Title: Pain and Punishment
Author: Serpenscript
Characters/Pairings: Severus/Neville
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: genital whipping. Could also be considered 'sex in the workplace'.
Other Warnings: dubious consent/noncon, chan (Neville is 17), interrupted sex, mentions of DE's abusing students
Word Count: 5,300~
Summary/Description: In his role of evil!Deatheater!Headmaster, Snape needs a scapegoat to torment, and clumsy, blundering Neville seems ideal. Only somewhere along the line, their roles seem to reverse.
Author's Notes: I can't tell you how nervous I am about this fic, and it being my first D_D submission. This was also a pairing I've never written before, so I hope I did it justice! HUGE thank you to azurerosa and prettytiedup23 for plot help and hand-holding, and r_grayjoy for a VERY last minute beta and support!




Neville knew he wasn't the brightest of students. He was abysmal at Charms, his Potions marks were unmentionable, and his History of Magic marks didn't even bear thinking of. He was only average at Defense and managed only passable grades in Care of Magical Creatures. And while he was good at Herbology, he was far from a genius there. If he were honest with himself, Sprout cossetted him as a student merely because of his enthusiasm for the subject - and not for any innate skill in it he might possess.

Despite that, he was far from thick. He knew people, and patterns, and saw things that others overlooked. He knew Luna wasn't as loony as she pretended to be (though she was more than passing strange). He knew Hermione was insecure and self-conscious under her bossy, know-it-all attitude. And he knew that Snape tormented him for a reason and it wasn't out of hate the way it was for Harry. (He hadn't, yet, sussed out why Professor Snape hated Harry so much). When Dumbledore had been murdered, Snape made Headmaster and Death Eaters pretty much took over the running of the school - well, he'd begun to suss out the reason.

But he'd started to get a suspicion or two that there was more to it than that. Well, more honest to say he couldn't shake the belief that there was more to it.

Suspicion had lead to covert investigation. He was capable of being subtle and not nearly as clumsy as he led others to believe. He'd noticed things - no tearful confessions or secret journals, just little signs easily overlooked. Like the fact that Severus Snape, the supposed murderer of Albus Dumbledore, Death Eater and tormentor of students, was a walk in the park compared to the Carrows. Also that he'd far rather scrub out cauldrons for hours with his toothbrush under Snape's baleful glare, than serve detention with Amycus and Alecto. For a Death Eater Snape's detentions and punishments were downright tame. Oh, he was liberal with hexes, but he didn't toss about Unforgivables like candy. He handed out detentions left and right - but a large portion of them were served with Hagrid, the rest with him. Never, never, with the Carrows, who favored a mix of physical and magical torture - especially generous doses of the Cruciatus.

But the signs of pressure on him were unmistakable. He'd seen those signs before, to lesser extent, in Harry. It'd only taken him a week to figure out what the cause was, a week where the Carrows had begun to molest students in front of Snape. Neville shuddered when he recalled them groping Lavender, sneering that if Snape wasn't going to take advantage of what was in front of him then they would. The tears had rolled down her pale face. "What kind of Death Eater," they'd mocked, shoving hands up her shirt and down into her knickers, "can kill without a blink of conscience but ignores the fun aspects of the job?"

Not a real Death Eater, he'd decided.

Roles: they all had roles to play. Harry as the Savior of the Wizarding World; He-Who-Must- no, Voldemort - as the Dark Lord. Dumbledore's role had been Leader of the Light Side. Snape, he was convinced, didn't relish the role of a Death Eater. Oh, he played the role convincingly enough; he'd tortured enough students himself.

But Neville thought his own role was to be a scapegoat; the one to take the fall so the others could get away. Which sucked balls if he was being completely honest, but then no one really asked his opinion, did they? On the other hand, if he thought of who might take up the role if he were to disappear - no, that didn't bear thinking on. He wasn't clever like Luna, or smart like Hermione, or even blindly courageous like Ron. He was only slow, stupid, clumsy Neville - but he'd had a lot of experience in damage control. He knew how to roll with the punches (literally). In his own way, he supposed he'd escaped death almost as often as Harry had, thanks to Uncle Algie.

Which didn't really explain much at all, but thinking about it helped him ignore that he was stark naked and stretched out over the Potions Master's sturdy desk, arms folded and tied behind his back. Or the fact that Professor Snape was smoothing oil in quick, perfunctory movements between his arse cheeks and stretching him briefly with long, cold fingers before inserting the blunt head of his cock.

