snarryhols (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} snarryhols) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} snarry_holidays,@ 2007-11-24 20:01:00 |
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| Entry tags: | au: magic, fic, rated: r |
The Adventure Of The Retired Auror, for gryffindorj and torino10154
Title: The Adventure Of The Retired Auror
Author: perfica
Giftee: gryffindorj and torino10154
Word Count: 3,047
Rating: R
Pairing: Snape/Harry
Warnings: Do not use a hairdryer in the shower.
Disclaimer: The ‘Harry Potter’ universe and its characters belong to JK Rowling. Other recognisable caricatures belong to someone else. I have made no money from this work of fiction.
Summary: Harry searches for the perfect prize with which to capture Snape.
A/N: Many thanks to my wonderful beta who shall remain nameless at this point. Best wishes of the season to gryffindorJ and torino10154. I took your ‘in character but not necessarily canon’ advice to heart and hope you enjoy the result. Viva la AU!
Through careful perusal of The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler and other, lesser-known broadsheets of the Hogsmeade and greater London area, I have come to the conclusion that Severus Snape is once again on the prowl.
A spate of thefts has rocked the upper denizens of the Wizarding world and the sheer ingenuity required to successfully carry out each crime (cf. The Case Of The Cadaverous Carbuncle, 1879; The Adventure Of Four Hairy Men, 1894; The Gringott's Clerk, 1899) leads me to believe that only one man has the wherewithal, the motive and the native cunning to attack the richest citizens of the Wizarding world with such brazen daring.
The man?
Severus Snape, Dark Wizard extraordinaire.
"Look, Harry; it's not that I don't appreciate your interest in what's going on, but you don't have an official capacity with the Aurors anymore. The last time I spoke to Kingsley about one of your 'vibes' he laughed me out of his office!"
"But, Ron," Harry said, on his knees, peering earnestly into Ron's flamed-covered face. "I'm telling you he's back. It's got to be Snape – I can feel it in my bones. We need to put a stop to this."
"I need to get back to work," Ron said with a sigh. "Are we still on for dinner Thursday night? Primsy’s going to help Hermione do a lovely veal shank and I think we’re having roly-poly for desert."
"I'll be there. And I'll have evidence this time, promise."
"I'd much rather you had a hobby," Ron said as the fire extinguished.
My research has been slow - I have been blocked on all quarters from the truth - but significant details (some so insignificant that they would be overlooked by a lesser man) have made themselves known.
It was after a week's worth of deep contemplation (occupied in the main by the careful ingestion of chemical assistance and sporadic fits of musical passion on the violin) that the idea finally came to me.
Snape had an eye for pretty things. Pretty, expensive things. Trinkets, baubles, exotic pieces of Wizarding history, rare ingredients collected from around the world.
I would use his greed against him to trap the spider in its own web.
Calling upon my humble wealth, my not so humble connections and my man-servant Dobby for a Quick-Quotes quill, I proceeded to create a list of items that would entice Snape out from his solitude and into my arms: that is, the arms of the law. I gathered around me a small collection of priceless artifacts. Where the artifacts themselves were too costly a purchase or did not appear to actually exist, I craftily fashioned my own.
A hatpin donated by Primsy (the housekeeper of steadfast friends) was transformed into a sword not unlike that attributed to Sir Godric Gryffindor. A wren’s egg became a faux diamond the size of a wren’s egg. Bags of gold that appeared at first to be galleons (but in actuality were joke coins procured from Messrs. Weasley & Weasley) were bundled together in rough burlap. My own man Dobby donated a sock which was fashioned into a stole of the rarest Quintaped fur. A parcel of powdered bicorn horn, the shell of a fire crab with only a few jewels missing and an almost perfect sphere of jade the size of a child’s fist rounded out the selection.
