now if you're ready, oysters dear, we can begin to feed
It was Wednesday, Snape noted idly, and he thought back to the menu from any times he had dined with the Malfoy's on a Wednesday. The Hogwarts elves determined the menu rotation through some complex calculations he'd never been privy to, but over the years he'd noticed that the pattern could be FELT, and after his third year in teaching, it had become something of a game to try to discern in advance what would appear on that tables. He was correct more than seventy percent of the time, so though he still couldn't put words to the rules they were using (thus being incorrect nearly thirty percent of the time - on those days, he knew his students wondered at the root of his increased irritation), he clearly had an intuitive grasp of the pattern, so it was likely that he would also be able to at least hazard an educated guess.
Although since he dined far more infrequently with Lucius than the thrice-daily times he was expected (forced) to eat with the student body during the school year, he still wasn't quite sure if the Malfoy house-elves used the same pattern as the Hogwarts elves, or some other pattern. His accuracy was closer to a third of the time than the nearly three in four correct guesses at his place of employ, but he wasn't sure whether the cause was a different pattern, or simply that the pattern was easier to intuit when fully immersed as opposed to when he dipped in and out at random sample points.
The potions master was so caught up in his idle calculations that he didn't even notice the notice-me-not effect surrounding the cloud of darkness that emerged from a barely noticed doorway, nor did it occur to him that he had ceased his sweeping stride and was now functionally immobilized. As he mentally poured over the mental menu list he had painstakingly compiled from the first day he noticed that he could feel the pattern of the Hogwarts menu rota and started keeping track of everything he ate - Loki drew near, and gazed into his distracted eyes.
---
Loki chuckled at the potions master's chasing down an illusive pattern of menu choices. He'd noticed in his time dining in the Midgardian realm that rotational menu options were either governed by a very straight-forward repeating pattern that could be discerned within approximately three rotations of exposure, or were truly random and impossible to determine without being privy to the subconscious details of the inner lives of an ever changing rotation of staff. Perhaps if his interest was patterns rather than chaos, he might have put as much effort into tracking down the pattern as this seiðrmaðr was doing - yet it seemed these "house elves" operated differently from the midgardians. This might be interesting to explore together with his new childe, once he was turned. He thanked the norns that popular lore was incorrect in deciding that vampires could not eat anything but human blood, otherwise the years-long ongoing data collection it would take would be quite tedious. As it was, dining with his new companion looked to prove quite an enjoyable diversion.
But first, the man needed to become his childe.
Loki circled around Severus Snape - such delightful alliteration! - then drew up behind him. Pressing his chest against the man's back, he lowered his head over his shoulder. He had tried so many different positions when feeding from Roharim - both before and after his turning - and they always came back to this one. But this man was taller, he didn't need to bend over nearly at all. His chin rested easily on the man's shoulder, as he tilted his head and took a deep breath of the scent coming from the carotid artery near the surface.
Of course, he wouldn't be FEEDING from the artery - trying to drink quickly enough keep up with the equivalent of a firehose would not leave him clear-headed enough to time the wrap-up correctly. Besides, he much preferred the slightly acidic tang of venous blood to the blander oxygenated stuff once the carbon dioxide had been stripped from the fluid (yes, Thor, it is actually possible to learn and use the correct terms and mythology that other cultures use to explain what is in the world).
He reached down into the man's neck with his seiðr until he found the vein. Positioned himself just so, and released his fangs down into the skin.
The fresh, sharp taste flooded his mouth, pouring out of the upper hole in his fangs even before he pulled any vacuum through them. For a moment he just stood, savoring the irresistible tang and idly following along as his soon-to-be childe continued his attempt to find a pattern in the house-elves menu. The man was so dogged in his pursuit of the mystery, that Loki barely had to provide any mental distraction at all. Finally though, he began to draw the rich fluid in in earnest, until he felt satiated for the first time since... well, since before he learned he was jötunn.
He drew Severus closer, holding him close against his chest while he fed, the man relaxing deeper and deeper into his hold. Gradually, his thoughts stilled, and his body hung limp in Loki's arms.
After healing the puncture wounds. Loki gathered the taller man into his arms (WAS the other man taller? perhaps not, Loki was not wearing his usual boots, and the potions professor's footwear did have something of a heel), and stepped into the branches of yggdrasil, then into his own chambers in the heart of his mountain fortress. He laid the seiðrmaðr atop the comforter spread across his bed. He drew his favorite uru dagger, and drew the tip along his wrist. With the tip of the knife plugging most of the opening, only a small dark trickle oozed along his wrist. He twisted and shaped his hand while the rivulet ran down until it reached the tip of his index finger.
Gently easing the man's mouth open, he rested his finger against the teeth, and pulled the dagger from the wound. Quickly, the flow coated the dark man's tongue, and he swallowed unconsciously. More flowed in, another swallow, and another. Finally, Loki bent to seal the puncture in his arm. There was nothing left to do, but wait.
Loki brushed a lock of hair from the dark one's face, his hand resting on the softened cheek.
"Rest now, my Childe. I will see you when you wake."