Forbidden by the Ruby Moth

Forbidden by The Ruby Moth

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 1

Severus Snape was enjoying a breakfast of poached eggs, kippers on toast, and hot tea with cream and sugar when yet another owl alighted upon the snack-festooned Owl Ramp he'd built. There had been quite the parade of owls this morning.
The Ramp was designed so that one could receive deliveries as well as ordinary post, which would all slide down the chute into the house so he could collect it at his leisure, while a bird balcony jutted outside the kitchen window overlooking the back alley that it opened out onto. It was a perfect landing pad for owls. He didn't even have to be at home for owls to get their treats and go on their busy way, and he could still get his potions ingredients and post. He'd had to charm it so that only owls could land there after several nasty incidents with London pigeons, but he did wonder if he ought to patent his invention.
This latest owl dropped its burden down the chute, helped itself to a scrap of toasted bread crust, and flew away. Severus paused over his breakfast, put his fork down, Levitated the thick rolled-up parcel, and sailed it closer to snatch it out of the air.
Removing the ribbon tied around it, he was glad to see that it was Playwitch, the wizard magazine with its full colour, moving photos and articles. A rare smile crossed his face. He tossed it across the table to lie safely on the other side, out of range of any stray spots of egg yolk or toast crumbs.
He couldn't stop smiling now, enjoying the anticipation of knowing it was waiting there for him to finish his breakfast.
The latest monthly issue of Playwitch: one of his few vices he indulged in, even during his tenure at Hogwarts for all those long years. (His secret collection of issues had of course been disguised with protective illusion charms and locked away from prying students or possible blackmailers.) It was so nice to treat himself without guilt or fear of discovery or censure, now that he was no longer Voldemort's spy or a teacher of children.
Women were all very well, and although he approved of witches in general, Severus had come to prefer the aesthetic attributes of male beauty. He was hardly actively gay, let alone active in any sense of the word, but mostly because his life, such as it was, had never really included the opportunity for romance or relationship.
Playwitch was simply a little wish fulfillment and inspiration for the mind's eye when alone at night. The fact it was a posh mag aimed at women didn't deter him in the least. The only magazine bigger was Playwizard, of course: The Wizarding World's tacit treasure. Severus appreciated that the two magazines used the same photographers and style of layouts, catering to both male and female readers.
There were raunchier magazines available, but he enjoyed the artistic slant to the photography - as well as (cliché as it probably was) the articles, which were often informative and useful. Playwitch really was intended for the more discerning cosmopolitan and classy witch population of the Wizarding World. Witch Weekly was not half as entertaining, and lesser gossip rags, tabloids and gay mags could not compare for quality and content. Unless one was looking for wank material or sensationalist celebrity news, of course. But certainly one would not find hacks like Rita Skeeter writing for a magazine of Playwitch's caliber.
The magazine had been delivered, as all his post was, to M. Viola Tadelma-Mater, his assumed identity for fronting his dealings with his customers. Even his lease for the dingy, small flat he resided in here behind Knockturn Alley in one of its many labyrinthine by-roads and back alleys was in Viola's name.
To those in the trade, M. Tadelma-Mater had become one of the more notorious and popular potions tradeswizards of late. The name had quickly come to mean Quality. He turned a small, tidy profit dealing in unlicensed potions ingredients and rare, illegal but sought-after potions he made himself in the lab he had set up downstairs. He could make most potions in his sleep, after all; his decision to create an income fuelled by his expertise was a no-brainer after the War. The profits paid for the flat and most of the trade cost of his stock, leaving a small sum left over, which he carefully hoarded in a Gringotts vault under the name of Tadelma-Mater. He ran the Owl Order Service with extreme discretion. No one ever met Viola in person.
His flat was closer to Diagon Alley here, which suited him better than his old home at Spinner's End. He'd sold that depressing childhood home after the War, necessitated by most of the old Death Eater circle already knowing where it was, including the Malfoys. Never mind that Lucius, Narcissa and Draco had relocated to France not long after Lucius's release from Azkaban after the Dark Lord's defeat two years before. Too many people had known of the location of Spinner's End for him to ever feel safe there. Unlike this flat, which had been a source of comfort, privacy and relief after so many years of never having a true home he was master of.
For the first time in his life, Severus actually enjoyed living day-to-day. The ordinariness and lack of tension was working wonders for his slow recovery from all he'd endured for so long, and the satisfaction of creating potions for his own ends was gratifying… as opposed to grovelling at the feet of a raving psychopath or teaching exuberant young numbskulls with the collective attention span of a school of Baltic sprats.
