An Ass of Himself

Originally written for the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest, third wave. Three word challenge: glaring, calibrate, donkey.

"This has got to be one of Albus's stupidest ideas," said Sirius Black, slumping into the uncomfortable chair in one of the upstairs rooms of 12 Grimmauld Place. The beds had been pushed aside and a small table and several chairs brought in to transform it to an impromptu classroom, but the room still retained its gloomy, un-lived-in air.

"For once, Black, I am in complete agreement with you." Snape looked equally uncomfortable, Sirius thought. "However, we are obliged to go through with this...farce."

A smile crossed Sirius's face. "So you admit it, do you?"

"That you're likely to be a terrible teacher? Absolutely."

He sighed. "You prat. If you don't master the Animagus transformation it will be because your greasy head is too filled with potions to understand the --"

"My greasy head?" Snape rose, scowling down at him like a great buzzard. That would doubtless be his Animagus form; Albus would count it a great asset to have a flyer among them, and he supposed this was why they were doing this pointless exercise in the first place. All the members of the Order who weren't already Animagi -- other than Tonks, of course, whose metamorph abilities were equally valuable; Remus, whose lycanthropic nature precluded any other sort of transformation; and Moody, who flat-out refused to participate -- were to be tutored in the transformation by those who were. He had hoped to be working with his godson, but Albus had stood firm in his desire not to involve Harry in the Order. Instead he had Mundungus Fletcher on Tuesdays, Hestia Jones on Thursdays, and, God save him, Snape on Saturdays. Who was, even now, red-faced and ranting, pacing the room, his black robes flapping like a...hmm. Maybe he'd be a bat instead of a buzzard.

Snape had paused in his tirade and was glaring at him expectantly. Sirius shrugged and raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, I wasn't paying attention. Were you saying something important?"

"You insufferable bastard. Are you going to teach me or not?"

"It's not as though I have any choice in the matter, is it?" Not that anybody ever did, around Albus.

"Nor do I," muttered Snape, sitting down hard in the chair on the opposite side of the table.

"All right," Sirius said, wondering where to start. How to phrase things so he didn't piss off Snape entirely. Strange to be trying to think of ways to avoid annoying Snape, when ordinarily he would delight in them. But when Albus had announced his plan, and assigned them all partners, a raised eyebrow from Shacklebolt -- a very impressive panther -- made it clear that it would be a race. A challenge. Easy enough for him, of course, with that sharp Bill Weasley to tutor. But the chances were slim that that bubble-brained Hestia would ever manage the transformation; and if by some miracle Mundungus figured it out, he would likely become a cockroach. Snape was his best bet, so come hell or high water, Snape would become an Animagus.

"Let's review some basic Transfigurations," he started, and was rewarded with a glower.

"I am perfectly capable of basic Transfigurations," Snape grumbled. "Just because I prefer to work with potions does not mean that I am inept at -- lesser forms of magic."

"Right, then. Transform that chair into a Christmas tree for me, if you please."

Snape's lip curled. "A Christmas tree."

"Come, Snape. Even you must know about Christmas trees. Let's make it eight feet high, red and gold ornaments." He smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Angel on top strictly optional."

"A Christmas tree," muttered Snape again. "It's April, Black, or haven't you noticed?" He thought a moment, then pointed his wand. The chair obediently turned into a Christmas tree, and Snape folded his arms and smirked.

"Not bad," said Sirius. "Although I see you've taken liberties with the color scheme." Bright green snakes and silver-and-black striped globes hung from the branches. I should have known Snape would sooner eat worms than make something in Gryffindor colors, he thought. He stood and stepped to the tree, broke off a few needles and sniffed them. "Scots Pine, I see. I prefer Norway Spruce, myself."

"Is there a point to this, Black?"

He didn't look up, but instead made a show of inspecting another chair. "These chairs are oak. Why did you change the type of wood?"

Snape looked at him as though he were a particularly slow student. "Christmas trees are pine. Or fir. Or," he twisted his mouth, "spruce. Not oak."

