Pairing: Crouch Jr/Severus.

Rating: NC-17.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Characters owned by J.K. Rowling.

Summary: The Hog's Head Pub, Hogsmeade, mid '79, Pre-Snape-turned-spy. Possible recruitment? Moonpetal's challenge. Drabble.

A Ravenclaw. Snape scoffed. He should have been a Slytherin. His skinny face and his straw coloured hair, his thin mouth and his small green eyes haunted his dreams sometimes, when Snape remembered the cries he'd pressed into the walls of Hogwarts' dungeons. It'd been an addiction. A stunning, beautiful, hysterical addiction.

It had continued after Hogwarts, too. Snape, who was two years Crouch's senior, who was finished with NEWTs and OWLs and all that nonsense, had tutored the younger boy on his final year in one of the rented rooms at Hog's Head every saturday. They hadn't done much studying.

"Do you love me?" the boy would ask teasingly, before he'd press Snape's face into the pillow and lather his worshipping tongue over Snape's pink, untrodden arse. 'Yes' Snape would answer, unthinking, naive in his desire, innocent in his need to please the other boy.

"We could conquer the world," Crouch would whisper in his ear. "You and I. No one would stop us."

"Yes, yes," Snape would reply urgently, the pleasure mounting.

"Anything, Severus?" Crouch had hissed then, his small knobbly knuckles winding in his hair. "Would you do anything for the power, Severus?" His cock driving madly.

"Anything," Snape had answered through his sweat, his cries, his nails digging into flesh, sheets, anything he could mark as his own in his desperate need.

It had felt like an innocent touch over his forearm. A gripping force in the midst of urgent pleasure. Snape wouldn't have trusted a Slytherin in that moment, but Crouch was a Ravenclaw. Pure, logical, nothing of the cold calculated boy he truly was. "Marquemort," he'd whispered.

The blinding pain was the last Snape remembered of the encounter.

And the dizzying plunge into darkness was all that remained. The next and last time Crouch had touched him was to push him forward toward Frank Longbottom's writhing body. "Go on," he'd whispered, his green eyes twinkling behind the mask. "Your turn."