Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!

Notes: Inspired by the 'Snape and Sex' challenge at Snape100. Severus Snape, sex and inferiority issues. An MWPP-era ficlet.


The Untouchable
by switchknife


Snape would never admit it, of course; the reason he followed Black everywhere. It wasn't like he'd stopped hating Black, it wasn't as if...

No one touched Snape. No one. Not even by accident, if they could avoid it--even Lucius always stopped himself before laying a hand on his shoulder, as if he couldn't tolerate the barest brush of oily hair. Snape never asked a girl to any ball, because he couldn't bear the humiliation of being turned down--of seeing their eyes slip sideways, half-embarrassment, half-disgust, making up some pathetically transparent excuse to reject him. He didn't even bother, because he knew what people thought, sometimes, and he knew that he was a creature not made to be touched.

But he was, perhaps, a creature made to watch--he'd noticed the effect of it himself, the sharp glitter in his eyes that froze the younger students in his path, the little details he picked up from observing people, the shifts in their expressions, their intentions. A useful trait for a Slytherin. It was almost as though Snape could touch them, with his mind, with his eyes, in a way that he never could with his hands.

So it shouldn't have surprised him, really, when he started watching Black. It shouldn't have, but it did--just as it surprised him, with a sort of dull, twisting pain, to follow Black sneaking out one night, only to find him behind one of the greenhouses, shoving frantically into a moaning, faceless figure. A figure whose pale thighs encircled Black's waist like tentacles, sickening, and Snape didn't realize who it was, he didn't, until he saw a spark of auburn hair.


Red hair. White thighs.



Potter's girlfriend. Evans. And Black was... Black was...?

Snape stumbled up to his dorm afterwards, trousers wet with come, hands sticky-dry with it, and knew that he had discovered Black's Achilles' heel. He could make use of this, he could, but he knew he wouldn't--because Evans was Black's Achilles' heel, but Black was his. Because if Snape told, if he threatened, he would lose what he had now--the closest thing to a touch, the closest thing to being fucked--what he had was watching, hot and terrified and hard in the darkness, in the suffocating darkness, when the faint Lumos from Black's wand was the only light. When the scratch of grass against Evans' thighs and the harsh groans from Black's mouth were the only sounds--where Black's cock shone with a lonely, wet curl of pre-come, dripping hotly onto Evans, who moaned, before he thrust himself in.

No, Snape would say nothing of this, because Black's wasn't the only come that spattered the greenhouse grass--because Snape couldn't look away, trapped like an animal in his own shame, his hunger, as he watched Black arch and flex and shake, coming in thick spurts outside of Evans or inside her, in her hand, in her mouth, on the ground.

No. Snape would say nothing.

Nothing when he saw Evans stumble into breakfast a little too late, a little too dishevelled, not meeting Black's eyes--who didn't meet hers when Potter leaned in to kiss her. Nothing when he saw Lupin's eyes linger on Black, shifting with knowledge and pain and disgust, knowing that the first bond of trust had been broken. Nothing when Potter remained as obnoxious and oblivious as ever; nothing when he hugged Black after a Quidditch victory, not knowing he was embracing a traitor, and Lupin looked away to talk to Pettigrew instead.

Snape said nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

No one ever touched Snape. Not even by accident. Except Black, who had no qualms about lifting him by the collar and smashing him into the wall--but that touch didn't count, did it, even though it made Snape hard? Even though Black's hot whisper into his ear, stop following us freak what do you want fuck you Snivellus Snivellus Snivellus, nearly made him whimper and come? Even on that final night, when he was too hungry for a sight of Black, too hungry to think about where he was going, and ended up being led to the Shrieking Shack.

Even then.

No. No one ever touched Snape. When the nurse tried to heal his wounds, the following morning, he flinched from her touch--he flinched from Potter's solicitous handshake, refusing to believe that he owed his life to the bastard, ever--flinched from the vicious tangle of Black's mind, a wave of hatred, shame and disgust directed his way from across the room.

But he didn't flinch when Dumbledore called him to his office and said you can see people's thoughts sometimes, can't you, Severus and Snape didn't dare move, and Dumbledore said you have a real gift, Severus and Snape didn't respond, and finally Dumbledore said I can teach you Occlumency, Severus and Snape, looking at how Dumbledore's hand didn't hesitate over his, said Yes.

He didn't flinch when Voldemort called him to his chambers, Lucius standing like a golden weapon next to him, pale and fierce and strong. He didn't flinch when Voldemort said you brew such beautiful potions, Severus and Snape didn't dare move, and Voldemort said you have a real gift, Severus and Snape didn't respond, and finally Voldemort said I can give you revenge, Severus and Snape, noticing how Voldemort's hand didn't hesitate on his head, said Yes.



* FIN *

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