himself. Draco’s hand went to his arse, sore from its contact with the stone floor.

"Now, do you think we can discuss this like adults?" Snape asked, retreating to the sideboard as if he'd never been derailed to start.

I'm not the one who threw his fucking glass at the wall.

"Of course, Professor," Draco drawled.

His obsequious tone, for its normality, seemed to relax Snape. He poured two new glasses of brandy and levitated one over to Draco rather than handing it to him.

Draco snorted in amusement as he tilted back his head and downed his drink in one gulp. Snape was afraid to touch him. He attempted not to cough as the alcohol trickled down his throat.

Snape drained his own brandy and poured another two fingers. Draco held his own glass out, a silent demand, and Snape waved it away.

"I think you're had quite enough," Snape said. "Your mother would not appreciate if I were to return her son as a raging alcoholic."

Draco blinked with feigned innocence, and then raised his eyebrows. "We'll leave the alcoholism to you, shall we?" He didn't wait for Snape's reaction, staggering over to the huge velvet couch. Draco collapsed back into it with a sigh.

"Indeed," Snape said, actually sounding amused. Despite the plentiful space next to Draco on the couch, Snape settled into the armchair across the room, cradling his snifter against his thigh, fingers relaxed around it.

Draco stretched his legs across the couch, settling his robes around himself, and stared at Snape.

Snape stared back.

"Well?" Draco asked.

"Well what?"

"Aren't we to talk? Like adults?" On an impulse, Draco raised his wand, pointed at the fireplace and said, "Scourgify." The mess Snape had made earlier in his fit of petulance vanished.

Snape glared. "Idiot," he murmured.

"At least I was not the one breaking things."

"Much as I am loath to interrupt your obnoxious behaviour, may we now discuss the details of this slightly precarious situation?" Snape took a generous sip of brandy. “Or is that too much to ask?”

Draco had been momentarily distracted, but there was no escaping the truth now. His sigh was gusty and put-upon.

"I should not have to spell this out to you but it seems I must." Snape stopped and drained his last bit of brandy, apparently needing the liquid courage. "You must stop being cheeky in the presence of the Dark Lord. In fact, while at headquarters, you should always be on guard."

"Even in here?" Draco shook his head, feeling stupid for starting to think of this place, of all places, as home. "I suppose I must resign myself to becoming a grovelling rat like that simpering Pettigrew for the rest of my life."

Snape set his empty snifter on the side table and leant forward, his eyes intense as he rested his elbows on his thighs. "Draco, you must listen to me," he said.

"I will," Draco said.

Snape nodded, as if he didn't doubt it. "I do not care how you behave so long as we're in here….but when you're out there, especially in the company of the Dark Lord, you must maintain the presence of mind to behave yourself. I know you are angry, but if you wish to live you must act sensibly."

"That's easy for you to say!" Draco snapped. "I try, I do. But when he starts goading me about my mother—look, it's difficult to control my temper. And tonight when he announced he's taking the bloody Manor as his new headquarters…"

He began trembling again, fists clenched into tight balls on either side of his legs. His eyes fluttered close, shutting out the world, and, unwillingly, the Dark Lord's voice from earlier that evening reverberated in his mind: Your father has been kind enough to grant me another asset in an attempt to make up for his costly mistakes. He has given me the Manor. How privileged you must feel to be able to serve me in this way, Mr. Malfoy. I'll be able to operate from inside England, closer to the Ministry than ever before….

Draco was shocked back to the real world by cool glass being pushed into his hand. He opened his eyes: a potion. Immediately he recognized the purple concoction as a counter-agent to severe nerve damage. He swallowed it down and when he looked up, Snape was watching him from the armchair once more.

"You realize what is at stake," Snape said, albeit softly. "You must learn to rein in your temper. You must show nothing but the utmost respect and adoration for the Dark Lord. You must say nothing unless he prompts you to speak, and above all, you must remain calm and clear your mind."

