Chapter Text
If he could avoid it, he wouldn’t be here. In a way, he shouldn’t be here at all. Slytherin had its own private bathrooms in the dormitories, so there was no need to share showers or trek all the way up to the fifth floor just to bathe. And yet, here he was, towel in hand and the few toiletries he’d managed to snatch from the bathroom before Evan decided to lock himself in for what would surely be hours of grooming.
If it weren’t for how much he valued peace and quiet in the dormitory, he would have sent the blond flying along with his ridiculous daily care routine.
He entered the fifth-floor bathroom, the one used only by prefects and Quidditch captains. Bruce was both. He still had no idea how he’d been chosen as a prefect after all his mischief, but he was almost certain it had something to do with his mother.
He placed his clothes on the marble sink and studied his reflection, his face still tired and irritated from having to walk all this way. He splashed some water over his face to wake himself up, sighing at the long day ahead of him and the Quidditch practices to come. He laughed softly as he remembered Potter’s face when the practice schedules had been decided.
He had only managed to unbutton the first two buttons of his pyjamas when the bathroom door flew open with such force that it slammed into the wall with a thunderous crack. The sound echoed off the stone, bouncing from one wall to another.
Bruce jumped in fright and grabbed his wand at once, ready to fight whatever creature had burst in.
No one approached him. Instead, he heard several footsteps and bursts of laughter heading in the opposite direction of the sinks, towards the showers that almost no one ever used. He rolled his eyes hard, having been interrupted for nothing more than a group of idiots who couldn’t even open a door properly.
Then he heard a growl, one he knew all too well.
He froze, listening, waiting to hear what was happening on the other side. He moved a few cautious steps forward when the sounds faded too much to make anything out.
“Stay still, damn it. Isn’t this what you wanted, Sniv?” Potter’s voice rang out, of course it was him. “We’re just helping you do it properly.”
“Get your filthy, disgusting hands off me, Potter,” Snape snarled, low and dangerous.
“Do we need to wash your mouth too, Sniv?” Black mocked, followed by a pained yelp. “Did you bite me?!”
There was the sound of a blow and a groan, then more laughter. The scuffle continued, along with the stream of insults Snape always hurled at them.
Bruce grew tired of listening and returned to where he’d left his towel and uniform. He didn’t need to get involved in their nonsense; it was none of his business. Snape might be a Slytherin, but he was still a half-blood who kept company with a Mudblood.
And he was going to ignore it.
But the commotion grew louder, almost unbearable, so loud he could hear them clearly even from a distance. Snape had always been noisy, ever since that first day at Hogwarts when he snapped at anyone who dared speak ill of his little friend. In the end, Snape learned the hard way that it was better to keep quiet and ignore it than to earn himself trouble for nothing. And yet, in his eyes, Bruce could see that he hadn’t become any more docile.
No Gryffindor prank had ever tamed him. He always fought back like a feral beast. It was becoming deeply irritating at a moment when all Bruce wanted was peace and a hot bath.
Fed up with the noise, he gripped his wand tightly and headed towards the epicentre of the chaos. If he could chase them off peacefully, fine. If not, one or two curses would make them leave much faster.
What he saw there made him stop short.
If he hadn’t known the history of those five, he would have thought very badly of the situation.
Potter had Snape pinned beneath him, completely soaked, his hands working to undo the buttons of Snape’s worn pyjama shirt. Black and Pettigrew were restraining Snape’s arms, keeping him still so Potter could continue, while Black used his free hand to grip Snape’s face firmly. Lupin stood off to the side, watching the door and his friends with clear disappointment, and doing nothing. A coward.
Snape thrashed like an enraged snake, giving Pettigrew trouble, but he was no real match for the other two. His insults came out muffled by the pressure of Black’s hand crushing his pale cheeks.
“You’re a filthy pig, Potter,” Snape growled, letting out a groan when Black shook his jaw.
“Don’t you have something more creative, Sniv?” Potter mocked, finishing unbuttoning the pyjamas that clung to Snape’s pale skin from being so wet.
“I might have something more creative, Potter,” Bruce said at last, making his presence known.
Lupin’s look of sheer panic, and the way the others froze in place, almost made him burst out laughing. It was a moment worthy of being framed in the Slytherin common room for everyone’s amusement.
“What are you doing here?” Black demanded, tightening his grip enough to draw a cry from Snape and leave a mark.
