Here are the three chapters to my yet-to-be-completed
SS/SB fic, Enchaine.
I like it. I like the idea, I like the humor, blah blah blah...
But it was going in the wrong direction and the build-up to
the ultimate secks just was not going to be good enough.
Thus, I'm working on another one (YES, ANOTHER) which will be titled:
The Black Death.
I've already written the opening if anyone is interested.
Anywho...let's be professional.
Rating: PG-13 for sexual themes, slash, and language.
Length: Ch.1 - 1315 words, Ch.2 - 2130 words, Ch.3 - 1316 words.
Summary: Sirius has a strange dream about Snape that makes him reluctant to go back to his teasing ways. Will he and Snape ever stop being enemies? Will Sirius let his dream come true? (YEAH that was cheesy. I succeeded.)
Pairings: Sirius Black/Severus Snape, underage (but no sexxin so far)
The Gryffindor common room is dark and completely silent. Upstairs, thirty-one girls and boys are sleeping heavily, taking advantage of the eight hours before mid-year exams begin. James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew share a large bedroom lined with canopy beds draped in red and gold. Dreams of snitches and red hair and very large libraries dwell in their respective heads.
But someone is missing.
A beam of moonlight is hung from a small window to the opposite side of the common room. It shines silver on the messy black hair of a boy sleeping on a large, pink armchair in the corner. His long eyelashes cast shadows across his face, and he is smiling very slightly, in a curious kind of way.
He is very, very warm. Peculiarly warm, and he doesn't know why. He opens his eyes quite slowly, revealing a room with dark red walls, a red, silk-covered canopy bed, and a velvet-curtained window through which shines a full, silver moon. A very dark wooden headboard is lined with glowing candles whose shadows dance along the walls. He is in that odd dreaming state where one sees himself as if he were watching through a hole in the wall.
A state of loose dreaming, where you know you are there, and you can manipulate events to a certain extent before becoming too conscious to go on.
Because of this, he thought, a snake is crawling through a hole in the wall now.
It is small and green, like he wants a snake to look. He looks away, then back again, and it is gone.
He looks at himself, and he is naked.
He is lying in the center of the bed, his arms over his head and his legs spread out.
He, for some reason, is perfectly fine with this and doesn't mind when he sees that his wrists and ankles are tied neatly to each of the four bed posts with thick, black rope.
He tests them, trying to pull his hand through the loop, but he can't move.
Ah. He recognizes these dreams. You can't run when you try to run, and you can't talk when you want to talk. He knows his control over things is beginning to wane.
He impulsively opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.
He looks at himself again and realizes that there are two broad strips of cloth tied around his head; one over his eyes, and one in his mouth. Despite this, he can see everything, and the snake is slithering out of its hole again, and he notices how heavily he is breathing now.
He wonders to himself why he is here, and alone at that.
He thought he knew what all of this silk-sheets and candles nonsense insinuated.
Something slightly more...routine, though nonetheless more lewd than this.
He closes his eyes, becoming increasingly warm and tired.
He tries to open his eyes, and everything goes black.
He is afraid for the first time now, and tries in vain to see through the supposed blindfold.
He breathes, and listens, and smells the burning candles once more, feeling their warmth against his skin.
He tries again, and his eyes flutter open.
He jumps slightly at the shock of seeing two very large, dark brown eyes staring down at him.
Gorgeous, deep eyes and black hair tied into a ponytail...a long, familiar nose, and deathly pale skin on a lean, smooth body.
The boys face hovers inches above his, and said boy is wearing nothing, apparently, save a very coy smile.
Boy's arms are on either side of his, holding boy up so that his shoulders stretch upwards.
Boy sits with legs underneath himself so that boy's knees are between his own spread legs.
He zones out momentarily, unable to hold this image so that it makes sense, so that it keeps going.
He feels boy's soft hair graze his neck, and comes back. He shudders as boy's lips run across the line of his jaw.
Boy smiles again, his dark stare unwavering.
Boy lowers himself so that the two are body against body, warm and soft and vividly wonderful.
Now, the boy wears tight black leather pants.