The careless way Snape spoke of the Dark Lord triggered Draco’s suspicion. Perhaps Draco's mind was just addled from the potion. But no...this had been building for weeks and, now, was at fever pitch: Snape was not advising Draco to possess genuine respect for the Dark Lord; he was telling him he must affect a believable farce. "And what about you, sir? Do you respect the Dark Lord?"

Snape's eyes glittered. "That is neither here nor there. This is about you, Draco."

Draco brushed a few errant strands of hair out of his face and tucked them behind his ear. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine. I behave; I respect the Dark Lord even though he threatens to murder my family and me at every opportunity. Check."

"The Dark Lord must believe he has your undying reverence and loyalty. He must believe that your loyalty for those who wield great power—his power—has been irreversibly entrenched in you."

"Entrenched in me. By you?"

Snape's expression was impossible to read. "Yes, by me."

And this was where things got tenuous. "And how will you do that?" Draco asked, parsing his words with care.

"We must enact believable scenarios. We will have to....ah—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Just say it, Severus."

Snape observed him for a moment, looking reluctantly impressed—who knew with Snape?—and nodded. "We must engage in activities that successfully support your transition from a once unruly pet to one that is unequivocally housebroken. To do this we must participate in situations with a clear power imbalance. Appalling though it may be, these power imbalances must be replicated through sexual activity, in which I am clearly dominant and you are clearly—"
"Subordinate? Yes, I ascertained as much." Draco's lip curled.

Appalling though it may be...

If Snape found the thought of even pretending to be sexual with Draco so daunting, so disgusting, why had he suggested this particular scenario? There were other ways to ensure obedience. Suddenly infuriated, Draco forced his next words. "And just how far do we need to go in acting out these, as you said, appalling scenarios?"

Snape didn't look very happy himself. "Just as far as necessary."

"Oh joy of joys," Draco said, flinging an arm over his forehead to block out the light and the reality of his downtrodden, despicable life.

"It will not be that miserable," Snape said. "We are, after all, acting."

"Ah, it’s like you said, that night.” Draco wasn’t about to specify which night. Snape would know.

At Snape’s blank look, Draco elaborated with a wave of his hand as if waving away Snape’s stupidity. “You know. You mentioned that—whatever that damn Muggle’s name was who said 'the world's a stage.'"

Snape said nothing, but Draco understood: they were to enact these fantastical scenarios, then feed snippets of thought to the Dark Lord, as if scraps to a hungry dog.

"You don't seem fearful," Snape said, after several minutes of tense silence. Draco rolled to his side so he could better see Snape.

"No," Draco said, drawing out the word as he thought. “Curious, more like."

Snape raised a brow. "Curious?" he echoed.

"What—er—sort of activities?" Snape's expression turned to the familiar one that indicated he was scared for Draco's intelligence. "Not that! I am not a virgin Hufflepuff. I know we're talking bondage and—" to prove a point, “—cock sucking and feet worshipping and Merlin knows what else gets you off."

Instead of sounding angry, Snape's voice was soft. "A less intelligent man might think you're intrigued."

Draco shifted on the couch so that his face was hidden against the cushion. "No! I'm just a bit curious about what I'll have to do. You've been incredibly vague, you know," Draco said. "I don't know if we're talking blindfolds or flogging. I'm in pain enough as it is without having to be put through the paces by you. I'd rather the Dark Lord just off me now and be done with it."

"I don't have a plan, Draco," Snape snapped, suddenly furious. He paused and sounded calmer. "Not yet. I do not intend on causing you grievous mental or bodily injury and most of our interactions will be merely acting, to which I thought I'd already eluded."

"I know, but—"

Snape cut him off, talking a bit too fast. "In fact, if you have…suggestions, I'd be willing to honour them. Perhaps." A pause. "I know this is not the way you would have chosen to solve this problem, but I could think of no other resolution."

Draco met Snape's eyes. His brain worked, image after image flickering through his mind, and then he settled on one scenario. "I have an idea."

