Things had changed.

Ron Weasley quaffed the hot rum, smiling his thanks to Seamus Finnegan and sighed as the drink warmed him through and through.

Who would have thought Seamus would end up an innkeeper in Hogsmeade? He lived above and tended bar and kept his customers, his friends, confidences.

Who would have thought Harry would be playing Keeper for the Orkney Ogres? He flew hard and fast and his occasional ferocity was blamed on impetuous youth, not on a hardened young man who had lost so much that now he protected what was his with every fibre of his being. He flew for his wife, too. Harry flew for Ron's sister, Ginny, who was, even now, carrying their third child, or possibly another set of twins.

Who would have thought Neville Longbottom would be teaching Herbology at Hogwarts? He was the favourite teacher by far, beloved by all his young charges, especially beloved by his baffling and beautiful wife, Luna Longbottom.

Ron sighed. Of course, you couldn't just land a plummy job like that. There had to be an opening. Professor Sprout had been doing her job for many years. She had been doing her job the day the Death Eaters had attacked Hogwarts. She had been protecting one of her charges, protecting Hermione Granger, who had been picking ingredients from the greenhouse to make potions to help Poppy Pomfrey.

First Sprout had died, some hideous hex tearing her apart. Then Hermione had died, hands still clutching the ingredients for a healing potion, now forever inert and incapable of helping either of them.

Then Ron Weasley had died... sort of. His body had kept going. His mind, however, had shed itself of childhood and concern for the future entirely.

He had thrown himself so fiercely into his Auror studies that no one was truly surprised when he completed the course in half the time. No one was surprised when Harry Potter finally slew Tom Riddle with the help of Ronald Weasley, either.

Ron had taken twenty-seven different curses, hexes and jinxes, but had kept advancing to the herpetological nightmare that called itself Lord Voldemort. He'd already lost his eye, but was unaware of it at the time, his remaining blue eye still blazing death. His mind's eye, however, was fixed on the image of the pretty brown-haired girl that Hermione would forever remain to him. It was with Hermione in mind that he watched Voldemort fall, blaze into a bright pyre and turn to ash. It was why they'd pulled him from the wreckage of the battle site with a vicious smile on his face.

The weeks in St. Mungo's had seemed endless. He had forsworn a replacement eye. He had shrugged off the loss of his left hand and half his left ear, and the wide swath of scars he bore. All aurors were marked by their job and he was no different.

He had dutifully taken up Muggle darts as suggested by one young half-Muggle healer, in order to learn how to compensate for his lack of parallax vision. He had become so good the Muggle bar he had started to frequent no longer allowed him to play. He had returned to the Wizarding world a year later, strong and capable and as healthy as magic and hearty Muggle food could make him. He had endured.

Now he found himself rather missing the quiet undemanding order of the Muggle establishments he'd frequented during his healing sojourn. Part of it, although it did not enter his mind, was the solace he found from being near things that Hermione must have known about. So much he hadn't known about her. So much...

He scowled now, and Seamus stepped up.

"Something wrong with the rum, Ron?"

"Eh? Oh. No. Just... thinking."

"You looked... well, you looked like you were somewhere else for a bit there."

"I think I was."

"Was it a happy place?"

"It was. While I was there."

Seamus smiled. "Maybe you should go back then. Visit."

With these words, the busy innkeeper moved on to his next customer.

Ron considered this. Aside from his times at his flat, to eat, to sleep, he hadn't ventured into the Muggle world for at least two years. He'd fallen into the not comfortable, but at least familiar, routine of work, drink, and occasional visit to Madame MacKeasy's at the end of town.

He'd sampled every one of her does, as the Madame called her coterie of whores, and when that failed to do more than provide brief relief, he had decided to sample a few of her bucks. A body was a body, after all. His own was no longer something anyone would want or receive with anything besides pity or disgust. Besides, why force some poor girl to service him when blokes were made of sterner stuff?

To his somewhat disgruntled surprise, he found it made no difference except in one area -- he still felt a guilty pang when he bedded a girl. It never failed to remind him of the one he could never have. Bedding a bloke provided relief from both the physical and the emotional, so that was what he now chose when the need arose.

His train of thoughts made him twitchy now. It had been too long, and he had been too busy of late, but now the old feeling swept over him again. How long had it been? The last time he'd taken a whore there was no frost on the ground, but now snow dusted the cracks of the road.

Madame MacKeasy was but a walk away... but no. He scowled again and thought instead of Diagon Alley. The whores who hung around near Doxie Side Circle were hardened pros, male and female alike. There were a few desperate amateurs as well, to be sure, but those who plied their wares in the Circle knew what they were getting into.

He knew of them, but had never tried to pick one up, either for business or pleasure. The denizens of the Circle were a known commodity that the Ministry had chosen to ignore.

Yes. Doxie Side Circle was just the place...

Snape shivered and pulled down at the hem of his dress, fighting cold and revulsion and self-disgust in equal measure.

How had he come to this?

The death of the Dark Lord had freed him of servitude. The trial that followed had cleared his name of all but one charge he could not and would not fight - the murder of Albus Dumbledore.

With the extenuating circumstances his legal counsel had been able to inveigle, he'd been given a light sentence: five years incarceration and a hefty fee.

The Ministry had liquidated his assets. He'd been tattooed and taken to Azkaban.

Prison had been paradoxically easier and harder than he'd imagined. It was easier because there were no more Dementors, and they'd kept him confined from other prisoners. He had not experienced the constant fear of Dementors or the indignity of rape. It was harder because they'd kept him confined from other prisoners. He had not experienced conversation or mental stimulation besides whatever he could muster on his own.

He'd refused the Ministry-provided books until he thought he'd go insane with the dullness of it all. He'd asked for and received a novel, some pointless philosophical examination of the inner goodness in every wizard. Then he regained his sanity by writing out each and every potion he knew on the blank pages of the book, then followed that up by keeping a small diary. Fortunately, the book had been imprinted on only one side of each page, so he'd plenty of space.