Boy runs his knee in between the other's legs.
He struggles against the ropes that are keeping him flat and still, and the boy only thrusts forward in answer, licking his neck.
The strip of cloth gagging him needs to come off, he thinks, but it is still tied tightly behind his head.
Boy leans up, and a cold chain runs across the other's bare chest.
He notices that the boy now wears a spiked leash, which is connected from boy to the foot of the bed near the floor somewhere.
He feels a slight wave of pleasure from the sight, and writhes with it.
Boy's hand graces the side of his face gently, and boy looks up toward the headboard. Boy leans upwards towards it, stretched out like a white cat above his head.
Boy blows out each of the candles one by one, and everything is dark.
He reaches behind his head and unties the two strips of cloth.
"Finally," he thinks, but it is too late now.
He feels the rough arm of the chair on his face and reluctantly opens his eyes, just wondering.
Hoping that the dream would come back if he just laid there a little bit longer.
But it didn't. The images started to melt away, and he was determined to hold on to them.
Who was that? I know that face...
He sits up, rubbing his eyes.
He buries his face in his hands.
Oh, God. He knew it. It was him...
He stands up, stretching, and staggers upstairs to the bedroom.
He quietly enters and lets his eyes adjust to the darkness before finding his bed in the middle of the room. He climbs under the sheets and sighs, staring at the canopy above him.
Peter is snoring rather loudly.
He considers for a moment.
He stares straight up for what seems like hours, but he can only think about one thing.
Forcing back the shame of it, he finishes a small task that had been left undone by his awakening...
Thoughts race through his mind.
I just want to get it over with, he thinks.
But then he starts, and the image of the boy in his dream comes back to him.
Dark hair falls around the boy's face...
The dark eyes are drilling into him, and the boy smiles that goddamned smile again, and it runs straight to his groin like nothing else.
He wants to be disgusted. He wants to stop.
But he keeps going.
The chain runs across his body, and it's cold on his skin all over again...
The boy watches him quietly, and takes hold of the chain, playing with it in his hands as he sits on his knees.
The boy hands him the chain, and their hands touch, fingers running together slowly...
He takes the chain as the boy lets go, and he holds it tight.
He and the boy watch each other for a long moment, and he somehow knows what to do.
He draws the chain towards him, and the boy crawls closer, staring at him with a cold, lonely hunger in his eyes.
He pulls the boy up to him, and their mouths come together in a long kiss.
He wraps his arms around the boy, and they pull rabidly at one another, kissing roughly, grabbing for hair and digging nails into skin.
He comes unexpectedly, breathing so quickly that he might die
his heart racing like it hadn't in a long time
He spreads out on the bed in a tired heap,
And he doesn't know why.
Sirius wakes up at eight o’clock, though not quite as “sharp” as Remus, who wakes up at precisely 7:55 each morning so as to get to the bathroom before all of the other Gryffindor boys. Remus says, “It’s nice to avoid the morning rush, Sirius,” but really, he’s just a bit too shy to pee in front of everyone when they are “all watching him.”
Sirius takes a shower in exactly seven minutes and forty-five seconds, though not quite as “efficient” as James, who can pee and brush his teeth at the same time. “It is an art,” says James. “Only the truly talented can master the hand movements involved in such a feat.” Sirius has never seen him mess up, not in all of their six years at Hogwarts. What a vulgar situation it would be if he weren’t as coordinated.
Sirius eats a bowl of porridge, two sausages, a piece of toast, a spoonful of eggs, and a glass of pumpkin juice by 8:36, though not as “healthily” as Peter, who eats a bowl of porridge, four sausages, three pieces of toast, five slices of bacon, another piece of toast, at least half a plate of eggs, and a glass of pumpkin juice by 8:35. “Mother says breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Peter exclaims. Peter’s mother also weighs about as much as a mountain troll, or maybe the giant squid.
