TITLE: Personal Private Perfect
AUTHOR: Seeker
PAIRING: SS/Gilderoy Lockhart, implied SS/HP and SS/AD
DISCLAIMER: no harm, no foul
SUMMARY: Response to Scenario Number 26. Snape is discovered in a compromising situation.
NOTES: Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest (Snape/Lockhart pairing) with special thanks to Sushi for the bloody bunny.
ARCHIVING: The Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest Archive, other SS/HP archives and seeker's sex space after the Fest ends.


Some things in life are meant to be kept secret and doomed to fail.

Severus Snape, Master of Potions, Terror of Hogwarts, disdained, despised and demonized by the denizens of his dungeons for years, added another adjective to his listing and changed the course of his personal history one dingy morning, when one of life's bigger secrets flamed into startling life in front of forty seventh-year Gryffindors and Slytherins, who from that moment onward added "desired" to his honorary titles.

Not that it all began that morning, of course. No, the roots of his humiliation and veneration went back much further than a single morning.

It was all that bloody Lockhart's fault.

And Harry Potter had a front row seat.


Snape had hated him the moment he set eyes on the perfect blond locks, the sparkling sapphire eyes, the ridiculous plush embroidered robes, and the creamy skin covering the high cheekbones and setting off the ruby lips of the darling of Witches' Weekly. Gilderoy Lockhart was a fool, a danger, an insult.

He turned Snape on something fierce.

Not that he'd ever admit that to anyone. Even under the influence of a curse, or torture, or extreme duress. A good single malt, on the other hand, took his inhibitions out at the knees, and he found himself stalking the back alleys of Hogsmeade, on the trail of the elusive Lockhart.

He didn't remember much of the evening. Catching up with Gildy surrounded by a horde of vapid witches (and several equally vapid gayboy wizards), it took Snape several concentrated moments of Death Glare before the idiot groupies got the message and left. Then Lockhart turned and ... glittered at him.

Snape had him pinned up against the wall with his tongue past those perfect teeth and down that golden throat before he could stop himself.

From there, it was a short fall from grace. He ate Lockhart's mouth until the man was jelly, then rucked his robes up about his waist, turned him to face the wall, pulled his prick out, and committed various felonious sexual acts barely under cover of darkness. Happily, his earlier Death Glare had not only dispersed the crowd, it had cowed further onlooking, so Snape was able to fuck Lockhart boneless without an audience.

When he finished, after wrapping his arm around Lockhart's throat to stifle the screams of ecstasy and driving Gildy to three orgasms and utter exhaustion, Snape leaned against the trembling, sweating, still perfect body and slowly allowed himself to slip free. He buried his face in tumbled golden curls and tried to sober up, not sure if it was the whiskey or the fuck that had drained his brains from his head, but vaguely aware he needed them back.

Eventually, he got enough strength back to withdraw completely, and stepped a foot away, glaring at Lockhart. Who turned, shakily, stared up at Snape with big glimmering azure eyes, and breathed, "More? Soon?" before he slid down the wall to land in a (still perfect) heap on the ground.

With a curt nod and a sharp "Harrumph!" Snape pivoted on his heel, aware he'd just committed himself to at least one further sexual bout with Lockhart and not as bothered by it as he should have been, considering he loathed the git. Of course, as long as Lockhart didn't talk, just lay there and let himself be fucked, it would be all right.

Of course that wasn't how it happened.

The second time he ended up conjoined at the privates with Gilderoy Lockhart he was on the bottom, and not quite sure how he got there. He'd gone up to Lockhart's suite for some (now completely forgotten) reason having nothing to do with sex. Once past the door, he'd been too busy flinching from the silvery spangles and powder blue satin hangings draped every few feet to hear Lockhart's approach.

That was his fatal error. Next thing he knew, Lockhart suddenly sprouted at least five pairs of arms, and all of them were intent on wringing every last ounce of sensation out of Snape's body that they could get. He'd never been so quickly stripped, tipped, and nipped as he was that day. Splayed on the Queen-sized (of course) bed, starkers and rampant, he was still trying to catch his breath when Lockhart swallowed his prick down to the curls and did something amazingly wicked with his fingers in Snape's arse.

"Holy hell!" he screamed, and came like a runaway train. Lockhart slurped and hummed and happily gave him enough suction to take the paint off a wall, and by the time Snape was drained he felt like Lockhart had sucked his skeleton out the end of his prick. Everything was limp.

