Beauty Is Not Gold - 2. Weasley

Beauty is Not Gold

2: Weasley

I don't know what he thinks of me. Hell, I don't even know what I think of myself most days. Everyday for the past fortnight or so, he's let me in with a scowl and that jerk of his head that he does. On my better days, I take the gesture for what it is, an acknowledgement of an unwelcome, if useful, guest. On my bad days, it comforts me somehow to see at least one person hasn't changed. I get the feeling that Snape was always fucked up, so there was nothing to ruin in him.

I saw things during the war, bad things that no one should have to remember, but everyone should know about. When I spent that time away from Harry and Hermione during the hunt, it was the first time I had ever been alone, the first time I had to fend for myself. It changes a bloke to see how ill-equipped they are to meet the big wide world. No mum shouting to remember your rubbers because it's raining , no brothers egging you on to a broken bone and a wicked sense of accomplishment, and no dad there to pick you up when you fall or tell you good job when you deserve it. Just you and a bunch of Death Eater scum chasing you. It was bad, but not as bad as it could have been, I suppose.

I could have ended up dead like Fred, or wanting to be, like George. I could have ended up like Snape.

Today is a bad day for both of us, I guess. I can feel his eyes boring into my back, can sense the heat of that black stare. Sometimes he reminds me of an adder, sometimes he reminds me of myself. He's dangerous like that, and a miserable git to boot, but he's also been there and back.

I curse as I heft a box from the upstairs bedroom. He won't allow me to levitate anything from this room. Says it's too valuable. I think he just likes to see me uncomfortable. I feel a trickle of sweat running between my shoulder blades. It will itch later, but I don't dare take off my shirt. This is Snape's house, and since he's locked up like Malfoy's vault in Gringotts, with his formal black robes and his old fashioned boots, I decide I should at least have some couth.

That's my new word for the day. I'm trying to improve myself, you see.

I caught Hermione talking to Harry the other day. They don't know I heard them, and so they were discussing things freely. She thinks I'm stupid, oafish, and ever so slightly like Hagrid's Fang when I eat. Harry made some noise to tell her to give me a chance, but it was halfhearted at best. I know he doesn't feel the same way she does, but he's got his own problems. Hermione just sniffed at him and reminded him of something that happened when they were in the Forest of Dean before she went back to elucidating (another new word) my faults. On the whole, I'd say the bloom has gone from the rose as far as me and Hermione go. Not that I mind too much. Things just don't see the same since that time with the Egyptian bloke...

I won't think of that. I won't. It still hurts too much to remember. I never even caught his real name. Not that it matters much now anyway. He's been dead and mouldering in that shallow grave I dug for him for at least seven months.

I can feel the wobbly way my knees go down the stairs, I can feel the stupid way my chin shakes as I bite my lip to keep from screaming.

It's going to be a long day, and I have too many memories rattling about in my skull. If I work myself near half to death, maybe they'll quit swirling around so that I can get some rest, or at least close my eyes and not see what they did to him, and what his death saved me from. I want to sick up, and a little acid rushes up my throat before I swallow the urge back down. I won't think on it again, at least not today.

I've been watching Snape from the corner of my eye for the past hour. He's been looking at the way I bend (the way I'm bent! Ha! Ha!). I can smell the sweet and bitter smell of him as he sweats in those ridiculous woollen robes. An image strays into my head of my hands parting his robes, my tongue in his mouth, more than a little frotting over our clothes, and a hell of a lot more action as I unbutton his fly. He doesn't look like the pants type to me, and I can just picture his cock; purple and hot, flopping out onto my waiting lips. My cock stirs and I try to picture anything that will make me not want him right now.

I wasn't always gay. Well, I'm still not. I'm more an equal opportunity shagger. My first time with a girl was with Lavender, but she wasn't my first leg over. No, that honour went to Seamus Finnigan. I'm still not sure how it happened. One minute we were studying on his bed, the next minute, I'm being rogered by him, and well. At first we played it off like we were just two randy blokes getting our nuts off, but after about the fifth time we met in the showers, late at night, sucking each other off, shagging like bunnies, we admitted we might be a little bent,the both of us. Of course, it wasn't Finnigan who had the cock up his arsehole most times, so it was easier for him. It took me a while longer, and a pregnancy scare with Lavender, before I would say yeah, I'm a part-time shirt lifter. Now it doesn't bother me. Blokes are easier for me to deal with right now, with the added benefit of no little Weasley spawn scares. With everything else wrong with me, I don't need a little ginger blighter running around. Who knows what I'll want ten years from now?

I watch the sun's progress in the sky, through the fly-specked windows. I leave every night. There's never been any question of me staying, but I don't really want to leave. It's being around him that makes me forget for a while. I know I'm good for him too. He's gained weight since I've been coming over with my mum's food baskets. Sometimes I think that's the only reason he lets me in, those baskets. Oh, that, and that I cleaned his kitchen.