Sirius gets to his first class, Transfiguration, by 8:56. Severus Snape gets to his first class, Transfiguration, by 8:59, because Severus Snape takes a different route than Sirius and the other Marauders. Taking the dark, winding, back corridors unknown to most students at Hogwarts, Snape uses those three extra minutes for a good reason. He could walk to McGonagall’s class with the rest of the Slytherin sixth-years, but he doesn’t – for even *they* taunt him sometimes. Sirius reasons, “Who wouldn’t tease that disgusting, greasy, little son of a bitch?” This always receives a chuckle from James. “What, with his huge nose, he must take the back halls because the rest of the Slytherins can’t fit through when they walk with him!”
This is a usual morning discussion on the way to class, and Remus wonders why. *Why* is it that Sirius can’t just ignore the fact that Snape doesn’t fit in like *he* does? It’s as if the first thing that pops into Sirius’s head is ‘Snape isn’t here. Must be taking those back halls again.’ Like a broken record that he doesn’t want to stop playing. But every morning, Sirius gets the old pat on the back from Peter and James. The old, “I KNOW! Just look at the way he carries his Potions books! Like his little diaries, shoving them into his bosom like that.” – “He doesn’t want us to see the inside cover: ‘Severus Malfoy…Mrs. Lucius Malfoy.’” – “With little hearts around them!”
But in reality, Severus Snape’s nose isn’t really that big. In fact, Frank Longbottom has a much bigger nose than he does, but Sirius calls it “stately”. Severus Snape isn’t very greasy, either. James is greasy – he skips showers after quidditch sometimes. Kingsley Shacklebolt’s *head* is greasy, or shiny, or gleaming. But Severus Snape is not greasy. And Severus Snape does not have “Mrs. Lucius Malfoy” written on the inside of his Potions books. He has a different name inside, and he *does* guard that page like a mad hyena. He *does* clutch it like a little girl into his imaginary bosom. Because he has written a name all over that page, and he has done erasing spells and written it all over again, on every inch of the paper. But there are no little hearts around them, except maybe one. Or three.
Breakfast in the great hall has to be the best thing to wake up to some days. The hall is full of dark, wooden tables with clawed legs that make them look like enormous monsters hovering over hundreds of exquisitely carved chairs. Huge platters, bowls, and pitchers full of every imaginable, edible thing line each row of tables as if there were a grand feast every morning; fit for a king of a country far more exotic than damp, grey England. Full of students, the hall radiates with laughter and drowsy chatting.
Sirius, Remus, and Peter sit at the Gryffindor table near the center of the hall. They are all rather dead looking, as mid-year exams are beginning today. Sirius throws an arm around Remus, comforting him during one of his pre-exam mental breakdowns.
“Sirius, you don’t understand!,” Remus moans into his sleeve.
“Oh yes, I do…*you* are going to get the highest score in the school in every subject – except Potions…you really are dreadful at Potions, Moony – and you’re going to try to hide the fact that you’ll cry yourself tonight just thinking about it.”
Remus lifts his head up to shoot his friend a look, but Sirius just grins and pulls him closer.
“Honestly, mate, you’re a genius. Let it go. If you fail them all, you can always get a job as…as the trolley lady on the Hogwarts Express,” Sirius says hopefully, putting on his sympathy face. James comes in slightly late, citing “thestral business” as he walks up behind the three boys, receiving some kind of odd, trying-to-be-secretive look from Sirius. James looks to the left, where he usually sits, and gawks at the immense, impossibly muscular figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt, which has somehow fit into his spot between Sirius and Lily Evans, Goddess of the Universe. He shrinks about an inch and does a brief walk of shame all the way around the row of tables. He perches next to Peter, who stuffs his face while flipping through an arithmancy textbook on his lap. James and Sirius lean across the table towards each other, glancing mysteriously from side to side and cupping their hands around their mouths.
“Has the thestral landed?,” Sirius whispers.
“Well, not quite…yet.”
“What do you mean? We only have a few hours left!”
James bites his lip worryingly.
“Well, I can probably…yes! Yes, I know exactly what to do.”
“What? Go to Madame Pomfrey’s, tell her you’ve come down with spattergroit, wait till she leaves, make a decoy of yourself, sneak out the infirmary window, scale the wall gallantly, and run to the – ?”