Flushed despite the coolness of the room, Neville quickly dropped his forehead to the table and tried to think of other things, anything besides the fact that he was being shagged by Snape. If he didn't know that Snape hated it as much as he did, that the tea he was drinking was laced with an aphrodesiac (a vial not quite hidden behind the teapot, tea which was never offered to Neville on these detentions), he would probably take it harder than he did.

Take it harder - ok, that was a poor choice of words. He winced and spread his legs a little more, struggled to relax - not that he looked at other blokes, he didn't Beat for his own team - but certain things were inevitable, living in a dorm full of guys. And one thing he knew: Snape had nothing to worry about, in terms of size. And that was being mild. Not that he'd seen him; Snape never disrobed. He'd unbutton his trouser placket only after Neville was face down on his desk. But Neville had felt him and after the first few times, he'd experimentally stretched himself with his own fingers - even tentatively Transfiguring a few toys of various sizes from a bar of soap while he was in the shower - not that he'd ever admit that to his mates (especially not to Seamus, who did Beat for his own team).

Unless they were being watched by other Death Eaters, he'd prepare Neville enough to ensure he wasn't injured by the act. He knew that Snape didn't risk stretching him too much - if he tried to make this pleasurable for him, it would ruin the illusion. No, there was a purpose to this, Neville was sure: fuck a student, prove he's an evil bastard of a Death Eater, scare off the other Death Eaters from his 'hunting grounds'....

And then Snape would screw something up. A failed potion for the Dark Lord, lost intelligence on the Boy-Who-Lived, a misunderstood directive. And he'd submit to Voldemort's punishment - invariably Crucio - really, the Dark Lord had no concept of creativity.

Neville had begun to realise that it was Snape's way of serving penance for what he had to do to maintain his role as a Death Eater. Even now, as Snape rocked into him, Neville could feel the suppressed tremors in the hands gripping his hips - the telltale sign of extended Cruciatus. He thought he should do something about that, and was tossing wild ideas about in his head - it served as much a distraction as anything else - when he felt Snape tense behind him. He couldn't help flinching when he heard footsteps outside Snape's Office and felt Snape's hands flex on his hips - almost as if he'd aborted a move to soothe him - before he saw a pair of feet step into the room. He let his eyes lift to waist height; her hands were fisted tightly, probably fighting the urge to hex Snape.

"I'm here to pick up Neville from his detention, Headmaster." Neville marvelled at the level tone in Ginny's voice; she'd gotten better at it. Then, she'd had a lot of practice. They all had.

"His detention ends when I say it does, Miss Weasley, and as you can see - " he punctuated his words with a hard thrust, the slap of skin on skin loud and obscene, "I'm not quite finished with him. Though you're welcome to ... join him in it?" It was predictable; he always goaded her. He could count on her temper, her impulsiveness.

Snape's wand was in his hand in a moment's thought; he deflected her bat-bogey hex with a flick of his hand. "Incarcerous! Attacking the Headmaster, Miss Weasley?" he purred, voice dark with threat and sinister promise. "Winky!" he snapped, waiting for the house-elf to pop in, ignoring the way the elf squeaked and immediately averted her eyes. "Winky, tell Minerva her presence is needed here to oversee a student's detention for attempting to hex the Headmaster. However inept," he mocked the red-headed Gryffindor, "let's hope all of Potter's friends are as ineffectual, shall we?"

The lewd sounds of fucking and Ginny's tearful cursing filled the room until Minerva burst into the room in a crisp rustle of tartan, color high on her cheeks - likely Winky had warned her - and Neville turned his face to the side quickly, unable to stomach the horror and pity in her stern face. "Not again!" she shrilled, pushing up her sleeves and gripping her wand. "How can you call yourself a Professor - "

"I'm not a Professor," Snape interrupted her with a smirk Neville could hear, "I'm a Headmaster. And I'm currently busy, as you can see." He rotated his hips, drawing the eyes of both women downwards; Ginny paled, while Minerva flushed and whipped her head to the side.

"You go too far, Severus!" she snapped, but he sneered at her.

"I do nothing I am not entitled to," he told her coldly, and only Neville could feel how tense he was, or the way his legs trembled to keep up the pretense; his own muscles ached in sympathy.

"If you're that desperate to bed someone, anyone on the staff would - "

"Oh yes, because I had so many kind offers to warm my bed in all my years here - " he snarled.