“What bathrooms are actually for, Black. I came to bathe,” Bruce replied, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms, his wand clearly visible. “Are you doing the same?”
“Something like that,” Potter laughed, glancing at Bruce and then back at Snape. “Mind your own business.”
“I was, but your racket won’t let me do it in peace,” he said with a tired sigh. “Why don’t you mind yours and leave?”
Black sprang to his feet, lips curled and eyes gleaming with madness. Bruce knew that family trait very well, wild animals dressed up as aristocrats.
“Looking for trouble, Mulciber?” Black growled, squaring up to him.
Bruce lifted his hand, the tip of his wand aimed squarely at the Gryffindor’s chest in silent threat. “No. But perhaps you are. After all, you and you shouldn’t be here.” He pointed at Black and then Pettigrew. “Not doing this. A professor would dock plenty of points and hand out a week’s detention.”
Black looked ready to attack, Bruce could see it in the way he trembled, barely holding himself back. He was prepared to meet him at any moment. But this time Potter stood, shoving Snape aside roughly and grabbing Black by the shoulder.
“Let’s go. We’ll continue another day,” he said, glaring at Bruce as if he’d ruined everything.
Potter left with his pack of lapdogs, finally granting him the peace he needed to enjoy a hot bath.
“You didn’t have to interfere,” Snape snarled as he struggled to his feet, adjusting his pyjamas.
Ungrateful.
“I didn’t do it for you. You were shouting so loudly they’d hear you from the other side of the Black Lake,” Bruce mocked, turning back towards his uniform. “What are you even doing here?”
A snort, followed by the sound of bare feet against ceramic. “I didn’t intend to come. Potter dragged me here.”
Bruce hummed in acknowledgement as he slipped off his pyjama shirt, casting a sideways glance to see that Snape still hadn’t left. He turned to face him, wondering what else he wanted.
“You won’t tell anyone what happened here,” Snape ordered.
Bruce tilted his head, studying the soaked and battered Slytherin. How could he still look so threatening after being overpowered and beaten? Blood trickled from his nose, his lip split.
He pulled a handkerchief from his uniform, one his mother had taught him to carry at all times, and stepped closer. Without ceremony, he pressed it to Snape’s nose to stop the bleeding, gripping his face just as Black had done. Snape’s hands immediately latched onto his arm, nails digging into his flesh like a harpy’s talons.
“Go before someone sees you like this,” Bruce said, releasing him and almost shoving him aside.
Snape shot him a venomous look, then, after a minute, left as well, finally giving Bruce the silence he’d been craving.
—
The Great Hall was always noisy, especially at the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables, where no one seemed capable of keeping their voices down. He preferred the silence his own table offered, though Avery and Rosier’s morning gossip often shattered that peace.
His gaze drifted past where Evan was sitting, almost at the far end of the table, slightly apart from the others. There was Snape, hunched over, his hair still damp and greasy. He ate slowly and with control, as though he had been trained to do so. His eyes remained fixed on his plate, though Bruce noticed how they flicked, every so often, towards the Gryffindor table.
That morning, when he’d been attacked, Snape hadn’t looked afraid. Now he didn’t either. He seemed irritated, impatient.
Bruce could admit, if only to himself, that he held a certain respect for how Snape never bowed his head, no matter how many times they tried to force him to.
He tore his gaze away. Normally, he barely noticed Snape’s presence, not even at Death Eater meetings, where Snape acted like Malfoy’s lapdog. But for reasons he still didn’t understand, his vision now seemed eclipsed by that serpent.
He saw him everywhere. The first thing his eyes found whenever he entered a room. Snape’s forgettable, insignificant presence had somehow become his centre of gravity.
It was beginning to irritate him. He was actively avoiding Snape as much as he could, which was pathetic, considering Snape clearly didn’t notice him at all, far too busy watching his own back to avoid being attacked by four idiots.
“Did Snape do something to you?” Rosier asked beside him. “You look like you want to murder him. If you want, I can help.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Bruce growled, brushing the blond off and returning to his book.
Despite his words, his eyes strayed back to Snape.
He was thin, short, pale as a ghost, though more like a siren, with that black hair. An angular face, sharp cheekbones, an exotic composition. The Princes were a foreign family, newly established only a few years ago, brought to ruin just as quickly by a rebellious daughter. Snape bore those foreign features. Even his hands were different: long, slender fingers.
