
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/410030.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Horace_Slughorn/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Horace_Slughorn, Severus_Snape, Regulus_Black
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-07-02 Words: 4405
****** Quid Pro Quo ******
by snarkyscorp
Summary
     Severus now understands what it takes in life to get what he wants—a
     small sacrifice for infamy and power, a give and take for success.
Notes
     Thanks to
     [[info]]
secretsalex for the beta!
*I'm assuming Sluggie was born c1935 for the purposes of the ADW I provided.
Since we don't know his age in canon fact, it works.


                                 Quid Pro Quo
Eleven year old Severus Snape makes no friends at Hogwarts. He only has one
friend to begin, only has one friend thereafter and even then she doesn't stick
around forever. He makes acquaintances, little boys with small-minded ideals
and perverted whispers, the types of boys who would pummel him if he wasn't one
of their own, a Slytherin. Severus sees how his acquaintances treat the
Gryffindors, the Ravenclaws, the Hufflepuffs—if he weren't one of them, he'd be
their enemy too, booted into the muck and made a fool of.
This attitude of self-protection becomes his mantra. If they do not know he
doesn't belong, they will not torment him.
Nobody really likes Severus, and he knows this—because he says all the wrong
things and looks the wrong way and doesn't have a rich family or a surname that
speaks for itself. They only tolerate him. He is Severus the Small and Meek,
the Skinny-Legged and Slump-Shouldered, the Greasy-Haired and Hook-Nosed. They
keep him around because he is talented, because they can use him, because he is
a Slytherin, but Severus is not fooled and knows that if he needs to talk to
someone, he has to crowd Lily Evans into the shadowy alcoves between Gryffindor
Tower and the Slytherin dungeons. It is never enough, to tell her he wishes she
was sorted into Slytherin too, to see her face shining in the dark, to see her
perspective, her eyes.
But while Severus considers Lily Evans a friend, he overhears the boys in his
dormitory whispering in hushed quiet about her blood status. She's impure, they
say. Mudblood. Tainted. At first, Severus tries to ignore them—he can full well
decide what Lily is on his own, without hearing their insults—but it isn't long
before he truly understands what they mean: Lily isn't a witch, not fully, not
in her blood. Her blood is mixed with non-magical blood. She is filthy.
Contaminated.
Just like him.
He is the same—filthy, tainted, sludge-blooded and weak, a Mudblood. Severus
tells no one, writes I am Prince in the lines of his borrowed textbooks until
the words bleed through the pages and blotch the pictures of half-transfigured
things. He wants so badly to be Pureblood, to erase his father from existence,
to be just like the other Slytherins who are proud of their heritage. Severus
does not want to be like Lily, but there is some part of him that is happy they
have something else in common, something they can whisper and hold close
between them. To remedy this dysfunction, he snipes at her in the hallways,
spits Mudblood at her when his housemates catch them together. His newfound
mates laugh, pat him on the shoulder, titter at Lily behind her back, and
Severus feels vindicated but so very alone. When he apologises, words bleeding
from his heart, she does not understand what it does to him, what it makes him,
how low he is and how his heart sinks in his chest and rips itself to pieces to
say these things.
He knows he can never remedy these two sides, so distinct, so severed, so ugly.
Severus is too young to fully understand the insults he spits, the wrongs he
commits, and all too soon they are deeds that cannot be undone, and Lily says
she would rather be friends with a toad, for they have better manners, and
Severus is surrounded by people who say they are his mates, but really they are
ghosts to him and he is more alone than ever, without hope of rectifying
anything.
By fourth year, Potions has become his only respite. In matters of science,
Severus can be sure of things, and these concepts he grasps easily—there is
cause and reaction, ingredients measure up to a whole sum that brews into a
solution, and cleverness accounts for everything, easily definable variants
that Severus twists to suit his pleasures and pursuits. He can understand
potions, his nimble fingers quilling shortcuts in the margins, and he knows the
rules do not bind him. There, in the dark classroom beneath Hogwarts in the
dungeons, he is somebody's favourite, doted upon and fawned over like a
beautiful thing that will blossom from the dirt if cultivated properly. There,
he makes a true friend, someone who listens, who understands, who doesn't gloss
over him or step on him to get something. There, he is with Professor Slughorn,
as an equal, as a mate.
It begins like this, simply enough, and becomes something more complicated with
time.
                 ____________________________________________
It is on Severus' fourteenth birthday that things change. He hides himself in
Slughorn's stores, organising the thousands of potion ingredients that line the
walls and fill bins that teeter above his head. They are in sore need of
alphabetising, as Slughorn himself gets confused just searching for simple
ingredients. This is not a new task; Severus does it for Slughorn as often as
he can.