Making it perfectly simple for Lockhart to roll him over, prop him up, and slide home.

Snape, having never experienced fucking from the other side, was understandably goggly-brained by the whole thing. Considering the fact that Lockhart was unusually well-hung and knew what to do with the extra-large sausage he wielded, Snape had no chance whatsoever. Lockhart pumped and wriggled and screwed away until Snape was hard as a rock again, then reached around and pulled him until he came the second time.

With Lockhart still pumping perfectly in time to his spasms all the way through.

Then Lockhart paused long enough to fold Snape's legs under him and rotate him on that huge cock like a kebob on a barbeque, causing another involuntary spasm as the mushroom head on it rubbed all round his prostate. By the time they settled, and Snape stopped gibbering, he was on his back, his ankles up over Lockhart's shoulders, his arms outflung at his sides, and Lockhart was putting his back into it.

If there'd been a drop of spunk left in him, he'd've given it then. But, balls empty as they were, all he could do was lie there and moan like a wanton slut as Lockhart ground away, finally coming so hard and so long sperm flooded back out of Snape's hole, practically drowning the bed.

Afterward, Lockhart collapsed on top him and fell asleep. It took some time and effort for Snape to unentangle himself and crawl off the bed. Lockhart never stirred. It was the longest walk back to the dungeon Snape had ever taken, once he finally found all his clothing and dressed, and it was three days before he could walk without feeling his arse ache.

On the fourth day he went back to Lockhart's room. Closed, locked, warded and sound-proofed everything he could see, stripped naked, and bent over Lockhart's ridiculously ornate mahogany desk. Lockhart burbled at him, but Snape ignored the inanity and wagged his arse in Gildy's face until the twit got the message.

It took him nearly a week to recover from that reaming. Took most of the first night to wipe the stupid smile off his face. When it was over, and he'd come three times, and Lockhart had widened his arsehole until a bloody lorry could drive through it, Snape finally admitted to himself that he'd become addicted to Lockhart's cock.

It took another two months and nine more times getting his arse pounded through, respectively, Lockhart's sofa, Lockhart's bed (three times), Lockhart's desk (twice more), Snape's work table (only once, as Gildy objected to the mess Snape didn't bother to clean up before bending over it), Snape's desk (twice) and Snape's bed before he admitted it to Lockhart.

That led to another round with the single malt. When he woke from that, he had a splitting headache, a rumbling tummy, and his entire arse felt like it was on fire.

Which was unusual. He was used to feeling like he'd had a two by four rammed up his hole after Lockhart got done with him. But he wasn't into spanking, since the mix of sex and pain had been forever ruint for him by the truly disgusting things Voldemort enjoyed. Groggily reaching for the OuchBGone, he slugged back the anti-hangover potion and rolled over to get up out of bed.

Shrieked like a cat whose tail's been stepped on and shot off the bed like his arse was literally on fire.

Moving as swiftly as he could to the full length mirror Lockhart had installed in his bedroom the very first night they'd spent there, Snape stared over his shoulder at the mirror and tried to tell himself he wasn't seeing what he was seeing. Except this mirror didn't lie, particularly when the mirror was chortling so hard it nearly cracked and reading the damning evidence out loud.

"Personal, private, perfect property of Gilderoy P. Lockhart," the mirror sang out, laughing all the while. Snape glared at it hard enough to break it, but it didn't notice. Giving up on intimidating inanimate animated objects as a bad deal, Snape studied his arse.

And the glowing black tattoo etched across it that did, indeed, mark him as Lockhart's property, in appropriately curly, ridiculously over-decorated, permanently glittering ink. His right cheek read "Personal, Private" then across the crease to his left that continued "Perfect Property" then the eye trailed back to the right cheek where it continued "of Gilderoy" back to the left "P. Lockhart." A shudder ripped through him, and the ink flashed rainbow colors.

He might have fainted at that point, from sheer shock, but for the secondary shock afforded when he looked down his front. His cock, silly lump of lust that it was, seemed to find the branding of his arse rather exciting, and was half-hard. Which made it spectacularly clear that his arse wasn't the only thing to suffer an addition whilst he was drunk out of his mind in Lockhart's keeping.

