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Severus Snape does not believe in God, god, gods. Upon his own scala naturae, wizardkind occupies the highest rung. Below, nature trails away from Muggles to micro-organisms. Above, there is nothing but the sky and the indifferent movement of the heavenly bodies.
"Severus..."
A hand settles lightly atop his head as though delivering a benediction. Severus is on his knees, hated and hateful, his cheek pressed desperately to a velvet robe. He can feel the preternatural strength pouring from the man. His fingers tremble as he reaches...
Severus Snape is a skilled magician. Potions, arithmancy, magical theory—he excels in these fields. His understanding of magic in its smallest increments is absolute. He disassembles spells and creates them. He is an expert duellist, his hexes and curses precise and, moreover, elegant. His magic is learned rather than intuitive, and he is a better wizard for it. He is.
"Open up. Ah...lovely..."
On his knees, he is lowly, clumsy. He feels it in the bruises forming on his shins. The floor is hard and cold. His stomach thrills as his lips touch the half-hard sex. His mouth runs dry, and he bites his tongue to make the saliva come. The heat is washing over him now as the magic stirs. So much power in one drying, dying, winter-grey body.
Severus Snape is brilliant. He is learned, and he is cunning, and he is as able as any wizard on this earth save two. But his magic is cerebral. As a child, he was never seized by fits of spontaneous magic; he never flew, never set the bed on fire. He learned it, as meticulously as he learned to read and write.
Albus Dumbledore, however...
Oh, Severus can feel it. Every time the man allows him near, Severus can feel the hum and shiver of untold reserves of magic in potentia. He can taste it, he can smell it. He can hear it as the blood rushes in his ears and his groin pulses almost painfully.
Severus's lips and tongue are skilled, and he pays tribute with them. His mouth is hungry and careful at once, resentful and reverent. He despises the coarseness of the act: the thick length stretching his jaw, making his eyes sting. The blunt head nudges at the back of his throat again and again, and his hands clutch futilely at robes that smell of incense and candle wax.
And when it comes...ah, when it comes, the room thrums with magic and Severus is swept away. He swoons. His vision blurs, and his back arches. He tumbles back against the hard, cold floor, sprawled ugly and ungainly on the stones. He is trembling violently, his teeth nearly chattering with the force of it. He can feel the mess in his drawers, wet and sticky and revolting.
Albus Dumbledore looks down on him from above, seemingly a mile tall and unfathomably old. His mouth curves, perhaps mockingly, perhaps fondly. His eyes are bright and inscrutable as always. "The passion of Saint Severus," he says softly, and if there is pleasure in his voice, it seems to be at his own immeasurable cleverness.
Severus closes his eyes, pierced with arrows, and in that moment fully feels his place within the universe.