Title: 52 hours
Warnings: voyeurism, mention of off-screen het i.e. Ron/Lavender

This was written before DH!
Summary: Ron to the rescue. When Ron sees more than he ever wanted he decides that there can only be one explanation: Snape has to have done something to Harry. But what?

Notes: This story is also known as '52 Hours'. The NC17 version can be found in my journal.

Won Won.

He was never going to live that one down. Ever. Even the memory made him cringe. And in front of his boss, too. What on earth had convinced him to bring her as his date? And to a Ministry function of all places? Ron ran a hand through his hair. It was his own fault, really.

He unbuttoned his collar with more force than necessary, scratching his neck.

Stupid, itchy collars, stupid itchy stuffy dress robes; no matter how well fitting, expensive or fashionable: they all sucked. And Lavender could leer all she wanted, they still made him look like a tit.

When he first signed up to be an Auror, he had never envisioned that having a career would include dress robes. Or boring gala dinners.

Patting his pockets for smokes, he sighed. Besides, how many weeks would it be - if ever - before his colleagues let him live down 'Won Won'?

Leaning against the wall he lit up, inhaled deeply, and smiled to himself. Given, those tits of hers were worth putting up with most of her crap.

In the distance a door opened, temporarily filling the hallway with eerie second-hand light and music. Ron pressed himself flat against the stone masonry, trying to blend into the shadows. He had –purposefully- wandered off rather far from the festively lit halls. The earful he would get if she caught him smoking …

The door closed, abruptly cutting of light and noise, leaving nothing but wavering shadows and the sound of his own breathing.

If one was afraid of the dark it would be …

Ron squared his shoulders. There is nothing in the shadows. I am a grown man, for crying out loud! He took another deep drag of his cigarette. The end glowed red in the dark.

A creak, a movement in the shadows - a little further down the corridor - made him jump.

Grown man, remember: Auror. Yes, I am an Auror. Whatever it is, it's more afraid of me than … Oh for crying out loud; it's Snape. Ron snorted. Good old Snape. The time when Snape could scare him was past. Long past.

Ron drew his wand, just in case.

The familiar tall figure stood, nearly hidden in the dark, facing the wall. Probably sneaking a smoke himself, the great old bat. Would explain his yellow teeth. Ron chuckled at the thought.

The slight groan he heard urged him closer.

Sheesh, Snape better not be hurling. Some of the canapés had tasted a little off, though. The git has probably been binging on the shrimp. Ron patted his stomach. After Hermione's cooking, he was sure nothing could ever mess with his digestion. At least Lavender didn't even bother trying to cook, or force feed him the efforts...

Another whispered groan echoed down the empty hallway. Use the loo, mate, no one wants to eviscarate your barf.

Ron stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed a hand threading through Snape's lank, greasy hair. No, ew! Someone - ew - someone was snogging Snape - Snape! How drunk did you have to get to …

Ron's line off thought was cut off as he watched in morbid fascination as that hand - he couldn't bring himself to think of it being attached to an actual person - crept down to squeeze the man's arse.

Snape was getting some. Snape of all people … The thought that anyone would want to do that with Snape was disgusting.

Harry is not going to believe me. No one is going to bloody believe me. He took a drag from his cigarette and sighed. Maybe if I get my hands on a Pensieve...

Shadows and moonlight were not kind to Snape's features as he threw his head back, baring his neck. The hand – Ron's brain insisted that it must be a puppet spell or an illusion - had abandoned Snape's arse - though not before squeezing it roughly - to twine tightly with Snape's own hand while the hooker, short, pale skin and dark hair - it had to be a hooker - planted nipping kisses on Snape's throat - behind his ear.

The hooker definitely had dark hair, but to Ron's disappointment her face was still obscured by darkness.

It had to be a hooker. No one else would… Well, maybe Bullstrode …

As he entertained the thought of how much someone like Snape would have to pay - Ron estimated a rough 30 Galleons, at least. Button upon button of Snape's dress robes were undone, revealing pasty-pale skin. The hand sneaked down the front of Snape's gaping robe, tenderly ghosting over prominent ribs.

Wow she was good, that passion seemed real. Maybe she was closing her eyes or had had an aphrodisiac or something.

Snape's skeletal fingers cradled the hooker's head, pulling her up fiercely, desperately, hungrily locking their lips together.

They did charge extra for kisses, didn't they?

Ron made out a whispered, 'Now, here,' before Snape was spun around and pressed against the wall by the other man. Ron blinked. Once. Twice.

His brain barely had time to register that Snape was getting it on with a bloke before he noticed something eerily familiar about the hooker kneeling before Snape. Too horrified to look away, Ron watched as the greasy bastard's trousers were hurriedly unfastened.

If Ronald Weasley had thought that the last thing he ever wanted to see was a hooker deep-throating Snape, he was wrong. In all actuality, the last thing he had ever wanted to see was Harry, on his knees, servicing Snape with apparent pleasure. . . Yet there they were.

Snape's knees gave ever so slightly and his hips rocked forward as he gasped. There was lust in Harry's eyes when he looked up at Snape. A guttural moan escaped Snape's bloodless lips. A pale hand cradled Harry's chin, the thumb brushing gently over moist, swollen sucking lips before ghosting over hollow cheeks, to hold him steady to the task.

Ron fled. All he could do was not to scream. The image of his best friend … servicing … the ugly bastard was nearly too much to bear. He hadn't even known Harry was gay. No. Was not gay. Could not be gay. Especially not with that … that bastard.

He felt like hitting someone, preferably Snape.

Lavender found him later that night as he drowned the sordid and disgusting images in the punch bowl.

Considering her low cut dress gown and the heat of her kisses as she dragged him off to the ladies room, he thought to himself that she certainly had her merits... despite the 'Won Won' and the nagging.

At sunrise when she and Ron lay awake in his bed, their discarded dress robes as entangled as their bodies, he vowed to uncover and reverse whatever sick love spell Snape had to have cast on his best friend.

For Harry to miss out on this was not fair. Not fair at all.