A thin, worked, black and silver ring pierced the front of his prick, pushing his foreskin back, circling up and entering the pee slit. He stared down at it in shock. He was still staring at it in shock, tattoo temporarily forgotten, when Lockhart bounced through the door.

"Lovely! Darling! You're up!" A pause, a smirk and a delicate stroke of a finger across the top of Snape's extremely sensitive cockhead, and Snape's actual head shot up to stare at Lockhart in ... horror, disbelief, more shock, any of those would have been acceptable emotions. The emotion pouring out of his expression, unfortunately for his pride, was none of them.

It was hunger. Blatant, raw and unrestrained. Who knew Snape had a jones for body piercing? Not Snape, not until it happened.

Lockhart blinked, and the smirk heated up. "You know, you have to be celibate for a week until it heals, then nothing too strenuous for a couple months."

Snape growled. Lockhart touched a finger to his lips, another to the bead on the ring, and skipped back out of the room.

The next week was the longest in Snape's life as he walked very gently and researched every medimagic text he could get his hands on to find a way to heal penis piercing faster. The best he could come up with was a spell to shorten healing time, but it was still a good ten days before he was all healed up.

And Lockhart, damn him for stoking the fire, refused to touch him until it was.

All of the anticipation eventually paid off. On the eleventh day, Snape cornered Lockhart in his office, sealed the place up tighter than a virgin's snatch, and spread himself like an offering across the desk. His desperation earned him an even better reaction than he expected, as Lockhart grabbed Snape's arse cheeks, spread them wide, and almost jumped on him.

Seemed the sight of Lockhart's property stamp on Snape's arse did much the same thing for him that the new piercing did for Snape. Lockhart fucked Snape until they literally collapsed on the floor, rolling off the desk, humping desperately through orgasm after orgasm, like a truly inspired or incredibly bad gay porn flick. Then, just when Snape was certain every cell in his body was bone-dry, Lockhart finally pulled out, rolled him over, and began to play with his bead.

That wrenched a dry orgasm out of him that literally made him black out.

When he came to, Lockhart was propped over him, idly playing with his limp, drained, pierced prick, sending delicious little jolts all the way through him. Snape tried to form words to ask him what devious plan was passing through what passed for his brain, but his tongue was as blown as the rest of his muscles, and the best he could do was groan interrogatively. Lockhart beamed at him.

"I have the most wonderful idea!"

Another inquisitive groan.

"Oh, we'll let it be a surprise. Meet me at the pub Friday at nine. Wear nothing under your robes."

Snape was still groaning when Lockhart kissed him like a ravenous cannibal and bounced out the door. It took longer for Snape to recover enough to move. His tattoo, and his ring, glowed happily. He refused to admit he was, too, but he did play with his piercing that night until he fell asleep.

Two days later he found himself in a room upstairs of the pub, lying naked on the bed as Lockhart straddled his thighs. Watching with wide eyes, arms straining at chains keeping him in place, as Lockhart removed his beloved ring and slowly inserted a six inch hollow metal tube all the way down his prick.

Screamed with sheer unadulterated pleasure as it opened him up to the balls, as Gildy rotated and shifted it up and down, stroking him off from the inside out. He'd never realized the inside of his prick was even more sensitive than the outside, and he went insane with the sensation as the tube opened him, rubbed him, turned him inside out. He couldn't take his eyes off his prick.

When he came, it fountained out the end of the tube at high pressure, splattering across Lockhart's chest, up onto his face. It was the most exquisite orgasm Snape had ever experienced. He wanted to keep coming forever. Unfortunately, everything wonderful must end (usually much too soon), and he lay panting and whimpering when he was done.

Prick still stretched. Tube still whispering in him.

Lockhart ran a finger through the spunk on his chest and licked it, mm-ing appreciatively. "You liked that, yes?"

"Stupid question," Snape rasped. That earned him another beaming smile.

"Then you won't mind keeping it in, eh?"

Snape was still trying to figure out what Lockhart was talking about when Gildy reached over and pulled his prick up a bit. Then he screwed a ball into the end of the tube and used it to rotate the tube inside Snape's cock. That prompted a lot of twitching and gibbering, but Lockhart was too busy to appreciate the degradation he was causing in Snape's mental functions.

