"My pet," the heavily-accented words float through the dark corridor to where Snape is standing in the shadows.

It amazes him that two tiny words, spoken by a man he cannot see and has not seen in fifteen years have the power to turn halt the earth's rotation and send it spinning backwards through time. He stands frozen in the attitude of stalking through the dungeon pathway, all thought of preying on rulebreaking teenagers vanishing from his mind as though the greeting were an alternative form of Obliviation.

"I am not your pet," he hears his own voice say, smoothly but at a slightly higher pitch than normal. He wonders if the other wizard will notice.

There is a small sniff from the shadows ahead of him, from experience Snape recognises it as a laugh, which will have made a black moustache quiver and drawn chapped lips back from stained teeth in an expression of serious mirth.

"You vere, vonce upon a time," he rumbles.

The rumble of speech may as well have been the sound of Snape's carefully constructed mental walls collapsing, opening the floodgates for a hundred thousand repressed memories to sear themselves into his consciousness, as vivid and violent at the day they were made. Damn the Triwizard Tournament for bringing this man here! And damn him for weaselling his way out of Azkaban where he belonged, neatly locked away from society, from innocent people, from reminding Snape of things he would rather forget.

…….

Moonlight shining bright all over Milan, but not in the tiny side street in the Brera where one robed figure pulled another against him, devouring his moaning mouth with a primal desperation.

Gasps of pleasure in a Budapest hotel room, where the taller man parted the thighs of the shorter and devoured what he found there, making him arch up from the bed with need.

Biting his lower lip for fear of the Dark Lord hearing in the next room as strong, calloused fingers pushed inside him, painful but oh, so good. Tasting blood as his teeth clenched when the fingers retreated and were replaced by a swiftly oiled cock. Surging and rocking together until the magnificent silent explosion made his ears ring.

Another type of memory, bitter, later and un-exotic, of a white-bearded man in a circular tower room, gazing forlornly over his half-moon glasses at a dark-haired youth.
'He tried to sell you out to save his own skin, dear boy. I am sorry to have to tell you.'
'Only to be expected, Albus.'
'Nevertheless.'
'Is that all? May I return to my quarters now?'

…….

The acidity of the bile rising in his throat at the echo of this exchange mercifully dissolves the endless parade of vignettes and Snape is in control once more, standing in the chill corridor between the Slytherin common room and his office. His breathing steadies, his voice returns to normal

"Once upon a time," he agrees at last. "But not any more."

He cannot see the face, but the frown is as clear as day.

"Goodnight, Igor."

Oya just said I should write more slash. Blame her! Love, SN x