"Do you?" Snape asked, lips quirking.

"Yes. I am a bloody genius.”

"To that, I object."

*

They'd escaped to this hellhole of a castle in Ireland after that night at Hogwarts.

For over a month Draco and Snape had been living in these quarters, the ones Draco had, unwittingly, began to think of as ‘home.’ A foolhardy notion, but there nonetheless. In much the same way, Draco had become accustomed to Snape, and he was sure Snape was now becoming accustomed to him—as much as Snape became accustomed to any human.

By now, they often sat in the living room instead of seeking sanctuary in their bedrooms. They ate together and often carried on conversations—usually with Snape asking the questions and Draco answering them. There was a shared familiarity and perhaps a sense of understanding, even though Draco didn't really think he understood Snape at all. Understanding Snape was as easy as catching water through loose fingers. But there was something there, tentative and peaceful and strong.

And sometimes Draco caught himself staring.

Within their quarters Snape had commandeered the master bedroom, and Draco had the smaller side room for his own, but it was not small by any stretch. Nonetheless, for their purposes, it was only fitting for them to do this in Snape's room, if solely on symbolic grounds.

Snape had been distant all day, polite enough when they'd taken breakfast and lunch in their kitchen, but there was none of the usual teasing. Snape had left for supper with the Dark Lord, and Draco had abandoned any thought of food.

As Draco slipped off his robes, leaving him in a white button-up shirt and black trousers, he wondered if he was taking this all too seriously. Indeed, his eyes were sombre as they stared back at him from the mirror, wide and grey and alight with something—fear, perhaps? His stomach was a jumble of nerves that he didn't quite think he could pass off as related to yesterday's Cruciatus session.

Draco toyed with a loose button on his shirt, hair sweeping past his cheekbones as he stared down at fingers.

A knock sounded at the door.

Draco jumped.

Was it time already? Snape had warned him that he'd be gone for hours on some mission with a few other Death Eaters. Surely he couldn't be back yet…

Draco walked to the heavy door and opened it. Snape, swathed as usual in his billowing black robes, avoided direct eye contact. "We were to start ten minutes ago."

"Oh?" Draco swallowed. "I must have lost track of time."

Snape frowned. "Shall we?"

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?" At Snape's expression, Draco backtracked. "Yes, fine. Let's do it. I'm just not dancing on the moon about it."

"Pity."

Snape whirled around and left Draco to follow. Draco abandoned the sanctuary of his room and trailed after Snape, down the hall to his bedroom.

Snape had to be the most paranoid human on earth. Even his bedroom was warded. He whispered words in an unfamiliar language and the tapestry covering the door to his room peeled away. He murmured yet another few words and the stone wall slid open, revealing his rooms.

Draco had been in here once before, on the night he had failed to kill Dumbledore, but that was not a night he allowed himself to think about, but he did recall, however, what Snape's room had looked like then.

The door banged with a resolute bang and there was an instant of darkness before Snape whispered, "Lumos," and dim light from above drenched the room. Draco looked up and saw floating candles of red and black scattered close to the ceiling.

The huge bed was fit for a king, the headboard wrought iron and the black velvet drawings of the bed tied in the corners with black rope. A deep red rug carpeted most of the expanse of stone floor, and a huge wardrobe was situated against the wall opposite the bed.

The wardrobe was familiar, but the rest of the room was different from what he remembered. Draco wiped his damp palms against his trousers. With the room aglow in candlelight and the bed the most dominant feature in the room, the stage was well set. Perhaps too well set.

"You put a lot of work into this."

Snape snorted, but it was all the answer Draco needed.

"You prepared for me," Draco said, his tone neutral.

An arched eyebrow was the only response.

Silence permeated the room for a moment, and then Snape turned and nodded: the signal they had discussed beforehand.

They were to begin.

