the 500 socks of severus snape

Author: busaikko
Rating: PG13 for language
Pairing: SSRL preslash
Spoilers: your dinner, probably
Summary: Doesn't "The 500 Socks of Severus Snape" describe it well enough?
A/N unbeta'ed. For painless_j for having the Snape's Sock Poll There is BRILLIANT art for this story by almost_clara which can be found here.

Nothing ever went right on a Tuesday. This was a Snape Rule, the one following the Rule about the proper uses of Chinese mustard ("lube—no"). The Tuesday Rule was "Tuesdays will make you wish you were dead."

Ankle-deep in the pulsating green ooze that filled the Potions room, Snape indulged in a little harmless revenge. He launched, one by one, the students he had Emergency Levitated to the ceiling out of the room like so many bits of fluff from a dandelion. It was amazing how many of the rotten little beasts didn't bother with underwear. And dear me, Mr Weasley, was that a thong? Smirk, smirk. Finally, only Potter and Goyle remained hovering nervously over the fireplace, their robes starting to singe. Snape floated them over close enough that the spittle from his hissed threats would hit them in the face (of course he did it on purpose).

"Detention. Thirty decalitres of parchment–Friday–sixteen inches of Bust-Enhancing Draught–midnight–astronomy tower. " He threw them out the door and bolted it before they could ask questions. If he was lucky he could get them again for fucking up their punishment the first time. He bared his teeth at the green ooze.

"Evanesco." It miraculously disappeared, leaving the floor with a lovely glossy shine like obsidian and no waxy buildup. Snape wondered briefly what it would have done for his hair.

Snape stripped off his sodden robe and squelched into his quarters. Last class on Tuesday, time for a quick shower and a good wank before dinner–or perhaps he would forego dinner for a quiet meal and after-dinner drinks with the werewolf–or, this being Tuesday, perhaps he should do what he usually did and lock himself in a closet until Wednesday happened.

A shower, though, was a good idea. His shirt followed the robe into the hamper, where the magic of Laundry Rays immediately began working. Reluctant to touch his goopy boots, and being a healthy, normal man of the Unmarried persuasion, Severus turned the shower on and stepped into the hot jets of warmth boots and all (this was also how he washed dishes and any laundry he considered 'delicate'– it ought to work for boots, he figured).

He waved his wand at the mirror to defog it (of course he had his wand in the shower–wouldn't you?) and smirked at his reflection. Dark, wet hair; pretty good arms and shoulders for a schoolteacher, it came from all that cauldron-pumping; black trousers clinging to the curves of his hips and his… other bits. His reflection did a little headbanging and lip-synching and air-guitar playing. Nine inches, indeed, he thought, even his thoughts smirking, as he recalled the overheard (but not well understood) words of a Hufflepuff in the Great Hall.

He bent over, keeping one eye on his reflection in the mirror (which was practicing bending over), and undid the laces on his boots. It took a few good yanks to get them loose, but soon his wet boots were cooling on the tatty bathmat. They also had a nice glossy black shine. Maybe he could get Potter and Goyle to make the stuff again… no.

Snape peeled off his trousers and tossed them in the hamper. He divested himself of his silky black boxers (being 'delicates' he gave them a quick rinse and hung them on the edge of the tub to dry). He hitched his thumbs under the edges of his good, solid, safe Tuesday socks, the black cotton ones with little green squiggles like snakes, and rolled them down.

It was therefore rather surprising to find another pair of socks beneath. These were scrunched down, but when he pulled them up out of morbid curiosity they reached his knees. Red and yellow stripes. He knew these socks, had seen them peeking out from under raggedly short robes all too often.

Snape stalked out of the shower, a man with a mission. He took a loose handful of Floo powder and threw it in the fireplace.

"Lupin!"

The irritated face of the werewolf appeared in the fire, his look morphing almost comically into shock and horror as he looked up the length of Severus' body, from the garish Gryffindor knee socks to the wet, naked, and irate Potions master wearing them.

"My GOD, Severus–" he said weakly, fanning himself with his hands. "Oh. It's Tuesday, isn't it?"

Severus wondered belatedly if he ought to squat as he usually did to Floo-call. Perhaps not. "I want your hairy canine arse over here right now."

Lupin blinked and coughed. "This is all so sudden… should I bring flowers? Wine?"

"Oh, for Salazar's sake," Snape snarled alliteratively, and grabbed Lupin's hair, pulling him out of the fire. "Explain these socks to me."

Lupin dusted himself off and used his wand to transfigue the antimacassar Dumbledore had crocheted out of his own beard hairs into a scratchy loincloth which he secured around Snape's hips.

"Well." Lupin looked thoughtful. "I'd just taken my OWLs, and my gran had had a terrific run of luck at canasta and ended up on the private carpet of a very wealthy sheik, and she thought to cheer me up–"

"Enough! Knitted them herself, did she?"

"I believe she took them off the body, along with the cash and jewelry. Always was one for socks, gran."

"What I meant was, explain why your socks appeared on my feet in the shower."

Snape had always wondered exactly what a person who was 'flummoxed' looked like. Now he knew.

"If you don't like them, you could take them off," Lupin ventured.

"Fine."

"Alright then."

"Right." Snape balanced flamingo-like and tugged the offending sock off from the toes. He was fine until he hit the ankle and a bright flash of pink appeared. Lupin snorted.

"Now that is not my sock."

Snape removed the other knee sock and found himself in fuzzy pink anklets with pom-poms at the backs. "If you ever mention this to anyone I will kill you," he muttered.

