Service Call, by seeker

DISCLAIMER: no harm, no foul

SUMMARY: Mr. Olivander makes a service call and is Snape is caught in the backfire. MG is to blame. Heh.

NOTES: Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest (Snape/Ollivander pairing)

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He hadn't been out Hogwarts-way since, oh, the Tri-Wizard Tournament, if he remembered correctly. And he always remembered correctly.

Every wand he'd ever sold, to every witch or wizard. Every trial he'd ever run, every spectacular success and disaster he'd ever encountered, and there'd been plenty. He didn't like to leave his shop very often.

Odd things happened when he left his shop.

Oh, it wouldn't be Voldemort (and wasn't it a relief not to have to say You-Know-Who any longer?). No, that one was finally put to rest. But something else might, and could, and probably would (always did) happen. He hoped this time, whatever it might be, it would be benign.

He wasn't in the mood for apocalyptic possibilities, he really wasn't.

Picking his way carefully down the steps into the dungeon, not surprised that it hadn't changed since the last time he'd visited it decades ago, he brushed a cobweb off the stone wall with his fingertips and blew it into the air. He'd not decided what sort of trial the abused wand would require; when making a service call such as this, it was really better to let the wand decide.

The wand always made the best choice in the end. Perhaps not the most comfortable, or the easiest, or the most appropriate to the bystander, but wands had a logic all their own. After so many years surrounded by them, he'd learned to listen.

Rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs, he tapped at the door of the shadowy room at the end of the short hall. A thin man with dark straight hair glared at an innocent wand, lying on the table. He muttered under his breath, insults from the look of it, not hearing Ollivander's polite tap.

"H'lo," he tried next.

The dark head whipped up and deep brown eyes the color of fine whiskey shot sparks at him. If his hair hadn't already been naturally curly, the final few words he heard from the stream of invective the wizard had been directing at his defenseless wand would have curled it. His eyes narrowed.

"Snape, yes?" Of course it was. He recognized the man, from years before when the wand had chosen him. From the look of it, the wand had no doubt come to regret that choice. "What appears to be the problem?" he asked as he entered the room fully, glancing at Snape but reserving the majority of his attention for the wand.

It looked upset. Even more upset than its wizard, if that were possible.

"Damned if I can make it out," Snape snapped, frustration making him hiss.

Ollivander gave him more attention. Perhaps it wasn't frustration, after all, but his natural way of speaking; there was something rather snakelike about the face. Perhaps it was the unblinking eyes, or the pursed mouth. Or the way the head darted forward to peer at the wand.

Ollivander rather liked snakes. He felt himself smile. Snape, seeing it, misunderstanding it, sneered. The expression was oddly attractive on him.

Shaking off his strange pre-occupation with Snape's sexiness, wondering in the back of his mind what could be causing him to notice what he so seldom did, Ollivander bent over the wand. Rosewood, eleven and three quarters inches, griffin hair in the handle. Lovely thing.

"What have you been doing to it?" It looked dulled. The wood had no sheen. The handle was dusty. "Leaving it in a corner?"

Silence. Ollivander looked over his shoulder. Snape looked slightly defensive.

"I don't use it all that much. I'm a Potions Master, for god's sake, I spent the vast majority of my time bent over a cauldron."

"You've been neglecting it," Ollivander noted. Snape gave him a disbelieving look.

"It's a wand, not a pet."

His tone would freeze stone. Ollivander felt his lip curl and forced his expression back to bland neutrality. The arrogance of some wizards! Treating their wands with less consideration than they would a quill or a paring knife! Well, this was a good wand, a strong wand, and it wasn't about to put up with that sort of neglect. If Snape wasn't going to pay any attention to it, it would pay no attention to Snape, and Ollivander told him so.

Snape looked at him as if he had rocks in his head. After a long, pregnant pause, during which Ollivander could practically hear the sarcastic remarks being previewed and discarded with unusual tact and knowing how badly Snape wanted his help to bite back the worst of them, Snape asked, "Can you fix it?"