Too busy anchoring the tube in Snape's prick, with a retaining post topped by a bead just like the one on Snape's ring, through the piercing under his glans. When he was finished, with a cheery, "Voila!", Snape felt the tube holding his prick half-erect, bolted in place, constantly rubbed from the inside, now weighted by the ball at the end.

Electricity danced up his nerve endings as Lockhart rolled him onto his knees and plunged into him. The rigidity of the tube in his prick, the weight of the plug, the friction under his glans from the bolt, and the heavy slap and stretch of Lockhart's cock in his arse, sent Snape into Nirvana. His balls grew heavy as he got harder and harder, the swelling pressing his flesh even harder against the tube, and he whined uncontrollably from the sensual overload.

Lockhart gave him no rest, riding him hard, reaching beneath him to play with his rod, pinch his nipples, squeeze his prick against the intruder inside. Reality ceased to exist, leaving nothing but the hunger raging through his body, charring his brain to ashes. When he could take no more without losing consciousness, Lockhart relented, unscrewing the plug and pressing his fingertips around the bolt running through his piercing.

Snape came again, even harder than he had the first time, the velocity of his spunk flying out jacked up higher by the steel tube, to the point he was vaguely surprised it didn't shred the mattress like sperm shrapnel. He was still convulsing when he passed out.

Several moments passed before he slowly came round. Lockhart was snuggled up to him, playing gently with his prick, causing still more shivers, although it was quite beyond him to get hard again.

"Do you like my surprise, then, my own?"

Deciding not to challenge Lockhart on the proprietary air, considering how little ground he had to stand on, Snape deemed a vigourous nod sufficient agreement. Lockhart beamed again, but for some reason, probably because his brain had boiled out his skull at the same rate the tube was fed into his prick, Snape didn't find it as irritating as he usually did.

"Then you won't mind wearing it all the time." It wasn't a question. Snape was too caught up in the vivid mental image of himself, walking around with his prick dangling free beneath his robes, stretched by the tube, anchored by the bolt, weighted by the plug, to care.

"Yes," he breathed.

Lockhart rewarded him by flipping him over onto his belly and fucking him raw again. Snape was quite satisfied. On all fronts.

Unfortunately, as the school year progressed, the essential Lockhart that Snape loathed became harder and harder to ignore in favor of the fuck buddy who could turn him inside out (and did, on a regular basis). The warm glow of the never-fading tattoo, and the constant low-level sexual arousal prompted by the wand bolted into his prick, kept Snape from actually strangling Lockhart when they were in public and clothed. But eventually it all became too much to bear.

Particularly when Lockhart was cornered, and his cowardly, self-serving, desperate actions nearly brought down the school and killed several students. Which led to a rebounding memory curse that effectively halted their lust affair, since Lockhart couldn't remember who he himself was, much less Snape.

It was ... not necessarily heartbreaking, but intensely frustrating. After several months of having the stuffing regularly fucked out of him, even the intense sensations he could arouse with masturbation with his lovely tube wasn't enough. A month went by, then another fortnight, and Snape cracked.

Not telling anyone, he carefully stretched his arse in anticipation of a good work-out, dressed appropriately then hid it under his robes, walked to the edge of the wards and apparated to St. Mungos. Once at the hospital, it was the work of a moment to lie through his clenched teeth and be given a pass on 'Hogwarts' business' to see the now infamous ex-darling of the wizarding world.

Who looked incredibly delicious, very lonely, and bored out of his perfect skull when Snape walked in the door. His cerulean eyes sparkled.

"I know you!" he chirped, then looked confused. "Don't I?" He glanced down at the erection springing to life under his blanket. "Well, parts of me must."

Snape didn't bother conversing, since that was a sure way to get irritated with the twit all over again, and would interfere with his goal, which was to get laid as thoroughly and as quickly as possible. He closed the door, warded and locked it, threw a sound-proofing spell on the walls, and dropped his robes.

It was Lockhart's turn to gibber. Snape gave a razor-edged grin, stalking slowly up to the side of the bed to give Gildy the opportunity to take in the splendor that was Snape in heat. He wore a thin braided black leather collar, and matching black leather chaps that hugged his long legs and hung low on his hips. The cut of the garment perfectly outlined the black bush at the base of his prick, highlighted by the creamy white skin of his lower belly and inner thighs.