Draco sucked in a breath and let his body relax. "I have no idea why you summoned me to your bedroom." He prowled through the room as if it were his own and looked over his shoulder at Snape, gesticulating with fluid motions as he talked. "I didn't think you were actually serious when you told the Dark Lord those things…and even if you were, you know I'd never consent to anything like this—and with you of all people. A Malfoy has…what do you call them? Oh right: standards."

He smirked, even as Snape edged his way across the room.

"You dare doubt the seriousness of my claims to the Dark Lord? You should know better, boy." Snape's voice was dark and formal, a painful disconnect from the light-hearted banter in which he usually engaged Draco in private. "But that's the problem: you don't know better."

Draco waved a flippant hand as he studied the candles overhead with feigned interest, their soft light radiating blood red on the granite ceiling. "I do know better. I just don't see why I need to respect you is all."

Snape struck.

Before he could blink, Draco's back was against the unforgiving wall, and Snape's hot breath assaulted his face. It wasn't sour this time. "How dare you," he hissed. "For months on end, all day, every day, I've listened to your incessant whinging. Out of respect for your mother I've stopped short of beating you into submission—" Snape’s curled lip was cruel, "—but now that I've the Dark Lord's leave to do whatever I wish? Oh, you'll be terribly sorry."

Unfeigned tremors wracked Draco's spine. Draco realized something he had not been counting on: Snape was a brilliant actor.

Draco forced his chin up and peered at Snape through lowered eyelashes. He'd only looked at Pansy this way in fourth year when he'd been trying to seduce her. To look at Snape this way was disconcerting. "Are you quite certain that's what this is about—respect?" His voice lowered, and looking into Snape's familiar black eyes, it was easy to purr the words. "Or are you sure this isn't just a convenient excuse?"

"If I wanted you, I'd need no excuse." Snape spat the words in his face. Snape moved closer. The space between their bodies was infinitesimal: the black of Snape's robes enveloped the white of Draco's shirt, dark against fair. Snape's body pressed against his, lean and long-limbed and consuming. Suffocating. "You're going to learn who is in charge, and it's obvious, now, it won't be done the easy way." Snape smiled. "Don't worry, I prefer it this way."

Snape backed away in one smooth movement, leaving Draco to slump against the wall, inexplicably trying to catch his breath.

"There is no time like the present," Snape drawled, his eyes glittering through the greasy strands of black hair falling over his forehead. "Let's begin."

"But sir—"

"Get on the bed." Snape's voice was silken menace. "Now."

"Severus—"

Snape's wand, long and ebony, was in his hand in one swift movement. "How dare you disobey me. How dare you." He bared his yellow teeth. "Perhaps I need to motivate you a bit, hmm? Does Imperius sound as if it might prove an adequate persuasion?"

Whether this was real or not, Draco didn't dare disobey.

He crossed the room to the bed and crawled onto the black coverlet, finding the mattress firm but comfortable beneath him. He perched on his knees, in the middle of Snape's bed. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at Snape, predicting the reaction.

“Malfoy, must I tell you everything, every move to make?”

Draco blinked back.

Snape sneered. “Extraordinary. You’re such an idiot that I do have to commandeer you.” A pause. “Very well. Put your hands behind your back and bow your head. I did not give you permission to look at me. You don’t maintain eye contact with superiors unless expressly asked.”

Draco obliged even as he allowed a grimace to twist his features. Hands behind his back, head slightly bowed, Draco tried not to wonder at the picture he made.

Snape's boots clicked over the expanse of floor, sounding as if he'd stopped near the foot of the bed. Draco's fingers were fumbling at the buttons of his shirt before the command to disrobe. The slide of a button against the expensive fabric of his shirt was deafening in its loudness. With Snape's eyes on him, Draco's bare collarbone was no longer just a collarbone but naked skin. Snape had never seen him without clothes before. Snape was such a prude about those kinds of things, Draco thought, remembering the time he'd walked into the kitchen without a shirt and Snape had all but had an aneurysm.