Still, he'd written as small as he could manage nonetheless. He'd found an owl feather under the window ledge he could not see out of, and by cannibalizing the rare bit of pie prisoners received, he had concocted ink from berry juice and spit. Frugality and practicality were Snape's mainstays and they'd served him well thus far, until now.

Now he was three weeks out of prison, released early due to his assisting the prison healer by making endless potions during a horrific outbreak of Suppurus Pox... even after he'd contracted the Pox himself.

After his release he'd pawned his cloak and considered his options. If he'd been given enough in exchange, he'd have purchased a wand, but they were expensive. Instead, he'd gotten some food, a blanket. He'd found himself apparating to the only place he knew he might be able to stay free of rent and unbothered - the Shrieking Shack. He'd been there since, until the morning four days ago had brought him to the realization he did not have enough money to buy more food.

Now Snape was penniless, with few prospects, no desire to return to the scene of his most heinous crime, and with winter encroaching, he'd turned to what he knew was many an unfortunate's last commodity.

First, though, he'd spent at least one day considering his options again. Robbery was not out of the question morally for him, but he had no desire to return to Azkaban. He was already a convicted murderer. If he was caught and convicted of any other crime, they'd throw him in for life and he was positive he could not survive life in soulless Azkaban.

He could not work, no one would trust a convicted murderer enough to hire him, and almost certainly no one would buy potions from one! Prostitution, however...

The thought stung, but stuck, and finally, he scrounged through the place in the hopes of getting other ideas. Instead, he'd found an old dress, some stockings and a hat. They'd all seen better days, but they were also all of well-made material, obviously having belonged to someone wealthy once. He'd affixed part of an old curtain to the hat for a makeshift veil and considered the results in a partially broken mirror.

The dress fit him surprisingly well. He was thinner now than he had been in prison and the cut of the dress hung well on him. The stockings were best ignored. His good, if scruffy pair of boots would suffice. Most witches wore good solid shoes or boots for support or protection from the elements. The veil hid the pox-marks well without hiding too much of his face.

He knew very well that his now pox-scarred visage would not attract him customers among the ranks of male prostitutes. The sort who sought men tended to seek handsome, unmarked flesh and the men who sought to provide it understood this. There was many a fine young specimen about the Circle, enough to make a pox-scarred older one's chances impossible.

Fortunately, the Ministry held their reputation in high regard, for after his release orders arrived, he had been washed, shaved and given a hair cut and a passably clean suit before being released. It wouldn't do, after all, for one of their "success stories", a rehabilitated criminal, to be released looking like a shaggy dog.

The man who'd shaved him hadn't even asked if he wanted a hair-suppression spell, but simply performed it after leaving him beardless. He had regretted it when the weather grew brisk, but it would serve him well, now, he thought, as he considered his still smooth cheeks.

He did not like the idea of presenting himself as a woman, but he knew they earned more. Women whores, for some reason, were chosen regardless of appearance. Severus presumed it was because their customers assumed they knew exactly what they were doing and were willing to pay well for it. Either way, he felt he stood a better chance as one.

On Doxie Side Circle, too, he could indicate what was on offer. A man might be amenable to a hand job or blow job. Not that he knew the specific logistics of such encounters, but he knew what he planned: find a likely candidate, insist on being taken to a warm establishment and given a meal as part of the bargain, head to the bedroom where he would steal their wand and Obliviate them. With a rich enough catch or series of catches, he could make his way, with wand and will, to the Muggle world. He knew very well that he could comfortably live there with transfigured documents and money, and the use of an occasional spell or two. All he needed was the right customer.

Strength and courage were also good companions when they came. It had taken him a full day to work up the nerve to apparate to the Circle, and then, only because growing hunger was driving his thoughts.

His hopes, however, had faded along with the daylight that fearfully cold day. Now, as full night fell and the other women along the Circle had either found customers or headed to warmer places, he shivered yet again and wondered if he'd find a candidate that night at all. He could not wait much longer. It was difficult to apparate when shivering with cold, not to mention aching with hunger.

He found a broken stanchion near a dark and deserted facility and wearily sat down. His feet ached from hours of standing. His spirit was bleak and his psyche stung with the sense of indignity at his plight. He could scarcely believe it had come to this. The feeling of failure was thick about him and he did not know if he had the strength to fight it, to lift his head and go on another day.

"So... it looks like it's just you and me then, eh?"

The rough voice made him look up into the face of a one-eyed man. He could not tell in the dimness the colour of that eye or of his hair, but he quickly told himself it didn't matter. The man's expression was... impersonal; clearly he did this often. His heart began to race at the thought he might get what he needed this night.

"Perhaps," he managed to say in the quiet way he'd practiced.

The scarred, craggy face actually cracked a smile and he suddenly recognized his "customer". The sudden sense of unreality made him dizzy.

"Mr. Weasley..." he gasped despite himself, forgoing his practiced voice and feeling his face flood with shame.

Ron's mouth dropped. "Snape."

Before he could stand and make his escape, the boy that he knew had become an auror stepped closer and pushed aside his veil to confirm his suspicions.

A slight twitch to his eyeless cheek as he studied that pale, thin face was the only reaction Ron had before asking, "What happened to you? Was it a hex?"

Snape swallowed down his humiliation and muttered, "Pox. It spread through Azkaban."

Ron nodded then, remembering. "Ah."

He let go of the veil and shook his head. Then he drew in a deep breath and said in his even gravelly tones. "I'm guessing neither of us is going to get what we came for."

Snape shrugged uneasily, wishing he'd thought his plan through a bit better. He was glad Weasley wasn't intent on arresting him, but... could he do what he needed to with an ex-student? Why hadn't he thought about someone he knew approaching him? Were four days without food all it took to drive him to this?

"Perhaps," was all he said.

Weasley looked at him then, eye narrowed. "You still on? You're that desperate?"

