Title: Nary a Grain of Good Sense.
Author: Josan
Recipient’s Name: chazpure
Rating:NC-17
Pairing: SS/Twins
Disclaimer: JKR is the one with the millions; I’m just a poor beggar. They all belong to her; I just borrow them and hope I can return them before she notices.
Warnings: None. Well, none other than it certainly is not canon. And, well, if the twins are involved, you do know it’s going to be a threesome. Oh, and there’s a lot of plot before the porn.
Betas: kaiz and lmondegreen Many thanks, mesdames.
Author’s Notes: chazpure indicated she was not averse to “sex in/under water, foodsmut, h/c with happy ending”. I think I got most of that in, to some degree or another. Hope you have as much fun reading this as I had writing it.

Written for : merry_smutmas, 2005, posted December 16, 2005



~~~~~~~~~~


Warily, with great reluctance, they acknowledged him as one of the heroes of the war against Voldemort.

Mind, it had taken the testimony of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Fulfill the Prophecy, to get him out of Azkaban and out of Moody’s hands. The pensieved memories left behind by Dumbledore hadn’t been enough in themselves to counter what he had had to do that year to remain close to the Dark Lord and be able to pass on the information that had finally seen to Voldemort’s demise. Potter’s support hadn’t been all that enthusiastic, in spite of his Gryffindor self insisting on it after facing the fact that, once more, he had saved the bloody brat from certain death.

He attended the ceremonies that he was forced to attend in order to recoup his ‘good name’. Ha! That was a laugh. Thank Merlin he was used to the shadows, though now when they saw him there, his fellow honourees and their admirers scampered away as quickly as they could. He did accept his Order of Merlin because he knew that Albus Dumbledore would have insisted on it. Not that he would ever have occasion to wear it. After all, who would ever invite him to such an event?

He was colder than he had been. Sharper tongued. Uglier.

No one trusted him.

No one with a grain of good sense approached him of their own free will.

Of course, the Weasley twins were not known for their good sense.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was not often that the postman had a reason to walk up to a certain door at Spinner’s End. But it was Christmas and, even here, the amount of mail and parcels reflected the season. Still, delivery to this address was enough of a novelty that he did note it, especially as there was no slot or receptacle in which to leave the small box. So, in the feeling of the season, he knocked several times and waited until the door opened with a suddenness that startled the postman.

“What?” growled the man attired in what appeared to be an ancient black dressing gown.

“Parcel, sir,” explained the postman as he offered it up.

The recipient merely stared at the small box.

The postman looked down at it. It was wrapped in a plain brown paper with a name and address on it. No return address, which was a little bit strange, but then maybe this was supposed to be a surprise Christmas gift.

The man still hadn’t reached for it when the postman handed it to him yet again. “Nothing to sign, sir. Happy Christmas.”

The man glared at him as he finally accepted the parcel and slammed the door shut.

“And a merry bah! humbug to you as well.”

The postman turned and went back to his route. Next time, he’d only leave a notice that there was a parcel for pick-up. That would teach the old bugger. But, by the next house down, the incident had already left his mind.

~~~~~~~~~~

Since his touching it hadn’t killed him or whisked away to parts and future unknown, Snape placed the parcel on his desk and went back to his breakfast. Since returning to Spinner’s End, he had set up a routine and he allowed nothing to interfere with it. It may have been determined by forces outside of himself that he was to survive, but only a set routine made it possible for him to carry through another day.

So he ignored this anomaly in favour of his whole wheat, slightly burnt toast, sparsely spread with a bitter orange marmalade. He had already drunk his four ounces of prune juice. He kept the pot of strong, black coffee to deal with the next part of his routine, the howlers that appeared at his back door with all-too-frequent regularity.

He could have consigned them to the fire in the black stove that took up much of the kitchen space, but that would be defeating the purpose of their having been sent. Not to mention the possibility of the stove blowing up from trying to deal with all that hate.

Besides, it interested him to see what new transgression was being accredited to him. So far the most outrageous had been his supposed participation in some Dark Arts ritual that had the Muggle price of oil rise to never-before-seen heights.