“I’m not telling you, but…the thestral has landed. Sort of.”
“Good enough for me.”
They nodded and leaned back, shaking hands in a very businesslike fashion.
On the way to Transfiguration, Remus walks behind James and Sirius, observing their animated hand gestures and silent, mouthed arguments. Their covert operation du jour is most likely about to go down this afternoon, whatever it is. When the four boys arrive at the doorway, Severus Snape slithers out of some catacomb in the corner of the hall. He and Sirius share one of their precious moments where they stare each other down, thinking of their next insult like clockwork.
Remus glances at his friend, who is turning slightly red at the neck and ears so only he can see. Sirius bites his tongue and looks down, then, to the surprise of James, motions for Snape to go through the door first. Snape gives him a quick, puzzled look and walks slowly into the classroom. No tricks. No stepping on the back of his robes. No charming his hair into pigtails while he’s not looking. Just pure, disturbing, courtesy. Remus sees these five seconds in slow motion, like in some bad kung-fu movie, and he doesn’t say a word.
Sirius steps throught he doorway, followed by his friends. He does not dare to look at them. They will probably know. Remus is probably a legilimens, and he can probably see his dream from last night, and he can probably also sees that Sirius knows he’s a legilimens and he’ll have to kill him for no reason. Oh, God. And his face is red, isn’t it? He sits at his desk, which is sadly in the front row (with James) due to “behavioral difficulties.” Snape walks up the aisle of steps on the opposite side of the classroom and sits in the back corner next to Parkinson and Zabini.
The triad of riculously good-looking Slytherins includes the latter two, the other member being Sir Lucius Malfoy, Emperor of Hogwarts. Paul Parkinson is a compact God - pale with bright blue eyes and short, black hair. Augustus Zabini is tan and muscular with dark features and an odd, permanently cocked eyebrow. Severus Snape is, well…you know. His eyes are cold and dark, and his skin is white porcelain. He has hair like black silk…he runs a hand through it, and Sirius stares. Snape laughs at something Zabini says, and he suddenly catches Sirius’s eye. Sirius doesn’t look away or grimace, and neither does Snape. Sirius feels his face getting red again, and he looks down, his heart beating quite a bit faster.
That dream from last night did something. Part of Sirius knows how strange and contradictory it would be of him – to himself – to call Snape “Snivellus” or “Greasy Git” when he just wanked off to him less than ten hours ago. The other part just says, “maybe I really am an asshole.”
“Sirius? Sirius Black!,” McGonagall shouts, visibly flustered. “Please pay attention, testing is about to commence!”
Sirius sits up straight, flashing a charming smile at the teacher. She rolls her eyes and scans the class.
“Each of you will come with me to the testing room,” she points behind her, “in alphabetical order.”
Zabini smiles gratefully.
“Well, Black?,” McGonagall waits.
Sirius skips down the steps and follows McGonagall to the back room, turning his head to find his friends’ faces. They all smile, and Sirius hears James hollar, “YEAH SIRIUS!” as the door clicks shut behind them.
The classroom is silent until Sirius emerges about two minutes later with the professor trailing behind him, her hand clutching his shoulder furiously and gently shoving him out. Sirius laughs as McGonagall slams the door shut, and he walks back to his seat. He tilts his chair back to look down the row where James sits, looking expectantly inquisitive.
“I turned the coat rack into a pile of seaweed,” Sirius whispers.
“It was supposed to be a Christmas tree. It smells like fish in there now.”
An hour later, the students rush out of the classroom, discussing their tests. Apparently, McGonagall had run out of good ideas by the time Augustus Zabini was called in, and she made him transfigure a pumpkin into a carriage with two white horses.
On his way to Charms, Sirius walks past Severus Snape. He doesn’t know where Snape is going, but he wants to. He wants to know how he gets his hair so perfect. He wants to know how his test went. Yes, that one’s okay, he thinks. Right. He knows how everyone else’s test went, even Parkinson’s, but not Snape’s. Why not just ask him? Remus and Peter are in the library, returning books from last night’s studying orgy. James is outside doing God knows what. Probably leaping behind rocks and hiding in the tall grass, saying to himself, “Potter…James Potter,” with his fingers pointed together like a pistol.