"Stop," Snape said. Draco stilled, his fingers limp next to the cloth of his shirt.

"Look at me," Snape said, and Draco looked. "You will do as I say. Exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Must I remind you to use deference in my own rooms?" Snape turned so fast his robes snapped and then Snape was pressed against the footboard of the bed, so close, his face ghastly white next to the black curtains. "Are you really so insolent?" he murmured, a melodic tone, and it might have been a lullaby were it not for the evil glint in his eyes.

"No, sir," Draco said. I'll be deferent. As long as you keep looking at me like that.

The timbre of Snape's voice changed yet again. "Good," he purred, and a shiver eased down Draco's spine.

"You're going to entertain me," Snape said, simple as that.

Draco said nothing, waiting.

"Good. Don't speak unless spoken to. I've suffered enough of your petulance to last a century. But you do have certain…" Snape's eyes roved over Draco's form, looking for the first time, and, damn it, Draco could feel the blush spreading through his cheeks and down his neck. Snape's eyes followed his reddening skin as if entranced.

Snape leant against one of the bed posts and tapped his fingers against his chin. "Where to start?" he said, as if envisaging a world of possibilities. Then, "Ah."

Draco knew something was coming--perhaps he'd have to unbutton his shirt after all. His fingers were twitching to follow the assumed order before Snape proffered another instruction. "Use your right hand and rub your nipples," Snape said, and oh God, Draco was blushing now. Snape had said the word "nipples." It was wrong on so many levels, but something wasn't wrong, something was horribly, horribly right as Draco's hand dropped down to his left nipple and began to rub through the fabric of his shirt.

His nipples had never been that sensitive, and so he rubbed harder, and then began to pinch them until he was biting his lip to keep from groaning aloud.

"Just as I thought," Snape said, his voice rasping. "You are a slut." Draco knew his eyes were wide, and Snape smirked. "Yes," he drawled. "You have all the makings of a pretty little slut."

"Yes, sir," Draco said, because he couldn't help himself. If Snape wanted to think deriving some pleasure from this little venture was slutty, well, so be it. Draco had been called worse.

"Silence," Snape hissed. "I did not grant you permission to speak." Snape leant forward, and the candlelight licked at his face. "Remove your hand."

Draco did, and whimpered at the loss. Merlin, he did sound like a pathetic slut.

"Look down," Snape breathed, and Draco did. He was not surprised to find his trousers tented. Draco knew his pants were damp with precome. The tension coiling low in his belly demanded release, circumstances be damned.

Snape moved—God no, please no—around the bed until he was standing to Draco's left, within the perfect vantage point to see Draco's arousal. Draco was not going to look at Snape. He was not. It was bad enough that Snape was practically breathing over his shoulder.

"Perhaps you won't have as much trouble as we thought. Apparently being instructed is to your liking," Snape said. "I imagine your prick is aching, isn't it? You want to touch yourself through your clothes and rub the sensitive head of your cock like you did your nipples, don't you?"

Oh, my God. Draco had indulged in a few fantasies about Snape, but he had never imagined—had never dared to imagine—that Snape would sound like this. Snape was not so prudish after all, but absolutely filthy.

Draco knew he was panting, his lungs working overtime, and it was hard to stay on his knees without toppling over. He imagined if he did fall against Snape—how Snape's fingers might right him, clutch at his shoulders, maybe move down and rub at his hardened, desperate cock, those white long fingers, and oh fuck—

Draco moaned, low and loud.

Snape chuckled. "Such a slut. I don't believe I'll be providing you any nipple clamps. You'd think them a reward for your childish display.” His voice had faded. Draco's head lifted. Indeed, Snape was no longer near: now he stood with his back against the wall to the left of the bed.

"Pinch the other one. Hard." Snape’s eyes didn’t meet Draco’s. They were trained on Draco’s fingers as he began to twist the other nipple harder than he had the other; a stifled groan harboured in his throat escaped as a gasp.

