Vacillating (not_vacillating) wrote in slounger,
Vacillating
not_vacillating
slounger

Fic: Of Lollipops and Lovers

Of Lollipops and Lovers

Author: Am-Chau Yarkona (amchau@popullus.net)
Rating: NC-17 (has slight porn)
Fandom: Harry Potter. With a little BtVS.

Notes: This was betaed by loneraven—thank you, Iona. It was written for shrift: the delightful, the wonderful, the multi-talented Shrift. Shrift, thank you for everything you do for fandom. I hope you enjoy this.


"It's Professor Snape!" hisses a blushing Slytherin girl to her companion as he strides past them in the corridor.

"Oh, Avena, are you going to swoon?" her friend inquires, low-voiced and nasty, sneaking a chocolate from Avena's Honeyduke's bag while she stares at the professor. Snape—keen to return to the latest edition of The Journal of Protection from Dark Arts—refrains from enquiring why they are not in their common room or the library, studying; he is, perhaps, a little flattered, though he puts it to himself that he is pleased that young Miss Calida Coleman is, despite her family, turning out to be suitably Slytherin in temperament.

Also, on considering the issue, he wonders if it means that he has appropriated a little of the alluring dark power he finds himself drawn to, even when he fights it.

* * *

It's two full moons now since the door in Knockturn Alley swung open, with the obligatory creaking noise, and he entered The Wand And Widget. Fifty-seven nights, in fact.

He'd been thinking about full moons. Originally, he'd been in Diagon Alley to buy the rarer ingredients of the Wolfsbane potion, but as always, he'd found Knockturn Alley a distracting temptation, seething as it was with memories of his own schooldays, of his parents, of Malfoys and maledictions. He'd had to go into Gringotts anyway, after which it was a natural turn. His feet took him, as destiny had seemed to lead him into Vold—Volde—into the Dark Lord's service.

Slowly, he wandered through the alley. Few people were about at this early-morning time: too late at night, still, for the larks, and too early for the night-owls. Only one or two remained, those who had flown too close to the pavement and crashed in the gutter.

The shops stayed open in Knockturn Alley, though, when everyone in Diagon Alley except the goblins had gone home for forty winks.

Outside The Wand And Widget, a pub sign painted pure black swung a little, though the air was cold and still. Snape, thinking that one of the drunks in the road may well be sober and preparing their report for the morning, didn't hesitate, but strode across.

The door creaked. Inside, it was as dark as a Cruciatus curse; the only thing that shone was the grin in the barman's wrinkled face. Snape blinked, slowly. To cast a spell for light would be considered a weakness by anyone already there.

"Good morning, Severus," the barman said. His moving lips had the curious effect of flickering the light from his teeth—Snape had been coming here for long enough not to be disturbed by the way a rosy glow spread though his closed mouth.

"Mordicus," Snape replied. Swinging his head, he peered around. Only one patron was discernable, a pale man with a bleached-blond head, perched on a bar stool.

* * *

"Professor Snape!" a childish voice cries, and he swings around, cloak unfurling from its regular folds.

A small Hufflepuff stands before him. It is living up to its name, panting mightily and shaking a little. A slightly trace of green is detectable in its face.

"Sir," it says, "sir, I wrote twelve inches, sir, for the essay, sir, the one you set, sir—but Johnson says you only set seven and you'll kill me if I hand in twelve sir please don’t kill me sir I just really like potions sir and I have extra big handwriting sir."

Snape sneers, a habitual expression. "Hand in what you've got, and an extra six besides." He turns to leave, but the Hufflepuff has more to say.

"Six… six more, sir… I can't, there's Charms and Care of Magical Creatures and…"

"And ten points from Hufflepuff for arguing with a teacher," Snape says.

The Hufflepuff's tears hit the ground behind him.

* * *

Chains of cause and effects are complex, as any potions maker knows: add an unknown ingredient, and you're starting a reaction you have no way of stopping. Add a catalyst to an unknown mixture at your own risk.

Events in this world, as the aged Flamel wrote in A Personal Philosophy of Life and Magic, are like a potion. Any given ingredient may react in unknown ways, depending what is previously present.

That night, Snape had been thrown into a bubbling cauldron.

The blond man—Spike, he called himself—had turned out to be a vampire. A handsome vampire in a leather coat that seemed to mock the staid swings of Snape's cloak. A handsome vampire who must have been lonely, or who knew power when he smelt it, or who had managed to drink himself completely blind.

A handsome vampire who bought Snape a drink, and another: drinks that Snape—"Call me Severus," he slurred on the way upstairs—did not refuse.

Snape remembers small flashes of what they did in the tiny room over the bar. He notes with satisfaction that he did not relinquish control to the dark creature.

There is a clear visual of the dyed blond head thrown back on a dirty pillow. Of the gelled hair brushing Severus's stomach as the fanged mouth sucks his cock like one of Honeyduke's blood-flavoured lollipops. Of Spike's eyes and rubbed-raw lips flung open as Severus shoves his way into the vampire's arse. Of the smoke curling off Spike’s hand: Severus thrust it into the chink of sunlight left by tatty curtains at the instant when Spike came.

Like wizards' photographs, these images move a little, but they do no more than that. Snape senses that he has lost the key sensations. He feels no sadness, though, because to possess full memories would lay him open to blackmail when the Dark Lord—or Dumbledore—raids his mind, whoever gets there first.

Finally, there is a sound: the hiss of pain-pleasure Spike let out at his peak. A snake's hiss, a purely evil hiss.

Snape remembers it, and jerks off, roughly and quickly, under the Slytherin shield that adorns his bedroom.

* * *

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore twinkles, and holds out a half-empty bowl of sweets. "Lollipop? I'm afraid the sherbet lemons are all gone, along with all the flavours except blood. I had a terribly upset Hufflepuff in here this morning, who ate a vast number of them."

Snape is about to decline, as usual: but surprises himself by taking on, slipping it into his pocket for later. "Thank you, Headmaster."

Delighted, Dumbledore waves him to a seat for their weekly discussion of Voldemort's movements.
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