"Kind would be to kill you, like I should kill the Carrows," she snarled right back, "I heard at least one Crucio as I came here at your summons, Severus - "

Neville felt a chill run down his spine, and finally spoke up. "If they're really using Crucio on first years, Professor McGonagall, you should help them - "

"How stupidly noble," Snape mocked him, "rather be fucked by your hated potions master than Crucioed insensible - "

"To think I ever trusted you - murderous, despicable, child-raping fiend - ! You should be screaming under the Cruciatus, not them!" she hissed venomously.

Neville felt him falter, the slow methodical thrusting losing rhythm, and sighed. Sometimes I really bloody hate being a Gryffindor. Aloud, he said, levelly, "When it comes down to it, yes; I'd far rather be f-fucked than Crucioed - pardon my language, Professor McGonagall," he added, though his bravery wasn't enough for him to lift his head and meet her eyes. He kept his forehead pressed to the smooth, cool wood of the desk and closed his eyes. "Really, I'm ok. This isn't bad, not really," he repeated. "The others need you more. Please," he emphasized. "If they end up in St Mungos - "

--Too, he didn't need to add. She had been in the Order along with Alice and Frank; she knew, all too well, what he was asking. He knew it was emotional manipulation, almost Slytherin, but - well. He hadn't lied, exactly.

For a long, tense moment, he could feel her presence in the doorway, could imagine the way her eyes flitted about, looking for somewhere safe to land while she weighed her options. And then she drew herself up and levered her fiercest glare on Severus. "This isn't the end of this," she informed him, her voice positively glacial. A flick of her wand levitated Ginny; then, mercifully, she was gone, Ginny floating in her wake, still cursing.

He could feel Snape sag minutely, the release from observers a near-palpable relief, though after a moment he leaned over Neville and braced his hands on either side of Neville. "Stupid, foolish Gryffindor," he sneered, punctuating each word with a hard thrust, though Neville thought the words were more aimed at the open doorway. "Bravery can't solve everything - " He increased the speed and force of his thrusts; the sharp edge of the desk dug uncomfortably into Neville's hipbones.

Likely everyone would know how he'd spent his detention by the time he was sent back to the dorm. He'd be back to being Poor Neville, Universal Scapegoat. And Snape knew it. Hell, he'd likely arranged for that. It was horribly humiliating for Neville, but he knew he couldn't walk away from it. Not when someone else would have to take his place.

He felt Snape withdraw - he hadn't even noticed he'd come - and felt the warm seep of semen, though Snape Vanished it with a cleansing spell. It was one of the few kindnesses he allowed himself, claiming he couldn't leave anything that could be used in Potions against him. A rustle of fabric told him Snape had buttoned himself back up; only then were the bindings on his arms released. Shakily, Neville stood and shook out his arms, wincing at the soreness in his arse - the stretching had been more rushed than usual.

"Get dressed. If you need to you may go to Madame Pomfrey," Snape told him expressionlessly. "I must, unfortunately, deliver word of another failed experiment to the Dark Lord."

Neville looked up with a frown from the trousers he was pulling on. "You'll be Crucioed again," he said, heavy with the knowledge. He knew Snape told him deliberately; he wanted someone to know. More specifically, he wanted Neville to know. As if knowing he'd be tortured made up for doing what he had to do -

I'm just the bloody scapegoat, damnit! Why do I have to be the one to help him?

"If - if you end up like my parents, d-drooling in St Mungos, who will look out for the other students?" He mentally cursed the shameful stammer; it still reappeared when he was nervous.

"Like I look after you, Longbottom? Fucking you over my desk with the whole school's knowledge?"

"There are worse fates, sir. I mean," he rushed to explain at Snape's weary, disbelieving glare, "if I had a choice between being f-fucked over your desk and being Crucioed, well..." He looked out the window, tried to look like someone who was stronger than he was. "Two Longbottoms in St. Mungo's are two too many, sir. I've no wish to join them."

He was prepared for Snape's vitriol, but still flinched when the Headmaster loomed over him, dark and angry. "You would do well not to lump me into the same pathetic, brainless category as your parents - "

Neville pressed clammy hands together behind his back, and tried to straighten his spine with his elusive Gryffindor bravery. "There won't be any other category for you if you keep subjecting yourself to the Cruciatus. And one Snape there would still be one too many. Sir."