So aware in that moment, Draco was, that he was performing, performing for Snape, who was there watching. Snape’s command drowned out Draco’s whimper. “I thought I told you to pinch.”

"Make up your mind!” Draco scowled while panting. “You told me I s—”

“Shut up, boy. It should have been obvious what I wanted.”

Draco gritted his teeth. If he didn’t follow directions to the letter, he would be punished. If he didn’t infer correctly, he would be punished. “And what do you want. Sir?”

“Let’s see if your ego is an attempt to compensate. Unzip your trousers.” Draco’s cheeks heated again, and Snape crossed his arms over his chest in one graceful movement that left Draco yearning to scream.

Draco felt blood pounding its way through the veins of his neck. Brilliant. He was certain his entire face and neck were bright red. That was sexy. The sound of the lowering zip was loud in the room. Red light played across his fingers, and Draco expected to hear the crackle of a fire in the background.

“Pull them down,” Snape said, his voice dark and sending a shiver coursing over Draco’s skin. Draco pulled his trousers down to his knees, cold air sensitive on the naked skin of his thighs. He sucked in a rasping breath.

“Cold, is it? Is that why you’re so hard?”

It took a moment for these words to make sense. Draco could barely fathom that Snape was talking about his fucking cock. His cock.

“No, sir.”

“Tell me. Why are you so hard?”

The Dark Lord was going to see all of this. How utterly humiliating.

“Well? Must I cast Imperius after all in order to get you to answer a simple question?”

Draco’s eyes snapped open, recalling Snape’s question. Why was he hard?

Voicing a whisper, Draco delivered his line to the coverlet. “I suppose I like to be humiliated, sir.”

Snape had no quick comeback this time, but Draco didn’t dare look up. God, he had to touch his prick. Right now.

“As if there were any doubt, you slut,” Snape said.

Draco’s cock twitched and he wondered if, perhaps, he did like to be humiliated.

“If you leak onto the coverlet, you will lick it off. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Draco groaned and his fingers fluttered around his cock, brushing against the ridge of it through the soft cotton of his pants. He bit his tongue to stifle a moan and his eyelids drifted closed. Yes, his pants were so, so wet. He started to rub himself through them. He could hear the smack of wet cloth against his fingers. Pleasure igniting his nerves, Snape’s voice so hard and filthy repeating in his mind, over and over, Draco wanted nothing more than to lick the coverlet, to see what Snape would do—to get Snape to respond. Draco found his balls through his pants and squeezed at them.

“I didn’t tell you to touch yourself, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said, tone hard. “But you won’t last much longer, will you?”

“N-no, no, sir.”

“When I told you to remove them, I meant everything, Mr. Malfoy. Witnessing you paw through your underwear might amuse a twelve-year-old, but it does not amuse me.”

Draco had no qualms with this instruction—still, his cheeks blazed from the words, but he didn’t think of them again when he had his red cock in hand. The nest of white-blond curls scratched at his fingers as Draco ran them tentatively over his cock. Draco’s fingernail edged into the slit at the head, and his vision blurred. He looked up and caught Snape in mid-movement.

Halfway between the wall and the bed, eyes wide, Snape stopped. Draco wondered if Snape had intended to move at all.

Snape halted and shook hair out of his face. His eyes rose to Draco’s face. “Fist your cock.”

A moan ripped from Draco’s throat, so relieved he was to finally be able to squeeze and fuck his cock through his fingers. It was wet, his fingers gliding easily over the sensitive skin as he fisted it, little slap-slap-slap noises rising as the smell of sex clouded the air. Draco watched his cock disappear through the ring of his pale fingers and he whimpered.

Then he recalled the image from before: his cock disappearing through long, sallow dexterous fingers. Draco felt a hot pulse near the base of his spine; his balls felt impossibly tight. He started to shake and knew he couldn’t hold it together any longer. He looked up in surrender. Snape’s arms were crossed, shoulders relaxed, and his knuckles were white as death.