He moved through the corridors with subtlety and elegance, like a nymph in her forest. His voice was pure silk, and his eyes could have been gates to hell itself. Bruce understood why Potter and Black were obsessed with earning that gaze. He had sought it himself, waiting patiently for hours, but it was never returned, as though he didn’t exist.
Most haunting of all was Snape himself, something embedded deep within his very essence. Something dark and forbidden that always clung to him, almost hypnotic, something you could only see if you looked closely enough. It caught you and refused to let go.
Like now, when Snape left and Bruce couldn’t tear his eyes away from him for a single second.
“If you keep staring at him, he’ll spontaneously combust,” Rosier mocked.
Bruce shot Evan a glare, more a political ally than a friend, and gathered his things, heading off in the same direction he’d seen Snape go.
As if drawn towards chaos.
A crowd blocked his path, students packed together, eager spectators awaiting whatever disturbance had broken out in the corridor Bruce needed to pass through. He was about to change direction, take a shortcut so Snape wouldn’t slip out of his sight, when a familiar laugh made him stop short.
He shoved his way through the mass until he reached the heart of the commotion. As he’d predicted, there they were: the four idiots, laughing and brandishing their wands at a dishevelled Snape, his books scattered across the floor.
“Just do what I told you, Sniv,” Potter smiled in that chilling way of his. “No need to make such a fuss. Do it, and we’ll let you go.”
It was like watching four starving wolves and one furious rabbit, ready to fight for his miserable life even knowing he was outmatched and headed only for his own downfall.
Snape fought with everything he had, shielding himself and redirecting spells, landing only a few of his own in an effort to defend against the barrage coming at him. He looked feral in that state.
The group held out until Potter managed to wrench Snape’s wand from him, leaving him defenceless. The panic in Snape’s eyes was interesting, intoxicating, even, in that hard, tenacious gaze, but it was nowhere near as satisfying as his savagery and rage. Bruce couldn’t savour it for long.
Snape fled the moment he lost, snatching up his wand as he went and retreating into the common room.
A place Mulciber had access to.
A place where he could keep watching him.
—
After an entire month of nothing but watching, he had arrived at two possible conclusions about what was happening.
The first was that the interruption during his bath had triggered some kind of alert instinct that would only quieten down once he killed Snape. After all, Snape and that group of idiots had been responsible. And it was far easier to kill one person than four.
The second conclusion was much harder to accept, but far more likely. Somehow, Snape had caught his attention.
He wasn’t his usual type. He preferred brunettes and, in any case, women. But he couldn’t deny the clear attraction he’d developed towards Snape. At this point, it was bordering on obsession.
He was starting to feel like a perverted psychopath. Not only for watching him all day like a hawk without the serpent ever noticing, but for everything else as well. Sharing a dormitory with the person you were attracted to was dangerously tempting, and Bruce was weak enough that it made even him uncomfortable.
He saw him in the mornings, as Snape gathered his books and materials for class. Unfortunately, he never saw him change, not even a glimpse of extra skin. Snape always went into the private bathroom to change, or simply appeared already in uniform the next day.
The truly tempting freedom came at night, when everyone else was already in their beds, asleep.
He would open his eyes and stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, surrounded by total darkness and silence, judging his own actions. Then, leaving guilt and shame behind in his bed, he would move closer to Snape and watch him sleep for hours. Sometimes, if he felt brave enough, his hand would brush Snape’s cheek or stroke his hair.
So far, he hadn’t been discovered, a miracle, considering how obvious he was being.
“What’s got you so worried?” a soft voice asked beside him.
He looked at her, his group partner since first year at Hogwarts. A very sweet Hufflepuff with whom he shared Ancient Runes. They’d only been paired together once by force, and it had turned out surprisingly well.
“You’ve been like this all month,” she said, glancing at him sideways, as if she didn’t care, though the small twist of her mouth said otherwise.
“It’s a person,” he confessed, setting his homework aside.
She stiffened instantly, tense and wary. “I don’t want to hear about your misdeeds or anything like that.”
“It’s not like that,” he complained, rolling his eyes.
She scrunched up her face in disgust, wearing a properly offended expression. “I don’t want to hear about your late-night fun either.”