He expected to be hexed for his audacity, but a long silence followed, until he finally raised his head and met the Potions Master's gaze. His mask was gone; his eyes were haunted, reflecting guilt and unforgotten horror.

That self-loathing and guilt alone could destroy him; he'd seen more than one failed suicide attempt at St Mungos. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, sir," he said quietly, "but you can't afford to disable yourself right now, nor the luxury of death." He heard the sharp intake of breath, but he wasn't finished. "You don't deserve to die right now." Guilt could be used to protect as well as destroy; he was just Slytherin enough to acknowledge that. Things would be worse for all of them if Snape died. "And you'll be worse than useless, after everything, if you keep on being Crucioed."

"And since you think you know what I should and shouldn't be doing, what would you have me do instead, Longbottom? Ask to be flogged?"

The sarcasm oozed from the words, thick as treacle. He forced himself to meet Snape's eyes. "If that what it takes, sir."

"And when I can't move the next day?"

"You can hardly move the day after a session under Cruciatus anyway," Neville pointed out, "But I thought, well..." He trailed off, uncertain how to mention his idea.

"What? Spit it out! Or shall I fetch the Veritaserum to hear this assuredly brilliant and likely all-too-Gryffindor of ideas?" He drawled, sarcasm and dark mockery lacing each word. Only the sheer self-loathing in his eyes belied his words, giving Neville courage.

He took a deep breath, blew it out. He was a Gryffindor for a reason, damnit! "A - a genital flogging, sir. Would hurt like bloody hell - know that first hand," he added, wincing - Alecto's choice of torture the time Snape was away for a weekend. Let's hope he never learns about that, he thought darkly. "Pain enough to suit, but you can walk away after." And hopefully enough pain to salve a tortured conscience.

Snape inhaled, sharply, then turned away, reaching for the floo powder. His office had a warded floo; he flung a handful of powder down, then reached behind him blindly; Neville stepped forward and was thrust into the emerald flames. "Serpens sanctum!" Then Snape stepped in next to him, and they both whirled away.

Neville tumbled out onto a plush carpet; while he pushed himself to his hands and knees and coughed at the cloud of soot and ash, Snape emerged from the floo and stepped around him smoothly, crossing the room to stand in front of a large cabinet. After a moment's hesitation, he flung its doors wide; it was filled with whips, crops, floggers, and other implements one would expect to see in a bondage dungeon.

"How else did you think I keep my Slytherins in line?" he asked mockingly, when Neville stared at the collection. "Usually the fact that I have them was deterrent enough." His hands were shaking; he clenched them tightly. "Pick whatever suits you; anything but the knives or the bullwhip. Without skill or training those could be fatal in your hands."

Neville suddenly staggered, understanding now. "You want me to - ?"

"Who else? Who better?" he asked, sardonically. "You're the only one who finds issue with my current habits. Or didn't you hear my colleague's fond wishes for my health earlier?"

He couldn't find an answer for that. There wasn't one; as far as he could tell, no one else saw past the role Snape played. And isn't that a lonely way to live, he thought, with a sudden pang of shared pain. The Scapegoat and Unwilling Villain. He forced himself to walk over to the cabinet and survey the implements there, lifting out several and weighing them in his hand. A few he swished through the air, and when he'd narrowed it down to two he tested both against his thigh. He chose a short-tailed flogger; it was easiest to use, and while considered a 'lighter' whip would still hurt like blue blazes. If not, well...he could try a different one.

Snape merely raised an eyebrow and sneered at his choice. "I assure you, even in the hands of Hagrid, that wouldn't be comparable to the pain of the Cruciatus. Or do you think so highly of yourself?"

"I thought, sir, that I'd be less liable to do lasting damage with this, and it would be simple enough to use. And I happen to know this will hurt no matter what I use," he said levelly. "But you should probably at least take your Robes and trousers off."

Snape turned away abruptly, paling. "I need your vow you will never speak of this, to anyone."

I can't do that. He didn't realise he'd said the words aloud until he saw Snape swing around to face him fury on his face, and suddenly he was angry, too. "No! Don't ask me that!" he snapped, "You should know I'm not one to tell tales, but there's no telling what the future will hold. I won't make a promise of secrecy when I might not be able to keep it."

"So I have to depend on the good intentions of a Gryffindor?"

"As I have to deal with the good intentions of a Headmaster," he rebutted, and saw Snape stagger under a renewed weight of guilt.

