Summary: The Lady’s Wand was supposed to be the best brothel in London, catering to the more… adventurous members of wizarding society.
Disclaimer: No matter how much I may wish to be, I am not JK Rowling. The characters aren’t mine, no money is being made of this little bit of smut, and I’m poor, so please don’t sue.
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Beta: sevs_lil_secret, who did the job in less than an hour, you lovely creature.
Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm
Severus Snape watched the room from behind the delicate crystal goblet, his obsidian eyes darting this way and that. From his position most of the main floor was visible: pale Veelas danced in a well choreographed pattern atop a Roman column brought from Italy, their sheer garments maddeningly resistant to prying eyes, their laughter ringing like silver bells off gold-threaded marble. Occasionally one would lean down and run a hand down a male cheek, or even deliver a fairy-soft kiss to a lucky patron.
The column was the only well lit area in the room. Ornate bronze lamps spread faint illumination through the rest of the room, casting everything in perpetual shadow. There were numerous dark corners, created by the architecture and well placed drapes of heavy gold-trimmed red velvet. Pillows of silk and satin littered the low couches, the pristine marble floor covered with thick rugs. The theme for the week was an Arabian Harem, complete with hookahs provided for the customer’s consumption; always full, always ready.
The Lady’s Wand was considered by many to be the best brothel in London; its doors were always open. A full scale war might be going on between humans and wizards outside its walls, but once you stepped inside it was behind you. The Dark Lord himself came here to slake his desires, more than enough times to thrust what had once been a humble whore house into the upper echelons of society.
Anything could be had here, any taste catered to. Mistress Weatherwell could provide, given time and patience, any scenario, person, or animal. The rules were simple: pay, and she would provide your desires. There were no common whores here; those could be had down Knockturn Alley for far less than the entry fee here. No, Mistress Weatherwell provided courtesans for her patrons who could engage clients on physical as well as intellectual levels.
Her specialty was in human-hybrids, many of whom were scattered about the main floor. Half-Veelas and faeries abounded, both male and female, possessing beauty the likes of which seldom graced full-blooded humans. Her present favorites were two dhampirs; a brother and sister brought from the Continent who entranced the patrons with their marble skin and glowing eyes.
As if his thoughts summoned him (a distinct possibility, considering his heritage) the male dhampir passed by their table, citrine eyes going to his companion, then back to Severus. He nodded slightly and smiled, pale lips pulling back to reveal the pearl tips of his fangs. No faux innocence there, but a deep knowing that spoke of volumes, a knowing almost too tempting to let pass. Severus raised his glass in acknowledgement and watched the youth slip into the crowd, the flowing caftan he wore making him appear even more ethereal.
“Your Mistress is taking her time,” the words were growled, his anticipation heightened by the dhampir’s teasing.
The half-Veela girl next to him ran a soothing hand down his side. “You’ve requested someone special, my lord,” she whispered. Her hand snaked unbidden into his lap. “I can entertain you until she returns, if you like.”
Severus turned to his companion. Samara was no more than seventeen; no doubt part of the establishment’s breeding program, and a new addition to the main floor. Her flame red hair contrasted perfectly with sapphire eyes and pale, alabaster skin, the red tendrils curling around her shoulders in artistic spirals. She was unusual in that regard, most Veela were blonde with azure eyes. He was tempted, but he liked his women to look like women, not half-starved waifs.
“Perhaps another time.”
Her smile was the perfect mix of innocence and coquettish curiosity. “I look forward to it.”
He set his glass on a low table. Immediately, a green fairy peeked from beneath the milky liquid and looked around, hair matted down as if wet. Sensing the coast was clear, she pulled herself out and began to dance, footprints making small ripples on the surface.
Samara leaned closer, eyes following the fairy’s movements. “It has been a difficult week, has it not?” she asked.
Severus didn’t answer. His eyes went to the woman moving towards them.
Mistress Weatherwell was a beautiful woman in her own right, with pale skin, dark eyes, and delicate features. She floated through her domain, stopping now and again to greet a client, working the room to perfection. The gown she wore was a stunning rendition of Italian renaissance style. The deep, square neckline of the overdress framed her pale décolletage. The tied bodice served more as a border than a covering and revealed the thin camicia beneath. Her jet hair was piled high in a dark halo of ringlets, threaded through with pearls.
“If you would follow me, my lord, he is ready for you now,” she told him, her voice honeyed bourbon.
They exited the sumptuous tent, the thin threads of eastern music fading instantly. “A wonderful atmosphere for debauchery,” Severus noted as they climbed the sweeping staircase to the upper levels.
Weatherwell laughed. “I felt my patrons could use an escape from the ordinary, my lord.”
Severus snorted. “The ‘my lord’s’ can cease now,” he told her. “We are siblings, after all.”
Her smile was back, more enigmatic than ever. “I don’t suppose now would be the time to discuss business? I have a few questions concerning your previous additions to our potions stores.”
Severus frowned. “Nothing troubling, I hope.”
“Nothing of the kind. Some actually wish to purchase Heart’s Desire, as well as Oriental Dream.”