I haven't asked what happened in there. I don't know anything other than the obvious; that Snape gutted some Death Eater like a pig at the knacker's. I don't ask him about things like that, and he doesn't ask me about why I have tears on my face, or why my hands shake sometimes. We're both better off not knowing, I think. Maybe. I am surprised though. He said something about the Aurors responding to take the body away. I wonder why they didn't send in a cleaning team like they did for Grimmauld Place. I guess the greasy git isn't as popular a figure as the Boy Who Lived. Of course, Snape probably terrorised the whole generation of Aurors that are left after the war, so they probably viewed his little problem as payback. It didn't seem fair to me, either way.

I know I was never a fan of his. Really, it was more because of Harry than myself. I always hated school, and it showed. Snape had every right to be snarky and cold with me, though at times it hurt. But Harry, and even Hermione, didn't deserve what he dished out. I glare at his back for a minute, trying to get the outrage over my friends out of my system. Soon, I'm back to sorting through the books.

Once I finish the box, Snape says, "Weasley, it's time for lunch. Come."

He glides out of the room, his robes sweeping the dusty floor. He's like clockwork, that one. I'd say he's barmy keeping the Hogwarts schedule like he does, but then I'd have to deny the grumbling of my own stomach and my own little quirks. I've always hated to have my food separate. It looks lonely if it's not all mashed together. I've always enjoyed strawberries dipped in Nutella when there's pumpernickel bread to go with it. I always tear off the crusts of my bread when I have a sandwich so I can ball them up and eat them on the side. And those are just the food issues. There's that whole other realm of phobia about spiders. They just make my skin crawl.

Really, Snape's schedule isn't so barmy when you look at all the things I do.

I follow Snape into the kitchen. It's a nice, pale blue now. I painted it last week to cover the stains. There are just some things that can't come clean, no matter how many cleaning charms or Muggle bleach you use.

Snape is rifling through the basket. He spies his bangers and the mash Mum's put in for him. I lean against the counter that the basket is on and stretch. I feel my shirt lift a bit, and see Snape's sharp-eyed gaze at the expanse of skin and light smattering of ginger hair that twines down my belly and into my trousers. His expression doesn't change, but there's an aura around him, as if he's been lit up by that Muggle electricity. If I didn't see him lick his lips before he turned back to the basket, I might have missed the moment. He wants me probably as much as I've begun to want him. Just to test the waters, I inch my shirt up a fraction, rubbing my thumb over the button of my trousers, as if I were going to pop it open. Snape's eyes follow the action. He is still as I do it, and then his mask slips over his face as he turns his attention back to the basket. I wonder if I've pushed him too far, so to cover my confusion I tell him, "There's mushy peas too. Mum knows how much you like them."

He retreats to the table in silence. He probably won't speak for the rest of the day.

I think I might be going mad. Not the barking kind that would land me in a soft little room in hospital. Nothing is ever that clean cut with me. No, I've spent the last the weekend holed up in my room, wanking myself raw from just that look that Severus gave me over the mushy peas and mash. I don't know if Snape's grown more attractive or if I've lost my eyesight, but just seeing him look at me like he wanted to make a pudding of me right there in the kitchen has me flogging the old log.

Damn, damn, damn my cock and it's tiny, self-hardening little brain.

And how's this for going round the twist? When I was rubbing holes in my cock this weekend, that old saying that my mum used to spout about beauty not being gold kept playing over and over in my head. I suppose it's an apt statement for Snape. I mean, he's never been the best looking bloke. That old saw about a face only a mother could love? It suits him from what I've seen of him as a boy. He has loads of photos of him laying about the house. I nipped one to look at and now it's in my wallet. I like seeing him less stoic, a little more innocent, even if he still looks the same. And there's something about him that has me wanting to see him get off. Merlin knows, I've got myself off enough times this weekend thinking about it.

Merlin in a tutu! He's staring at like he wants to eat me with a spoon again. He asks, "So, Potter sent you to take care of me? He couldn't be arsed to do it himself?"

I mouth some words about how uncomfortable Harry knows he makes Snape. He swallows that whole, and as I'm turning back to the box of books he's set me to righting, I see his hand rise and then fall back to his side.

That's all the encouragement I need to tell him I want him, not articulately mind. No smooth talk from Ron Weasley. I see his face go from that pained sadness to mocking. My body is telling me to do something, anything to get him to touch me, to break through that hardness he's embalmed himself in. I want to love him, even if it's only for the time we fuck. He needs that. I take a step toward him, and before I know it, I've got his face between my hands and I'm kissing him. His hands flutter up to my wrists, trapping them as I deepen the contact. Soon, he lets go of them, and I find myself pulling his robes apart, almost tearing them in my haste to get to the goods. He's pulling layers of Weasley history off me too, and soon we're both exposed, panting with the effort.

When I pull back to see his pale body, I notice the self control he's using not to flinch away from my gaze. I run my hands over his skin, feeling the scars, both curse and other, on him. I kneel before him and give them the attention they deserve. I laugh shakily as I look up at him, "I'm going to kiss it and make it all better."