"But it's all wood. Why didn't you give the tree the outer form of a -- a Scots Pine, but retain the essential oak core?"

"The typical error of a beginner? Minerva would have deducted points for that."

"Ah, Snape, that's just the point." He pulled a chair to him and straddled it, propping his elbows on the high back. "An Animagus doesn't transform completely and truly into the animal he becomes. If I transformed completely into a dog, I'd be a dog, with a dog's brain." He held up his hand to forestall the rude remark he could see forming on the other man's lips. "I remain a man, with a dog's form. The trick is to know exactly how much of the dog to become."

He could see Snape thinking, clearly caught between the urge to denigrate and the lure of an intellectual problem. Snape in thought was an imposing sight; his dark brows knit, his teeth worried at his lower lip. For all that the man was an unpleasant, prickly bastard, at least he was not stupid. After a moment, he nodded slightly, drew his wand, and pointed it at another chair.

"Impressive," said Sirius, looking at the resulting...well, he guessed one would still call it a chair, despite the green needles poking out at odd angles, and the silver-and-black decorations hanging from the crosspieces. It would be awfully uncomfortable to sit in, though.

Snape swore and pointed his wand again, but Sirius intercepted his wrist and pushed it back down. At his touch, Snape turned the fury of his tar-black eyes on him, looking nearly ready to explode. "I will have it," he bit out word by word. "It will not take me long."

"I'm sure, Snape. But let's talk about the process first."

"I have passed the theory long ago," he snapped, wrenching his arm free of Sirius's grasp.

"Oh, really." Sirius gave a pointed look toward the bristling chair, and Snape glowered but put down the wand. "All right. What you did was transfigure the surface without going beneath to the core. Which, I should add, is a perfectly reasonable thing to do."

"But not the correct thing to do, apparently," growled Snape. He did not look very happy at not having done it perfectly the first time.

"When I transform into a dog, I'm not just a black, furry human. I have a dog's shape. I have a dog's skeleton and musculature, a dog's superior sense of smell. The trick is to transfigure entirely -- not just on the surface -- but to calibrate the transformation so that only as much as you wish to transfigure is changed, and no more. And that's what takes practice."

"Practice." The wand lifted again, and another chair was transfigured. This time it came out looking almost tree-like, if one could overlook the four legs.

"Practice," repeated Sirius, sighing. This was going to take some time.

The following Saturday, Snape strode into the room and without a word transformed a chair into a Christmas tree. An oak Christmas tree, as Sirius discovered upon investigation; despite himself, he was impressed that Snape had managed it with only a week of study.

"Not bad," he said, grudgingly. Waving his wand, he returned the chair to its former state. "Now, let's see if that was just a fluke." He took a small box, punched through with air holes, from a cabinet which rested just below a blank portrait frame. From the box, he extracted a snake.

He whispered a stunning spell to keep the snake in place on the table, then turned to Snape. "Transfigure this snake outwardly into a cat. Not entirely, just outwardly. Like the tree."

Snape just stared at him.

"A cat, Snape. Meow meow."

It took several tries, and Sirius had to spend some time on an explanation of how to maintain the internal physiology when transforming a reptile into a mammal, but eventually Snape managed to transfigure the snake into a black cat which, when shown a mouse, attempted to jump on it and swallow it whole rather than batting it about.

"You're making excellent progress," Sirius told him. "Now for the next week, I want you to spend at least an hour a day meditating."

"Meditating." Snape scowled. "I have far more important things to spend my time on, Black. Unlike you."

"If you want to become an Animagus, you'll damn well meditate," snapped Sirius. "You have to get in touch with your inner animal, find the form that most naturally comes to you. Otherwise you'll be fighting the transformation so hard you'll end up half furred and half feathered." Maybe a porcupine, he thought. Or a skunk.

"I don't want to become an Animagus," muttered Snape. "If it wasn't for Albus and his hare-brained schemes, I would be spending my Saturdays happily in my laboratory."

"Oh, you'd prefer that, wouldn't you. Safe in your laboratory while the rest of the Order risk their necks --"

"Shut up!" screamed Snape. "As if you had any right to talk, you coward!"