Fixing the younger man with a beady-eyed look of his own, honed on generations of young wizards, Ollivander was heartened to see it was still effective. Snape didn't exactly wilt, but he did deflate. Slightly.

Picking up the wand, Ollivander stared at it. Let his fingers wander the length and breadth of it.

Listened to it.

Took a deep breath, and tried a simple Cheering Charm.

Bubbles trailed from the end of the wand. Blue bubbles. Very sad blue bubbles, rather lopsided and weak. Beside him, Snape gave a disgusted snort. Frowning, Ollivander reached out and touched one of the oddly pearlescent bubbles.

It burst. It wasn't supposed to do that. Staring at the tiny blue patch on his finger, Ollivander was aware of several things simultaneously.

The blue patch was tingling. So was the handle of the wand. As was his skin. All over.

He looked over his shoulder at Snape, still grimacing at the wand. A sharp pain ran through him. With it, he heard the echo of a sob.

Unloved. Unwanted. Crying out to be of service but no attention paid it, no service needed.

This was a wand with issues.

He had a lot of work to do.

But first priority was to listen to the wand, and it had distinct ideas on what he should do next. So he did.

Turning to face Snape, he threw a binding spell, and the wand responded beautifully. The silver ropes shimmering through the air were thin and soft, flexible and immovable at the same time. Snape opened his mouth, to complain, no doubt, and Ollivander threw a silencing spell at him. It also worked beautifully.

"The trick, you see," he patiently explained to Snape as he threw a dissolution spell at Snape's robe-fastenings, "is to pay attention." The robe fell at Snape's feet, followed in rapid succession by his trousers and his shorts. His shirt attempted to follow but the ropes kept it dangling from his shoulders. "The wand will tell you precisely what it needs."

Moving forward, he touched the end of the wand with utmost delicacy to the root of Snape's prick. Energy flowed, strength from the griffin's hair, rigidity from the rosewood. The prick rose swiftly.

"And that's what you give it."

Snape was wriggling quite delightfully as Ollivander stepped close, running the wand along the slender tensed arms, across the width of chest, running through the black curls adorning the pale skin, stopping over a nipple, watching as it rose as well. Snape's throat worked; in response, Ollivander ran the edge of the wand along the tendons standing out under the skin.

The stormy brown eyes rolled up in Snape's head, and his entire body twitched. The wand bucked against Ollivander's palm.

"See?" he asked gently. "That's not so bad, now, is it?"

Trailing the wand along Snape's collar bone, he dragged it the length of his torso, following the black hair all the way down his stomach to the thick bush at his groin. Ollivander leaned close as he probed with the wand, pushing the now-thick, leaking prick from side to side with it.

"See how the wood shines?" Beneath the ballsac, then up the front of the prick, pressing lightly against the vein there, enough to send the swollen flesh back to slap against Snape's belly. Ollivander glanced up at Snape's face.

Were it not for the silencing spell, the dungeon would have echoed with cries of ecstasy. The wand was making up for months of neglect. Mayhap even years. Tendrils of magic wove from the wood over and into Snape's flesh, electrifying it, arousing it, leaving it wanting.

As he had left his wand, for so long.

Ollivander moved where the wand led him, across the tops of Snape's trembling thighs, teasing his prick, his balls, back behind them between his legs until the only thing holding him up were the magical ropes, suspended in air. Then back out, over the rise of flank, and Ollivander walked round to the rear, still going where the wand would take him.

Up along the spine, the muscles twitching under the exploring tip, beneath the fine fall of inky hair along the nape of Snape's neck, through the hair over the scalp and down behind an ear, with a tiny bite of electricity to an earlobe. Then down again, tracing each knob and bump and dimple, until the wand suddenly snapped across the surprisingly lush buttocks.

If he'd been able, Snape would have jumped as a welt rose across his arse. As it was, silent and bound, he could only shudder. Ollivander smiled, gently but with a hint of teeth. The wand was certainly making up for lost time. Another snap, another welt, another shudder.