Severus is in the middle of categorising the L's—lionfish spines before lovage
roots—when he notices something funny. A potion he organised last week in the J
section has been moved far above. Severus knows that the jar now labeled
fluxweed is actually and unmistakably jobberknoll feathers and has been moved
and shuffled around. Severus corrects the label with a quick spell and
rearranges the ingredient back to its proper place, making a mental note to
remind Professor Slughorn to be mindful of the new system of organisation…and
then notices a second error, a third, a fourth, until Severus begins to lose
count, until it isn't just coincidence that things have become so muddled.
Severus isn't sure how long it takes him to correct Slughorn's sloppy mistakes,
but his stomach is growling for an hour before he realises he's missed dinner
in the Great Hall—and he hasn't even finished yet. He is standing amidst a pile
of wrongly categorised potion jars with a red face when Slughorn interrupts his
calculating thoughts.
"Everything all right, my boy?" The pressure of Slughorn's slap on his back
nearly sends Severus reeling into the shelves. As always, Slughorn doesn't know
his strength. "You look feverish."
It would be in the best interest of Severus' sanity to tell Slughorn about his
odd mistakes, but for some reason, Severus shakes his head and murmurs a quiet,
"I'm fine," instead.
Slughorn's dark eyes roam over the jars that litter the floor where Severus has
stacked them for categorising. Severus sees the mechanics of Slughorn's brain
working to understand, and when their eyes meet, Severus gets the distinct
impression that Slughorn is waiting for him to confess that he knows. Severus
doesn't know why he can't speak, why he doesn't want to tell Slughorn he's a
sloppy Potions Master who doesn't seem to have the capacity to understand
organisation. Instead, Severus just looks at him and waits.
"You missed dinner," Slughorn says, a tight smile on his lips. "I brought you a
little something, in honour of your birthday, and then I daresay it's time I
sent you back to your dormitory before your housemates begin to wonder what
you're doing with an old man like me at such an hour."
Severus feels his chest growing tight, warmth spreading from somewhere low in
his gut up to his throat, blotching his pale skin with unmistakable discomfort.
And yet…he doesn't know what that statement really means. What would his
housemates wonder? Why shouldn't he be alone with an old man like Slughorn?
Slughorn, who has been nothing but kind to Severus, who always goes out of his
way to ensure Severus is cared for, who treats him fairly, who converses with
him for hours after classes, who always seems to have a hand outstretched in
friendship, who will set Severus on paths unimaginable but great.
And then Slughorn's hefty hand settles at the small of Severus' back, guiding
him with ample pressure from the Potions cupboard and into the adjacent
classroom. The feeling in Severus' stomach sinks lower, intensifies. "Come,
Severus. Let's fill that skinny belly with a bit of something, before you go
hungry."
Seated across from Slughorn at his desk, Severus is presented shortly
thereafter with a slice of rich, dark chocolate cake, topped with a heaping
portion of whipped cream and a single, decadent cherry. Severus' mouth begins
to water, and before he can help himself, he is tearing into the dessert,
forkful after forkful shoveled in his mouth in an unbecoming manner. He knows
better. He is not some uneducated Mudblood, who doesn't know how to eat, and
yet he is ravenous for reasons he cannot comprehend, and tears into his cake
like a convict starved for days. When only the cherry remains, Severus plucks
it and hesitates, his gaze on Slughorn, who he realises now has been gaping at
him the entire time.
There is a single bead of sweat at Slughorn's left temple, heavy and beginning
to drizzle down his cheek, clinging to the hair of his mustache. Severus' eyes
follow it. Suddenly, he feels sick, knows he shouldn't have eaten so fast, and
his head spins. He wants to leave, to curl up in his comfortable bed and sleep
off the strange feeling that has settled low in his stomach. Something about
Slughorn's eager, hungry expression stops him.
"Go on," Slughorn says, nodding towards the last bite and the red cherry that
oozes from where Severus' fingernail has accidentally pierced it. He can see
Slughorn's eyes following the trail of juices that slither down his sallow
fingers, ribboning along his wrist. "Finish up."
"I think I'm full, sir," Severus says, dropping the cherry in favour of nudging
the plate towards him. "You can have it, if you like."
"Didn't your mother teach you to properly clean your plate?" Slughorn's voice
is a bit lower, a bit more serious, a bit…darker.