"I'd rather be out there being useful than stuck in here trying to teach you!"

Their faces got closer, their heated voices louder, and they both had their hands on their wands when a piercing screech was heard from downstairs. "Vile scum! Filth! Traitors!"

They stopped abruptly, giving each other somewhat guilty looks as the torrent of invective continued. "Well," said Sirius as he put away his wand. "Mother always did insist on having the last word."

Snape still looked thunderous, but pocketed his wand as well. "I will see you next week," he said. "And I will...meditate."

"I have meditated," announced Snape as he entered the room in a swirl of black robes. "A complete waste of time, as I told you it would be."

"Then this lesson will be a waste of time," said Sirius. Not that it could be any worse than his last disastrous session with Fletcher. The man had been so drunk on firewhiskey he didn't know which end of his wand to hold, and had passed out halfway through the lesson. No, he thought grimly, I'll make an Animagus of you yet, Snape.

Sirius waved him to a chair. "Did you get any feelings at all, about what your form might take?"

Snape waved dismissively. "Something big. Something strong. Powerful."

A baboon, perhaps, thought Sirius maliciously, and he smiled. A big, black baboon. "All right. Let's try some guided meditation combined with transfiguration, and we'll see if we can't get you on the way."

"Guided meditation?"

"If you open your mind to me --"

"Stay out of my mind, Black!" said Snape, his voice sharp.

"Look, Snape. Just relax. We'll work through this together."

The black-clad form unbent not a whit, but he fancied he could see the lines around Snape's mouth fade slightly as he settled more deeply into his chair. "All right. I am relaxed."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "With that broomstick up your arse? Come on, Snape. Center yourself and breathe deeply."

With a final suspicious glance at him, Snape closed his eyes and began a pattern of rhythmic breathing. Gradually his limbs seemed to soften into the chair, his brow seemed to smooth out, unwrinkle. His relaxed face looked younger, Sirius thought; never handsome, but perhaps verging on noble. Striking, certainly.

"Let my words flow through you, now. I want you to feel them in your bones, feel what they're directing you to do. Reach out with your heart toward your hands. What do you feel?"

Snape's voice seemed to float from a distance. "Large. Hard. Fast."

With difficulty, Sirius repressed a snigger. The git probably didn't even know what he was saying. Hell, he probably had no idea that the words could mean anything -- untoward. Who would ever want to get beneath those robes? Although, come to think of it, with Snape's face relaxed by meditation, open and unguarded, his long limbs free of their usual stiffness, the thought wasn't as off-putting as it might be otherwise. Then again, admitted Sirius to himself, he'd been rather lonely of late. At this rate, soon even Mundungus might look good.

He sighed and put these thoughts firmly out of his mind. He had a job to do. "All right. Now reach out toward your feet. What do you feel?"

"Fast. Strong. I could kick you into next week."

"Your skin. Feel your skin. What does it feel like?"

"Soft. Warm. Thick hair."

"Good, good. Reach out. Inhabit that skin. Fill it out, Snape. What do you see?"

Snape grunted, and for a moment his form seemed to waver. "I can see it. I can feel it."

"Reach for it, Snape," said Sirius, encouragingly. He hadn't expected that Snape would be able to do more than just find his form, but it looked as though -- yes -- the chair fell aside, Snape's body was shifting, changing into --

Oh, God. This was too, too funny.

Where Snape had been a moment before, a grey donkey stood. Strong, powerful, yes -- but by Merlin's beard, a donkey! Well, well, thought Sirius, fighting the urge to giggle.

The donkey's head moved from side to side, looking a bit confused, then gave a tentative bray. Sirius could not hold back his laughter any longer. Not a baboon or a bat, but a donkey! A domesticated beast. Well, that was one way to tame a Snape.

Taming a Snape. That thought put another image into his mind, one Sirius could not resist. He stepped up onto a chair and lightly leapt astride the beast's broad back. Smaller than Buckbeak, but a good-sized mount. It was just too bad he was confined to his London house; wouldn't it be entertaining to take Snape out for a ride!