Another. And again. Over and over until the creamy white arse cheeks were a flaming crosspattern of bright pink ridges and the shudders were near-continuous. The wand gave a final tug, and for the first time, Ollivander hesitated.

"Too much, perhaps?" he cautioned, but it was not to be denied. Giving in, he allowed it to do as it would, and slid the tip down the crease between the abused cheeks until it could slip sweetly into the shrinking arsehole.

The shudder *that* provoked nearly overcame the strength of the binding ropes. The wand shivered in Ollivander's hand as Snape's arse clamped down on it, and Ollivander uncurled his fingers from the handle, stepping away. The wand quivered, caught as it was by the tip buried in Snape's hole, and Ollivander found his breath growing short.

"Oh, my," he sighed. He'd never had a wand do that before. Never had one so pathetically grateful for his service that it invited him to join in. Smiling broadly, he stepped forward and gripped the handle again.

Lazily, letting the minute movements of the handle guide him, he fucked Snape with the wand, feeling the flesh stretch and welcome it in. When the hole was gaping, closing on the wand like a tiny mouth and trying to draw it further in, Ollivander felt a push from the handle rather than the pull it had been exerting.

Drawing it out slowly, he applied it to his own trousers. His buttons unfastened and the material folded back, as the wand dove into his pants and drew out his prick. As hard and nearly as long as the wand itself, his prick homed in on the greedy arsehole and sank in to the root on the first steady thrust. The heat was incredible, the hold even better, and he gasped, "Oh, my!" again.

He put his arm around Snape's waist and gripped the cock now bobbing in time to his fucking. The wand in his free hand pulsed happily as Ollivander thrust, withdrew to the tip and thrust all the way back in, rocking Snape in his ropes. The welts on the soft arsecheeks added a warm glow against Ollivander's crotch, and with each thrust Snape's muscles clenched around his prick as if trying to keep it inside.

A tiny pull from the wand was enough to pull Ollivander from the erotic haze into which he was rapidly sinking. He wrapped his other arm around Snape's torso, fitting their bodies together, bending Snape at the waist as he did, and thereby thrusting even more deeply. The wand lay against Snape's midriff, pointed up, and each time Ollivander rocked into his body, the tip of the wand stabbed at Snape's left nipple.

Ollivander could feel the magic flowing from the rosewood through Snape's body to coat his own, like a continuous wave of tiny lightning bolts. He lost track of time as he bent over Snape, fucking him, holding him, holding the wand. Listening to both, until the end was upon them all.

The wand stilled in his hand as Snape climaxed, his seed shooting over Ollivander's knuckles to catch in the hair on his stomach, on his chest; rather a lot of it ended up coating the wand. Ollivander continued to thrust as Snape came, enjoying the constriction around his prick, until the spasms finally ended and the cock in his hand was softening.

At that point he sped up, bringing himself to his completion. His work was done. The wand was in balance again; the wizard was now aware of his wand's requirements. Neither was in further need of his servicing. Pressing tightly against Snape's back, Ollivander spurted into him, breathing heavily as he finally relaxed.

Service calls could be quite taxing.

He pulled out, uttered the requisite spells to clean and tidy them both, to unbind and unsilence Snape. He caught the younger wizard as he collapsed without the ropes. Folding him gently onto the bench by the worktable, he smiled sweetly and lay the spunk-covered wand in Snape's lap.

"Call me if you need me again," he said, gently kissing Snape's half-opened mouth before putting a finger beneath the dropped jaw and closing it. "I am at your service." He stroked the wand with the same finger, and Snape shivered. "And your wand's, of course."

Ollivander felt Snape's eyes on him all the way out the door. Altogether a satisfactory session. For Snape, for himself ... and for the wand. Wands never ceased to amaze him.

It was the first time in all his long years he'd ever had a wand fall in love with its wizard. The first time one had thrown an aphrodisiac spell to get his attention. The first time he'd used sex magic to service a broken wand, at the wand's insistence.

Thinking back on Snape ... he sincerely hoped it wouldn't be the last.

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END