Snape fought to keep from flinching and clenched his teeth. This felt like punishment far more than his prison sentence. He'd accepted that, he could accept this, regardless of his feelings. Severus Snape would do what he had to in order to muster on.

He swallowed. "Yes, Mr. Weasley. I am."

Ron looked uncomfortable at this, but he shrugged minutely and drew in a deep breath. "Well... far as I'm concerned, you did your time. I've got no quarrel with you."

"How kind."

Ron grew mad at his supercilious tone and his whisper was heated as he leaned over him. "Look, Snape - I'm sorry you're so far down you need to put on a dress and fuck for money, but that's not my fault!"

Snape stood then, ignoring his tired feet and what he assumed was ridiculous appearance, and drew in a steady breath, ignoring his heated cheeks to fiercely whisper back, "Yes, Mr. Weasley. Since it's not your fault, I'm prepared to not ask why you are so desperate as to need to pay someone to fuck."

The silence that fell in the Circle was thick as the two stared at each other, taking in each other's measure.

Ron finally relaxed. Snape did not follow suit, but merely waited.

"What's your asking price then?"

The muscles in his viscera twitched with his surprise, but Severus managed to keep his voice even. "A meal, somewhere warm."

Ron frowned, blinked. "Is that all?"

"I'm not, as you can clearly see, in any position to be choosy."

To his credit, Ron did not respond to this, merely hitching a shoulder and gesturing with his chin.

"Let's go then."

After Ron had found some surcease in the Muggle world, he'd chosen a Muggle place to live near Diagon Alley.

The place was warm. It was so similar to his old flat on Spinner's End it gave Snape pause.

Ron had apparated the both of them there, directly in front of a small, but preciously warm fireplace, his large, work-roughened hand surprisingly gentle on his arm.

Then he'd turned and taken his hat from him and Snape noticed Ron's missing hand for the first time, paling at the sight.

Ron did not respond, merely turned toward the kitchen and calling back, "I hope stew and bread is good enough. I have leftovers."

"That will be fine," Severus replied, mouth dampening at the thought of food.

"Aye," Ron called before returning with a steaming bowl of stew and some sliced bread on a small platter he held with one hand and balanced on his leather-cuffed stump. He put it on the small table, took the items off it and nodded at Snape as he headed back to the kitchen with the platter in his hand. "Come sit and eat. It's good. I had some earlier. My mother made it and I kept a heating charm on it. Hot as if it was out of the pot."

Severus managed to eat sedately, despite the noisy convolutions his stomach was making, gamely trying to keep from drooling in his famished state. He chewed carefully; who knew when he would eat next?

Soon Ron returned with a pot of tea, a jar and two mugs on the platter. He poured them both some, not quite filling Snape's all the way and pushed the jar to him. "It's cream. Feel free to take it all if you like. I don't take cream in my tea."

Snape didn't either, but he opted for some now, thinking the extra fat would do him some good. He was hungry enough that he had not noted the auror's appraisal until he was nearly done with his bowl. Once he did, he sighed and set his spoon down.

"I trust I've satisfied your need for amusement with my appearance."

Ron shook himself from his reverie and grunted. "Nah, it's not that. It's just... I was thinking how far you and I have come."

"Ah."

He picked his spoon back up and continued eating. The boy, no-- the man had been right; it was very good and the hot food was making him feel sleepy now. He poured more tea, did not add cream and swallowed the steaming hot liquid deliberately, accepting the sting that roused him. He needed his wits about him. He still wasn't sure exactly what he was going to do. He had a plan originally, but the sight of this boy, his ex-student, now a grown, grizzled, hardened man... a man who had picked him up for a sexual liaison...

Ron's comment pulled him from his muddled thoughts. "I take it the Ministry took all your assets."

It wasn't a question and Snape did not take it as one. "You work for them, Mr. Weasley. I would assume you know."

Ron waved a hand. "Not really. I mean I do work for them, but I was in St. Mungo's for ages after the... after. And well..."

"You were mourning the loss of your loved ones."

It also wasn't a question, and Ron did not take it as one. "Actually, I was getting used to having one hand and one eye."

Snape looked at him now, really looked at Ron Weasley as he was now. The boy he knew was no longer handsome, but his tall, powerful body was still very attractive. The way he held himself, as well, added to his mystique; he was graceful and radiated power, despite his missing hand and eye, and now that he looked at him closely, the shell of his left ear was also gone. The sense of contained power seemed almost to stem from his losses, rather than in spite of them. Ron looked like a man who had learned life's hard lessons well and could easily tackle any problem life threw his way. This was incredibly attractive to some. It was attractive to Snape.

"So here we are then," Ron sighed.

Snape drew in a breath, swallowed down more tea and set his spoon down. "Indeed."

To his surprise, Ron looked away from him. "I uh... have you ever done this before?"

Snape frowned. "Are you referring to sex, Mr. Weasley, or prostitution?"

Ron turned to him then, intrigued. "Either."

"I've never prostituted myself before, no."

Ron's gaze did not waver. "What about sex?"

To Ron's surprise, Snape's pale, thin face flushed, but he did not look away.

"What do you know of Potions Masters, Mr. Weasley?"

Ron shrugged.

"In the course of our apprenticeships, we must master the making of all kinds of potions. Many of them require... bodily purity."

Ron frowned. "You mean you need to be a virgin?"

Snape shook his head. " No. In order to become a Potions Master, it is necessary to be a virgin. Once you achieve Master status, that need not be the case. Obviously not all Potions Masters care to follow such a restriction. They choose an apprentice over their years of practice and proscribe them from the pleasures of the flesh. Their apprentices can then make those potions if required. "

"You never had an apprentice."

"No, Mr. Weasley, I did not. However," he swallowed hard and continued, "I did have two masters who sometimes required I make various potions for them of all kinds. I could not gainsay either of them."

Ron's frown deepened and he shook his head. "So... you're... pure?"

