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Notes: Snape/Hagrid hurt/comfort, written as a Christmas present for Slytherlynx.

The Visitor
by

The first time he'd opened his door, five years ago, to that blood-soaked, trembling figure--he'd never thought of the consequences.

The first time he'd seen that face, drawn white with pain, black eyes glittering, he'd never thought of anything but the need to heal. Because this was another injured animal, wild and angry and hurt, and Hagrid knew where to touch, where to soothe, where to bandage the wounds.

The first time he'd caught that falling body, those hands clenching his robes for support--he hadn't thought of what it might mean.

Hagrid didn't question why--he didn't ask whether Snape had returned from another mission for the Order, or if Malfoy had cursed him again, for hours on end. Hagrid didn't ask if Snape should wait to be healed before entering the school--before showing the truth of his identity to those hundreds of hapless students, who would no doubt be shocked to see their Professor in shreds.

Hagrid didn't ask why, because Dumbledore had told him--that Snape needed a refuge, a place both on Hogwarts grounds and out of the children's sight, a place to recover and to be healed, a place where he would not be revealed. A place where he could gather strength before returning to the school, all rapid-fire insults and sneers and black rage again.

Hagrid didn't ask why.

He only opened his door, that first time and innumerable times afterwards, to see the smudge of that pale face in the darkness, that white mask held in shaking hands, cracked and splattered with blood. 'Cr-cruciatus,' Snape would whisper, an unnecessary password, and Hagrid would let him in.

From there the ritual would begin--Snape, unnaturally hot even though his teeth were chattering, would say nothing more. He'd stay silent as Hagrid undressed him--quivering with hurt and trying not to show it--and the robes would come off, sticky layer by sticky layer, leaving swathes of blood-red on that pale, pale skin.

Snape would never whisper 'please', wouldn't ask for gentleness--but Hagrid, feeling clumsy and too-large handling this thin, broken thing, would smooth his hands along that skin tenderly. Out came the ointments--blue for the fever, white for dulling the nerves--and Hagrid set to work, slow and cautious, catching his breath at every involuntary noise Snape made.

Hagrid never asked Snape what happened, and Snape didn't tell him--Snape's thin mouth would be closed so tightly that it appeared almost bloodless, and his thighs twitched like the flanks of a horse when Hagrid ran wet cloth along them. The cuts healed under the ointments, Snape's throat swallowed around the potions, and the pain dulled slowly, slowly, until Snape's eyes grew heavy with relief.

And then--when, as a mark of rare trust, Snape fell asleep--then Hagrid would sit back, pulse beating heavily, still watching his midnight guest. Fang always fled, as usual, at the first sign of company--but the warmth of the hut was still companionable, firelight flickering over Snape's near-naked form. White skin lit with tongues of gold. Hagrid sat, and stared, and wondered--wondered at the beauty of this silken, lonely creature, and folded his hands to keep from touching it without cause. A wounded body needed sleep, after all, and Hagrid would stand watch until dawn--throwing his old, tattered blankets over Snape as the sky lightened, as the birds began to stir outside, as Fang's paws scuffed the door again.

And Snape would wake up at that--as he always did--his eyes sudden and unnaturally sharp, as though he hadn't slept at all. He'd get up stiffly, steadily, refusing help from Hagrid until he needed to put on his robes. Clean after a spell or two, and back on Snape's shoulders, they were nothing but pure black starch again. Not even a whiff of blood.

Snape would thank him--in an odd, murmuring voice--eyes not quite meeting his. Hagrid would wonder, sometimes, if Snape hated being that helpless--in front of anyone, anyone at all, but especially him--because Snape's face never eased, not even for an instant, as he put on his boots, refused to wince, and stepped out carefully into the dawn. Instead Hagrid got used to it; opening the door to the cold morning wind, squinting into the fog as Snape stalked off, cloak billowing in the distance like a dark and twisting leaf.

Hagrid never asked why, just as he never said no. He never wondered when Snape's body became part of his dreams, because it felt like it had always been there--pale, translucent, smooth as wax. He never questioned the way Snape wasn't marked with blood in these dreams, but sweat--the way those thin thighs parted like branches, open and inviting, as Hagrid ran trembling hands along them. He never questioned, never dared to, not even as he closed his eyes and touched himself in the dark; because it was too much to hope for, because Snape was too fierce, because this was one magical creature Hagrid could never hope to tame.

The only mark of their encounters a slight lessening of vitriol during meal-times, when Hagrid sat next to Snape and did not, surprisingly, have to tolerate Snape's usual tirades against the students at large. Instead Snape barely talked to him, except to ask for the salt--barely looked at him, as though Hagrid weren't even there. If Hagrid felt disappointed at this, or angry, he gave no sign--he was polite as always, his guttural voice soft and patient, perhaps only a shade less gentle than it was when they met at night.

And so it went. Every few weeks or so, Snape would rasp weakly outside his door; and Hagrid would let him in, with no more than a word or two spoken, and would begin their ritual of potions, massage and sleep. Snape seemed too tired to notice that Hagrid's touches were rather more reverent than they should have been; that perhaps his hands lingered too long on already-healed skin, that they slid too carefully down Snape's scarred, narrow arms. Hagrid felt a twist of guilt, bitter and unfamiliar, as he took whatever intimacy he could; storing up each touch, each flicker of those dark eyes, for the fever of his dreams.