Bruce sighed, irritated. Charity’s guesses weren’t helping much. He’d forgotten, for a moment, that they weren’t really friends, just classmates.
“I think I like them,” he admitted, staring at the pencil in his hand and turning it between his fingers.
Charity looked surprised, her sky-blue eyes lighting up with curiosity and excitement. She pretended to keep reading the book in her hands, but Bruce could see how all her attention was on him. She wasn’t very good at pretending.
“That’s new,” she said brightly. “You’ve never told me you liked anyone in all these six years. Will you bring them to dinner tomorrow?”
He snorted. “I haven’t told them anything yet. It’s strange, I don’t even know how to say it.”
A thoughtful murmur, then a hum. Charity rested her chin in her hand and looked at him, her golden curls falling partially over her face.
“You should be direct. I don’t think you’re the type to beat around the bush.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, something very common for her. “A direct proposal gets a direct answer. You just need to give good reasons why you’re worth it.”
Reasons. Bruce had plenty of good reasons for Snape to want to be with him. Just looking in the mirror would give him at least ten. Then there was his Gringotts account, he was sure Snape would be more interested in that than appearances or feelings. And, of course, there were feelings. Bruce had never had a partner, but his mother had taught him plenty about how to court and treat a potential one.
“We should go now. I don’t want to be late again,” Charity complained as she packed her books into her bag. “Come on.”
He stood reluctantly. He had no head for Runes today; all he could think about was one person who didn’t even notice him.
“Stop sulking. It’s our last class of the day,” Charity teased, smiling mischievously.
Her good mood dimmed when they passed a particular group of Gryffindors, ones the blond girl clearly disliked. There they were, the four of them as always, stuck together at the hip. And a few steps away from them was his main problem.
Snape was walking hunched over, watching those idiots with caution and irritation as they shouted insults and jeers at him. He passed them, shoving Potter aside when he tried to block his path. And if Bruce hadn’t been following every single movement of the Slytherin with his eyes, he would have missed the moment Potter’s hand caught Snape’s.
One second. One brief touch, so small and indistinct that anyone else would have overlooked it.
Anyone but him.
Because Snape’s posture changed instantly at that contact, he stiffened and walked faster, disappearing down the far end of the corridor.
Bruce frowned at Potter. The idiot was still laughing and talking with his friends, but now and then his gaze also drifted towards where Snape had vanished.
He shook his head to clear those thoughts, realising he’d stopped halfway and that Charity was already a few steps ahead of him. And he regretted looking at her, because that wide, knowing smile, and those eyes gleaming with understanding, told him she already knew everything.
“So… him,” she laughed.
“Don’t say anything,” he complained as he caught up, ignoring her giggles and questions, though he couldn’t help smiling at how pleased she seemed.
—
There was something different in the room that night, a kind of silent expectancy. He waited for everyone to fall asleep, remaining in his bed until the breaths around him slowed and softened into peaceful sleep.
And then he listened.
Where Snape should have been asleep, soft footsteps were heard, the rustle of fabric, the slight creak of a bed as weight was lifted. He turned his head slightly and saw the shadow sit up, sliding off the mattress. Bare feet on the cold stone. The silhouette headed for the door without looking back.
He propped himself up on his elbows and confirmed that the shadow leaving the room was Snape.
He didn’t think much before following him, pulled along by that gravitational force that had held him spellbound for the past month. He wanted to know why Snape was leaving at this hour, where he was going, and more importantly, whether it had anything to do with Potter.
He walked through the corridors, trailing Snape’s small figure, shivering as the cold seeped through his pyjamas. At least he’d had the sense to bring his slippers, unlike Snape, who was barefoot. He really did look like some kind of siren or nymph, even more so with the moonlight glinting off his skin and giving his hair an ethereal glow.
Snape turned a corner, and before Bruce could follow, he stopped short when he heard Snape slow his steps.
“I thought you’d never come,” Potter’s unmistakable voice said.
Snape didn’t reply, only let out an irritated snort, followed by the sound of a door closing in the stillness of the night.
Bruce froze, making sure no one else was in the corridor. He approached the door and reached out to open it, then stopped himself at the last second.
He waited. Far too long. Until the door finally opened again and Potter stepped out, grinning from ear to ear. Bruce hid, letting the Gryffindor walk past.
Only when Potter was gone from sight did he emerge and summon the courage to enter the room that held the secret between the two of them.