He settled back into his comfortable old chair and put his feet up. He gazed over at the magazine, relishing the thought of surveying some inspiration, and took a sip of tea while he finished off his eggs.
Sorting through the morning post beside his plate, he saw he'd received several new orders from possible customers. One was repeat business; he recognized the name of the buyer: Mr Brian Bucklebury, an overweight gentleman who had sought a potion of instant weight loss in lieu of a more healthy diet and exercise program. He feared Bucklebury had simply put the weight back on again. Ah well; it wasn't his problem, and gave him more business. The instant weight loss potions were considered dangerous and thus restricted under new Ministry laws. Although, too many relatively non-threatening items were, these days.
It was incredible, he mused, how the hypocrisy of the Wizarding World was so apparent in the Ministry's Holier-Than-Thou attitude after the Dark Lord's defeat. The End of the War had seen a veritable pogrom of ousted and imprisoned 'Death Eater sympathisers' who were all merely wizards and witches who'd been accused or suspected of dabbling in Darker magic, stimulated by a hysterical Wizarding population eager to rid their world of any vestiges of Dark Arts now that Voldemort was no more.
With a snort, he glanced at the copy of Playwitch and drank from his cup of tea. As if witches and wizards were suddenly clean, wholesome people without any trace of darker impulses or desires in the whitewash. Denial was a pitiful thing. Sex appeal would always hold compelling attention, no matter what people wanted to believe. Sex sells. Most still believed sex was Dark magic, and that there was no black marketeering, prostitution, and illegal potions trade thriving in the underbelly of the Wizarding World Underground. But the Wizarding World was also changing in strange new ways; ways that Severus found disturbing. The Dark Lord had been right about one thing: Muggle influence had seeped a certain amount of decadence into their society. The younger generation was scruffy, entitlement-oriented, and belligerent. Many younger wizards and witches these days made him wonder if recent education reforms were wasted on the young.

Actually, the wizard on the Playwitch cover was quite attractive, holding his wand in one hand and a black leather jacket in the other, his arms loosely at his sides, standing shirtless and proud. He wore short-cropped hair, and Muggle jeans riding low over his hips, but the Muggle influence was not out of place at all and seemed to suit him.
In fact, the fellow was delicious, he thought.
Really luscious. He had the most perfectly proportioned body Severus had ever seen. Staring over at the cover, he found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the man's pectorals, his nipples that tapered chest and lean waist, the slim hips and, lower upon the wizard's stomach, a gracefully arching flame of slight black hair that lent an overall impression of pure, masculine virility. He was a young god.
His torso looked sculpted, giving him the appearance of a marble Greek statue. It made the breath in Severus's body shorten and hitch, catching, and his throat grow tight along with his balls.
He sat up, interested, and looked closer, to read the caption: 'Special Edition, Harry Potter. The Hero Who Defeated Voldemort Bares All In This Exclusive Pictorial and Interview'.
His heartbeat was suddenly throbbing in his ears.
No. Oh, no, no no. Surely not.
In dawning horror, Severus sucked in a breath - only to find it strangling as he read the smaller typeface below: Playwitch's Revealing Issue Featuring The Chosen One: Quidditch Star & Witch Magnet.
Doom thudded through him along with disappointment and something darker, deeper; something very much like fear, mixed with very unwelcome desire.
He let out an explosive curse, thumping a helplessly angry fist upon the kitchen table, making every item on it jump half an inch in the air. The teacup bounced and rattled in the saucer.
Harry Bloody Fucking Potter! Why?! It was completely unfair.
With a growl of rage, he sailed the magazine closer, seized it, and frowned more closely at that face. Oh, it was unmistakably Potter - he simply hadn't looked at the wizard's face, distracted as he had been by the sheer impact of that sculpted body. Now he saw that prominent scar, and wondered why his eyes had managed to conveniently slide over it without seeing it at all.
What the hell was Potter doing in Playwitch? Why was he removing his clothing?
Snape glared with mounting dismay at the young man's face, and realised that, despite his hopes that he was seeing it all wrong somehow, it really was Potter.
The bane of his existence, that perpetual thorn in his side, actually graced the cover of Playwitch he held with disbelieving fingers. It was unbelievable, impossible, a seemingly anachronistic absurdity, yet there he was. Harry bloody Potter. Unflinchingly naked to the waist, and beyond.
He'd always known Potter had a need to display himself, mostly out of a lack of self-esteem, a measure of mediocre but obnoxious pride, and a hungry craving for attention, but he'd never imagined Potter would do something so- so- so risqué.
Suddenly the magazine seemed sordid, and Severus felt sordid himself for having a copy of it.