The items were carefully placed around London and Hogsmeade, and their locations recorded on a map of my own plotting. I enlisted the help of the Knockturn Alley Irregulars (a happy troupe of goblin-visaged scoundrels with a level of cunning that far usurped their diminutive height) to stand guard and alert me the instant any of the traps had sprung. I then retired to my study and amused myself with a précis on the subject of beekeeping, secure in the knowledge that Snape would be unable to resist such exquisite treasures.
The call came just as I was sitting down to a hearty supper of boiled eggs and tripe. I threw my kerchief to the table, called to Dobby for my robe and, wand firmly in hand, Apparated to the scene of the crime.
The Leaky Cauldron’s courtyard was empty save two scowling Irregulars, both of whom were arguing under their breaths in a crude pastiche of the Queen’s English, street slang and their native tongue. They straightened when they saw me, a look of disgust (no doubt directed at themselves for failing in their mission) washing over their faces as they proceeded to show me what had been stolen out from under their very noses.
The fire crab shell was missing. I had no doubt that Snape would use it as a cauldron to brew ingenious potions which he would then use for nefarious purposes.
The Irregulars finished their parley and pointed to the wall. My eyes rose and there, painted in what seemed like blood, was a message from my nemesis.
'Rache.'
“What the devil are you doing, rummaging around there, Mr. Potter?”
Harry stood abruptly, hitting his head on the underside of a table. “Ah, hello, Professor. I was just - “
“You were just up to no good,” Minerva McGonagall said with a frown. “Why didn’t you owl to say you were calling past?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Harry replied, casually pushing a dusty box of books behind him with one foot. “And I’m not staying long, really. Just a quick visit, just popping in and out, then off to do my business.”
“And that business would be?” she asked, peering keenly over her spectacles. Harry wondered if that was a trait developed by all Hogwarts headmasters to gather information.
“I. . . can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Harry coughed into his fist, edging toward the door. “Really, it’s nothing. I’ll just be on my way - “
“How did you get into Professor Snape’s quarters anyway? It’s been charmed locked for years, which is how I knew you were in here. Well, not you, of course. The alarm simply alerted me to the fact that someone had broken in.”
“No one’s been in this room since it’s been locked up?”
“Obviously,” McGonagall said, sweeping an arm around the room to point out the numerous spider webs, piles of dirt building up in the corners and thick motes of dust that spun down lazily from the ceiling. “Even the house-elves know not to bother. It’s not as though we need the room and I have a soft spot in my heart for poor Severus’ memory.”
“I don’t think he’s dead,” Harry said, earnestly clutching her arm. “The thefts, the messages, the near captures - it’s Snape! I don’t know how he managed to survive, but he did and now he’s returned.”
“For what purpose, Mr. Potter?”
Harry drew in a deep breath and breathed out the word.
“Revenge.”
After escaping the clutches of a learned woman who no doubt meant well but was blinded by her own internal prejudices, I Apparated to my lodgings with a scroll hidden in my breast pocket.
Dobby bought forth tea and crumpets without being asked, lit the fire, opened the windows, then left me to my pacing and my thoughts.
The scroll was a list of the Snape family holdings. Apart from the run-down terrace at Spinner’s End, it appeared that Severus Snape (last known living personage of that clan) also had the rights to a number of small properties strewn from Manchester to Clyde. No information was given as to their worth or usage, simply a series of letters and numbers that indicated their geographical location.
My eyelids began to droop; detecting was hard work. Dobby slipped into the room, covered me with a blanket and made me comfortable enough to nap in my chair.
I awoke with a single thought piercing my refreshed mind. I would attend myself to each and every location on the scroll. Surely Snape would find respite in the bosom of one of his ancestral homes!
Scratching off a message to my friends and confidantes Ronald Weasley and his quick-witted wife, Hermione (lest Snape do me in and my body was left to rot while my soul forsook the comfort of a decent Christian burial), I cheerfully put a parcel of sandwiches in one pocket, a flask of whisky in the second and my wand in a third. Deerstalker firmly on head, I was away.
It was at the second to last destination that I finally found my quarry.