They’re all gone. He’s there alone. So just go, just say it. Snape probably won’t kill him. Sirius braces himself and spins around to face the other way as he sputters,
But his tense shoulders drop when he realizes that Snape is no longer there. He looks around to see where the boy went, and notices the familiar dark figure heading to the dungeon downstairs.
“So he has Potions with Ravenclaw on Mondays,” Sirius says to himself. He is interrupted by the slamming of one of the doors down the right corridor, which leads outside to Care of Magical Creatures. He swings around to see who is there, and James comes running in, laughing like a madman.
“Oh, Sirius! Glad you waited for me,” he pants as he staggers up to his friend.
“Good news, mate.”
“The thestral has landed?,” Sirius whispers excitedly.
James just smiles, and Sirius gasps before he runs to the door to look outside. Three large, horse-like creatures with wings fly out over the trees, away from the school.
“Merlin, they were going to have hippogriffs again?”
“Yeah, it’s ridiculous! It took forever to cut the ropes, too. Crazy animals, those things.”
The Care of Magical Creatures exam will most likely be postponed for at least a week. Not that all of them wouldn’t have passed it anyway. But they had to do something for exam season, or it just wouldn’t be right.
Over the next few weeks, Sirius has to take mid-year exams for every class. It’s disgusting. Some of his professors take the exams much too seriously, at least in his opinion, and a few of them have yet to acknowledge that their students even have to take them. His much-too-serious Potions teacher, Professor Slughorn, issued everyone a pre-exam yesterday to “prepare them for an exam that may be a crucial factor in the outcome of all of their educational lives,” just like every other test of his they have ever taken.
Sirius knows he aced it, though. He sits at his desk in the Potions dungeon and smiles as he thinks about the idiots who are going to have to get tutors because of this stupid thing. Peter, probably, and James, because he’s always paying all of his attention to Lily Evans. The boy just has no self-control, honestly. And Remus, well, they should probably think about saving him a trolley on the Hogwarts Express, and one of those darling unifroms with the little hat and apron. Sirius can’t wait for the next trip to Hogsmeade if Remus is the trolley lady. Every time he walks by their compartment, he can shove a hand up Remus’ skirt or persuade Remus to let him take a ride on the cart. He has his ways.
“Sirius Black,” Professor Slughorn says much too loudly, his mustache blowing slightly away from his face with the great, booming, unnecessary force of his voice. Sirius looks up from his paper on which he has been doodling pictures of Remus in a frilly apron. Slughorn’s large, fat, walrusy face looks down at his, and he slaps the graded pre-exam on Sirius’ desk. Sirius flips it over without hesitation as the professor walks down the aisle. A big, scratchy “42” is written on the top in red pen, as well as four deadly, cursive words: “see me after class.”
Sirius stays (reluctantly) in the room after class is dismissed. He hugs a distressed Remus, who got a 78 (//and a parcel labeled ‘Madame Malkin’s Uniforms’//), and watches him leave for lunch. Slughorn is rummaging through a drawer under his large desk, and Sirius perches on the corner of it, waiting. The professor sits back in his large chair and gives Sirius a death glare. Sirius ignores this and turns slightly more towards the man.
“Mister Black,” he says sternly, “I hope you are aware that you need to pass the exam next Friday to get credit for this class.”
“Mhm.” Sirius plays with a strange little object in the desk.
“Put that down, it’s very valuable!”
Sirius raises his eyebrows and puts it down.
“Let’s get to the point, Black. You need a tutor. Immediately.”
Sirius straightens and opens his mouth to retaliate.
“No. No excuses. I want you to come back here at seven o’clock tonight, and every night until next Friday. I have someone who I am sure could help you.”
“Who?” He asks with genuine, girlish wonder.
“Here. Tonight. Or I //will// fail you.”
Slughorn’s jowls shook eerily with the last words.
“But no. Get out of here.”
