Harry Potter And His Destruction

There are very few things in the world that make him smile, anymore. And Snape knows it, can smell out the weakness like an animal honing in on his prey. The professor's voice is harder, rougher, colder and more cutting, and the insults and comments slide into Harry's flesh like it was butter, smooth and cold and without any more resistance. Harry says nothing, but his eyes burn at times with tears that can't fall and the palms of his hands have holes in them where he dug in his nails, until the smell of blood and the sound of dripping liquid make Snape realize that he was too harsh. This realization stops him, but he smiles in satisfaction and what might be victory.

At night, Harry comes to Snape, and the older man fucks him until he doesn't think that he really has to smile, anymore. He feels like the world is ending and keens like a dying fawn, fingernails scrabbling as he tries to make the world right itself. He thinks he hates the man most in those hours, when it's not quite night and not quite morning, although there's never enough light in dungeons to see that clearly.

The only thing he really can see in those hours is the ugly grimace on the older man's face, yellow teeth bared in a snarl, greasy hair clinging to his face. He can see Snape's cock, looking exactly as it should, long and thin and just as awful as the rest of him. He can see the shadows on the opposite side of the dungeon, and he swears to keep his eyes open even as the world ends. He can hear Snape's cold, derisive, comments, (-stupid boy, can't you do anything right?)(-what do you think your doing? I knew you were stupid, but even Longbottom...) And he can feel the hot uncurling of embarrassment, the flush of shame, even as his body bucks and trembles and he yowls with something that's not quite love, and not quite hate.

He only kissed Snape once, the first time, and was struck across the face and told most clearly that the man wanted nothing to do with his sticky preadolescent fumblings, that there was nothing approaching love or romance in their relationship. Harry wanted to say he knew that, and he wanted to cry because he hadn't really, but he did neither. Snape sneered at him and told him to get out of his sight, and really what was he thinking, that he could ever want a boy like him. That anyone could ever want him for himself, could love him for anything but what he gave them. Harry Potter, the world's biggest whore, He said, and laughed cruelly. Harry fled.

When he gets to the room at night, tired and sore and ragged, Ron is waiting for him. Ron asks where he's been, and Harry wants to tell him but knows that Ron would hate him for that, would hate him... So he tells his best friend to please let it be, and Ron wants to say more but maybe it's the note of pleading in his best friends voice, the shadows under his eyes, the fact that Harry hasn't laughed in months, or maybe he just doesn't care, but he says nothing. Harry falls asleep with the memory of Snape's voice in his ear.

One day, Snape dies. The Slytherin's are grieving, Dumbledore looks older than he ever has, and even McGonagall looks upset. Ron says serves him right, the git, and Hermione smacks him on the shoulder and tells him that that's a perfectly horrible thing to say. Harry doesn't feel much of anything, really.

He goes down to the dungeons that night and stands in the spot where he'd been destroyed by that icy voice and those yellow hands, and when he realizes that there's no one coming he smiles, for the first time in a long while. He hopes the bastard died painfully.