Their eyes meet, and the gaze that stares back at him is probing and fierce,
starved. Severus doesn't like the way talking about his mother and what she has
or has not taught him makes him feel. Slughorn doesn't understand what his
mother has sacrificed for him, how much she gives up just to let him attend
Hogwarts, what it's like at his small, cramped little house with a father who
stands in wait and hovers in doorways like a dark shadow, digging his dirty
talons into every aspect of their quiet affection. Slughorn is pressing all the
wrong buttons, and Severus stands up with his fists clenched to tell him so.
Instead of arguing the point, Severus leans over the broad desk, his Slytherin
tie dragging over some unmarked parchment and his sticky, chocolatey plate, and
shovels the cherry between his lips. He plucks the stem from his teeth and
flicks it onto the empty plate.
"There," he says. "Goodnight, Professor."
As he leaves, he hears Slughorn's low moan behind his back and chills race his
spine. He doesn't understand why the noise is both alarming and arousing,
doesn't understand why he wants to both run back to Slytherin and hesitate in
the arch of the Potions classroom, and doesn't understand why he both wants to
force that noise from Slughorn to his heart's content and never hear it again
ever as long as he lives.
The warring, conflicting feelings don't let up when he reaches his dormitory.
Severus tosses and turns, tangles himself in sweaty sheets, thinking of
Slughorn's small mouth surrounded by his giant mustache, the way his eyes roam
so freely over Severus all the time, and how did he miss it until now? There is
something uncomfortable about being the centre of someone's attention like
that, but there is also something heady and exciting in it. What does Slughorn
want with him, he wonders? He has never felt so important, so cherished, such a
perfect trophy and prize. He falls into a troubled sleep and wakes with bags
under his eyes.
In the hallway between classes, Sirius Black trips him and he nearly breaks his
nose against the stone floor. He retaliates with a curse that sews the smile
right off Black's face. As he watches blood drizzle down Black's handsome
mouth, the colour drains from Black's face, and Potter and Lupin rush him to
the Infirmary. Peter Pettigew trails behind with tears in his beady little
eyes, glancing back to Severus as he rushes off in fear. Severus laughs. He
feels better already, doesn't even notice Lily Evans with her horrified, wide-
eyed alarm or the whispers of his fellow Slytherins about his sudden prowess
for spells. He is like a lion, he thinks, having been laying in wait and
watching through the tall grasses for a chance to make his move—with strength
and cunning and a sharp bite of determination, he pounces and snaps his jaws
and sinks his teeth.
He thinks for a moment of Slughorn and knows somehow that because of him, this
feeling of euphoria has come to be.
Severus licks the taste of authority off his lips with smug delight.
                 ____________________________________________
"Do you like him?" Regulus Black asks one evening two days before the Christmas
holiday in Severus' fifth year, while the two of them are re-organising
Slughorn's stores. Regulus is a new addition to this process; this is his third
time in the stores with Severus. "Professor Slughorn, I mean?"
Regulus is nothing like his older brother, a fact that suits Severus just fine.
He thinks there are worse things than befriending Regulus Black, and Slughorn
himself let it slip that he thought the two of them should grow close, that
they had much to teach one another and plenty to share. Regulus is wealthy,
well-regarded, popular, and as pure of blood as they come—Severus knows right
away he will offer anything to stand in Regulus' sphere of influence. Slughorn,
as usual, is spot on in his matchmaking endeavors, nudging them closer and
closer until it is inevitable that they become, at very least, acquaintances.
Putting the two of them together only means their friendship would allow
Slughorn to reap even greater benefits from them in the long run, but that give
and take is fine with Severus, who now understands what it takes in life to get
what he wants—a small sacrifice for infamy and power, a give and take for
success.
"He's all right," Severus says with an indifferent shrug, watching the pain and
care Regulus takes organising the shelves. He can't help the sneer that slides
across his sallow features. "But he can be quite…odd sometimes."
Regulus' dark gray eyes seek Severus' through the shadows of the potions
cupboard. The look that passes between them tells Severus everything he needs
to know about Regulus, both his naiveté and intelligence glittering in his
gaze. "How do you mean?"
Severus tips his head and surveys Regulus for another moment, wondering all the
ways in which Regulus is smarter and more foolish than him, then brushes his
greasy hair back away from his face. "You haven't noticed yet, have you?"
"Noticed what?" The little tremor of something in Regulus' voice greatly
pleases Severus.
"That Slughorn likes it when his students stay after."
Regulus snorts, the sound aloof and unconvinced. He turns back to his work,
nimble fingers making short work of Moose Roots and Milkweeds. "Don't all the
professors? I can't tell you how many times I've stayed after Professor
McGonagall's class because she needed table legs mended and thought me most
capable of the task."