Snape scowled. "Hardly, Mr. Weasley."

"I didn't mean that, I meant... this was your first night on the Circle?"

Snape pursed his lips. "I... It seemed like my best option. I... I don't have enough money to eat with anymore. I don't have a wand; it was broken after my conviction. My assets were liquidated. I have no place to stay."

"Where have you been since you were released?"

"The... the Shrieking Shack," Severus admitted.

Ron merely nodded. "Smart move, that. No one stays there. It's got beds and a fireplace."

"I didn't have the wherewithal to light a fire. I was able to sleep there, though. It was also where I found these clothes."

"I wondered where you got that frock. It's... very old-fashioned."

"It's not very warm, either."

"So why did you dress like this?"

"Female whores earn more. Male whores... I'm …I'm not comely enough to be a male whore. Those seeking men want handsome, unblemished faces and bodies."

"What did you think would happen if your customer found out you weren't a woman?"

Snape said nothing and Ron nodded. "So you weren't going to tell them, were you? You were just going down on your knees and then asking for dinner money."

Snape still said nothing. One eye twitched, however, under the line of questions.

Ron considered all this and then hesitantly asked, "You didn't answer my question before. You're... pure? I mean--"

Snape grit his teeth, stared at his empty bowl. "Yes, Mr. Weasley, for the purposes of this discussion and the assuagement of your puerile curiousity -- I am a virgin."

Ron paled, but merely shook his head again. "No wonder."

Snape frowned now. "No wonder what, Mr. Weasley?"

"Well, no wonder you were so... so mean in school. So out of sorts and grumpy all the time."

Severus rolled his eyes. "Being a virgin does not necessarily mean one is sexually frustrated, Mr. Weasley."

Ron considered this and then smiled. "Oh, aye! But... how did you know then? I mean, that you... well, would like... men?"

Severus sighed. "Being a virgin does not mean one is totally ignorant of one's preferences, either. However, to answer your unspoken question, I have found myself attracted to members of both genders. Masquerading as a female seemed my best option, though, as pertains to earning enough to be able to eat and eventually purchase a wand."

Silence fell and it persisted long enough for Snape's anxiety to return. He finally spoke. "Is your curiousity assuaged, Mr. Weasley? Or is there something further you care to know before..."

Ron looked over at him and shrugged uncomfortably. "No, not really. I mean, yes, you answered my questions, but... I don't really need to know anything else. I was just... talking. I don't often get the chance to talk to anyone."

Snape considered this. "I find that difficult to believe, considering the size of your family, Mr. Weasley."

"Snape, please-- just call me Ron, or plain Weasley if you must. Mr. Weasley is my father. Always will be. And no. I don't talk much to my family. My brothers are all... well, they're all married or shacked up and they talk to their wives or girlfriends, or about their wives or girlfriends or kids. Ginny's got Harry and the twins and they're always traveling with the Ogres. I don't have a lot of friends at the Ministry. Tonks has to work enough to support Remus and their brood and she's always busy at work and Remus is always busy with their handful. My dad, well, I could probably talk to him, but since I started working for the Ministry it makes it hard for us to talk. I can't really talk about my job to him or him to me because the Ministry is all worried about favouritism, you see, since Fudge. So my dad and I end up talking about nothing at all. Mum is, well, I love Mum to bits, but she's hopeless for talking. The only one I've been able to talk to, but not about much, is Seamus."

"Mr. Finnegan."

"Aye. He runs the Finnegan Inn in Hogsmeade. Good chap. Keeps things to himself. Not much for talking, though, but he's a really good chap."

"So you speak to whores?"

Ron drew in an angry breath, then let it slowly. "No, actually. I don't talk to whores, Snape. I usually just fuck them."

"So what makes me different, Ronald Weasley?"

A chuckle escaped despite himself and Ron shook his head, amused. "Ron! Ronald Weasley is... that's what my mother calls me, usually when she's mad or lecturing me. And while your dress is a little like her favourite shopping dress, you don't look anything like her!"

Snape snorted, also amused. "I can well imagine. Molly Weasley is a handsome witch."

Ron looked askance, "You're not that bad, Snape. I think those pox-marks will fade."

There was a silence then Snape sighed. "You truly must be desperate, Weasley."

"Maybe," Ron essayed. Snape looked up at this and he added, "Maybe I'm just... curious."

Snape stood then, ignoring his ridiculous dress and drew in a deep breath. "Perhaps we should answer your curiousity then... Ron."

To his surprise, Snape's deep even tone went straight to his gut, which felt like it drained right into his groin. He could feel himself throb as he swallowed.

"Perhaps."

The undressing had been awkward, as it usually was during first encounters, made more so by Ron's missing hand and Snape's uncontrollable trembling, part cold and part nerves.

No words had been exchanged thus far, but Ron had ventured a few random caresses to Snape's pale, scarred skin. Even without the pox marks, his skin bore testament to his life-- curse marks, hexes, his prison tattoo, even a couple of knife wound scars, one of which puckered along his ribs, the other snaking along his stomach and down. Someone, Ron could tell, had tried to eviscerate his erstwhile teacher.

This thought brought forth a deep wellspring of guilty sympathy; how often had Snape been injured in the course of his work spying for the Order? How often had he lectured to bored students while suffering the bone-deep ache that Cruciatus left behind, the drained feeling most curses gave their victims, the unkind and often hateful comments those self-same students made or wrote down?

He wound his long, thick fingers now through that curtain of hair, once glossy-black, now peppered with silver strands. It was as greasy as he thought it might be, but then, how long had it been since he'd been able to bathe?

He unstrapped his leather cuff; a matter-of-fact contraption that had a small loop Snape divined was for holding his wand. A quick tug of Ron's strong white teeth to the leather revealed the stump of his forearm, a lump of undefined flesh where russet hairs grew haphazardly over a minefield of scar tissue that was shiny smooth.