The air inside was heavy, thick, unmistakably sexual. He grimaced at what that implied. Of all people, it had to be that idiot. Potter clearly had not an ounce of respect for Snape, taking him in some abandoned, dusty classroom.
And there was Snape, adjusting his pyjamas, grimacing with discomfort as he straightened up from the table, his legs trembling. At least this time Bruce caught a glimpse of skin, a narrow strip of waist, wholly unsatisfying with Potter’s fingerprints still marked there. He wanted desperately to march over and beat the Gryffindor to dust, or try one of those spells that made skin weep until it was stripped raw.
“You know,” Bruce said, leaning back against the wall. “this is more surprising than it looks”
Snape jumped, instantly pointing his wand at him in defence, ready to attack with a fluidity that belied the position he’d been found in.
“What are you doing here, Mulciber?” Snape asked, lowering his wand slightly as he judged him with his eyes.
Bruce stayed silent, weighing how to answer, whether to be direct or invent an excuse. After several long, heavy minutes, he decided he didn’t feel like lying.
“I followed you. I saw you meet Potter,” he said, smiling at Snape’s sudden pallor and obvious discomfort. “I’m curious. If I remember correctly, he burned your books this morning.”
Shame bloomed, twin red stains colouring his usually pale cheeks.
“That’s none of your concern,” Snape growled, finishing straightening his shirt, adopting an air of dignity as he moved towards the door.
“You wouldn’t want the whole school finding out, would you?” Bruce asked as Snape reached for it.
The atmosphere shifted the moment Snape stopped, dense, dangerous, like a suffocating shroud that made Bruce’s nerves prickle. Even more so when, very slowly, Snape turned back to face him. His eyes burned with a feral fire that made Bruce hesitate, doubt himself.
“What do you want, Mulciber?” Snape asked in a low, lethal voice, so sharp Bruce could almost feel his skin splitting.
Bruce looked him up and down, taking in the defensive, dangerous posture, like a cornered animal on the verge of attacking. His face taut with caution, his large black eyes doe-like and gleaming with pure venom. He still wanted him. Still wanted to possess him completely. He felt nothing but an irrepressible urge to claim all of Severus’s being.
Severus’s lip curled in disgust. “Aren’t there enough girls to keep you company for the night?” he sneered, acid and sharp.
Bruce didn’t answer. There were plenty of girls who had offered themselves, foolish, naïve. He’d been with some of them. None had caught his attention the way Snape had. He had no idea why. He wanted to know what made him so different.
Snape snorted at his silence. “If you’re that desperate, do it quickly and let’s get this over with,” he proposed, moving back towards the table where he’d been before. “But you’ll keep your mouth shut about what happened.”
He offered himself as if it were nothing more than a transaction, a means to an end. Using the same place where Potter had had him, like a work surface. If Bruce had been weaker, more pathetic, more vile, like Potter, he would have accepted without a second thought, would have given in to his lowest instincts just to sate himself for a few minutes and then moved on. Perhaps then his obsession with Snape would fade.
But he knew he wouldn’t. The thought of touching him in a way Snape wouldn’t enjoy made him feel sick. He didn’t just want to possess him, he wanted to worship him, the way a devotee worships his god.
“I like you,” he said plainly. “I want to take you out.”
Snape frowned, staring at him as though he’d lost his mind. He looked so genuinely confused that Bruce felt oddly offended. As if Bruce weren’t a better option than Potter. True, he wasn’t an heir, but in many ways, that was a privilege.
Heirs were burdened with rules and expectations. Bruce was the youngest of two sisters; they had carried the weight of their mother’s ambitions. Both had married quickly, desperate to produce an heir and secure the title of successor. Bruce had been content with the share of the inheritance he’d received when his eldest sister announced her pregnancy.
“Why would I do that?” Snape snapped, more guarded and wary than before.
“Why not?” Bruce asked honestly, then a thought struck him. “Is he… forcing you?”
More confusion, even more than when Bruce had confessed his feelings. Snape couldn’t have looked more bewildered if he tried.
“He isn’t forcing me, Mulciber,” Snape said, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms. He winced in discomfort but didn’t move. “I don’t think Potter is capable of that.”
“Does he pay you?” Bruce pressed. It was plausible. Snape was poor, with no title or inheritance. Money in exchange for a few minutes would be tempting. “I can give you double. Triple, even.”