He opened howlers in the kitchen and not the study. It was easier to contain the damage there. He’d made this modification to his routine when one had accidentally set a book on fire in his study. He no longer had access to the kind of library he’d once had at his disposal at Hogwarts, so it was important to him that he not lose any book he had here. Especially one of those that remained after the Aurors had been through his libraries. In a momentary lapse of benevolence, Minerva had sent him the one he’d left behind in his rooms at Hogwarts after... .

He was certain that she’d since regretted the gesture, but he was thankful for it.

Naturally, they – the Aurors – had confiscated anything they could remotely classify as pertaining to the Dark Arts. Though he was aware that his non-howler post was being scrutinised before delivery, they did allow through his potions journals.

Which involved the next part of his daily routine. Catching up on all he had missed in his profession in those years when he’d had no spare time. His responsibilities at Hogwarts, to Dumbledore, and to his role as spy had seen to that. It was one of the few positives of this situation and he refused to ignore it in favour of some stupid parcel that had shown up at his front door.

He settled in the battered armchair and reached out for the journal at the top of the pile he’d created on the sagging ottoman he used as a side table. For the next three hours he immersed himself in a world that was no longer open to him. He made notes in the margins, muttered invectives, but that was as far as he went. Early on, he’d sent one of his usual letters in response to some glaring inaccuracy he had spotted in an article only to have his letter returned to him with the curt notification that only members in ‘good standing’ were permitted to offer their opinions. In spite of that, they were quite willing to accept his galleons for a continued subscription.

He had since had occasion to thank Albus for his foresight in arranging for a vault to be set up at Gringotts as a so-called ‘emergency’ account in the Prince name that Snape could access at will. They had tried hard to confiscate his own account and he still had trouble withdrawing his own money. No matter how many documents he produced to prove that the money had been saved from his Hogwarts salary, they preferred to believe that his economies were the result of his time with Voldemort. As if he wouldn’t have far greater quantities of galleons in his vault if that had been the truth!

With careful management, if necessary, the Prince vault would last him a goodly amount of time. Not like he hadn’t learnt that at his mother’s feet. The Snape household had never had any money to spare, be it knuts or pennies.

After journals came lunch. He’d never been a big eater and had done with a lot less during his time with Voldemort. Not that the Dark Lord had skimped on supplies, but Snape had found it difficult to eat in his presence. Difficult to swallow when one’s gorge kept on threatening to rise. Now he had quite simply got out of the habit of eating and had to force himself to sit down to three meals a day.

He reheated a soup that he’d made and toasted a piece of bread to go with it. The soup was tasty but his appetite disappeared after a few spoonfuls. Ditto for the toast. He got up and emptied what was left in the bowl in the sink, broke up the bread and tossed it out the back door for the few birds that frequented the neighbourhood. He never did so without thinking about how angry that waste of food would have made his father. Probably why he did it.

He spent afternoons in his lab, such as it was. Minerva’s benevolence had not extended to include the contents of his private laboratory, filled with ingredients he had purchased from his salary, not the school budget. These days, anything he purchased from the apothecaries in Diagon Alley was immediately reported to the Aurors. Knockturn Alley, purveyor to the Dark Lord and anyone else with the money to spare, had suddenly discovered its ethics and refused to have anything to do with him.

The room had been his as a child, a small, dark space under the eaves. Still there was space enough for him to have set up a small fire, to store his few instruments and the ingredients that he’d been able to purchase. He had a few more than those, gathered from night-time forays into the countryside. Those expeditions were always exciting, as he had to find a way of coming and going that wouldn’t attract the attention of the neighbourhood’s watchful eyes, both wizard and Muggle.

The Aurors had purchased one of the dilapidated houses across the way and had settled in one of Moody’s old cronies, which gave the old goat a reason and a site from which to check up on him. Next door, Old Mrs Bagger – old even when he’d been a child – had never needed an excuse. He sometimes wondered how Moody had explained the owls at his back door to her. Thankfully, he had cast a silencing ward on the house: the screams of the howlers would have had her hanging onto the curtains of her kitchen, salivating at the chance of seeing some action. As she had whenever his father had beaten his mother and himself. He wondered if she had enjoyed the night when he’d finally been strong enough to return the favour.

