Better Than This

Colloquial Title : ...That He Were Only Potions Master

Pairings : Harry / Snape, Harry/ Death Eaters

Genre : Horror / Angst / H/C / Dark

Rating : R

Synopsis : A wartime piece in which Hogwarts has become the Dark Lord's headquarters, and The Boy Who Lived has become The Boy Who Lived To Be Voldemort's Whore.

Warnings : This is not a happy piece of fiction. It isn't pretty or sexy or even passably tasteful; this is a horror story, and I'm billing it as such right off the bat. If The Scent of Cedar made you squeamish, this one might just make you sick; thelanguage is ten times ascrude,for one thing, soif you're expecting my usual eloquent prose style when it comes to sex scenes - forget it.I daresay that this is as gruesome as a fic can get, and still be passable for - in fact I won't be at all surprised if it gets taken down. Slash, angst, torture, and some serious non-con; I cleaned it up a bit for ff.n, but it's still pretty heavy. You've been thoroughly warned. Proceed at your own discretion.

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You deserve better than this, he tells you one night.

It's the first time that he's lied to you.

He doesn't say all those comforting little things you expected at first - things like it's okay and I won't hurt you. He rarely speaks to you at all, neither to scathe nor to soothe you; at first you were angry coward traitor sick fucking bastard but you couldn't sustain it. They scraped away at your emotions, relentless, wearing through one of them after the next like layers of old paint until they laid bare those that they wanted. Pride and dignity were the first to go, and anger was second, and soon enough you were simply heartbroken; but now you're glad that he didn't say those frivolous things to you, never told you comforting little lies - the delusion that you are loved would have been too much to bear. Now you're simply glad that he still comes at all.

You always try not to cry when you're with him. It hurts nearly as much as it does with the others, but he doesn't scare you on purpose like the rest of them do, and he's not cruel to you, either. He doesn't hit you or cut you or jerk on your collar, and you hate to admit to yourself that you want it to be him who comes for you, but you do - you want it to be him because you know that he remembers who you used to be, because once upon a time you were a person to him, albeit one that he detested. He makes you remember a time when Hogwarts was a school instead of Voldemort's prized bastillion, when he was only Potions Master, and you were only his least favorite student. For some reason, the memory of your former rivalry is almost comforting; at least you knew him, at least he knew you. You are something more than a shivering bundle of soft flesh and silver screams to him - and the way he touches you, afterwards, makes you think that he almost regrets it. Sometimes he holds your hands as he pushes inside you, curls his fingers through yours on the pretense of holding you down and smooths his thumb gently across your wrist - and it feels so good in this new world of pain to know one soft and soothing touch, however small it may be, that you try not to cry as he stretches you open even though you're always so bruised and sore that it hurts nearly as much as it does with the others.

There is nothing soft or soothing about the way the rest of them touch you; it's all a game to them, and however they play it you're bound to lose and end up screaming, begging, twisting in your restraints with your dick half-hard and your skin on fire and the taunting voices like syrup, like poison - saying what a good little whore you are, how your blood smells like candy, how Ron screams your name, sometimes, when they make him come despite himself. Nothing about them is predictable - there's no way to brace yourself for what comes next because what-comes-next is different each time - different, but never easier to bear. You haven't learned how all of them like you, yet, but you're starting to figure it out. Rookwood is the one who likes to squeeze your balls so hard that you squeal like a girl and jerk your hips away despite yourself. Nott likes you pinned down on your back - arms out to the sides, legs parted and shivering with every little touch because you're not sure when he's going to stroke you and when he's going to cut you wide open... Lucius isn't picky about how he has you, so long as he gets to fuck you raw, so long as you cry as soon as you see him and beg him with your eyes just to spit on his cock first -- please don't put it in me dry no please please-- so that by the time he's ready to fuck you you're so panicked that each breath you take is a high, keening whimper and you can't even hear what you're saying but you know that it's something incoherent like no please god no-don't-can't I can't I can't take it again...

It's easier with Snape, who never makes you wonder and never makes you bleed on purpose - who lets you cling to his shoulders while he takes you, dig your fingers into him and hold on for dear life and hurt him just a little bit in return. He never leaves without making you come, and it almost seems as though he wants you to like it - the way he fingers the head of your cock without pinching you, the way he rubs that hot-nerved patch of skin between your balls and your ass and makes your hips buck as though jerked by invisible strings - and you realize that, under different circumstances, he might be able to make you enjoy this. You find yourself imagining how it might feel to have the most intimate parts of you touched with love, even though you don't deserve it; you were a virgin before the war, but you remember kissing Cho and being kissed by her and the way her petal-soft fingers felt when they slid under your shirt - you can remember wanting to be kissed and touched, and it makes what they do to you seem all the more cruel by comparison. Only Snape makes it bearable. Only Snape makes it closer to sex than to fucking.