“I—I need to come, sir.” His lungs were so devoid of oxygen, his vision blurred. Almost like Snape had tied something around his neck. “Oh, fuck, Severus, please let me come, now, please.”

Snape took one, two, three strides over and he was standing beside Draco. “You will notcome if you do not address me in the appropriate way!”

But Snape’s angry snarl was all Draco needed. He tipped over into oblivion, cock shuddering as he spent himself in pulse after long pulse, coming all over the black coverlet. He collapsed back onto the bed, every limb loose and sated, shocks of pleasure still kinking up his toes.

“God,” he whispered.

Several silent minutes later, Draco's laboured breaths subsided into pants and his lungs relished the return of air. The room was inhumanly quiet, and Draco wondered why he hadn't heard Snape.

Draco craned his neck, unwilling to exhaust the energy to raise his head.

Snape was no longer by the bed, and when Draco deigned to raise his head for a better look about the room, the man was nowhere to be found. Red candlelight dimly ignited the room, looking much like fire, as if Snape's room were its own small corner of Hell.

Draco fell back against the coverlet, cursing himself, cursing the Dark Lord, but most of all cursing Snape. How dare he leave Draco like this? This hadn't exactly been a walk in the park for Draco. When he thought about the things Snape had said, the things he'd done in the name of so-called subjection, Draco felt humiliated. Well, humiliated and a bit tingly, but humiliated all the same.

And then realization dawned: Maybe Snape was humiliated. He’d sounded bored throughout the course of the night. Or maybe, another voice echoed in Draco's thoughts as his head fell back to the bed in defeat, maybe he’s surmised why you were so unexpectedly aroused. It took you an embarrassingly short time, did it not?

He shut his eyes against the hellish room and its hellish reminders, but the red remained, imprinted against his eyelids. In the vacuum of silence, Snape’s voice whispered, “slut, slut, slut,” in his ears, echoing and echoing, as if it were many Snapes chiding him and not just one.

Sated in body but not in mind, Draco drifted to sleep on Snape’s bed.

*

Lethargy weighed down Draco's eyelids and he curled under the cocoon of warm blankets. His cheek, exposed to the air, was cold. Burrowing further under the blankets didn’t rid him of the chill. He opened his eyes.

The only small mercy the world provided was that the room was still empty.

Draco had slept in Snape’s room. He was in Snape’s bed, underneath the covers. Underneath the black coverlet he had—

Fuck. Draco sat bolt upright. His clothes. He needed to get to his room without running into Snape, and he needed his clothes.

Then he remembered he was wearing his clothes.

Draco catapulted out of the bed. When the smell of sex wafted into the room anew, he looked down with foreboding.

His morning erection peeked out of his unzipped trousers. “Fuck,” he said. As he fumbled, his frigid fingers brushed the hot skin of his cock, and he hissed. He manoeuvred his prick into his pants, where it belonged, and yanked up the zip of his trousers before he gave into the urge to wank in Snape’s room.

Again.

Draco paid no mind to where Snape might be, none at all. He did not think about why the bastard had left him alone all night after such a traumatizing experience. Well, not completely traumatizing at the time. But last night he’d dreamt about Snape slamming him against a wall and calling him “boy” while the Dark Lord watched. And then—

Draco shook his head against the remembered nightmare, but couldn’t quite shake away the very real memory of the Dark Lord’s red penetrating eyes browsing with infuriating ease through Draco’s most treasured and vulnerable thoughts, Occlumency shields be damned.

Red. Draco looked up to see that the candlelight that had glowed with dancing shadows the night before had burnt itself out and wax had congealed on the candles.

Out, he needed to get out. He moved for the door and was almost there when a knock resounded on the other side, and Draco jumped, then cursed himself.

“Time to get up!” Snape roared and, like a man possessed, rapped at the door again.

Snape thought he could just leave Draco without a word, and now he expected Draco to cater to his every whim? Draco thought not.