"Bedroom," he ground out through clenched teeth, pivoting with a swirl of robes. Silently Neville followed and examined the room, unable to watch as Snape stiffly disrobed in front of him. It was an elegantly understated room; while the furniture was simple, it was good quality: solid oak, and a pleasant faded green, instead of the expected verdant Slytherin green. There was a wardrobe, nightstand, desk, and the bed itself. As in the dorms, the bed was a a sturdy four poster with heavy curtains to ward off the dungeon's damp chill, though it was more generous in size to accommodate an adult. Underfoot a thick woven carpet softened the draft curling across the stone floor.

Then he turned to look at Snape who stood facing him, though he kept his face blank and turned to the side. He's ashamed. Afraid, Neville realised, and he squashed down the tendril of pity he felt; Snape wouldn't want it, and it would do neither of them any good. Instead, he forced himself to look at Snape, to look at the length and breadth of him: the wiry muscle on a too-thin body, the uncatalogued of scars that spoke of an unkind life and the hazards of teaching Potions to dunderheads and imbeciles. He took in the unhealthy pallor, the faint tremors, undereye circles, the shadows of fading bruises, the faintly defensive hunch of his shoulders in an otherwise rigid stance.

He noted the sparse scattering of black hair across a concave chest, the darker dusk of his nipples, the denser trail of hair swirling around his navel and gathering strength where it led south, and the thick cock now laying flaccid against the wiry curls, and the heavy, darkly furred bollocks. When the silence grew oppressive, he sighed. Looks like it's time to be a Gryffindor again. "It would be more comfortable for you to lie on your bed," he said finally, "but it might be easier if you lay on the rug."

"We are not, after all, here for my comfort, Longbottom," Snape mocked.

"Aren't we? I really can't imagine I'd be here otherwise," Neville pointed out. "Or did you think I practice Bondage on weekends?" He took a deep breath, and pushed back his anger. "I meant that, at the end of the day, your bed should be a place of comfort and rest. It might not be if you have painful memories there. I'm not here to invade your privacy."

One heart beat, another, and Snape nodded in grudging acceptance. "I...understand," he bit out.

Right, no time like the present, I suppose. "Lie on the rug, then," he said awkwardly, trying to not remember how Alecto had - he'd tried too hard to forget to want to recall it now. "On your back - you can hook your heels under the end of the bedframe - "

Snape shot him an inscrutable look but complied; Neville had to blink away the surreal feeling of having his tormentor obeying his directives, until he was on his back, feet above his head, arse and genitals exposed. for a brief, wild moment he thought, I wonder if he knows how it feels to have a cock that size shoved up his arse - before he banished the thought. There was never time enough for what-ifs.

"How many lashes, sir?" He tried to strive for indifference, but his voice was too high, too nervous. There was a faint flush of color high on Snape's cheeks; he thankfully did not comment on the incongruity of calling him 'sir' in this situation.

"I leave that to your discretion," Snape said tightly, closing his eyes and bracing.

When I think you've been punished enough, you mean, Neville thought. Only he rather thought Snape had punished himself more than enough already. Apparently not enough to assuage his guilt.

So he planted his feet and drew back his arm, and swung. His aim was off, landing half on Snape's balls, half on the sensitive inner thigh. And after a few more strokes he found the reach and handling of of it, and settled into a rhythm. Snape had made a strangled grunt when the first blow fell, but kept silent for a while afterwords, determined to maintain his pride in a wall of silence. He even held still for the most part - a feat that Neville was impressed by - though he didn't seem able to entirely suppress the involuntary jerking as each stroke hit.

Neville didn't want to injure him. He was counting on repetition in lieu of force; so he kept a steady rain of light stinging blows, never allowing respite, but watching for the telltale signs of breaking - he'd sat enough detentions with the Carrows to know the symptoms. Someday he hoped he'd never need the knowledge.

He began to talk to break the silence, to hear something other than the snap of leather against a bloke's bits - to think of something other than the fact that his hated Potions Master was naked and on the floor, and that he was flogging him in a manner reminiscent of one of Seamus' kinky mags. Surely somewhere the laws of the universe were failing - someone was probably falling up.