The ever-present tube, only removed now for cleaning then put right back in, and the anticipation heating his blood, hardened his prick, sending it waving in Lockhart's direction like a heat-seeking missile. A foot from the bed he stopped, slowly palming his now leaking erection, and allowed his grin to widen. Then he pivoted on his heel and slowly bent over, staring at Lockhart over his shoulder the entire time.

His reaction was impressive.

Snape watched as Lockhart read the tattoo across his arse, eyes widening until they threatened to pop out of his head. Reaching behind himself, Snape ran a hand down from the small of his back to his arse, bared by the chaps, perfectly outlined like a stark white tattooed heart surrounded by supple black leather. His fingers slid from leather to skin, down the crease to his hole, slicked and still slightly stretched.

He slipped a finger in.

Lockhart panted.

A second, and scissored them apart, flashing his hole at Lockhart like a lap-dancer showing off exotic moves.

The panting developed a hitch that quickly escalated to a moan.

A third finger joined the other two, sinking in and pulling out, mimicking precisely what Snape wanted from Lockhart. Gildy scrabbled for the blankets.

Snape had his fingers back out of his arse and was across the floor straddling the supine Lockhart before he could leave the bed. He dragged the ball plug of his tube over and over Lockhart's prick, shivering at the sensation as the tube shifted this way and that, then leaned over and bit fiercely at Lockhart's mouth until he got the kiss he wanted.

It was the work of a moment to shift forward, reach back, grab Lockhart's now hard cock, and sit down on it. Without breaking the kiss.

Instinctively Lockhart reached forward as Snape settled down on him, his fingers wrapping around the prick poking him in the belly and squeezing. Snape writhed in his grasp like a snake under the sway of a charmer, and soon both men were moaning in unison.

It wasn't enough.

Muscle memory kicked in where actual memory was blank, and Lockhart reared up on the bed, nearly oversetting both of them in his haste to put Snape on his back. A quick adjustment in body position had Snape bucking up into him, then Lockhart ran his hands over the warm leather and stretched Snape's legs up over his shoulders.

Getting his knees under him, bettering the angle and nailing Snape's prostate with every thrust, Lockhart proved all over again that the single activity at which he truly excelled was fucking. Snape's head rolled back helplessly against the mattress as Gildy reamed him, hands slipping and sliding on the leather as he fought to keep purchase, each jolt pushing him further and further in until Snape thought he was going to be split completely open and Lockhart would crawl right up his arse.

It sounded like an exceptional idea to Snape.

It went on, and on, pounding his hole until it felt delightfully pulverized, shaking his entire body until every muscle went tense, then limp, his cock swelling against the tube in a way he could never replicate in a solitary session, until it was too much, and he had to come. Untangling one hand from Lockhart's sweaty curls, Snape reached between them and unplugged his tube. Lockhart's hand followed, diving below Snape's prick and roughly massaging his balls.

Snape came so hard it felt like he imploded. For once, Lockhart wasn't able to keep going through it, either because enforced celibacy had robbed him of control or because the contractions milking his prick were stronger than they'd ever been. For whichever reason, as Snape was coming down from his climax, Lockhart exploded into him, humping him desperately, flooding his arse with spunk.

Feeling Lockhart collapse against him, carefully bringing his legs down and letting them fall loosely to the side of Lockhart's hips, Snape allowed Gildy's cuddle and closed his eyes for a well-earned catnap.

Unfortunately, he was more, well, shagged-out than he expected. He awoke the next morning to the sound of someone pounding on the door, cursing the wards. Jolting up out of the bed, Snape looked wildly at the clock and realized he'd been there much too long. He had barely enough time to get back to the school before he was due to teach his first class. Leaning over the confused Lockhart, Snape pecked him on the lips, snagged and shrugged into his robe, then apparated just as the doctor broke through the wards.

The last thing he heard as he disappeared was Lockhart's plaintive, "But who ARE you? Please come back!"

Perhaps he should have reintroduced himself before jumping on Lockhart and getting himself fucked senseless. Ah, well, there was always next time. He apparated on the border of the wards at Hogwarts and ran like the wind for the castle.

Not having time for so much as a stop to sluice off, Snape muttered a descenting charm as he stalked into the dungeons, checking compulsively to make sure every single button was in place and securely fastened. He had one class, the seventh year combined Gryffindor/Slytherin group, then a free hour before his next. All he had to do was make it through ninety minutes with no calamities and he'd be free to clean himself up to his normal standards.