Fortuity Falls was a small but pleasant bump on the tourist map with the added bonus of being relatively remote from civilisation. The natives were amicable and characterised by a distinct lack of curiosity, which no doubt added to its charm from Snape’s point of view. As it was off-season, the rambling walks from village to waterfall were bare of vacationers, and the roar of millions of gallons of water pounding the rocks below added to its desolate aspect.
Snape stood at its apex, so close to the edge that I half-thought he would do himself an injury before I could confront him. He looked well – quite well, if one were to take into consideration his life of base deeds and years of being on the run. Wind and water blew stringy locks away from his high forehead, and his eyes were black and glittering, even at a distance.
He sneered as I came towards him, sweeping back the edges of his cloak to reveal what looked like an ordinary cane. I hardened my heart; I would not be intimidated.
“We meet at last, Snape,” I said in a clear voice.
“We meet again, Potter,” he replied silkily, prowling towards me.
“I know what you’ve been doing,” I said, raising my voice against the sound of the water. “I don’t know how you managed to survive and I’m not interested in your story right now, but you can’t keep getting away with it.”
“With what?” he asked, mouth twisting in an odd smile.
“You test my patience, sir,” I proclaimed, pulling him close by the lapels. He grabbed me by the wrists and we grappled. He was surprisingly strong for someone so lean.
“Beware of what you do, Potter,” he hissed, jaw rigid with what had to be anger. “I indulge you but my patience is wearing thin. Leave off the chase.”
“Never,” I replied, pushing against his body with the full force of my own. “Not until you submit.”
“Submit to you?” His thin lips stretched in a macabre grin. “My dear Mr. Potter - if there is submission to be found, you are looking at the wrong source.
His mouth came down upon mine and I recoiled in disgust. He bound me to his body with an arm as strong as steel, and I arched in an attempt to lean away from his wet mouth, but the action caused certain parts of our bodies to rub against the other, and the moan that clawed up my throat was surely one of repulsion.
He took advantage of my parted lips to slide his tongue against mine, a nimble, warm muscle that excited my blood as if I were under the influence of Scarlet Fever.
“Wretched busybody,” Snape mumbled into my ear as I clutched him around the shoulders. “Nosy hellion. Why would you not let me be?”
“I had to find you,” I stuttered, eyes and mouth half-open as wave after wave of exquisite pleasure that had surely been sent by Lucifer himself traveled through my body. “Needed to know where you were. Needed to know how you were.”
Snape wrenched open my trousers and dropped to his knees, baring his crooked teeth. “As you can see, I am exceedingly fine.”
His neck bent and he lowered his hot mouth onto my rigid manhood. I screamed; I had heard of such manner of things in the dark corners of disreputable drinking establishments, but did not believe for one moment that they could be true. For a gentleman to do such a thing (and Snape was a gentleman, for all his faults) confused my mind and aroused my sensibilities.
“Oh, Snape,” I moaned, resting my weight heavily on his shoulders as I attempted to stay upright. “What are you. . ., how could you. . ., oh, Merlin!”
Presently I opened my eyes, discombobulated by my surroundings, confused by the rasp of air entering and leaving my lungs. Snape had risen to his feet and parted the placket of his trousers, pulling forth a truly monstrous specimen of virility.
“Oh, my,” I said, jaw dropping open.
“It will be,” Snape replied, a look of anticipation filling his sallow face. “Prepare yourself to be plundered.”
Almost instantly I was turned on the spot, trousers around my ankles, face-first over a sturdy rock that was to be my platform. Long fingers pulled at a place on my body that no one but myself had touched in living memory, and a wicked tongue accompanied by hot breath traversed the territory. Whimpering abounded until the slick sound and feel of Snape’s privates met mine, then we were locked together in a parody of lovemaking.
My fingers scratched futilely at rock as Snape pounded into me, our hoarse cries weaving together a sick mockery of song. He reached his pleasure and the feel of it sliding down my inner thigh after he had disengaged caused me to do the same.