Snape dragged his gaze from it as Ron muttered, "Come with me."

Wand between teeth, he took one of Severus's cold, thin hands in his and walked them to his bathroom. Smiling slightly crookedly at Severus while letting go of his hand, he cast two quick warming charms, one for the air, the other for the tub of water before setting his wand within his reach and stepping carefully into the large, claw-footed tub.

He tugged gently at Snape's hand. His ex-professor said nothing, merely climbed into the tub, wincing a bit at the heat.

"You'll get used to it. It'll be good for you. You're like ice, Severus."

Ron settled them both down into the water and reached for his washcloth which he draped over his handless arm and stropped with the cake of Muggle soap he'd taken a liking to during his time in their world. Like his father, he'd found it had much about it worth admiring. This soap was one of those things. It was pearly white and smelt of creamy oatmeal and cinnamon. It foamed pleasantly and left no residue behind.

He reached across to the quiescent man and gently began to run the soapy washcloth across his shoulders, his neck, which Snape obligingly threw back, his chest, his long arms. He moved closer and found himself holding that thin, wiry body with his short arm as he ran the washcloth down his back and spine with the other. It felt slippery and the soap bubbles tickled as they breathed and then he felt Snape's thin, but strong hands sliding along his own body, along his powerfully muscled torso, caressing his various scars.

He reached for his bath cup and rinsed them both, wetting Snape's head, then picked up the soap again and ran it through that salt-and-pepper hair, coating it liberally before starting to lather it gently.

Snape's eyes closed as he rinsed him, but he kept his eyes closed as Ron stropped the washcloth with more soap and continued to scrub at his legs, under his arms, his crotch. The sensations were achingly good - he had not been able to do more than wash a bit in the icy stream by the shack and it was too cold to remove all his clothes, so he'd only washed his face and hands. A hot bath was definitely a bonus to this evening.

He sighed with relief, having made up his mind; he would accept whatever Ron gave, and then perhaps on the morrow he'd reconsider his options. He wasn't so desperate yet-- or he was, but Weasley's unexpected kindness had provided him a bit of breathing room. It would be better to think on a full stomach, whilst warm and clean. Then he gasped, eyes snapping open.

Ron's fingers were gentle as he soaped that surprisingly hefty ball sac, although he registered Snape's startled gasp. He carefully ran the washcloth on both sides of his groin and over the thick tangle of still black pubes where a soft, slender cock lay. As he gently cleaned that, too, it twitched, and then began to lengthen in his hand.

He did not look up as he gently washed it, pulling back the prepuce then cleaning carefully underneath before letting it go. It was now almost fully erect, as lean and slender as its owner, if a bit longer than his own. He was just slipping his soapy fingers between Snape's arse cheeks when he felt those thin fingers reach between his own legs, and he was unsurprised to find he was hard as a board. He hastily finished his task, ensuring Snape was entirely clean before washing his own heavy mane of hair.

He rinsed himself well, throwing back his head to let the soap run down his back, unaware of the enticing picture he made with his strong neck and the corded muscles along his shoulders flexing as he ensured his hair was free of soap.

"Ron."

He looked up at this whispered sound and swallowed at the expression on Snape's face. Somehow, with his wet hair framing his thin, pale, pox-marked face, he looked... fragile. He was a virgin still, recalled Ron. For some reason the thought was neither shocking nor amusing.

They eyed each other for a long moment, and then Ron leaned in to kiss him. This was something he had never done with any of the whores he had picked up before. For one thing, whores preferred not to do that. For another, Ron never wanted to pretend their liaisons were more than they were. This was different, however, very different.

For the first time, Ron felt... protective... giving. He was not merely seeking his own pleasure. He was not sure just what he was seeking, but it wasn't just his own pleasure.

The kiss deepened and Ron felt himself holding a very slippery Snape closer, his heavy and fully extended organ rubbing against that lean torso, a long, hard slender rod poking against his own hip.

He pulled back. "I think we've got you warmed up enough now."

Snape merely nodded, face flushed with a colour not unbecoming.

Ron stepped lightly out of the tub, his graceful movements belying the sheer muscular bulk of his body. He grabbed his wand and cast warming charms on a pair of towels, then turned to Severus.

"Step out."

He did, and into the soft, warm towel Ron awkwardly held up for him. He held it with grateful, if shivering fingers and began to rub himself dry. He eyed Ron as he did.

Ron Weasley was clearly a wizard in the golden years before his absolute prime... with a full head of long, auburn hair that fell to his shoulder blades, a muscled physique that put many a Quidditch player to shame, and a delightful dusting of rust-coloured hair on his chest that continued on down his stomach to his thick, wiry pubes in which nestled a large cock and a generous pair of bollocks. The missing parts of him scarcely mattered. The man was clearly competent and healthy, despite their lack.

Ron quickly toweled himself off, an old habit borne of countless Quidditch sessions and decontamination procedures at the Ministry. They turned to each other again as they finished drying and Ron smiled. He used his wand to spell Snape's hair dry, then dried his own.

Once dry, Ron was bemused at how soft and silky Snape's hair was. Then, tucking his wand under his arm, he took Snape's hand in his and headed for the bedroom. He did not hurry, gently laying Severus down on his bed and stretching out beside him after ensuring his wand was in easy reach. Holding himself up with his short arm, he reached over and stroked Snape's arms, his torso, his thighs.

"Ron..."

"It's all right. I'm not going to hurry. Your first time... it should be... good."

Snape's eyes fluttered closed momentarily and he sighed.

"I..."

"If you've changed your mind--"

"It's not that." Snape looked at him now. "I may be a virgin. However, I'm not totally ignorant about sex."

"That's good," Ron said earnestly, before getting to his knees and kissing him again.

This kiss was gentle, unhurried, but full of feeling. Snape felt that strong tongue in his mouth even as waves of heat seemed to travel from belly to groin as he extended his own and tasted the tea-flavoured warmth that was Ron Weasley. That large hand touched him carefully, the surprisingly soft firmness of that stump steadied and helped position them both.