He was running low on Dreamless Sleep again. It wasn’t a difficult potion but he spent part of the afternoon carefully preparing the ingredients, setting up the cauldron and producing an amount that should see him through the next month.

Then it was time for a refreshing cup of tea and the Daily Prophet. He settled with both in his armchair, ignoring the small brown parcel still sitting on his desk as he uncompromisingly shook his paper open. He perused the paper, skipping over any mention of himself all the while looking for what he called “The Continuing Adventures of Harry Potter.” Potter didn’t seem to be enjoying his new-found status as hero and saint. Not if the angry glares that emanated from the pictures accompanying the latest gossip on the Boy Who Lived were any indication. Creevey Major had been a mere irritant while he’d been at Hogwarts. Now that he worked for the Prophet, he proved to be unstoppable in his pursuit of the ultimate Harry Potter photo. Snape could almost feel some sympathy for the Boy. Almost. Not quite. The Brat should have killed him along with Voldemort. Unfortunately, just as he’d had turned to do so, Bellatrix Lestrange had taken aim at Potter and Snape had had to save the bloody idiot yet again. Then it had been the two of them against the other Death Eaters, none of whom had gone down without a fight and... .

So if he, Snape, had to suffer living, it was good to know that his ‘savior’ was also enjoying life.

He finally succumbed to the lure of the unknown after his so-called high tea; another unfinished bowl of soup and more crumbs for the birds. He did make himself a fresh pot of tea and took it and the parcel to his chair. He placed the parcel on his lap and stared at it in the time it took for him to sip a first cup. Then he poured himself another and set it aside on the stack of journals.

The parcel was wrapped with a thick string. He took the time to unknot it, carefully winding the cord around his wrist so as not to lose it. He unwrapped the parcel slowly, smoothing out each crease as he unfolded the paper. Finally, he could delay no longer. He folded back the top to reveal a plain brown box, about four inches long, three wide, two deep.

Snape held his breath as he worked the lid off, only to find a layer of bronze tissue paper. He pushed that aside and, after staring at the contents for a full minute, gave a bark of what might have been laughter.

On a bed of crinkled bronze tissue paper rested a single, solitary chocolate. The dark variety that he particularly relished. He even recognised the distinctive swirl that decorated the top: Honeyduke’s praline butter cream. His favourite, the few times that he had indulged himself.

Top of Honeyduke’s special line of expensive chocolate for refined tastes.

He couldn’t see one of these without remembering the first time he’d tasted one, at Malfoy’s. One of a large – very large – box that Lucius had passed around to impress his guests. Not that it had taken much to impress the Snape he had then been, the first time he had been invited to the Manor, one of a select few to be vetted as potential followers of the as yet un-Lorded Tom Riddle. Hell, everything at Malfoy Manor had impressed the idiot he had then been.

But he had special memories of the chocolate. Not something that he’d had much experience with, not at that time. After all, he’d not been invited for his social standing, nor his access to wealth, but for his mind and his skills with potions.

The others had looked suitably impressed when Lucius had passed the large box around with afternoon coffee, but other than the name, it had meant nothing to Snape. Until he had taken a bite of the chocolate. The flavours had overwhelmed him and he hadn’t been able to prevent a soft moan from escaping. Fortunately for him, no one had noticed, otherwise it would have become yet another tool in Lucius’s arsenal against him. And once he’d been able to afford them, he had allowed himself the treat – for special occasions only! – of one Honeyduke’s praline butter cream. Only one, for it being the one made it all the more special.

But, apparently, someone had noticed.

Snape sat back in his chair and examined the chocolate in all its glory. Who...?

But did that matter?

More importantly, what were the chances of it being simply an ordinary chocolate?

Snape looked around the room – his prison. Once, long ago, when he’d first gone to Dumbledore, the Headmaster had bound him to life with the vow that Snape would never take his own life. Could his eating of a possibly – probably – poisoned chocolate be considered the taking of his own life? After all, it might not be poisoned. Surely that would count when he presented his case to Dumbledore, in person as it were?

He was tired. His life was a misery. No one would miss him.