Fury ignited instantly. Snape’s face flared with his familiar rage, his entire expression flushing a violent, explosive red. It spread through his whole body, his fists clenching as he trembled.
“Do you think I’m a cheap whore?” he snarled. “Do you really think I’d sell myself for a few Knuts?”
“For a few Gale—” Bruce began mockingly, but a wand pointed at his face cut him off.
“Think very carefully about what you say next, Mulciber,” Snape warned in a low, ominous tone.
So that wasn’t it either, judging by Snape’s reaction. And Bruce knew him well by now, a month of watching had taught him that. If it wasn’t money, and it wasn’t coercion, then what was it?
A small thought wriggled into his mind like an irritating larva, echoing in his ears and sending a lash of fear down his spine.
It was a ridiculous, unnatural idea, something fit only for a bitter joke or a nightmare. The very thought of it made him feel sick.
“Do you like Potter?” Bruce asked, unable to hide his look of disgust.
Severus’s expression shifted to one of indignation, shame flooding his cheeks and disgust darkening his gaze. But he didn’t refute what had been said. Those coal-dark eyes dropped to a single plank of the wooden floor, as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.
“Seriously? You like being his toy, sneaking in here at night and letting him have you?” The questions were genuine, filled with confusion and disbelief. “You do know he’s dating Evans, right?”
Snape hid his face behind his hair, his cheeks flushing deeper, all the way to his ears, his teeth biting hard into his lip.
“It’s not what you think.”
“I think it is,” he replied curtly. “Are you happy being the lover of the boyfriend of the girl who used to be your best friend?”
“You don’t understand,” Snape repeated, clinging to the excuse.
“I understand that you’re being an idiot,” he said, more a blunt truth than an attack. Snape looked even more ashamed because of it.
It wasn’t as if Bruce had any kind of flawless moral compass when it came to condemning infidelity, as long as it wasn’t done to him. He didn’t care in the slightest what happened to Evans and her ridiculous relationship with Potter. As far as he was concerned, Potter and Evans could have a thousand lovers and he’d laugh at their misery and toxicity. But this got in the way of what he wanted.
“Did he promise he’d leave Evans for you? Swear eternal, freely chosen love someday?” he mocked lightly, because the idea itself amused him. “Did you seriously believe those lies? If you did, then you’re either very naïve, or just very stupid.”
“I’m telling you, you don’t understand,” Snape snapped, raising his voice and slamming his hand against the table in a reflexive attempt to be heard.
“Then make me understand,” Bruce said, pushing himself off the wall and closing the distance between them until he was only inches away. “Tell me why you decided to be a whore.”
He didn’t see the blow coming, though he should have. His bruised cheek throbbed from the slap, an open-handed strike, the kind a girl would give. It didn’t hurt much, but it sent hot fury rushing through his blood. Maybe he ought to teach Snape how to throw a proper punch.
“I will not allow you to mock me,” Snape declared, showing not a shred of fear in his gaze or his stance. Even though Bruce was twice his size and a head taller, that didn’t matter with a wand pressed hard against his stomach.
“It’s not mockery if it’s the truth, Snape,” he murmured, wearing a smile that was anything but kind. “Don’t be ashamed of your title after earning it.”
This time he saw the attack coming. Snape’s hand was intercepted halfway to his other cheek, a thin, fragile wrist trapped easily in his grip even as Severus began to struggle.
“I’ll allow it once, Snape. You don’t get a second chance.”
The wand pressed harder into his stomach, digging painfully into his flesh and reminding Bruce that Snape was far from helpless.
“Mind your own business,” Snape growled, wrenching his hand free. “Tell me what you want to keep your mouth shut.”
“I already told you,” he reminded him, enjoying the confused frown creasing Snape’s face. “It can’t be that hard to understand what I want, Severus.”
“You seriously expect me to believe you’re in love with me?”
“It’s the truth,” he replied, flashing a broad, toothy smile. “Even if you can’t believe it.”
“If that were true,” Snape began, weighing every word carefully, his focused gaze already assembling a plan with deliberate precision, “what exactly would I gain from this arrangement?”
“That’s how you define a relationship? An arrangement? Sounds like a business deal,” Bruce scoffed.
Snape snorted. “It’s nearly the same thing for people like you.”