Soon Ron pressed Snape onto his back and withdrew slightly, running his hand down that slim torso. He knelt between those long, lean legs and gently ran his hand along his inner thigh. Snape shuddered.

"Easy," Ron whispered, before laying himself carefully down and gently starting to lick at Snape's balls.

"Gods..."

Severus clutched at Ron's shoulders as Ron slowly and avidly licked and sucked his scrotum and the base of his cock. He'd never felt anything like this before and he felt he might die from the intensity of feeling.

He could not speak as Ron took in the head of his now-leaking cock and began to gently suckle it. A large warm hand gripped the rest of him and began to firmly stroke and he cried out wordlessly, feeling his orgasm quickly approaching. He could not help it, he had not indulged in self-pleasure in longer than he could remember and the tension had been building in him since before the bath.

Now his climax struck with the quickness of a viper. Once, twice, thrice he poured forth into that sucking mouth and trembled helplessly in the aftermath. Had he ever experienced anything that intense that was so purposefully pleasurable? He could not remember.

He caught his breath, opened his eyes, to find a smiling Ron peering up at him, that one blue eye bright and surprisingly happy.

"Now we can really concentrate on other things," Ron said, shifting up to his knees and urging Snape to turn. The man did, wondering when he had lost control over the situation.

He had a plan earlier, a plan that had melted away as much as the cold had seeped from his bones in the hot water of his first bath in over a week. Now he merely waited as Ron muttered behind him, wondering what was happening and why he was letting it.

That warm, strong, now-familiar hand suddenly rested between his shoulders and he groaned as it slid down, greasy with some substance that his nose soon identified as Professor Marner's Muscle Medicament, a powerful unguent favoured by healers for injuries and massage.

The vapour from juniper and eucalyptus, menthol and cinnamon and pepper all tickled his sensitive nostrils and he relaxed as Ron stroked and soothed each muscle of his back and thighs.

He could not remember ever having received a massage quite like this, although occasionally Poppy Pomfrey had massaged his sore muscles after a particularly bad meeting with the Dark Lord. She had never done it so slowly, though, nor been quite so thorough. She had almost certainly never massaged his buttocks, either, he thought now, feeling Ron's hand stroking across his lower back and gently kneading his arse cheeks in turn, sighing with contentment.

For Ron's part, he did not question his impulses, not at work out in the field, and not here, either. What he was doing - it felt right. This man had been the bane of his existence, the shining example of a selfless hero after the truth of his actions during the war had been made public, a criminal he had not given thought to in all these years. Now... Severus Snape was his lover?

Ron dismissed his thoughts, giving in to his feelings. This felt right, and he wanted both of them to enjoy it. He heard Snape sigh, felt him relax and did so himself.

Snape sighed again as that warm hand worked back up his spine. Had he ever felt this way before? Severus thought back and realized that he had felt this cared for, this cherished, only once. He had been a child, sick with the Muggle measles, and his mother had cared for him, rubbed some sort of pungent ointment on his chest and neck and wrapped him in a warm towel and then cuddled him to her chest and sung to him...

To his chagrin, tears suddenly sprang to his eyes, but he blinked them away, mortified.

Had the last time he'd felt this way truly been in his mother's care?

His mental meanderings were interrupted by Ron's softly muffled "scourgify" and he looked round to see Ron holding his wand between his teeth and cleansing his hand of unguent. He'd just settled back down when his hips were urged up by one hand and that warm, surprisingly untroubling stump. He found himself obeying, getting to his knees, arse up, head to the pillow, utterly relaxed despite the ignominious position.

He heard Ron's soft "Accio." and the slight scraping sound of a jar being opened but before could ask, he felt a finger gently running along the edge of the cleft of his arse. He tensed, as it was a bit cold, but he soon realized it was covered with something slick, something that both cooled and soothed.

"Remember, Severus... I won't hurt you."

He nodded, feeling that finger gently tickling his pucker, running that blunted nail along his most delicate tissue, which quivered in response. This was very different from when Ron had cleaned him there. That had been very matter-of-fact, no attempt to seduce or entreat.

This... this was arousing. That finger stroked, that nail tickled delicate nerve endings that flared with heat and pleasure. It made no attempt to penetrate him, merely withdrawing, only to return with more slickness that was generously daubed along his opening, swirling and dipping, the nail gently triggering sensations that made him first tense, then melt into the pillow.

Soon it withdrew, only to return and add still more slickness and gently slide, slowly, carefully, teasingly, a little deeper, one blunt nail edge tweaking at the folds of his pucker as it did, causing him to fight back whimpers of pleasure.

Before he realized it, that exploring finger was eased inside to the knuckle, giving him an odd sensation of warm fullness. It did not hurt, but it felt peculiar, especially when it slid back and forth a few times very gently. He drew in a breath, surprised to discover he had not been breathing. The finger wiggled, barely brushing the edge of what he knew must be his prostate gland, and he gasped.

He could feel his half-hard cock start to leak, and the finger gently slid out, then back in and right over his prostate, making his hips buck.

A firm, warm pressure eased him back down that he realized was Ron's stump. It stroked gently along his spine and he relaxed. Most of him did, that is. One now very hard part of him felt anything but relaxed, not quite stretched out against his belly, dangling just above the bedspread. With both hands clutching the pillow and his arse up in the air, he could do nothing about his aching cock. It was the only negative to his situation, he realized, even as that finger gently slid back and forth in his passage, making him moan.

The finger carefully withdrew to return with yet more wet slippery stuff and another finger. It didn't hurt at all, merely felt fuller and wetter and better as they slid along his passage and occasionally brushed over his prostate. Snape groaned.

"It's all right. I'm not going to do anything more until I'm sure I won't hurt you," Ron whispered into his ear. Snape groaned again.