We parted, still panting, both red-faced and sweaty. We righted ourselves without conversation; the only sounds the never-ending flood of water cascading from the falls and the screech of a lonely bird passing overhead.
“This changes nothing,” I said, straightening my waistcoat. “I will stop you.”
“I have done nothing, Potter,” he said, casually cleaning off his hand with a large handkerchief pulled from a capacious pocket. “You mistake my actions now as you did in the past.”
“This will not be borne,” I protested.
He lowered his head and kissed me on the lips, pulling back before I even knew the action had taken place.
“Farewell,” he said, stepping back.
“Snape, don’t go,” I called as he turned and fled. “Snape!”
As I rushed forward, I lost my footing on the rough crags beneath my feet. I hit my head on the rocky platform as I fell and, in the brief seconds of clarity that remained before I was pulled under consciousness’ murky depths, I saw him leap into the waterfall.
“Will you not have a slice of cake, Mr. Harry?” Dobby asked mournfully. “Or a piece of battered fish? Some artichoke hearts? A wheel of cheese?”
“Nothing,” Harry sighed, sinking deeper into his armchair. “Thank you, Dobby. I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine. You sound sad. Shall I call Mr. Ron to sit with you? Or Mrs. Hermione? Or Mr. Neville? Or - “
“No one,” Harry interrupted before Dobby had the chance to recite Harry’s entire class list. “Really, I’ll be okay. I’m just not in the mood for company.”
A flutter of wings beating made them look towards the open window. Humphrey, a tiny owl with a cheeky nature, swept into the room and landed gracefully on Harry’s armchair. He dropped a letter into Harry’s lap, pecked his hand without malice when he didn’t receive his customary feather ruffle, then flew up the stairs to his attic roost.
“Should I - ?“
“That will be all, Dobby, thank you.”
Dobby sniffed and rubbed his wet, pointy nose. “I’ll make a start on dinner.”
The envelope was slim, both the front and back blank. Harry didn’t know how Humphrey had known to get it, nor where he’d got it from, but the mystery only produced a dull spark of interest.
Harry reluctantly prodded it with his wand. No bursts of colour or rolls of smoke billowed from it - chances were it was free from spells. He slit the envelope open and pulled a single sheet of paper free.
My dear Mr. Potter, the letter began.
Harry gasped and jumped to his feet.
I send my apologies for absconding on the weekend. I cast no aspersions on your charm; in fact, it was with reluctance that I left after I saw you fall (only you, Potter, could knock yourself out in an open field), but your incoherent moans and slight bleeding assured me that the damage was minimal.
Eventually, I am sure, it will dawn on you to cast a tracing spell on this missive and/or your beast. Do not bother. I have covered my tracks and your owl has been persuaded to keep my location a secret.
Fear not – the spell has left him unharmed.
I admit to a certain pleasure in knowing that thoughts of my health and whereabouts have so occupied your time these last few months. I also admit to a certain pleasure in managing to escape your clutches.
Whilst being in your arms afforded me a singular comfort, it was with a heavy heart that I had to leave. As you would no doubt suspect, there are many tasks that are of the utmost importance to me, and they can only be executed in a certain pattern.
I do not bid you adieu, Harry. Our paths will cross at some fortuitous time where all good deeds are done and all plans have been laid to rest. I look forward to the happy chance of our meeting again but let it be in the future - do not search for me, do not attempt to contact me. Pit your wits against another problem. Your interference can only hinder, not help.
I am, until we meet again, your most humble servant,
Professor Severus Snape
“By Jove!” Harry exclaimed, slapping the letter against his thigh. “He’s alive. He’s still alive!”
Dobby rushed in at the sound of Harry’s whooping and, while he didn’t understand his master’s happiness, partook of it with glee. After a few minutes the celebration died down and Dobby asked, “Will you eat now, Mr. Harry? Will you sit and rest?”
“Eat? Rest?” Harry exclaimed. His eyes lit up with a mischievous flare. “Not now, my friend. The game is still afoot!”