Of course, Neville Bloody Longbottom made damned sure he didn't get the chance.

Eighty seven minutes into the ninety minute class, Longbottom's potion disintegrated, taking Longbottom's cauldron with it. Snape had the supreme misfortune to be in the direct line of fire, with barely time to throw up an instinctive protective charm. For his person.

Not his clothing.

His robe billowed as the spray of corrosive fluid covered it from his sleeves to his hem, as he pivoted away to protect his scalp, face and hands. Thanks to the charm he spat out, he was unhurt.

He was also left dressed in only the ragged shoulder seams of his robe ... and his black leather chaps.

His protective position left him in a three-quarter turn with his back to the class, and the concerted gasp from forty seventh years' throats told him the worst had happened. He didn't need Goyle's "What's it say?", Malfoy's choked moan, Weasley's gagging noises or Hermione Granger's precise "Personal, private, perfect property of Gilderoy P. Lockhart. I can't believe you've made it this far and you're still illiterate. Augh!"

Snape couldn't tell if the agonized cry at the end was at Goyle's incompetence or if the realization of what she'd just read had finally penetrated through the nest of curls into her brain. He had more pressing concerns, beginning with how on earth to get out of the classroom with any of his dignity still left intact. Acting on instinct, he whirled around again, intent on hiding the tattoo, albeit much too late.

His instinct was off. Turning a little too quickly to face the rabid students, he lost his balance and threw his hands behind him to brace himself against his work table. Which left no free hands to cover the seven inches of prick, complete with Prince's Wand and bolt, sticking out perpendicular to his body for all the world as if it were reaching for the nearest student.

Who was, of course, Harry Potter.

Thankfully, before Snape could actually expire from embarrassment, class ended, and he yelped "GO!"

They did, shocked and titillated students stomping like a herd of wild elephants for the corridor. As they went, he concentrated, brought his wand to bear, and did his best to cast a memory-blurring spell on the lot of them. He wasn't sure how well it took, but every little bit helped, and perhaps it would be enough to keep from getting him sacked once the news made it to the Headmaster.

That is, they all went ... except Potter.

Who leaned forward, wrapped his hand calmly around Snape's prick, and tugged it up to the light to see better. Against his will Snape moaned and his hips thrust forward as the tube shifted and Potter's fingers caught the bolt.

"Does it hurt?" Potter asked with scientific curiosity that under other circumstances would have been commendable.

"Guahgh," Snape gurgled as the fingers moved over him.

Potter gave him a look through dark lashes, then leaned down and caught the plug at the end of Snape's prick between his teeth. Snape froze, and began to whimper. Potter hummed, then opened his jaw just far enough for his tongue to come out and lick all the way around the end of the tube. The sensation where his hot tongue probed the edges of Snape's stretched slit made Snape's eyes roll back in his head.

Then that wonderful mouth and tormenting hand disappeared, and Snape grabbed the tatters of his composure, conjured a blanket, and covered himself as quickly as he could. Throughout his makeshift clothes-making procedure, Potter continued to watch him. Finally, Snape looked up and growled, a little breathlessly, "What do you want?"

Potter smiled.

It reminded Snape unnervingly of Lockhart right before Snape got tossed on his nose and thoroughly fucked.

"I'm sure we can work something out." He turned and walked from the room, pausing at the door to shoot a look full of promise over his shoulder. Snape was certain he was appalled. It couldn't be anticipation.

Not much, anyway.

Once he'd escaped to his rooms, grabbed enough layers of clothing to protect him from a winter holiday in Greenland, and taken several deep breaths, he made his way to Dumbledore's office. He knew, as the door opened before he raised his hand to knock, that the tale had preceded him.

He stepped inside gingerly, spine straight, prick rubbing the inside of his trousers in a disconcertingly arousing way, and stared with a mixture of humiliation and apology at Albus.

Who smiled at him.

Much as Potter had.

And said, "Property of Gilderoy Lockhart, eh? I do believe I have a prior claim ..."

Well, at least Snape didn't need to worry about getting sacked. Between the Headmaster and the Head Boy, he didn't have the energy left to worry about anything. For weeks. Once he got used to it, while it wasn't personal or private, it was as close to perfect as he could get ... until Lockhart came back to claim his property.

Or better yet, share it.

But that's a tale of a tail for another day.