FanFiction
by Lady Lorelei the Tarot Goddess
Warning: Please note that some stories may be rated NC17. If you are under the legal age of adulthood in your country of residence, or if you are offended by the idea of slash (stories containing male/male sex) or adult themes, including BDSM and other sexual kinks, please go and find something else to read.
LJ hunkwarts Challenge
#6 - Man About The House
Title: Man About The
Barn
Rating: PG
Pairing: Snagrid
(Snape/Hagrid)
WC: 601
A/N: Takes place at Hogwarts, just after Voldemort's defeat in 1981.
Sequel to Lost, now Found Rated NC 17, 2300 words
Prequel to Where the Death Daggers Bloom Rated G, 540 words
Man About The Barn
He ignored the drops of sweat rolling down his face. They itched and stung his eyes, but he had a rhythm going and didn't want to break it. He swung the shovel forward. Hard. Leaning onto his left leg. Then, he lifted the full shovel and slung its load over his shoulder into the barrow, his weight sliding smoothly to his right leg. Again and again he lifted the shovel, sweat pouring down his chest and back in the unseasonal heat. Shirtless, the sun merely darkened his skin another shade of ruddy brown. The barrow full at last, he stopped and mopped his face with a rag while catching his breath.
"Hagrid. A word."
He looked up at the new potion master's voice. The sun was so bright it was hard to see. Pasty sallow skinned, layers of black robes, Professor Snape looked out of place out in the sun, and especially here by the thestral pens. Being carrion eaters, their manure smelled worse than a carnivore's. Hagrid hastily ran the rag over his chest, suddenly conscious of his body and how dirty, sweaty, and uncovered it currently was.
"Sure, Professor Snape," he called cheerily and walked over to the fence. "What kin I do fer yeh?"
The latest addition to Hogwarts' teaching staff sniffed before speaking, a sure sign he was upset. "I took a stroll in the woods last night, under the light of the full moon, mind. And what do you suppose I found when I went to harvest the death daggers . . ," then his voice turned to flint, "that I've promised to craft into three different exceedingly rare and difficult potions?"
Hagrid's eyes went wide with guilt. "Uh, what would that be, sir?"
"I found that they'd been cut. Taken. Harvested." Then his voice became slow and deadly. "Stolen."
Hagrid gulped and blinked like a landed fish. "That's - that's too bad, Professor." He knew no one saw him take them, three nights before, in the pouring rain.
"Hmmmm." How could one slender eyebrow arch with such disdain, such disbelief, and so much unapproachable hauteur?
Hagrid wilted under the searing gaze. Why did he feel like a small naughty boy whenever this pup looked at him? The man was less than half his age.
"Well." Professor Snape appeared to make ready to leave. "If you were to happen upon any death daggers growing wild in the Forest . . ." and his eyes drilled into Hagrid's with an intensity that spiked Hagrid's pulse, ". . . I'd be very appreciative."
"Yes," Hagrid stammered. "Yes, of course, Professor."
"They must be plucked in full bloom only, preferably under the light of the full moon, but any moon will do. They bloom only at night, of course."
"Yes, I know." Hagrid found himself answering the professor's back. The man whirled and left, black robes billowed out behind as he strode purposefully back in the direction of the castle.
Hagrid grasped the handles of the wheel barrow and pushed with all the force of his great back and leg muscles. It obligingly rolled smoothly down the rise toward the pile behind the greenhouses where Madam Sprout composted it into specific potting mixes.
It occurred to Hagrid, as he poured a dipper of water over his head, to wonder why the potion master left the cool comfort of his dungeons. Why he braved the sweltering heat to ask Hagrid a simple question, when they'd see each other in less than an hour at dinner. He shrugged into his shirt and remembered how black eyes felt on him without it.
bas
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