Draco flung the door open. Snape’s face was paler than usual and his fist faltered when there was no longer a closed door to abuse.

Leaning against the doorframe, rolling his shoulders to ease the sleep-stiffened muscles, Draco scowled and said with approximated casualness, “Did you need something?”

Snape blinked.

Draco raised a brow.

“I made toast,” Snape said, by way of explanation.

“Did you, really?”

“I’m not in the mood for your cheek.” A vein was ticking away at Snape’s left temple, and upon closer inspection, Draco saw the purple rings below Snape’s eyes. He looked exhausted.

“And I’m not in the mood to pretend you’re still my professor, ordering me about.” Draco pushed past Snape, their shoulders brushing, and Draco half-expected that Snape would pin him against the wall as he’d done last night and whisper dirty things in his ear. Draco’s cock twitched at the notion, and he closed his eyes.

He marched down the hall, and heard Snape’s footfalls trailing after him.

Draco settled into one of the two chairs at the rickety old table. The wood was worn and carved with initials in indiscriminate places. He had no doubt the Death Eaters had nicked it from a desolate pub somewhere. Perhaps after murdering the Muggles who'd sat there.

Snape banged a plate down before him, and Draco jumped again.

Snape lived to catch Draco in his vulnerable moments and smirk at him. Draco resigned himself to the fact that dignity was an extinct species so long as he was around Snape—and especially today.

As if Snape had read Draco’s thoughts—and maybe he had—Snape settled across from him, with a plate of his own, and looked Draco in the eye. “It’s quite understandable if you were to be uneasy after last night.”

Draco cringed, and took a bite of toast—burnt, as always. He hated burnt toast, but he didn’t complain anymore or ask for anything else.

Snape watched him while he chewed, and Draco wanted nothing more than to go and barricade himself in his room before Snape began talking. He didn’t want to have this conversation, not now, not ever, and he didn’t want to hear Snape’s voice—

“I must apologise,” Snape said.

—but if Snape was going to grovel...

“For the toast?”

“What? What does toast—” Snape cut himself off and started to massage his temples. Draco bit his lip as he watched Snape's fingers work in agile circles. “No, you idiot. My toast is perfectly acceptable.” Snape looked down, fingers still rubbing. “I was attempting to—apologise.” He pronounced the word as if it were Hell personified or as if he were speaking of Gryffindor first-years wielding Potions essays.

“For?”

“You must make everything extraordinarily difficult.”

Draco folded his arms and frowned. “If you don’t mind, I’m not in the mood to be lectured, Severus.”

Snape stopped rubbing his temples. “Why are you calling me Severus?”

Draco bristled. “Well, let’s see. Most people call each other by their, um—what’s that word?—ah, yes! Their names. We can address each other by our names. And your name is Severus.” He pointed to Snape as if Snape were an idiot, and not just a goddamn arsehole. "And my name. Me.” He pointed to himself. “I’m Draco. Dray-co.”

When he was done, Snape was watching him as if he were touched in the head. Good. Draco hoped so. It would explain quite a lot about last night...

“You are intolerable.”

“Thank you.” Draco studied his fingernails. “You were apologising?”

“I was attempting to do so.” A sigh. “Last night I left because I—lost control.”

Draco’s brow creased. “Severus, you were the beacon of togetherness. You were together. Very, very together. I, on the other hand…” Lost every semblance of control.

“—Played your role admirably.” Snape traced his lip with a finger. “You thought my, ah, performance was…adequate?”

“Yes,” Draco said, slowly. Snape was worried about how he’d come across for the Dark Lord? “I thought your role was performed convincingly.”

Draco looked up and wished he hadn’t. Snape was staring at him again.

“Do you?” he asked, and his tone suggestive, reminding Draco of last night. The air was suddenly too hot, the room too small, and Draco needed the shower or he was going to die.

“I’m going to shower,” he said, and bolted from the room, abandoning Snape with the toast.

*