Lupin rolled up the wet knee socks and squished them inside his robe. "What's under those?"

It turned out to be a pair of sheer thigh-high stockings with little glittery diamonds up the back seams.

"Nice," Lupin said appreciatively, and Snape nearly shoved them down his throat.

The next pair were argyle and itchy. Lupin looked inordinately pleased.

"Those must be McGonagall's. You've got the Faculty Footwear Curse. There's only twenty of us, and you've already had me, Flitwick, Trelawney, and Mcgonagall. Er. Sockwise speaking, of course. "

"Very funny, Lupin. It was a Potions accident."

"How many pairs of socks do you get for a Potions accident?"

A good question, Snape mused, as Argus Filch's purple hand-knitted toe socks joined the growing pile. "That's the whole faculty," he snarled. "So whose socks are these?"

Lupin looked up from the sofa, where he was sprawled with the latest issue of Dungeon Quarterly. "Some girl," he said with a distinct lack of interest.

Snape ripped off seven pairs of socks in rapid succession, aiming for Lupin's head. He gave himself two points for each ear, and five for the mouth. "I'm not going to take off the socks of the whole student body," he hissed, thinking afterwards how that sounded like a euphemism for something incredibly kinky.

Lupin turned a page and raised his eyebrows appreciatively. "Uh-huh," he said. "I'm not sure you have a choice."

An hour later Snape was sitting dejected on a small Everest of socks.

"How many pairs are you up to now?" Lupin asked. Snape eyed his bare toes, propped up on the end of the sofa, and bit back a groan.

"This should be the last pair of student socks," Snape muttered, picking at the fraying edge of the white sock with its bizarre beribboned, mouthless cat.

"Have courage," Lupin exhorted in a Gryffindor kind of way.

"You do it," Snape said, and tried to make pathetic eyes at Lupin. Lupin winced.

"Only if you never look at me like that again," he said as he slid to the floor. He wrapped his fingers around the sock and pulled as if it were a Christmas cracker.

"Damn, but that's the smallest sock I've ever seen," he said appreciatively. "More of a bootie, really."

Next. "Cute little broomsticks around the ankles."

Next. "I used to have a pair of these–Repelling Socks."

Next. "Boring blue."

Next. "Boring black."

Next. "Boring green."

Next next next next next next. "AA! Zonko's Whistling Toes socks, good lord–"

Next. "Thank god, boring red."

He looked up at Snape, who had a constipated look on his face. "Something you'd like to share with me, Severus?"

"These are my socks," Snape said hoarsely as Lupin yanked and pulled (part of Snape's brain made a mental note that Lupin was quite good at yanking and pulling). "When I was a boy. Deadly dull until a holiday came around and then the Sock Demons were let loose. There should be an Acid-tongue sock coming up, I still have the scars…."

"Nostalgic, are you?" Lupin dropped a pair of Mobile socks, and they scurried into the corner and folded themselves up.

"Nesting instinct," Snape said fondly. "I named them Leftie and Rightie. I cried when they were binned."

"Creative child, were you?" Lupin gave up trying to sort the boring socks by color. Especially when the next group of socks came out very badly tie-dyed. "I never knew, Severus."

Snape shrugged. "It was the Seventies. People kept giving me cauldrons. What did they think I was going to do?"

"Only twenty more years of socks to go," Lupin sighed.

"Oh, I haven't bought new socks in years," Snape said dismissively.

"I am both repulsed and overjoyed to hear that."

"Just you wait," Snape said darkly. "I served two masters in the war, you know."

"What about Dumbledore and Voldemo–" Lupin scrabbled back with an odd yelping sound, away from the bright green socks from which the Dark Mark rose like a horrible locker room stench.

"Mad for knitting and crochet, both of them," Snape muttered. "I used to have to smuggle issues of Prima into Death Eater meetings under my cape. Did you think I wanted to have every surface of my quarters covered in doilies and tea cosies and doorknob covers?… Ah–those are an early Dumbledore effort, the girl with the sunbonnet. I had to wade through the septic tank before their preservation charm finally wore off."

"You've seen horrors none of us could ever know," Lupin said, his face twisted into sympathetic lines even though his eyes were tearing with repressed laughter.

"You mock my pain, werewolf?" Snape purred silkily. "Fine. We'll see how it is when the sock is on the other foot."

"Whoever gave you orange and pink socks with feathers and bells on?"

"Those. Are. Not. Mine."

Their eyes met. A spark of some deep emotion ran between them as Lupin braced himself and pulled.

A silence filled the room.

"Nice toe ring, Severus."

Snape looked down and flexed his toes, the closest to an expression of pure joy on his face that Lupin had ever seen. "Hello, toes," he said softly.

Lupin stood, ankle deep in socks. "Well, I'll be off then," he said, nonchalantly, as if hours and hours of intense desocking were nothing to him, really. "Enjoy your toes."

Snape looked at the clock sharply, then rose in one fluid movement, grabbed Lupin's arm, and propelled him into the bedroom closet. He slammed the door shut behind them and did up the bolts.

"I'm willing to come out of the closet with you, Severus, but this is going in the wrong direction, I rather think."

Snape was suddenly aware that only an extremely ugly antimacassar stood between himself and the rather attractive werewolf, who was leaning into him rather too much, a hand here, a leg pressed there….

"Hush," he said repressively. "Certainly I want to do various and sundry immoral things with you, especially with the wanton way you are rubbing yourself against me, but we need to wait." He leant forward, his lips brushing against Lupin's ear. "There are still twenty minutes of Tuesday out there waiting to get me."