He wasn’t entirely wrong. Relationships were commercial, social, political arrangements for families, agreements parents made to secure the future through their children, an easy and convenient bargaining chip.
“Fine, if you want to see it that way,” Bruce conceded, mentally listing his qualities, starting with the most important one. “I’m very handsome.”
Snape’s unimpressed expression said it all; clearly, that alone wouldn’t sway him. And that was fine. Bruce had plenty more to offer. Snape wouldn’t be half as interesting if he were that easy.
He stepped back a few paces, lending the conversation a veneer of seriousness.
“You’ll have everything you want, ingredients, materials. Money will never be a problem, Snape. You’ll have as much as you like,” he said, studying Snape’s cautious, calculating expression. “If you want prestige, I can give it to you. I have influence. You won’t have to beg for apprenticeships,” he added, remembering the number of rejection letters Snape had received. Still, Snape looked unconvinced. “I’ll make those idiots leave you alone. You won’t have to worry about any of them. I’ll protect you.”
Snape still didn’t seem persuaded, absently fiddling with the sleeve of his pyjamas, weighing the words only on the surface. Bruce could think of only one thing that might keep Snape from accepting.
“What did Potter do?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Snape repeated, lowering his head in shame.
“Tell me. If you’re going to reject me, at least tell me why,” he demanded, irritation crawling under his skin at the thought of losing something he hadn’t even truly had yet. “What did he give you?”
It was a whisper too low, a confession muttered between clenched teeth that Bruce couldn’t catch, forcing him to demand it again, louder. He needed to know what it was that was making him lose.
“Affection,” Snape said at last, the word dragged out unwillingly. He lifted his head and looked straight into Mulciber’s soul. “Now you know how pathetic I am. Potter gave me a little affection, and I didn’t have the dignity to refuse it. Go on, laugh. Mock me for it.”
He looked wild, almost unhinged, the kind of madness that comes when you’ve reached the lowest point of your life. And yet his hands were trembling, gripping the table as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling into an abyss. He truly looked like a nymph in that moment, lethal and dangerous, yet still vulnerable, someone wounded with no other way to protect himself than to strike first.
He didn’t step closer, even though he wanted to. He gave him space and didn’t press his luck. He let out a breath thick with restrained fury at the mere thought of how Potter had taken advantage of a victim he himself had broken. How dare he present himself as a knight, proclaiming himself something he wasn’t, while doing this in secret, under the table.
“Don’t you think someone else could give you love?” he asked calmly, though he wanted to grab Snape and shake him until he understood. “Or do you not believe you deserve it?”
Snape’s gaze turned evasive, drifting toward one of the closed windows that let in a faint sliver of light. He stayed silent for a few seconds, staring at the glass, yet seeming to look far beyond it.
“I’m exactly where I want to be, Mulciber,” he said with a resigned expression, like a man condemned to death.
And then Bruce understood everything.
“Is this some kind of punishment you’re giving yourself?” he asked, concerned. “Are you trying to atone?”
“I…” The words faded into the air.
Bruce stepped closer, slow and careful, watching intently for any sign of discomfort. He stopped in front of Severus, who still stared at the window, his eyes lost somewhere distant, his mind far away.
“You know I’m better than Potter, and that’s why you don’t want to accept,” he said, seeing Snape flinch and squeeze his eyes shut in pain. “You want to punish yourself for your mistakes, let Potter destroy you day and night.”
“You don’t know me, Mulciber,” Severus tried to protest, but gave up, not knowing what else to say.
Bruce took Severus’s hands—delicate, trembling, cold as ice. He held them with the care they deserved, his thumb brushing over his palm, trying to warm them.
“Let me heal you. I’ll be a good boyfriend. I’ll take care of you,” he asked softly. “Just say yes, Sev.”
Severus’s black eyes lifted to him, not with anger, fear, or caution. Only with vulnerability.
And Bruce knew he had already won.
—
When Severus accepted Mulciber’s reckless proposal, he never thought it would lead him straight to the prefects’ bathrooms.
He had imagined several things instead. He imagined Mulciber mocking him, saying it had all been a joke. He imagined him throwing himself at him and claiming him the way James had the first time, quick and painful. He imagined him ignoring him, only coming back when he wanted something.
He never once thought Bruce would force him to take a bath.
“I’m not letting my boyfriend smell like Potter,” he’d said when he dragged him there.
Boyfriend.