As he reached for the chocolate, he wondered how long his body would sit here before Moody’s spy across the way grew suspicious enough to come check.

He took the chocolate between his fingers and raised it to his open mouth.

It never got there.

Instead there was the sense of a hook pulling behind his navel and Snape was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

He had no idea where he was.

Snape pulled out his wand, ready to defend or attack, as he looked around. He seemed to be in some sort of stock room. The walls were shelved, many bare, with some short piles of purple boxes here and there.

He had just stepped up to inspect these when a side door opened and a purple-robed personage charged in, only to come to a dead stop when faced with Snape’s wand.

“‘Bout time you got here. We were wondering. Quick, put on this robe. We’re short-staffed and the place is crazy.”

Snape blinked. It was a Weasley, one of the twins. Who blithely ignored the levelled wand to toss a purple monstrosity over Snape’s way. Who shook his head when Snape didn’t move and came to pull the thing over his head.

“Come on. There’s no time to lose.”

Snape stood there, completely befuddled. He had expected to die, not to appear inside a Weasley nightmare.

The Weasley grabbed a pile of boxes and, as he passed Snape, who still hadn’t moved, he grabbed the chocolate and popped it into Snape’s mouth. “You can eat that now. It’s just a chocolate again.”

Mouth filling with the taste of rich chocolate, ears ringing not just from the Portkey but from the noise coming from beyond the open door, Snape gave his head a shake and went to see what the hell was going on.

Another Weasley – or was it the same one? – grinned at him. “Take the cash, will you? Mary Lou never showed up. Just wave your wand over the logo and dictate the sum to the Quick-Quill. It’ll do the rest. Make certain to give the customer their copy of the bill. You’ll find bags under the counter at the till.” He turned back to deal with a customer, then tossed over his shoulder, “No cheques unless you know the person and can vouch for them personally.”

All right. It was a nightmare.

But since it was, Snape moved around the clerks working the crowd at the counter and made his way over to where a Quick-Quill and a pile of bills were waiting to be used.

It was bedlam. People pushed and shoved, trying to get their hands on the obviously diminishing stock of gags and jokes. And it truly had to be a dream, as no one seemed to notice who it was adding up their bills, taking their money, handing back their change. Oh, now and then a customer looked twice, only to shrug and move away as though the mere thought of Severus Snape working behind the counter of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was too preposterous even to contemplate.

At some point, one of the Weasleys stood up on the counter and shouted, “That’s it, folks. What’s out is all there is.”

There were moans and groans, a few snarls that faded when Snape glared their way. And finally, suddenly, there was a Weasley at the door, locking it behind the last customer while the other Weasley handed out thick envelopes to the two clerks who had worked beside them.

“A little something to thank you guys for the extra time you’ve put in this week.”

“Happy Christmas to you!”

And once more the door was opened then shut and locked. That Weasley pulled out his wand and waved it towards the front of the store. Heavy drapes unrolled from above, bringing with them privacy from the outside.

One of the Weasleys hitched himself up on the counter by Snape while the other draped himself on the other side. Two red-heads smiled at him.

“Thanks. Knew we could count on you.”

“Mind, it took you long enough to get here. Was there a hold up for some reason?”

Under their watchful eyes, Snape straightened the much shorter pile of bills. He took the Quick-Quill in hand and lay it next to the paper. He looked around the store, finally seeing it without the hindrance of people and noise.

The twins let him, not saying anything. The other Weasley joined his brother on the counter and they waited, in rare silence, for Snape to say something.

Which he finally did. “You might care to check the till.”

The twins shook their heads. “We’re sure everything will add up properly.”

Snape snorted. “Fine way to do business.”

They smiled. “The finest.”

Snape forced himself to look at them. “Would you two like to explain just what the hell I’m doing here?”

One Weasley nudged the other. “This was your idea. You tell him.”

The other shook his head. “Oh, no. You’re not dumping this on me. It was your idea originally... .”

“How can you say that? I definitely remember... .”

“Well, we all know how reliable your memory is. ‘Cause who didn’t remember that Mary Lou quit last weekend after the Hearthstone brats tested the multi-coloured slime spell on her? Again. For the fifth time.”