They stopped in front of a large, black door, its surface carved to portray writhing snakes.
“We’ll discuss this later, Magda.” Severus eyed the door warily. One exquisitely carved serpent reared and hissed at him, revealing sharp, pointed fangs.
The woman reached out and stroked the snake under the chin. The mouth closed and several clicks could be heard as locks were sprung. Severus gave her a curious glance and she shrugged.
“He doesn’t like to be disturbed when getting ready for a client.” The door opened on silent hinges and she turned. “Enjoy yourself, Severus.”
Harry watched the man enter his rooms. Dark, that was his first impression; dark clothing, dark hair, dark eyes. The contrast with his pale skin was striking, deliberate. Severus Snape was well known throughout their world; premiere apothecary for the Dark Lord Himself, soon to be regent of Wales, once the Welsh forces fell to them. An event that would happen any day now.
The youth walked out of his corner, bare feet making no sound in the dense carpet. Each step he took gave the chime of silver bells, and the man’s eyes focused there. The charm was a gift from one of his many admirers, a silver snake that twined lazily around his ankle and calf.
Severus stood in the doorway. Harry was short, only tall enough for his head to brush the Potions Master’s nose. His chest, stomach, and arms were sculpted as if of ivory, a dark scattering of hair circling his navel and vanished beneath dark, shimmering fabric. Inky black hair fell to his shoulders in disarray, emerald eyes smoldered. If he didn’t know his parentage, he would have thought the boy to be one of Magda’s half-breeds. He looked like a woodland nymph.
The older man opened his mouth, only to have a single finger placed against his lips. Harry smiled, his eyes sparkling as he led his newest client through gossamer curtains. There was a slight tingle as the spell attuned the room to his current desires, and Severus stared, amazed.
What should have been an elegantly appointed bedroom was now a woodland clearing, fireflies glittering in the darkness. Tall trees formed a barrier around the glade, a full moon just beginning to make its way above the canopy. A warm breeze ruffled the grass underneath and carried with it the sound of running water.
Harry turned. This was certainly original; most of his men liked dark dungeons, not the outdoors, but this was good… playful almost.
Without a word, he began leading the man further into the glade while stripping him. By the time he was done he was dancing around the man, teasing hands caressing a nipple here, brushing against a conspicuous bulge in the man’s trousers there. This man, (Severus, Magda had called him) was well built, solid muscle only beginning to feel the softening of age. Perhaps Harry could enjoy himself tonight.
The two broke through the trees and came to a deep pool, steam rising from the surface. Harry untied the piece of midnight blue fabric around his waist and dived in, making a smooth arc through the water. When he surfaced Severus was still on the rocky ledge, and the youth held out his arms in invitation.
Not nymph, dryad.
Severus wasn’t nearly as graceful upon entering the water, preferring to slide down the short slope. The hot water felt wonderful, relaxing the tense muscles of his back and shoulders. Harry’s eyes followed him for a moment, and then the boy disappeared under the water, reappearing seconds later at the other end of the pool, then quickly returning to his side.
“Do you speak?” he asked as the boy continued to stay just out of arms reach.
In answer the boy disappeared again, and then strong hands attacked the knotted muscles in Severus’ shoulders. The Potion’s Master leaned his head forward as the skilled fingers moved up into his hair line, massaging the base of his skull. He smiled when he felt Harry’s cock press against his back, hard and insistent.
“Do you want me to?” Harry asked when he was finished with the massage the muscles soft and pliant beneath his fingers. He smiled, and then slid around until his chest was against Severus’. His voice turned husky. “Or would you rather I scream?”
The kiss caught Harry unawares. The man was fast, and before he could utter another word he was hauled up against his strong chest. Hands tangled in his wet hair, and Harry moaned. Severus took advantage of this and deepened his kiss, tongue darting in to taste chocolate, mint, and something else that was just Harry.
It didn’t take long for Harry to return to his senses, though they were always within a fingers breadth of slipping away again. His hands trailed over the pale expanse of chest before him, teased pale nipples, and slid lower. Harry could feel the hot, hard cock against his stomach and ran one finger up its length while nipping at the mouth devouring his.
Severus growled and maneuvered them until Harry’s back was pressed against the stone edge of the pool. One hand went to the back of the boy’s thigh and lifted, both men groaning at the added contact. In no time they were rocking against each other, the moment making small waves around them.
Severus pulled back first. He wanted a good fuck, not a rub off, however pleasurable it promised to be. “Bed,” he said against Harry’s lips.
The boy climbed out of the pool, water running in silver rivulets down his pale body. He dried himself on the thick towel the room’s magic had provided at the edge of the pool while Severus climbed out himself, then held out the towel with a half-smile, mischief plain in his eyes. By the time he was finished, Snape was ready to throw him on the ground and fuck him senseless.
“This way,” Harry said, leading them further into the trees. He was looking for a bed; his two female clients usually had some awful, ivy draped, wrought iron contraption, something sickeningly romantic.
Severus had nothing of the sort.
The pile of animal furs made Harry laugh in delight, and he jumped on them, fingers twining in the soft material. He was nothing if not a sensualist, and the feel of the ermine was enough to make him painfully hard. He turned onto his stomach, rubbing himself against the fur, well aware of the picture he presented.