"This is for Harry, for the way you taunted him from the very beginning," he said, letting anger wash over him with the memories. "He never knew his father, but you hated him for someone he never knew. This is for Hermione - "

The list was long, and he didn't even know all of Snape's transgressions. And he didn't want to know. A bloke was entitled to his privacy, and to his way of thinking Snape had earned the right to a few secrets. The ones he knew were enough to be getting on with, and he didn't hold back. It was harder than he'd realised to relive all the memories. When he was angry, he struggled to keep the lashes light; and when emotion overwhelmed him, he struggled to keep the blows even.

But even sins don't last forever; soon he had to list Snape's crimes against himself.

"I know I'm thick, but I'm not stupid. I might have managed passably in your class if left alone, but you did your best to frighten me at every opportunity. You allowed your Slytherins to sabotage my potions - no worries, it's just poor, stupid Neville!

"I've grown up all my life seeing what the Cruciatus can do to even strong people. My parents - some legacy, huh? And everyone either expects me to be brave just like them, or they expect me to fail to live up to them, usually in some spectacularly dreadful way. More often the latter: poor, stupid, clumsy Neville, a cowardly Gryffindor if there ever was one!" he snarled the words with painful familiarity.

"Everyone thinks I'm weak and useless, but the way I see it, I've probably had more attempts on my life than Harry Potter has to date, and most of those were before I ever got my Hogwarts letter!"

"But all the years of swooping and terrorising are nothing to this year - "

He shuddered and had to turn away. "Nancy Nevvy, the Carrows call me now, because of you," he said, and it was remarkable, the absolute lack of emotion in the words. "It's not any easier to bear because I'm not a girl, you know. It's horrible. Everyone acts like I'm going to break. Or worse, like I'm contagious - my bad luck will rub off on them! Neville Longbottom, scapegoat, that's me." He was amazed at the amount of bitterness in his words, and looked at his hands, at the flogger, and finally, at Snape; his balls were red and swollen, the dark crinkly skin crisscrossed with fine red welts. The underside of his cock was welted, as were the insides of his thighs.

Snape himself was panting harshly, eyes closed tightly - his face was wet with tears, from pain or regret or both. With a sickening sense of horror, Neville flung the flogger away convulsively and dropped to his knees beside his professor. When had he let it go so far? "You made choices that put you here," he said finally, thickly. "To be a Death Eater was just the first in a chain of decisions. On the other hand, I never chose to be the - the Scapegoat. I was pushed into the role almost as soon as I was born. But this year - if I walk away, someone else will have to take the fall, yea? And at least I know I won't break. I don't think. Not everyone would be so lucky." He shuddered again, and almost collapsed when Snape slowly uncurled from his position and wrapped an arm around him. If anyone had told me I'd be comforted by Snape.... he thought hysterically, but he leaned into the arm anyway.

"I am....sorry," Snape said finally; he was hoarse, as if he'd screamed himself raw. "I put you in an untenable situation. I could have picked someone else, but I confess you were the easiest."

Neville sighed and rested his head against Snape's shoulder, savouring the friendly contact - how long had it been since he'd been touched in kindness, and not pity? "I'd ask 'why me,' but you just answered that."

The silence between them stretched interminably, before Snape broke it again. "Would you like to fuck me?"

Neville's head whipped around fast enough to make him dizzy; Snape was studying the wall with determined intensity. "What?"

"I am aware," he said slowly, "that I took something from you. That you didn't resist doesn't mean you gave it willingly. I can't give back what I took. But I offer you the opportunity for - revenge." Neville could hear the discomfort in every word.

"I - thank you, but Merlin, no. I don't Beat for my own team," he managed. The admission hung in the air, like another accusation. Snape turned his head sharply to the side, torn between relief and renewed self-loathing.

Snape stood and began dressing; Neville could see the role and the mask slide into place as each article was pulled on, like a mental barrier; when he was done, Neville couldn't imagine having accepted comfort from him. "You should return to your dorm now," he sneered, and Neville stumbled to his feet.

"It's past curfew," he mumbled, and Snape snarled, whirling in the familiar, comfortable billow of robes over to his desk to scribble a note in his tight, cramped script, thrusting the scrap in his direction. "Take it and go!"

But he gripped Neville's shoulder at the floo, before he could leave. "Did you enjoy punishing your hated Potions Master?" he sneered, "Like having me under your power? Feeling what it means to be a death Eater?" It could have been for the benefit of listening ears - or for Snape's own need to know. Or both: he was a Slytherin, after all.

But the answer was surprisingly easy.

"About as much as you enjoy fucking me, sir." He was gone in a whirl of emerald flames.