A shrug. “She was no great loss. Had no sense of adventure. Besides, we only took her on to get Ginny off our backs. Now that Severus is here... .”

Snape rubbed his eyes. He was tired, a different kind of tired than the norm, but still. He was no longer comfortable with crowds and with the kind of tension that had kick-started the headache he was only now aware throbbed behind his forehead.

“Gentlemen,” Snape snarled, “and I use the term loosely, that brings us back to my original question: why am I here?”

The twins shared a look. The one jumped down from the counter and took off the purple robe with Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes emblazoned in gold script on the back. Under it, he wore a purple logo-ed t-shirt and black trousers. “I don’t know about you two, but I think better with a glass of wine in my hand.”

The other nodded and swung his legs over to this side of the counter, pulling off his robe at the same time, and tossing it on top of the other. For a moment, Snape hoped he might be able to tell them apart, but, unfortunately, this twin was dressed as was his brother. “Sounds like the best idea you’ve had all evening. What do you say, Severus?”

Snape allowed his chin to drop to his chest. In this mood, the twins were impossible. He was all too familiar with it from the days when they had haunted the student lab, producing the prototypes of their early successes. If he ever expected to have an answer to his question... . With a sigh, Snape shucked off the robe and added it to the pile.

“You don’t by any chance have a potion for headache, have you?”

The twins nodded. One twin draped a friendly arm around Snape’s shoulders. It was a sign of how bizarre the evening had been that Snape allowed it to remain there.

“Come along, Severus. We’ve got just the medicine for what ails you upstairs.”

“And what, pray tell,” he tried for snide but it came out weak even to his ears, “is upstairs?”

“Why, home,” explained the other twin. “We converted the upstairs into our residence.”

“Though,” said the one, as they followed the other, “we’re going to need that space and sooner than we thought.”

“What a lovely thought,” said the other as, single-file, they went up a flight of narrow, rickety stairs. “Cast out of house and home due to the success of our business.”

Snape said nothing, aware only of the hand that now rested on his arse as though ready to offer support should he need help to get up the unstable structure.

The upstairs was an open space, a loft, with furniture scattered throughout. From their condition, most of them were obvious hand-me-downs.

Still, after having been on his feet for – according to the wall clock – a good five hours, it was a relief to his lower back to drop into the battered faded-fushia-coloured, overstuffed armchair that faced the kitchen area of the loft.

“Put your feet up on that,” and a garish orange ottoman was waved over to his feet.

With a sigh, Snape did just that.

“Push forward a little,” and a pillow, this time lime green, was fitted against the small of his back, adding support to ease the tension that had accumulated there over the evening.

“Headache potion. Made by these very hands according to the manner you drilled into our little heads...what was it? Second year?”

“First,” muttered Snape as he tossed back the vial and washed the taste out of his mouth with a chaser of water. “It was usually second, but with you two... .”

“Ah, nice to know that we made an impression.”

Snape shut his eyes as he leaned his head back. They were wise enough, these two... . No, they were experienced enough to allow him the time in silence necessary for the potion to take effect. In fact, it took a hand shaking his shoulder for him to realise that he had dropped off while the potion had done its glorious work.

And it hadn’t been the only thing to work. In front of Snape, there was a low table filled almost to overflowing with plates of food, bowls of vegetables, platters of small desserts.

“Help yourself,” said one of the twins as he pulled over a deep cushion and sat on the floor by the table.

“Mum is always certain we’re starving,” explained the other, claiming a space on the opposite side.

“So she loads us down whenever she visits.”

“A sure sign that she approves of what we’re doing.”

“Though there was a time recently when she certainly didn’t.”

“Still, she couldn’t really complain. We were doing our bit for the War.”

“Have the ham, Severus. She cooks it with a mustard honey glaze that is to die for.”

“Give him some of the turkey as well. The stuff melts in your mouth, Severus.”

“How about some stuffing? She makes it with apples and cranberries and what she calls her secret ingredient... .”

“Except that we all know that it’s cinnamon.”