There were few times in Severus Snape’s life where desire made his mouth run dry, and this was proving to be one of them. Harry was exquisite, taunt muscle under soft, milk-pale skin. The boy looked over his shoulder, eyes gleaming, and released a single, deep groan as he moved on the fur, eyes closing in his pleasure.
Severus didn’t need another invitation.
Harry released another moan when he felt the Potion Master’s heat against his back, his cock pressing into his ass as his mouth latched onto a spot just beneath Harry’s ear that had him squirming, undulating, so close to cumming it hurt. His hands fumbled around the edges of the furs and he sighed in relief when he felt the small jar of lubricant. “Please,” he whimpered into the fur, fingers white knuckled around the jar. He wanted to feel this man inside him, riding him.
Snape recognized one of his own products. The musky scented oil was designed to increase pleasure. He coated a finger and pressed it into the puckered opening. Harry let out an open mouthed gasp and pushed back, tightened on the digit moving inside him. By the time Snape introduced a second finger he was close to sobbing with need. The Potion’s Master wondered if he could make the boy cum without touching his cock.
Harry cried out in despair when he was lifted to his knees, the friction of the fur gone. He was close, riding on a razor’s edge of pleasure.
“Shh,” Severus breathed, one hand running down Harry’s back, the other pressing the head of his cock to Harry’s hole. The boy pushed back into the pressure, and Severus slapped on one smooth ass cheek. “Patience, pet,” he advised. The boy was tight, delightfully so, and he had no desire to face Magda’s displeasure if he was hurt too much. He gave the boy another open-handed slap, admiring the blush that rose from the contact as he slid into Harry’s warmth. He waited until the tight ring of muscle surrounding him began to relax, then began.
Spurred on by the sounds of the boy beneath him; breathy screams, harsh moans and a constant jumble of “fuck… please…more…yes…” Severus went faster, pumped harder, his hands roaming up Harry’s chest to pinch his nipples almost cruelly. He made sure each thrust made him brush over that spot inside Harry, the one that made the boy clench deliciously hard round him.
Harry had never wanted to cum so badly in his life. His hands clutched at the ermine, palms slick with sweat. He would give anything to reach down and fist himself, but he was told not to, and he always did as he was told. It would be so good, he told himself, all he had to do was hang on a little longer.
Finally, Severus couldn’t take any more. He reared up, bringing Harry with him until he was sitting in the older man’s lap, fucking him with short, sharp thrusts. He tilted the boy’s head back, kissing him, biting at the soft flesh of his chin, his cheek. The change in position was too much. He stilled, barely breathing, then came with a guttural scream that Severus devoured. Severus thrust once, twice, and then came hard, forcing himself as far into the boy as he could.
Harry collapsed, barely catching himself with his hands, not surprised when the weight of the older man followed him down, hot, harsh pants drying the skin between his shoulder blades.
Severus dressed slowly, watching the gentle rise and fall of the furs as Harry breathed. The boy was insatiable, and had the most talented tongue he’d ever come across. He’d lost count of the times he came, until he fell into an exhausted, if sated, slumber. His small pocket watch said it was near dawn, time for him to leave.
The furs shifted, a masculine leg sliding out into the cool air and Severus smirked when he saw the hickey forming on the pale calf. Yes, the boy would have an assortment of love bites when he woke. Vaguely, he wondered if he would heal them, or keep them as mementos. His fingers ghosted over one of his own, a bite mark that came just short of drawing blood that marred the skin between his neck and shoulder.
He took less than five steps away from the bed when a doorway opened, revealing marble floors and a picture of cavorting nymphs, now sleeping. It seemed a door to another world, the trees of the forest visible behind it, the grass going right up to the lintel before fading into polished stone.
Severus turned around and walked back to the sleeping boy. He reached into a pocket and set a locket next to the boy’s head. Magda told him Harry had a fondness for snakes, and the cobra curled around the phial of Basalisk blood hissed warningly at his fingers before curling around its prize again.
The house was quiet as the Potions Master made his way down the staircase, last night’s tent gone to reveal furnishings that wouldn’t have been out of place in the most discerning wizarding home.
He turned around. Magda, Lady Weatherwell, was standing behind him, her hair falling smoothly around her. It was hard to tell she’d just woke; until you noticed her eyes were more rounded, her lips less full and pink instead of a ripe red.
“When is the Dark Lord returning from Wales?”
Magda smirked. “He should be busy for another month, if not two. His initial reports of victory were… slightly exaggerated.”
Severus considered for a moment. “Has the boy met Tristan yet?”
The smirk turned into a full smile. “Ah, I see my dhampir has caught your interest, Severus.” Her eyes glittered.
He fought the urge to scowl. “I’d like to have both of them tomorrow night. Tristan knows chess, does he not?”
She waved a hand. “He tries, but plays poorly.”
Severus smiled to himself as he walked out the heavy double doors of his sister’s establishment. By the time he and the young dhampir were done with him, Harry would be a champion player.
Then again, sometimes it was better to lose.