Leaning forward, he grinned and said into one large ear, "Asses are made to bear, and so are you."

With surprising swiftness, the animal beneath him blurred and shifted back into Snape's long body, and the two of them tumbled to the ground, Snape rolling on top of him, pinning him. He had what on any other face would have been a goofy grin, but on Snape's angular face it looked more like a leer. The transformation must have confused him. Sirius remembered how strange it was the first time he himself had transformed; how the world spun, colors changing around him in dizzying succession.

Snape grabbed at Sirius's wrists and held them to the floor above his head. "Women are made to bear, and so are you."

Why, Snape, you old devil, thought Sirius. "I didn't know you knew Shakespeare."

A strange expression crossed Snape's face, and the manic smile disappeared. He leaned down until his large nose was inches from Sirius's own. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Black."

It was true. He didn't know that Snape would smell of peppermint and chamomile, that Snape's body would give off such heat against his own. That it would make him hard, instantly, aroused and wanting. Snape's body against his, and he could feel that the other man was also aroused, and that made him even harder. I don't get out enough, that must be it, he thought wildly; this can't be happening, not me, not Snape.

Snape's jet eyes were boring into him, and with difficulty Sirius managed a weak smile. "Will make the man mad, to make a woman of him."

"Oh." It was a sudden exhalation, not really speech, as Snape let go of his wrists and sat back. "If you breathe one word about this to Albus, I will kill you."

It's none of his business what turns us on, Sirius thought, obscurely disappointed at the abrupt loss of contact, and almost said it before he realized that Snape had meant something else. The corner of his mouth lifted in a sly smile. "I'd think you'd want him to know how quickly you've achieved the Animagus transformation. You're clearly talented at becoming a complete ass."

Snape glared as best he could, but soon quailed under Sirius's amused gaze and put his face in his hands. "I will never hear the end of it, will I."

"I imagine not," came a dry voice from behind them. Both men turned their heads to see Phineas Nigellus occupying his usually-blank portrait frame. "Not from Albus, nor from my great-great-grandson."

Snape sighed. "Nor from you, I see."

The portrait chuckled. "Oh, I think it's a fine form. Very Slytherin, to take the shape of an underestimated, underappreciated creature. Let them think you're merely their beast of burden. Then, when they're not looking -- kick them in the fundament!"

Sirius laughed, and even Snape's lip quirked a fraction. Trust old Phineas to come up with something like that.

"Well, then," said Phineas cheerily, "I'm off to inform Albus."

Snape's brow darkened. "I'm still -- I do not wish --"

"I am certain he will receive the news with great delight. And besides," continued the portrait with an arch smile, "I believe you two would rather be alone right now."

Sirius felt his face redden. What had the old bastard seen?

Snape scowled. "I don't imagine an audience makes any difference to him." He looked over at Sirius. "You must be positively ecstatic now that I've given you more fuel for your insults."

"Oh, you don't need my help to make an ass of yourself!" Sirius shot back, smirking.

"Why, Sirius," said Phineas, his voice cutting through theirs. "I do believe that you are as peremptory as he --" jerking his head toward Snape -- "is proud-minded. And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury, don't you think?"

Both men stared at him. "Surprisingly talented for a Muggle, that Shakespeare chap." He raised an eyebrow. "Ta, boys." And with a cheery wave, he slid through the edge of the picture frame and vanished.

A pause. Snape cleared his throat. "An interesting man, your great-great-grandfather."

"That's one way to put it," said Sirius.

"'The thing that feeds their fury,' mused Snape. "Tell me, Black, what is it that makes you such a shrew to me?" His voice was soft and low, devoid of its usual malice, and his dark eyes gleamed with a strange light. He leaned closer, and Sirius again caught the scent of chamomile and mint, and a deeper musk which made his breath catch in his throat. "Shakespeare's Katherine masked her passion with fury, as I recall. Tell me, Black." He was very close now, his breath hot upon Sirius's neck. "What does your hatred hide?"