Before Snape’s headache could return, a heavy linen napkin was draped upon his lap and a food-laden plate placed atop it. He wanted to say that he wasn’t hungry, except that he was. For the first time in how many months? And though Molly Weasley had never really approved of him, she was an excellent cook. As the first mouthful reminded him.

For several minutes, the only sound in the loft was that of cutlery on china, of approving moans and soft sighs as taste buds grew content. At some point, there appeared a goblet of deep crimson wine at his elbow. A sniff and nostalgia identified it as an excellent Cabernet Sauvignon. Snape nodded his approval to his hosts and finished the glass with his meal.

Replete, slightly drunk, more comfortable than he had been in a long while, Snape settled back against the armchair and accepted a refill. “Thank you.” He took a sip as he watched the twins continue eating. It seemed their propensity to inhale food had not changed much since their Hogwarts days.

Mind, if they regularly put in the kind of hours he had witnessed this evening... .

Evening? He glanced again at the clock. It was after midnight. Long past the time he usually dosed himself with Dreamless Sleep.

“Are you open today?”

The twins looked up from scarfing their food and shook their heads. “Christmas,” muttered one through a mouthful.

The other swallowed and cleared his mouth with a gulp of wine. Snape winced at this abuse of a fine vintage.

“We only have to show up at home late in the afternoon. Which gives us the morning and part of the day to work on restocking.”

“Which,” said the one, “brings us to the point of your visit.”

Snape merely raised one eyebrow to question the word ‘visit’.

They smiled at one another and ignored him.

The other got up and stretched, his t-shirt pulling out of his trousers to reveal a line of pale skin. “You see, Severus. It’s like this.”

The one shook his head. “It’s late, Fred. Get to the point.”

Snape nodded, making note that since the other was Fred, the one must be George. Though not necessarily. He well remembered the twins’ other propensity for claiming each other’s name.

“All right, then.” The so-addressed Fred came to sit on an arm of Snape’s chair. “To the point. We need you in the business with us. We know that the Ministry is suspicious of you but we think we also have an excuse which they will be forced to accept for your presence here and in our lab.”

Snape couldn’t believe his ears. This still had to be part of the dream...nightmare – anything to do with the twins had to be a nightmare – induced by the poisoned chocolate he’d eaten? He covered up his disbelief and gave himself time to think by taking a sip of wine. Maybe ,in itself, not a good idea, but right now none other came to mind. He picked up on the one point that needed immediate clarification. “What excuse?”

George settled on the other arm and clicked his glass against Snape’s. “Why, that we’ve become lovers, of course.”

~~~~~~~~~~

He was in his own house, sitting in his own battered armchair in his own study, with a glass of the wine from the bottle the twins had forced upon him before he had Apparated to his back door.

“Call it a Christmas gift, Severus.”

“Or a bribe.”

“Just think about what we’ve said.”

“We’ll come see you tomorrow, so you’ll have plenty of time to think up reasons why it can’t be done.”

“And we’ll do our best to convince you otherwise.”

“Good practice for when Moody gives us the third degree.”

And then they’d kissed him. Not on the lips. One twin and kiss per cheek and, with that, they had stepped back and waved him off.

None of it made sense. Which, of course, made it ‘situation normal’ for anything that involved the twins.

Snape sipped the wine, allowed the flavours to swirl around his tongue and palate, concentrating on savouring rather than thinking about the rather wild explanation of the insane plan the twins had presented to him in their usual back-and-forth style.

Something he would have to get used to if...when? No, definitely if. If he took them up on their offer.

Snape closed his eyes and ignored the headache that had returned with a vengeance. Would that be something else he’d have to get used to if he took... ?

If he was allowed... .

If Moody didn’t use this as his excuse to throw Snape back into Azkaban... .

If, if, if... .

He finished the wine that was left in his glass and went to bed. There was no way he could even consider the situation properly half-cocked as he was. And anything that involved the twins required cool, careful thought. Merlin knew, he’d learnt that the hard way.

Still, as he rolled over to find the comfortable spot in his bed, there was a part of him that really wanted to see the expression on Moody’s face when the twins explained to the Auror that the three men were lovers.

~~~~~~~~~~



on to the next part