Then a third finger eased inside and he cried out. The third finger did not merely slide in, but it twitched, then wiggled, then all those fingers began to scissor back and forth, each brushing its tip along his prostate and making him rut his hips, his stiff, aching cock sometimes brushing against his belly or the bedspread, not enough to provide any relief, merely adding to his building tension levels. How could anyone stand it? It felt as if most of his blood and nerves were all centered between his legs, in that heavy, heated stalk of flesh.

Soon the fingers withdrew and he lay, gasping for breath, dazzled at the sensations Ron Weasley had introduced him to. He was still stunned at the swiftness of events, astonished at his own craving for completion.

He had lived over forty years without giving much thought to this act. He had experienced some interesting dreams in the course of his life, but they'd left him gasping on waking, vaguely unsettled, uncertain, and in later years, glad he did not have to deal with the awkward complexities a sex life seemed to engender.

Now... now it seemed as if his body was controlling his mind. It knew what it wanted... what it needed, and Snape was merely along for the ride. Even as he was coming to the realization that sex was, perhaps, not so overrated as he'd once assumed, he felt Ron's hand and stump on his hips, pulling him up even more. He felt Ron's cock, warm and hard and large and positively slippery with whatever he had lubricated himself with, pressing against his seemingly eager opening.

Without conscious thought, he bucked, gasping as Ron's length slid into him, bucked more as the head of that large cock brushed his prostate, and began to moan, heedless of how he sounded. All he cared about was obtaining more of that sensation, more until the ache between his legs was eased.

Ron's own gasp was stifled at the sight of Severus's lean back muscles rippling as he tensed, forced him in, took his entire length and began to make a strange piteous sound. He was moaning, Ron realized, even as he began gently to thrust, feeling himself enveloped in that warm, snug, slipperiness that encouraged him to move faster.

"Yes, Severus," he murmured, running his hand along that sinuous spine, then gripping at one lean hip and pulling him onto his cock all the way. "Yes!"

Snape was heedless of Ron's exhortations, giving in to the feelings that swept through him. It reminded him of the power of the sea, the sensation of being sucked in, sucked under as the water tore past him, around him, pulling at him, urging him to give in.

Ron looked at his lover, noted how Snape was clawing at the pillow, and found the presence of mind to slide his hand under that lean hip to grasp the long, slender rod that swiftly began to push insistently through his grip, stroking itself as they moved. He tightened his grasp, the residual amount of muscle rub on his palm creating an exciting warmth with the extra friction and Snape bucked, yelled, and his hand was suddenly drizzled with thick strings of semen. His cock was clenched tight and then Ron came, too, bellowing as he shot deep into his lover's passage.

After a few moments, Ron realized he was draped over Snape and he shifted to his side, gathering the smaller man to him, then grasping for the edge of his bed covers and pulling them up to cover them both.

Before long, both were fast asleep.

Severus woke up feeling warm, but sore across the shoulders. He stretched and yawned and felt unaccustomed soreness in rather more delicate areas than his shoulders.

Memory instilled itself and he froze. Ron Weasley had bedded him last night.

He had not only encouraged, but allowed it, and...

I enjoyed it, he admitted to himself.

Before he could think on events anymore, Ron suddenly appeared in the doorway, wearing only a tee shirt, boxers and some slippers in deference to the chilly morning. He balanced the platter from last night on his stump, holding it carefully with his other hand to avoid spilling the two steaming mugs and pile of toast atop it. Severus was embarrassed at the sound his stomach made at the sight of the food. Ron merely smiled, though, as he put the platter down on the bed.

"I thought you might want to start on some toast before I put on some kippers."

He nodded, uncertain what to say. What did one say in situations like this? Should he thank him for the toast and tea and fucking, then leave? He took a piece of toast and a mug and busied himself with eating and sipping.

"I was thinking," Ron interrupted his thoughts.

"A stellar occasion indeed," Snape intoned with a touch of his old sarcasm, but tempered with a faint smile to indicate he meant no offense.

Ron smiled back; delighted that Snape felt relaxed enough to tease him. "Yeah. I was thinking that maybe you could stay here. With me. It's not that big a place, but... it's warm, there's food and..."

"And it's better than the Shrieking Shack or the Circle."

"Yes, well, there is that," Ron acceded ruefully, before his expression grew serious. "But what I was getting at was... is... there's me."

Snape froze, looking up at this, and Ron shrugged slightly. "That is, if you're interested. If you're not--"

"I'm not saying I'm not. I... This is all rather unexpected."

"I'm sure. But anyway... maybe you should stay here the week. See what you think. How you like it. Then if you don't, well, I'll get you a second-hand wand and you can go on your way. No hard feelings. No regrets."

"And what do you get out of this arrangement?"

Ron looked taken aback. "Well... you'd be here at night when I get home."

Snape swallowed, hiding his sudden discomfiture by picking up his mug of tea. "So a straightforward sex-for-lodging arrangement then?"

"No!" Ron paused to calm himself, then continued in a tight voice, "No, that's not what I meant. I meant... you'd be here, we could share meals, talk. Whatever else we share would be mutually agreed on."

Snape warmed his hands on his mug, looking deep into its depths, wondering what, if anything, his tea leaves said, not that he believed in tasseography.

"That would be a... pleasant arrangement, Ron Weasley."

"Then it's settled, Severus Snape."

They found that Ron's old clothes fit him passably well once Ron used a modified Shrinking Charm on them. Snape felt warm for the first time in weeks.

On the second day, Ron came home with a small tub of ointment. Fred and George had experienced some difficulties with a Pox-on-U Potion and developed an antidote for the scars. Maybe Snape could give it a try?

"I'm home! Come look what I got," Ron called out three nights later, cheerfully waving a new wand before handing it to Severus. "There's a new wand maker in Hogsmeade. He had a start of business sale."

It took some time before the bout of embarrassed tears ended, but Ron held Severus through it all, and refused his thanks. When Snape tried to apologize for his unexpected show of emotion, Ron shut him up with a kiss.