"But I doubt Professor McGonagall purposely breaks her tables so you have
something to mend."
For a moment, Regulus looks confused, and then he glances up to the potions
stores and frowns. "Do you mean—"
"What I mean to say," Severus begins, gaze flicking over Regulus as he leans in
beside him to snatch the jar of miscategorised lacewing flies out of his hand.
"Is that if you don't plan on returning here every day after classes like me,
you ought to make up some excuse or another to weasel out of it now." Severus'
fingers brush Regulus' as he pries the jar from him. "Unless you honestly plan
on using Slughorn's help... and I can't imagine why you'd need to, given your
name and status." But then, no matter how high one worked up the chart, there
was always someone above to be knocked below, as Severus knew all too well.
To Severus' annoyance, Regulus fixes him with a sneer. "Maybe I do plan on
returning every day."
Severus stiffens. Is he serious? It burns Severus up inside. Regulus Black
doesn't need Slughorn, not like Severus does, but there he is just as greedy to
get ahead by any means necessary. There truly are times that Severus loathes
Slytherins more than any other house, as the level of utter selfishness enrages
him. Not that he doesn't share that particularly annoying quality
himself—Severus would have thrown anybody under a bus if it meant he could get
ahead by it.
But Regulus will never know what it is like to claw his way up through the
dirt. He is a prince to his family, a bright student, rich, has the necessary
means for success and accomplishment within his reach. Severus can never
compete. If Slughorn has to choose just one student, surely it will be the
good-looking, charming, wealthy one with little to stand in his way.
Severus' face burns a little pink, some of the sallow colour washing away in
his frustration. Stuffing the jar into the corner bin where it is supposed to
go, he turns his back on Regulus and clenches his jaw. He doesn't need another
enemy, and Slughorn obviously wants them to be mates, but fuck it all he
doesn't need some lower-level Black teasing and taunting and taking all of the
opportunities that present themselves to Severus, who needs them most.
"Do you always steal opportunities right out from under other peoples' noses?"
Severus bites out, interrupting the carefree whistle Regulus' has taken to
sounding. "Quite a bit the greedy little bint, just like your brother, after
all, aren't you?"
Severus glances to Regulus behind a curtain of greasy hair as he grabs another
jar to order it. When Regulus swings his fist, Severus sees it coming and does
not shield himself. He knows what he can get if he lets it happen.
                 ____________________________________________
"Regulus punched you?" Slughorn asks.
Slughorn's pudgy fingers hold Severus' face still by his chin. Severus likes
the comfort in Slughorn's touch, but he knows the danger there, the same
warning signs as always when the two of them are alone—the lingering way
Slughorn's fingers glide in a familiar way along his skin, the slack in
Slughorn's lips, the slow drag of his gaze. It took Severus too long to figure
these things out, to puzzle it together, but now he knows the moment has come
to test his theory. Regulus Black does not deserve Slughorn; he is too pretty,
too smart, too wealthy, too everything with nothing to gain. Severus needs any
step-up he can get, and he will do what he must to achieve the ends he so
desperately craves.
"He did," Severus says. Feigning a wince as Slughorn twists his face to have a
better look, Severus is pleased with the look on Slughorn's face—pity. As if on
cue, Severus reaches up to hold Slughorn's hand. "It's…all right." His black
gaze draws up to meet Slughorn's, noting in a pleased way that Slughorn isn't
looking at his face but at the place where their hands meet. "I'm sure it's
broken, though. He's strong."
"Ah, yes," Slughorn murmurs. "On the Quidditch team, of course…a smart boy,
very strong…"
Severus burns up inside. He swallows his bitter resentment, tries not to let
his anger show, but how can he ignore the way Slughorn praises that little
slag?
"I suppose," Severus says, coolly, and jerks his face free. "Very pretty too,
some might say." He looks up in time to catch Slughorn's surprise. Then,
Severus shrugs. "I wouldn't know, of course. It's simply clear how you feel
about him, as he's well more your pet than I am."
Slughorn's eyes are wide and his heavy stomach rises and falls quickly with
every breath. Severus can almost see the wheels turning like a clock as
Slughorn attempts to weasel out of an answer.
"I see the way you look at him," Severus goes on, not giving Slughorn the
chance. "I'm not stupid, Professor."
"No, I daresay you aren't, Severus." Slughorn reaches into his right breast
pocket—he is dressed down in vest, shirt, and trousers tonight—and plucks forth
a handkerchief to dab the sweat at his brow. "You may be the most intelligent
young Slytherin I have ever had the pleasure of teaching. There is not a potion
I can show you that you will not master in time, nor a spell, and I am sure you
have noticed the way I look at you, not Mr. Black."