Sirius goes to lunch, cursing Slughorn under his breath as he slams the door behind him. He goes to sit with Remus, James, and Peter so he can tell them all about his test, his tutoring, and a great big lie about how he “hopes it’s not who he thinks it is.”
It is 6:52 and Sirius is in the common room, pacing. James sits by the fire, very entertained by his friend’s situation.
“So alright, we have it narrowed down to about three people. Lily Evans,” James begins, swooning, “Antonia McKinnon, or Snivellus. I know Slughorn doesn’t love him, but he’s bound to go for the ‘make Sirius Black homicidal’ route. You kill Snape, then get killed for killing him. It would be, you know, two birds with one stone.”
“Right-O,” Remus remarks from the pink chair near the bookshelf. He sits with some large tome in his lap and is frustrated by the fact that he has read the same sentence twelve times due to James’ commentary. “Because you know how Slughorn likes it when tutoring sessions end in blood. If he’s got a brain in his head, he’ll go for Lily.”
James gives Remus a very concerned look.
“But Moony,” he whispers, “what if it //is// Lily, and Sirius betrays me, and they have tutor sex with each other?”
“Tutor sex?” Remus laughs.
“Yes, tutor sex. Sirius in a dark dungeon, all alone with Lily. Sitting next to each other. Brewing potions. Staring deeply into each others’ eyes.”
“Ah, yes. I guess you know that won’t happen with McKinnon,” Remus says.
“Antonia McKinnon is //not// ugly!” Peter shouts indignantly.
“I think her mustache is rapidly becoming reminiscent of Slughorn’s, actually.”
Sirius continues to pace in silence, and glances at his watch.
“6:58,” he sighs. “I’ll see you guys tonight.”
“Full report!” James says firmly, “good luck.”
Peter smiles, only half-miserably.
“Don’t kill anyone.” Remus winks and waves goodbye, burying himself in his book again.
Sirius walks swiftly through the corridors, thinking.
He wants Snape to be in that room when he walks in, but he doesn’t. Snape is evil, Snape is disgusting. Greasy, dirty, disgusting Snivellus. His one mortal enemy with whom he shared a good, quality, mutual hatred.
//Nothing’s changed,// he tells himself.
//I hate that stu-//
The door to the dungeon seems to emerge out of nowhere as Sirius is lost in thought.
//That stupid git.//
The dark downstairs hallway is silent and empty, but he can smell the ever-present potion fumes eminating from the classroom before him. Unpleasantly familiar.
He pretends to look careless and composed, takes a deep breath, and reaches for the door handle. Pause. Long pause. //Just one more minute,// he thinks, //and I’ll go. I’ll go in.// But he is very tempted to turn around and leave.
“Need some help there, black?”
//Oh, God. Bloody bugger fucking hell.//
He turns around, releasing his death grip on the door handle. There stands Snape, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.
“No, I’m just fine, Snivellus.”
“What are you doing here, then? I have things to do.”
“No, //upstairs//,” he snarls sarcastically, “I’m taking the scenic route.”
Sirius puts his hands in his pockets nervously and bites his lip.
Snape opens his mouth to say something rude, by the annoyed look on his face, but he then turns slightly whiter and his expression collapses into something unrecognisable.
He fidgets for a moment.
“//You?//” Snape asks, faking calm annoyance.
“Oh, God,” he chokes. It is hard to tell whether he sounds miserable, angry, or disgusted.
“No. I’m not doing this,” Snape mutters.
//Disgusted,// Sirius decides.
“Then leave, Snivellus. As if I need help from you, you slimy little-”
“As if you need my help? Hah! I don’t //have// to help you, so don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, I wasn’t aware that you were doing this little chore by your own free will, Mrs. Slughorn. I think you need this more than I do.”
Snape tilts his head, visibly malevolent.
“More than you do?” He breathes a faint laugh. “The only reason I’m here is to make up for a project that was…//defiled// by some mindless tart last week. Decided she didn’t need my help.”
Snape takes three slow, creeping steps towards the other boy.
“Slughorn is making me redeem //myself//, because he is a fat, worthless, panty-sniffing dolt.”
“But you have to be here.”
They look at each other.
“So I do.”