Six nights later, Ron came home from work and dropped into his chair, exhausted and covered in blood.

It wasn't his own and he refused to talk about what had happened.

Snape gave him dinner and hot tea with whiskey. Then he gently undressed him, bathed him and kissed him through his own bout of tears.

Once he was dry, Severus led him to bed where he stroked and caressed him, not letting him touch him in return.

He lay atop his own aching organ as he gently sucked Ron's cock until Ron gasped and groaned and finally spent himself in Snape's mouth. Severus came, too, untouched, thick strings of white decorating the well-worn bedcovers.

Nine days later during one of Ron's rare days off, they conferred at breakfast, sharing a single copy of the Daily Prophet over their porridge.

"Looks like Harry won another match."

"How can a Keeper win the match?"

"Penalty shot."

He looked up at this cheerful rebuttal and noted the blue of that single eye. He looked then at the face of his ex-student and tried now to remember what Ron Weasley had once looked like.

He could only remember wide smiles, toothy grins, never directed at him as this one was, and the irritatingly cheerful nature that seemed to bless some of the sons of the Lion... the Gryffindors.

"You know, you never did tell me what you intended on doing."

Snape looked up at this and considered his answer. He had read nearly every book Ron owned, even the Quidditch-related ones and finally started a small vegetable garden in the handkerchief-sized plot of land behind Ron's flat.

"I've no idea. I can't go back to Hogwarts. I'm a convicted murderer... no one will buy potions from me."

"You were good at Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Severus shook his head. "I... I really can't go back to Hogwarts, Ron."

Ron merely smiled. "That's good then, because I was referring to the Ministry."

"The Ministry?"

"Yeah, we need a good instructor for defensive curses and counter-curses, especially to teach the trainee aurors. Old Moody's gone and retired and right now we're short-handed enough that even rotating us field hands for a day of training each week would take up way too much of our time."

"They wouldn't want me."

"They know you've paid your debt, Severus."

"Even if that were so, they still wouldn't want me."

"They would if a Senior Auror spoke up for you... said you were interested." Snape looked at him now, and Ron grinned and added, "You are interested, aren't you?"

"I..."

Severus looked down again into his mug, annoyed at the sudden moisture in his eyes. What was it about Ron Weasley that wrung his emotions from him? Moreover, what was it about Ron Weasley that wrung his emotions from him and didn't leave him feeling... vulnerable or inadequate?

He swallowed hard and looked back up, eyes shining. "Yes, I am."

"That's settled then. I'll talk to our department head tomorrow." Snape nodded and Ron leaned over to kiss him, gently ruffling his hand through those soft, silky, still sleep-warm strands. "Meantime, we need to talk about how we're going to let everyone know about us... about this."

"Everyone?"

"My work colleagues. Harry. Ginny. My family."

Snape quailed. He hadn't considered this at all. "Your--"

Ron was unoffended. "Yeah, better men than you have trembled at the thought of my dear mother, so don't feel bad, Severus."

Snape looked nonplussed. "Very well, then, Ron. I need to know. What makes you think we have... anything? I mean... it's only been--"

"Nine days?" The red-haired man sat back with his mug and sighed contentedly, not disquieted. He appeared to be searching for words. "I think I knew our first morning."

Snape frowned. "You did?"

"Yes. I woke up that morning and I wasn't thinking about work. I wasn't thinking about Mum or Dad. I wasn't thinking about Hermione or Professor Sprout. I wasn't thinking about the battle. I didn't wake up from a stupid dream about bloody Voldemort. I just woke up and thought a cuppa would be really nice. And I thought maybe you would like one, too."

Snape smiled slightly, bemused. "Perhaps it was just... the release found in sex."

"Nah. I've had sex more times than I can remember. It was always the same. Until now. Until that night." Ron's fair skin blazed red suddenly, but he added, "The sex was... different, too. It wasn't hurried or ... well, I didn't feel like I'd just used anyone or anything. It felt... good. The way I imagined sex should feel."

"Imagined--"

"Severus, I'd never had sex with anyone before you but Lavender, Hermione and, well, whores. The girls... we were kids, all still learning and it was all new. I didn't know how it should feel and neither did they. Once I did, though... Hermione was taken from me before we could get there. And whores are... whores."

"I could have been."

"But you weren't. You were... real. That's why no one else looked at you that night."

"You're too kind."

"Bollocks. Besides... you were good."

Severus felt unaccountably embarrassed. "I... I wouldn't know if I was good or bad."

"It wouldn't have mattered, I think. It was good because... because it was you and me. It's like when you find just the right broom. No other broom will do. You might try other ones, but you always wish you could have that one right broom. It fits you just right and you fly like a dream. Just like we did. We... fit right together, Severus."

"So now I'm a broom?"

"No. You're better than any broom. You're... my lover." Ron tested this word again on his lips and decided he liked the sound of that. It felt right, as well. Like he had found the answer to a question he didn't even know needed answering.

"I was never very good at flying," Snape sighed, and Ron looked at him. "I was always afraid of falling. I can do it, I can fly, but I don't have the ease of the skies that some do."

"You can learn. Just like sex. You were bloody fantastic." Snape rolled his eyes, and Ron insisted, "No, really. You were! I just hope..."

"What?"

"Well, I just hope I can keep up with you. You were that good when you didn't know about sex, and you keep getting better and better. I can only imagine how good you'll be in a year or two."

There was a stunned silence for a few moments. Then to Ron's surprise, Severus took the mug from him and set it on the tray before straddling his lap.

"Perhaps I should get in more practice then?"

Ron's response was stifled by a heated kiss which soon progressed to far more interesting things, but by then he'd forgotten what his response was or why he needed to respond in the first place.

END

Completed 7 November 2005.
post-story A/N:
I had the song "Time Of The Season" by the Zombies in my head all during the writing of this fic. So you can thank the inspiration of that song, if you like, for the content.