It sounded so strange, so inappropriate, that Severus felt uncomfortable hearing it. It was a title he had never imagined carrying, not even in Potter’s fantasies. The Gryffindor had many names for him, but he had never used that one, not even as a joke.
“I can tell you’re thinking about him,” Mulciber said irritably, opening the bathroom door and waiting for Severus to go in first.
“Are you a Legilimens now?” Severus asked sarcastically, heading straight for the showers.
A hand stopped him, and by instinct Severus shoved it away sharply. The grip hadn’t even been hard enough to scare him. Bruce looked surprised by the reaction, his hand still extended but not reaching for him again.
“I was going to tell you to use the bath,” Bruce said, stepping back, both hands lowering as he tried to look less like a threat. “It’s much better.”
Severus gave in, changing course toward the large bath on the other side. A bath wasn’t so bad anyway; after being with Potter he always ended up feeling filthy, so much so that not even cleaning charms could get rid of the sensation.
On one of the stone benches there was already a towel and what looked like a folded robe beside it. He looked at Mulciber with a raised eyebrow, cautiously judging how prepared he seemed for this.
“Seriously?” It wasn’t a question.
Mulciber answered anyway. “I told you I’d take care of you.”
Severus rolled his eyes, unimpressed. He didn’t fully understand what his role was here, or what he was supposed to do to follow this new part he’d been given. He would just obey Bruce’s orders; that should be enough to be a good boyfriend.
“Are you staying until I’m done?” Severus asked as he took off his pyjamas, not caring about Mulciber’s fixed stare.
“Does it bother you?”
Indifferent. His body had already been exposed; he didn’t appreciate it in the slightest. He wanted to cover every inch of skin so no one would ever see him again. He didn’t know how things worked with a boyfriend, how much right they had over their partner. Potter always liked to command; refusing anything meant being ignored for weeks.
His thoughts were cut short by Mulciber standing in front of him. He didn’t look pleased, even though Severus had already taken off his shirt. He looked irritated, brow furrowed and lip curled, so annoyed it was as if someone had taken his wand from his pocket.
“Stop thinking about him when you’re with me,” he warned in a venomous whisper. “I want loyalty, Snape. If you can’t give me that, then I don’t think this will work.”
Not even a day had passed and Mulciber was already thinking about leaving him. Severus wasn’t all that interested in him, but the curiosity, the temptation of having more than he’d ever had with Potter, kept him from letting this opportunity go so easily.
“Fine. What else do you want, Mulciber?” he asked, softly and calmly, the way he had heard his mother speak so many times when Tobias grew angry.
Mulciber’s frown deepened, disappointed. “Are you like this with Potter? A lifeless puppet?”
The label offended him. Even if it was true, it wasn’t pleasant to hear, much less to say aloud. “You said you wanted me to be your boyfriend.”
“Yes, I said I wanted you to be my boyfriend,” Mulciber emphasised with a smile. “I want that dangerous soul, the one that never bows, with viper’s eyes and a tongue sharp enough to draw blood”
Such deep confusion and disbelief settled inside him that he couldn’t help but step back. What Mulciber was describing was the complete opposite of what he had always been told he should be, what they had always tried to force him to become.
The silence of the bathroom, softly broken by the open taps and the steady flow of water, was growing heavy. Thick as dense fog, suffocating. He felt himself shrinking, the walls stretching, growing immense and endless. Severus didn’t understand what was happening.
“You want a wild animal to tame?” he asked acidly, unsure how dangerous that idea was.
Bruce let out a tired breath, his body calming like a fire being put out. He stepped away from Severus and sat on the stone bench, staring at the wall.
“Just hurry up, Snape. The night isn’t eternal.”
Without saying anything else, Severus did as he was told, slipping into the hot water and allowing himself a few seconds of relief. It was pleasant to rid his body of the feeling of filth, to scrub himself until he no longer felt hands on his skin. There was no comfort in knowing this moment was controlled by Mulciber; even when he couldn’t see him, he felt watched. It was uncomfortable, unsettling.
He left the bath quickly, shivering as icy drafts struck his bare skin. He grabbed the robe and pulled it on, tying the knot tightly around his waist.
“I’m done,” he said uncomfortably.
“That was fast,” Mulciber said, standing up and stretching his arms. “I thought you’d take longer.”
“You’re not the only one who wants to rest,” Severus muttered.