"I hate you, Snape," he began, turning his head to look the other man in the eye, "because -- because --" He trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. Because I want you, and that scares me. Because I had to drive you away. Because I couldn't admit it to myself. "Because," he started again, and then Snape's lips were on his, and whatever he was going to say was lost in the sweet pressure of that mouth against his own.

Of its own accord his mouth opened to admit Snape's tongue, and for a few long moments there was no sound but their breathing, the soft wet noises of lips and tongues, the gentle rasp of stubble against skin. One of Snape's hands had moved to card through Sirius's long hair, while the other supported them both as Snape eased them against the floor, their bodies tangled together. "Please," he found himself saying when Snape finally lifted his head.

"Please what?" said Snape, his voice husky and low.

Sirius tilted his head back just a fraction, baring his neck. "Please," he whispered, and then moaned as those lips fastened onto his neck, nudging aside the collar of his robe. "God, yes." He reached up to run his hands down Snape's lean back, across the planes and angles of his hips, pulling Snape against him even more tightly. He was hard again, harder than before, harder than he could remember being, and his hips involuntarily bucked upward, his body blindly seeking the warmth and pressure of the other man.

A sharp intake of breath from Snape. He pulled back and his hands went to his own collar.

"Let me," said Sirius, and he reached for the clasp of Snape's robes. He slid the black fabric off the bony shoulders, kissing each bit of skin revealed. The pointed collarbone. The dark nipples under the dusting of hair. The lines of old scars, a shade paler than Snape's sallow skin. The taut belly. He hesitated a moment, then slipped his fingers beneath the Slytherin-green boxers that were the only thing Snape wore, apparently, beneath his robes.

Hung like a horse, thought Sirius, and then snickered despite himself. Like a donkey, rather.

"You find me laughable, do you?"

"Oh, no," whispered Sirius, as he bent to take him into his mouth. He gently swirled his tongue around the velvety head, then plunged deeply down the shaft and was rewarded with a gasp. Allowing his teeth to just graze the skin, he inhaled. No peppermint here, just the musky scent of Snape's arousal and the slight bitter-salt taste of precome.

Lost in the smell, the taste, the sensation, he was surprised when strong hands pushed him away and pulled at his robes. Dark eyes bored into him. "I want to see you. I want to come inside you."

"Yes." Sirius's fingers found the fastenings on his own robes, and he quickly undressed, mindful of his own scars, his own awkward angles. He had never recovered fully from Azkaban, he supposed, and since then he'd not had occasion to expose his body to a...to a lover. Conscious of Snape's eyes burning into him, he turned away.

A hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Don't. I want to see you."

"Not much to see," muttered Sirius. There was one particularly wicked scar, an ugly welt trailing from his left nipple to just above his hip, and he tried not to flinch as Snape's fingers traced it.

"Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well," murmured Snape, bending to press a kiss on the cicatrix by his hip. Sirius moaned, then gasped as Snape's lips moved to flick gently at the tip of his erection.

"Stop. Wait, let me --" He fumbled in the pile of his clothing for his wand, closed his eyes to think a moment, then summoned a bottle.

"Olive oil?" Snape's voice was amused.

Sirius shrugged. "It's what's in the house. I don't make a habit of...of..."

"Being seduced by other wizards?"

"Being seduced, full stop. I'm sadly out of practice." He pushed himself to his feet and motioned toward one of the beds against the wall. "Shall we remedy that?"

"An excellent idea." Snape stood in one smooth motion, sinuous as a snake. That would have been a good form for him, thought Sirius as he followed him to the bed. A slithering Slytherin snake, who in the next moment had his limbs curled around Sirius's body as though he meant to squeeze the life out of him. His mouth played across Sirius's neck and shoulder, tongue flickering to taste his skin, and Sirius's eyelids fluttered with the pleasure of it as he fell back across the bed.

"So good," he moaned. Every inch of his skin was tingling, thrilling to the feel of the long body pressed against his own, the fingertips and lips and tongue making forays of exploration across the territory of his chest. Snape's hard cock jutted against his belly, and when it brushed against his own hardness he could not suppress a shiver. So good.