Severus is not expecting that, nor does he expect to feel something at the
praise now that he knows it's just a game in the end, a means to a trap.
Doesn't Slughorn say this to every young man who gives him the chance? And yet
the pleasure floods through him. Severus wants more, to be called beautiful and
strong and talented until he gets sick of feeling so good inside. He wants
Slughorn's praise just as badly as he wants his influence.
Slughorn sets his hand atop Severus' knee and begins to rub. The heat of
Slughorn's touch spreads through Severus, quick as the jolt of electricity he
got at five when he picked up his mother's wand and waved it at the electrical
sockets. Severus has been waiting for Slughorn to make the first move, and now
he isn't sure what to do, because he's never been touched and he can't help but
wish he didn't like it so much. It should be easy to disassociate.
Control becomes an impossibility as Slughorn's fingers reach his inner thigh,
because Severus begins to pant. He is surprisingly hard beneath his trousers,
and as he slumps back against the armchair and greedily spreads his legs. This
is the kind of game he wants to play, the kind he can win, because he is damn
sure Regulus won't allow himself this, won't subject himself to a grown man's
touch just to advance himself in the world. Severus reminds himself again that
Regulus doesn't need to—Severus does.
"I have been waiting for this," Slughorn breathes, and soon his mustache is
tickling Severus' cheek as he peppers kisses along Severus' jaw and throat. "Do
you know how long, my sweet boy?"
Severus makes an incoherent noise that traps itself in his throat. Slughorn's
hefty palm has reached the line of his prick, his mouth is at Severus' ear, and
Severus is trembling for more.
"Just as long as I have," Severus croaks. It is humiliating to some degree but
also empowering. He is walking a razor thin line between whoring himself and
gaining the upper hand. It is his choice and it isn't; he is free and he is
trapped; the pleasure is excruciating and the pain is exciting.
Slughorn groans and then Severus is engulfed by him. Slughorn's mouth captures
his; Severus' first kiss. Slughorn's fingers palm his prick; Severus' first
handjob. Slughorn's body rests against his own; Severus' first taste of
intimacy. He is addicted instantly, falling and falling and falling into this
thing he has created and that is overwhelming and exciting.
The first time, Slughorn moves slowly. He tugs Severus' trousers down only
after he has called him good lad and my sweet pet and told him open your mouth,
boy, let me put my tongue in, only after Severus is so hard that he knows he is
going to burst, only after his body is quaking beneath every brush of
Slughorn's hands as they roam down his sides and under his jumper.
It is over so quickly he should be embarrassed, his come spurting thickly down
Slughorn's tight throat, both of Severus' hands clenched in his old Potion
Master's hair. Instead of disgust, Slughorn seems to revel in the speed of
things, how quickly he has unwound Severus. He swallows everything, then pulls
Severus to his knees on the floor and forces his hand around Slughorn's
engorged prick.
It is heavy in Severus' fist, fat and already sticky from the precome oozing
from the slit at the head. Severus' mouth feels very dry. He can't breathe
while he strokes it, while Slughorn praises him until he feels dizzy, and he
wants to lean down and try to fit as much of it between his lips as he can, but
his nerves get the best of him and so he just jerks and squeezes and does all
the things he knows he would like done to himself. Slughorn's cock swells
beneath his touch, Slughorn's eyes roll back, Slughorn's small mouth falls open
in a wide 'O' shape. Severus loves the way his stomach rises and falls in a
rapid up and down, how he pants, how red his face is, how it is Severus doing
these things to him and not Regulus or anybody else but Severus Snape who has
full control and authority and could do anything to Slughorn and nobody would
even know. Severus groans as Slughorn comes and his hand is full of the
release, warm and thick and sticky between his fingers.
Afterwards, they wash their hands with cleaning spells and Slughorn asks
Severus not to tell. Severus has both expected this and has not, sneers a
little even though he feels ill.
"If I don't," Severus says evenly. "What will you do in return, Professor?"
Slughorn's face falls. Severus isn't entirely pleased. He can't seem to shake
the feelings churning with doubt in his stomach, but his path will be set.
Slughorn will connect him to the right people, place him at the right parties,
give him the means necessary to do whatever he wants. In return, Severus will
give this little part of himself, that he might have given anyway, and Slughorn
will be none the wiser.
Years later, Severus will want to beg forgiveness. Now, though, there is no
turning back.
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