Marauder crack

Turkish head

Two hours later Severus Snape is in his room in the Slytherin dungeons feeding the snakes in the terrarium when he hears the characteristic noise of a disappearance inside his closet and trunks. Just a crack! and all his own stuff - he checks it by opening and closing the doors - have disappeared. By the time he gets to the shifting stairs, and he meets that filthy vermin, is livid, deathly white.

- You!!

He doesn't even have the decency to turn and look at him. Pig, dirty, vile, weak, cockroach. He pretends that he has not heard him and Black, throwing his hair back, leans against the railing and gives him an amused and satisfied look. As if it were a privilege to cast his aristocratic eyes on him. Garbage.

-Quejicus is addressing you, James- he says, hiding a wide grin.

- To me? I can't believe it. He is too pure and we are not up to him.

In that he is right. Severus clenches his fists. He notices that he trembles. He thinks of his clothes, his books, his scrolls, his notes, his things, all the missing things about him. Tainted. Touched.

- Where. Is. My. Stuff.

They pretend cheekily to be innocent of this violation of his rights. They are having fun.

- Do you know what he's talking about, Padfoot?

- Not even the most remote idea. I hardly ever understand him when he speaks.

Sometimes magic is concentration and precision and other times, that burning, that intense energy that he feels in the form of an electrical storm in the depths of the stomach. Makes him feel furious, shiny, about to burst. Capable of sending a deadly curse and ending those two excrements on those same stairs, with half of the students from Gryffindor staring, watching his public humiliation. Uncivilized beasts.

-If you don't tell me where my things are, I'll have Black and scrawny Lupin expelled from school in less than a week.

Potter is the most oblivious of the two. He laughs heartily.

- And how the hell are you going to do that?

But Black, oh yeah, something in his gaze, a shy transformation betrays that he knows exactly what Severus is about.

- Do not test me.

Potter lowers his voice so no one can hear him.

- You can't tell anyone what you know about him. Dumbledore wouldn't let you.

- I know things that Dumbledore doesn't know. But in the hands of the parents' council, they would guarantee an immediate expulsion. Ask Black, if you don't believe me.

But before he has time to ask any questions, the aforementioned steps forward cuts off whatever Potter was going to mumble and he tries to scare him off with one of his murky murderous looks. It is actually a pleasure to see him like this, darkened by rage, aware for once that Severus Snape is not the puppet in his hands that he would like. "This is my power, Black. Feel it".

- Do you want to get your things back?

- I think I have been quite clear even for someone as notoriously stupid as you two.

Black grows. And he reeks of power, the rarefied energy of magic in the wild. One more step and they are so close that Severus can smell his skin. He seems to sniff out the trace of the werewolf on him. Like animals.

- Do you want me to tell you where they are?

- Either you are dumber than I thought, Black, which is hard to believe, or you are willing to prove to what extent I want to fulfill my warnings.

He smiles. That bastard. He smiles nightly and treacherously, arrogant, criminal, too close, taking another step until there is hardly any space between them. Severus is forced to stay in the position, because a step back would be a defeat, but it is difficult because he is close and he doesn't like anybody so close like that. Much less Black, pestilence git, who is capable of changing the tone of his voice so that it trickles like dripping honey.

The wretch thinks - he knows - that nothing can bother him as much as that hint in his voice, deliberately carnal.

- You just have to say please, Severus. It is not so hard.

- Where is my stuff.

- Where is my stuff, please.

His closeness, the smell, that scent of another man, how can everyone not smell it? The rage, everything boils and bubbles inside him, and before he realises how or why, with his teeth closed, pure hatred in his eyes mutters a "please" that sounds like "I hate you, I want to murder you and drink your blood" all at the same time.

- They're in the elves' closet on the third floor... You see? It wasn't that difficult.

He escapes from his presence as fast as he can. He arrives practically flying without the need for a broom to the closet. There it is. His stuff. Stacked, piled up in any way, touched, stained. But his stuff at last. He doesn't trust anything, instead of entering for them, he makes them reach him with a wave of the wand and a summoning spell that makes them come out floating. In his room in the dungeons, he takes care to look at every book and all of his clothes to make sure there are no unpleasant spells or surprises. But it seems that everything is on his site.

That night, before dinner, he is turning down a corridor when he notices that he is being pushed and makes out the maddened and dim silhouette of a Black out of his mind. He threatens him with more anger than anything.

- I'm going to tell you just once. If because of you Remus suffers in any way, I will spend the rest of my days in Azkaban remembering the moment when I'll be the one who took your guts out from your mouth personally. And even dementors won't be able to make me regret it.

- Don't touch my things ever again.

Black steps forward, Severus' knee-jerk, uncontrollable reaction to take a step back. He stays against the wall, trapped between two arms that could split his skull like a walnut.

- Nobody wants to touch your stuff, asshole.

He hates him. God, how much he hates him. He and Potter. As he has not hated anything or anyone in his entire life.