It didn't matter; it didn't mean anything. This frail, broken creature was not the man he faced each day; this was a shadow, a ghost, a sylph. It mattered nothing--not until the night Snape staggered in, and Hagrid took him to the couch, and within ten minutes of starting his massage, his hand brushed the tip of Snape's cock.

Snape froze.

Hagrid, stunned at the accident, kept moving--directing his hands to the slender cuts on Snape's thighs; deliberately not looking at Snape's fevered eyes, which he knew were open. And fixed on him.

He did not look up when he smoothed the ointment into the wounds, and felt Snape flinch; he didn't look up when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Snape's cock begin to harden.

He did look up when, just as he was about to pull away, Snape's hand clamped down on his own.

Cold. Tight. Fierce. Hagrid stared at it--thin and white against his own--before he raised his eyes, slowly, and saw that Snape wasn't looking at him any more. Snape's eyes were closed, tightly--and he didn't say anything, didn't move his hand away.

Hagrid's heart seemed to stop beating. There was an echoing silence in his head--matching the sudden stillness of the room.

He moved his other hand, slowly, towards Snape's cock, which was barely half-hard among coarse, dark curls. His mouth went dry. At the first brush of his fingers Snape nearly jumped--but held still after that, immobile as though under a spell, barely breathing as Hagrid stroked him to hardness.

Hagrid was transfixed. Snape's cock was as thin and breakable as the rest of him--smooth as the rest of him, pulsing hotly in his palm. Life. He cradled it gently, tentative when he brushed the tip with the rough pad of his thumb--and heard Snape breathe deeply, suddenly, as though inflicted with pain.

He glanced up; to see that Snape had turned his face away, jaw tense, skin flushed. He looked injured, just as he did when he'd entered--but his eyes were closed too tightly for that, his pulse too quick and hot. Discipline. Discipline. Hagrid wondered who'd taught him that.

Because Snape's hips didn't move--not once, not even when the rest of him tensed--not even when Hagrid finally closed his hand around the base, palm broad and tight and warm, and stroked upwards to the tip. Snape's cock jumped, sudden and beautiful, and Hagrid watched in wonder as a stream of come, white and viscous and thick, filled his waiting hand.

Snape loosened, tension leaving his muscles by degrees, breath easing. He still didn't open his eyes, face slack with exhaustion--and, just like that, one hand still closed over Hagrid's, he fell asleep.

Hagrid stood watch as usual that night. His pulse beat quickly, and he felt hot and feverish. He watched Snape's body carefully, waiting for the moment when the sweat on that skin began to cool, and a shiver set in--and then, reluctantly, he fetched the blankets to cover it up. He waited for dawn, which rose fragile and weak, before he let Fang in--and Snape awoke, as usual, sudden and vigilant and fingers clenching his wand--before he saw Hagrid and calmed.

There was a strange silence, punctuated only by the rustle of cloth, as Snape dressed without his help. Snape glanced at him--dark and unreadable--and muttered his usual thanks before he walked out the door.

Hagrid watched, the cold of the morning seeping into his blood, as Snape's shape vanished into the fog.

The day passed. Nothing happened. Not that he'd have expected it to. That night, at dinner, Snape sat next to him with his usual, newly acquired silence--and when Hagrid returned to his hut, he returned alone. He realized that nothing had changed. Except that he knew what Snape's come felt like now, warm and heavy in his cupped palm, and he'd only be able to dream of it.

Nothing happened. Not for two days, not for three--dinner always progressing quick and silent, business-like. Snape ate his meal as though it were a chore--his hands quick and sure on knife and fork. He glanced sideways at Hagrid sometimes, which was unusual--but there was nothing more, nothing, to indicate that he noticed Hagrid at all.

Thus it was a surprise, barely a week later, to hear a knock at his door. Unusual. It was too late for Harry to visit--and Snape's mission wasn't scheduled yet. Hagrid rose, petting Fang's drooping head, and walked over to the door. Opened it.

And saw Snape.

Not injured, eyes glittering not with pain or fever but with wakefulness. Hagrid stepped back, surprised, as a silent Snape, entirely healthy and shoulders squared--walked into his hut.

Hagrid closed the door behind them.

They stared at each other.

Fang, as though sensing a burgeoning storm, hid under the rough oak table.

Hagrid wanted to ask Snape why he was here--why, after all these years, Snape had come to him when he had no wounds to be healed.

But he never got a chance. As he struggled with how to phrase that question, in a way that might not be indelicate, Snape spoke.

'Cruciatus,' said Snape, clearly. And Hagrid understood.

He hadn't been the only one waiting.

The hut seemed to be holding its breath, rafters creaking with the night wind even as the fire stirred lazily. Snape's eyes were black, lit with light, inexorable.

And so Hagrid stepped forward, hands trembling, to undo the clasp of Snape's robe. It fell to the ground, a black shadow around Snape's ankles. The shirt beneath was crisp, clean, unmarked with blood.

Hagrid could not speak. He remembered, suddenly, all those nights tending this broken body--learning its ways, its curves, its scars. It had been so long. Snape regarded him with trust--as he always had, for years, ever since the day he'd first fallen asleep on the couch.

Hagrid had been a fool. Nothing had changed. Never. Never. This had always been his. Always.

He undid the first button of Snape's shirt--and felt, almost imperceptibly, those stiff shoulders relax.

Snape kept his eyes open. Breathed.

And so their nightly ritual began.