But a Dream

Say that it has been a perfectly wretched day.

Say it\'s the worst day of his life.

The why of it has long since ceased to matter – this is simply how the fantasy goes. What matters is that it\'s been a terrible day, the worst day, and Albus Dumbledore imagines wearily climbing the stairs to his rooms at the end of it, only to find young Severus Snape there waiting for him.

It is a sweet fantasy, and yet it isn\'t. It is filthy and coarse and crude – that\'s what makes it work – and Albus considers himself all of these things and more, to harden like a green boy at the very thought of it as he does. There is something about it that stirs him in a way he chooses not to examine, and while the fantasy has played itself out a hundred different ways in his imagination, it is somehow always the same, and each variation is equally dear to him. It has become as much a part of his day as the morning shower or a sleepless night, and sometimes he scripts the entire production from start to finish, running through every detail and inflection, and other times lingers, captivated by a single scene, one line, a stage direction.

\"…Headmaster.\" The fullness of Severus\'s lips.

It wasn\'t always Severus Snape, of course. This is an old fantasy, a beloved favourite, and Severus has only recently come into his majority and destiny. Once upon a time the young star would likely have been one of those sweet little lapdogs from a certain genteel and discreet bordello on Circe Street, or perhaps, should he be feeling on edge, one of the sharp-eyed youths occasionally glimpsed on Knocturn Alley corners. Albus would imagine these creatures appearing in his private rooms - never mind how they got in, consider their very presence a wicked violation – stretched out on the chesterfield, half-naked, waiting for him. Knowing eyes, sinful mouths. Thick cocks clutched in greasy fists.

But that was back in an age when misery meant grading and rain, or perhaps a failing student. Quarrelling colleagues, senile superiors. Now, it is nothing less than death that follows him home at the end of the day, and all the willing young whores of his imagination wear the face of Severus Snape.

This isn\'t meanness on his part – not really. Albus was simply not made for celibacy, and has found that his mind takes strangely to it. He has not been to one of his young men in the seven years since the war against Voldemort began in earnest. There are no more pleasant Sundays spent tangled in a luxuriant brothel bed with a beautiful, golden-mouthed young man. No kisses, no affectionate courting of favourites, no sweet embraces or rough tumbles. And in their place, only Severus remains. Snape the spy, who is tender-aged and jaded, and provides a service that brings him under Albus\'s direction in exchange for pre-arranged recompense.

This comparison certainly doesn\'t mean that Albus respects him any less – he was always very fond of his young men, and a whore is more to be admired than a weak-kneed strumpet, to put the truth coarsely – but it is nonetheless little wonder that young Mr. Snape\'s sullen mouth has become inextricably linked to prostitution in his private thoughts.

And so Albus\'s fantasy has taken on new life in recent months, and now it is Severus who waits for him at the end of these trying days. Sometimes sprawled in Albus\'s favourite chair, one limber leg hooked over the arm of it, and his robes hiked up to his thighs, baring himself indecently. Other times he is in the bedroom, kneeling humbly at the foot of the bed, or curled up boyishly between the sheets.

Say that this time, Albus comes home to find Severus spread out on the sitting room floor. Clothed, but with the skirt of his robes all twisted, as though he has rolled over from on his belly, baring a tantalising display of pale skin between boot and hem. Severus\'s eyes are closed, and he is tenderly cradling an empty bottle of scotch to his chest.

This is important. In his fantasy, Severus is always incapacitated in some way – drunk, or drugged, or injured. He must always be reliant on Albus\'s mercy. He has made the decisio ino invade Albus\' sanctuary, knowing himself to be weak and vulnerable for the taking.

And say, this time, that Albus has been drinking too. Never mind why. Perhaps he\'s just returned from some beastly Ministry affair where one too many glasses of bubbly were pressed upon him. What matters is that he is weak as well, and cannot possibly be held responsible for his actions. After so many years of carrying the wizarding world on his shoulders, Albus is above all else tired of being responsible.

So, say he sits down on the floor beside Severus, and say that he finds broken glass on the rug – the remains of one of his good crystal tumblers. This is a delicious touch. Evidence of young Severus\'s temper never fails to excite him, and the sight of the trembling amber drops still clinging to the shards gives him a darkly pleasurable turn.

Severus would be very drunk indeed, drunk enough for Albus to smell it on his breath when he speaks, when they begin to argue, quietly and hotly as they always do in this fantasy. Never mind about what. Whether it\'s the lofty clashes over Voldemort and Order business, or the small affronts of Severus\'s twisted robes and a broken lock on Albus\'s liquor cabinet, it\'s all the same. What matters is that they argue, and their tempers rise, and that while Severus is right, Albus convinces him that he is wrong.

In his fantasy, Severus is always very, very sorry. And Albus is very, very wicked to punish him nonetheless.

Now he touches him. He pushes a lock of lank hair out of Severus\'s eyes, and strokes his cheek. Severus peers up at him, first in mute confusion and then in recognition. Albus touches his pale lips, as he has dreamed a hundred times before, his hand ghosting over the front of Severus\'s robes, down to his hips.