Snape pulled himself away slightly and reached for the bottle. The scent of the olive oil dribbling into his hand made Sirius think of red wine, of lazy days spent on a Mediterranean beach in the sunshine. Places he would have visited, things he would have done had he not rotted away so much of his life in Azkaban. So many missed opportunities. So many regrets.

And then a warm, slick hand closed around his cock and he stopped thinking about much of anything at all. Only the sensation as Snape stroked him with a smooth, sure motion, only the feel of those fingers on his shaft, on his balls, moving down to the cleft of his arse, stroking, sliding, slipping inside. "Yes," he breathed, as his legs were gently pushed up and apart, as another finger stretched him open.

He looked up, into Snape's eyes which were wild and dark with arousal, and thought, my God, how could I have thought him ugly? Pale skin and disheveled hair, and oh, those hands, probing and stroking, and he was the most beautiful thing Sirius had ever seen. He closed his eyes as he felt the slick blunt head of Snape's cock press against him. Yes, yes, he thought, and pushed himself up, relishing the feel as he impaled himself, ignoring the pain, concentrating on the pleasure.

"Shh," Snape was saying, and he realized he was keening, moaning some incoherence as he rocked back and forth, rocking Snape further into his body, but he couldn't stop the noise any more than he could stop the instinctive motions he made. When Snape was fully sheathed inside him he finally stilled, arms tight around Snape's back.

"Don't move for a moment. I just want -- I just need to feel it."

They lay wrapped around each other for several heartbeats, and Sirius felt the blood pulsing through both their bodies, their breaths which seemed to have synchronized, Snape's chest rising and falling in cadence with his own. Snape's cock, filling him, anchoring him, centering him.

"All right?" asked Snape, and when Sirius nodded he began a slow and rhythmic motion of his own, sending waves of sensation through Sirius with each thrust, and the cool bliss of meditation gave way to the hot pleasure of fucking. "Ah -- oh God -- Sirius, yes," Snape was groaning, and it was an unexpected additional source of pleasure, to hear his name spoken in that voice, by that man, in that way. The sound of Snape lost in ecstasy and the sensation of being filled and fucked were nearly enough to send him over the edge, and when Snape reached between them and grasped his still-slippery cock it took only two strokes to bring him to completion, flooding across Snape's hand and their joined bodies, screaming and gasping wordlessly as Snape shuddered and called his name once more.

They collapsed together against the mattress, spent, but the screaming did not stop, and Sirius realized it was coming from the floor below. "Filthy perverts! Traitors! Abomination of my flesh!"

"Shut your gob, Electra!" came the commanding voice of Phineas Nigellus, and the two men sat abruptly as they realized the portrait on the wall was occupied once more. Embarrassed, Sirius reached for a sheet.

"A fine woman, but somewhat tiresome," said Phineas. "I see you managed to blow the fire." He sighed elaborately. "I was hoping my worthless great-great-grandson would find a nice Slytherin girl to keep him in line, but it appears I'll have to be satisfied with two out of three."

Snape scowled and pulled the sheet even higher, muttering obscenities, and Phineas chuckled. "Perhaps one out of three."

"Look, Phineas," said Sirius. "We appreciate you getting Mother to be quiet, but could you please shove off and give us some privacy?"

"Certainly, dear boy," said Phineas with a smirk, and slid toward the edge of the frame.

Snape had his head in his hands, looking mortified. "I swear, Sirius, you have the most asinine relatives --"

Sirius laughed. "Asinine! Look who's talking!"

"I will never hear the end of this." He shook his head. "All right. I swear to never again call you a mangy mutt if you will promise me no more donkey jokes."

"I solemnly swear, Snape."

The corner of his mouth crinkled in the Snapish equivalent of a smile. "Considering what we have just done, you might manage to call me Severus."

Sirius thought for a moment. "Nope, doesn't scan." He grinned and reached for the other man. "Come on and kiss me, Snape."

As they settled back down onto the bed in a comfortable embrace, they heard Phineas chuckle again from his empty portrait frame. "Better once than never, for never too late."

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http://hieroglyfics.net/donkey.htm | written August 2003 by Isis