I run my lips over the hurts inflicted by so many, and find myself murmuring over them. I don't know if what I'm saying is a spell, a prayer or an imprecation (new word again, sorry.) Soon enough he's as relaxed as a bloke strung as tight as he is can be.

I get to the fastener on his trousers, and suddenly we're a tangle of limbs, teeth, and tongues. He takes me there on the floor.

His cock is big. It's much bigger than Seamus ever thought of being, the runty Irish bastard. It's shorter than the Egyptian bloke's, but twice as thick. Snape tries to be gentle with me once he's bathed us both with a lubricating spell. Fuck that. I need hard and furious. Once he's past that first ring of muscle, I push back on him. It's a burning, aching kind of pleasure he gives me as his strokes become surer.

I don't know how he does it, but he says my name, making it a sexy hiss.

Fucking buggering hell, he's brilliant! He's in me and around me, and the hot length of him feels so right, especially when I feel his fingers, the ones that used to write such hateful things on my essays, wanking me to granite hardness. He strokes down and catches me in that spot that makes my toes curl and draws a deep growl from my throat. Soon, too soon, I feel the rush of heat that gathers at the base of my skull and radiates down. In a wet spill of warmth, I come over those potions stained fingers as he grunts a kind of surprised sound.

I feel him boil out of my arse and spill down my thighs. I turn my head to see what his 'O' face looks like. It's beautiful, and I want to kiss him, but I suddenly feel shy. I lay there, cheek pressed against the filthy floor for a few minutes, gasping for breath. He lays his sweaty head on my back, his fingers splayed across my ribs, and his lips on my skin. I am frustrated as I think of how much I want from him. It would be nice to go up to his bed, lie in his arms, and kiss him. I've never wanted that before with another person. It's always been about the sex and screw the cuddle afterwards. I want to share that closeness with him, but knowing what I do of him, I decide to scoot out from under him. Maybe, if we do this again, I'll get him to give me that.

I stand, pulling my pants, and then my trousers, up over my hips, leaving the flap open so that they gap a little and ride low on the bones there.

He's watching me again. It seems to be what he does. He asks, "What of Miss Granger?"

"What of her? We're friends, nothing more. It's not her I want." I feel a little angry that he thinks I would cheat on her. I'm not like that. I may be hot-headed, and more often than not a conclusion-jumper, but I'm not a cheat. I pick up my shirt. I glance up, and his eyes are on me again in that measuring, weighing way. I get the feeling he wants more of an explanation, but he's not going to get it. I don't want to see him smirk when he hears what she said about me. That's definitely not a post-shagging topic of conversation.

I throw the shirt down again. It's too fucking hot in this little shack for me to want to wear it, and besides, he's just seen me with much less on. I go to the box of books and decide to finish what we've started.

A while later, after he's buttoned and laced and girded himself against me, he says, "I never asked you to do... what we just did, I never wanted anyone to shag me out of pity."

I snort. I can't help myself, his questioning look was about him after all. Poor sod. "I'm not in the habit of having men up my arse out of some misguided sense of duty or pity. I wanted you. It's that simple. I hope we can do it again. You were good at it. I thought you might be."

He's still staring at me and so I say, "Well, are you going to stare at me like a lump, or are you going to help? I would like to at least get the parlour done before I have to leave."

"Don't go," he says, and my heart flutters a bit. I suppose this is also a little about me.

"I won't be gone forever, just 'til tomorrow," I answer. "I need to get a few things if I'm going to stay the night or... longer." I feel my face heat. Damn my fair skin. I want to look like a man of the world in front of him, and I end up looking like an infant. Shite. To make matters worse, I say, "I hope you don't mind."

I don't wait to see his response. I just get back to work.

We finish the books. Tomorrow I plan to Scourgify the floors and do something about the dead flies on the windows. I hope he'll stop me from that, though. I could think of better ways to spend a day than cleaning.

When I leave, I kiss him, loving the feel of his lips against mine, the faint stubble on his chin. It's all I can do to keep from dragging him up the stairs so he can have me again. I say, after a moment of looking at him, "You're not half-bad to look at, Severus. Not half-bad at all once you get out of those undertaker robes."

"I am..." he says, "not much."

"Mum told me once that beauty wasn't gold," I say as I take in the shadowed expression that passes across his face. "I think you're gold, Professor. I don't much care about the rest."

"It's Severus, Ronald, after what we just did... what I want... I am Severus." His lashes tilt down over his eyes, they are sooty and dark against his pale skin.

"Yeah," I say, with that heat coming to my face again. I see an answering blush on Sn...Severus' face, so I don't feel so bad. I kiss him again. "Tomorrow then."

I leave, whistling some Celestina Warbeck drivel. I never understood what she was singing about before, all that rot about love and feelings. As I glance back at the dirty brick of Snape's home, I think I might just be learning about them. We'll see what happens, but suddenly, I can't imagine my life without the greasy git.