\"Do you wish to be forgiven?\" he asks.

And say Severus shivers at that, the bottle slipping from his grasp, hitting the rug with a muffled thump. He peers up at Albus with fathomless eyes, a sneering mouth. His cheeks are flushed with anger and the drink. \"I don\'t need your forgiveness.\"

That\'s the way of it. His words are cotton-mouthed, slurred. Severus is drunk and doesn\'t know what he\'s saying.

So, smiling, Albus bends down to kiss him. He imagines he can taste Severus\' surprise, his darling little captured breath. He imagines that Severus has never been kissed re, re, never been paid court to, and so gratefully melts beneath this gentle offering. His mouth is soft and pliant, parting willingly for Albus\'s tongue, but much too shy to return the kiss. This innocence is perhaps the only honest thing that could come from that mouth, and Albus kisses him harder, getting down on his elbows to press his body into the embrace.

Severus always resists of course, just a little. But his clumsy attempts to push Albus away melt into caresses – weak hands around his shoulders, sliding down to his chest. Severus turns his face away, breathless with surprise, leaving Albus kissing his cheek, his jaw, his throat. His pulse thrums like a hummingbird\'s wing beneath Albus\'s tongue, and he weakly squirms.

\"What…what are you doing?\"

That whisper, coyness masquerading as chastity – a heady blend of fantasy and reality because while in real life he suspects Severus to be untouched, in his darkest dreams Severus has serviced circles of cowled Death Eaters; laid out on an altar and had his bare body splattered with semen; had his legs spread by Tom Riddle himself and his virginity cruelly torn from him, and that is why he is so shy and eager all at once for Albus\'s careful attentions.

And so: \"You\'ve had too much to drink,\" Albus says, and kisses him again, tasting the sharp, smoky scotch. \"I\'m taking you to bed.\"

Severus blinks blearily, but Albus has always pictured him an endearing drunk, easily drawn to his feet and led towards the bedroom. Clumsy as a sleepy child, tripping over his robes and bumping his shoulder against the doorframe. He allows himself to be stripped of his robes, and falls limply back on the bed in his underclothes, legs dangling over the side of the mattress. Albus kneels on the floor and removes Severus\' socks and then his underpants, revealing a soft, well-formed cock in a thick nest of black curls. He stands and strips, then pulls Severus\'s legs onto the bed and climbs up beside him.

Severus\'s hands come down to cover himself, but Albus gently draws them away and places a kiss in the tender juncture of thigh and trunk. Severus squirms, muttering, \"What are you…\"

And here sometimes Severus spreads his knees and wantonly moans, pulling Albus into his arms and grinding against him. Other times he struggles, just a little for the show of it, so that Albus has to pin his wrists and kiss him into submission.

Say that this time, Severus is willing but shy. He lies still, his hands clenching impotently, head lolling to one side and his eyes drifting shut.

Albus touches him with reverent hands. Such smooth skin, bared just for him. Severus gives himself up eagerly as Albus drapes his legs over his shoulders and presses forward. A bit of wandless magic, perhaps, to hold up Severus\'s hips and slick him up inside, and then…

…warm, snug, perfect. Severus moans, a hot, wanting sound. His eyes are squeezed shut, his expression one of pleasure so rapt it almost resembles pain. He whimpers, and gasps, and his hands clutch at Albus\' shoulders.

\"…don\'t stop,\" he breathes. \"Don\'t…stop…\"

Albus rarely lasts long after this point. The mere thought of thrusting into Severus\'s tight body – virgin, whore, breathless, begging – works a subtle magic upon him and undoes him with each imagined thrust. He fucks Severus roughly, with desperate determination, wanting more than anything to hold onto him after the dream ends, wanting his hands to remember the feel of warm flesh and lean bones, his senses to burn with each scent and taste and broken little sound.

He comes with a triumphant shout, his orgasm a dizzying, draining thing that sends him tumbling into unconsciousness almost before he hits the pillow.

\"…money\'s on the table,\" he hears himself murmur.

And then the sheets swallow him up in their warm embrace, and everything goes quiet.

He sleeps, for a time.

And say he wakens, some while later.

When the bed tilts and a sudden chill rouses him. He is sleep-addled, his head pounding. The sudden influx of noise disorients him.

He hears. Hands and knees on the bare stone. Clothing being gathered. There is somebody in his bedroom, he realises. Somebody breathing heavily, swallowing small, painful noises. The space next to him on the bed is warm. For a blissful moment, Albus feels nothing but confusion. And then it all comes back to him in a sickening rush that makes the room spin in the darkness and bitter champagne rise in his gorge.

He doesn\'t dare speak when the bedroom door opens. Closes. Footsteps fading until all he can hear is the sick hammering of his own heart.

Say – that James and Lily Potter are dead, and that Voldemort is not. And he remembers that in his fantasies, Severus never weeps.

He reaches for the light, and then stops himself, thinking of what he might find. A sock on the floor, perhaps, or broken glass on the sitting room rug. Something more than semen staining the sheets. He lies still in the darkness, deaf and blind.

Say the worst day of his life has just begun.