He almost flinched as he thought of the hundreds of copies of Playwitch he'd accumulated over the last sixteen years, banished after initial perusal to his secret stash he'd kept hidden at Spinner's End, which even now sat high upon one of the closet shelves. He'd always told himself that it was the artistic delight he took in collecting them, but now he realised he'd been searching for the perfect body all along. To find it here, now, in this particular issue, and for it to be POTTER of all people!… This was a disaster, composed of personal degradation, and frustrating in the extreme.
Where the hell had Potter got such a body, with such toned muscle definition?! Why did the most infuriating student of all of Severus's combined Hogwarts acquaintances have to possess the most perfect body? The loveliest specimen of a man that he'd ever seen? It was more than unfair; it was horrible and humiliating.
It wasn't to be borne, that the giggling gaggles of silly girls and twits who'd always raved about the Golden Boy should be proven right! But the evidence was indisputable. That abdomen, that navel, the sides of his waist…
He was dumbfounded to realise with some embarrassment that his cock was actually growing harder with every passing moment. The longer he held the blasted mag, the longer he looked at Potter's body, the stiffer he got. And he was actually… yes, all right, he thought testily, afraid. Afraid to open it and investigate further.
Curiosity burned through him to see if Potter's lower half was as perfect as his upper. It was overwhelmingly tempting. And that was what was really so terrifying.
He was furious. His one joy, one of his few enduring sources of private happiness…destroyed by Potter.
Looking at the handsome boy made him queasy inside. Whatever had possessed Potter to offer himself up like a side of beef for the rabid consumption of the masses? Fantasy fodder for randy witches and old perverts like himself?
He pressed his lips together, breathing angrily through his nose, and closed his eyes. Damn the brat. Potter had always been an ungrateful little sod, irresponsible and infuriating.
He knew how short and slight Potter was. In revealing such a beautiful body beneath the wizards' robes, Potter had turned Severus's world on its head. He'd always thought the boy was scrawny and malnourished; particularly after the revelations of those aggravating Occlumency lessons, of Potter's relatives starving, abusing and neglecting him throughout his childhood. How in the world had that led to this? This display of- of Male Sexuality Incarnate?
Severus forced himself to look at the cover - to really look.
Potter wore an expression of noble, long-suffering self-sacrifice, staring thoughtfully off into the distance, standing quietly, barely moving, the perfect martyr; conjuring to the mind the impression of attempting to leave behind his tragic past and the trauma of that violent but powerful encounter with You-Know-Who, by looking into the future for some unknown and not-yet-arrived reward.
Oh the tragedy, the suffering, the effigy of the Wizarding World's equivalent of a Christ-figure.
Severus sneered silently as he stared down at Potter's oh-so-authentic hero's stance. It was disgusting, the sheer nerve of the boy using his fame and deeds to sell his body's nudity this way - to expose himself to the panting public who would undoubtedly send Potter-worship to new heights of unendurable insanity with this latest offering.
Potter had sacrificed his integrity along with his innocence, to do this. His nakedness became a source of shame when packaged as a consumer item. It was a travesty.
He wanted to fling the offensive magazine across the room, but found himself holding it carefully from years of experienced handling of volatile potions ingredients and rare, tattered, ancient books and scrolls. He simply couldn't damage it, knowing that the quality of the glossy photos would be… harmed… by such rough treatment. That would be an even greater travesty, as the picture was of such quality and erotic intensity, he could not bear the idea of wrinkling even a corner of a page, let alone destroying the magazine or tearing the cover.
He'd collected Playwitch far too avidly, preciously, and for far too long now, to bring himself to hurt this copy.
He supposed he could forgive himself for being shocked. He glared at the Adonis posing gracefully and heroically on the cover. It had been nearly two years since he'd seen Potter in the flesh.
He'd only seen Potter from a distance during the Death Eater Trials, even during his own trial where the boy had (surprisingly) testified on his behalf. The last image of the young wizard that inhabited his mind was from the Final Battle, covered in grime and soot, sporting a shaggy mane of unkempt hair and wearing a weary, shell-shocked expression that was more suited to a traumatised child than the heralded Hero Who Defeated The Dark Lord. Staring up at him in disbelief as if begging him to reassure him that it was all finally over.
The Potter he remembered up until that moment had nothing whatever in common with this young god with the pensive, regal confidence.
On the Playwitch cover, Potter's hair was cut very short, giving him a stylish, tousled look, and his glasses were not in evidence. At first glance, and even a second or third, this beautiful man didn't look like Potter at all. Not the Potter he remembered from their days at Hogwarts, anyway.