You wish that he would come to you tonight. Lucius used his wand on you for hours, alternately shocking and stinging that sweet spot inside you out while Bellatrix sucked you off with tormenting skill - clawing your hips, biting your stomach bloody, yanking your balls down again and again so that you couldn't come, couldn't escape it, had to bear the torture to your prostate with your dick hard as iron and your scrotum throbbing like a second heart. They bound up your groin before it was over, spread your legs wide apart used a willow switch between them until you screamed your throat raw and choked on your own blood - and only then did they finally allow you release, snapping the switch down all the harder as you came. There was nothing satisfying about it; Lucius knows how to use your own orgasm against you, and having your crotch whipped to welts in that precariously vulnerable moment of heightened sensitivity is enough to leave you broken and sobbing for hours after it's over. You wish that he would come to you, just for a little while, because the pain of him inside you has become worth it for a few moments of something remotely related to comfort.

And he does.

He comes so late that it might just be early; you can't tell anymore, they've bricked over the windows of the Hufflepuff dorm room that has become your new prison, and you can only judge time watching the torches burn shorter. He takes the thick iron shackles off of your wrists, and the shock of cold air on hot bruises is enough in and of itself to set you shivering. You try not to be scared - you know he doesn't want you to be, and this is going to be easy compared to what you've already endured today. There will be a few small and precious things to savor this time; body heat to soak up and hands to hold onto, and the soft stroke of his thumb against your wrist - even so you find yourself starting to panic as soon as you're on your back, because there's almost no way he can fuck you without hurting you ten times worse than usual. He's going to touch your cock oh dear god no touch your balls please no it hurts run his fingertips over the welts stopstopstop and finally make you scream these things out loud. You're going to cry one way or another - in pain or in fear of it. At least he won't list off your dead friends, or tell you how sweet Cho sucks dick; she'll never do it to you now and you don't even know if you'd want her to, anymore, if you ever wanted her to in the first place because how could someone want to be touched in a place that could make you vomit up pain? How could someone give away the secret locations of their body's most sensitive spots, when this information could be so brutally used against them? How could someone ever let a girl kiss him and slide her fingers under his shirt? The panic makes you forget things that you usually hold dear; all you know now is that your entire body is still raw and throbbing and if you're dealt another ounce of cruelty you will shatter, simply shatter.

You cry. You can't help it. You cry before he lays a hand on you, trembling so hard that you can feel your own bones vibrating, and you're begging him outright through choked little sobs not to hurt you I'm still bleeding, and you're sorry that you're crying please don't hit me - you'll do anything he wants as long he doesn't touch the welts my god I'm so sore... And you expect him to ignore you, but he doesn't.

Instead, he tells you to calm down, and smooths back your hair.

Smooths back your hair.

You will do anything for this man. You will let him fuck you blind, beat you senseless, bleed you dry - so long as he does that again when it's over. He is the first person to lay a kind hand on you in more than six months, and it feels so good that you settle for a moment, stop shivering so hard, let him look you over without so much as a whimper of protest even though your heart's still in your throat and you can barely hold yourself still and your brain is screaming don't hurt me don't hurt me don't hurt me at a thousand silent decibels. You've set yourself up for a horrid betrayal, but there's no going back now - there's nothing to do but just lie here and pray that he takes pity on you and goes easy, pray that it's worth it in the end, if he doesn't.

Finally, he touches you. He lifts your shoulders and then presses a bit, puts you on your knees and you're shocked - he always wants you on your back, like a girl, with your knees hitched up and your bruised thighs quivering under his fingers. He's never touched your mouth before, never shown the slightest interest - and as Snape slides his hand beneath your chin and lifts your head, you understand; he's looking down at you with something not unlike sympathy, eyebrows drawn down and knit as though you puzzle him a little - and then, very slowly, he slides his hand up to cradle your jaw oh god yes please, cup your cheek feels so good, curl his fingers against the back of your neck I love this love you need it so badly...

He's not trying for a new kind of pleasure. He is showing you mercy.

He draws you closer by the back of your neck - not rough, just steady, insistent, so that he's not pulling you so much as guiding you, and you have no choice but you don't care; you know how to do this, you're phenomenal at this even though you hate yourself for learning so well, for being such a good little whore and for wanting it now - wanting to do it and make it so good for him that he doesn't regret taking pity on you just keep touching my face like that please please please - and when you swirl your tongue around the head of his cock you really mean it. It's a fair trade, giving him pleasure for pleasure, kissing and licking and touching with a desperate hunger not for the dick in your mouth but for the hand in your hair - and he knows it, knows how much you need it, lets you rub your head into his hand like a cat and cling to his hips as you suck with fervor for your very sanity.

And it's something close to heaven, it really is - the long, cool fingers tracing the nape of your neck, sliding through your hair and soothing your scalp, the warm palm against your bruised cheek - how did you ever live without this? How will you breathe when it stops? What's going to happen to you when he finally takes his hands away; will you wither, shatter, or sputter out like a torch in the rain? It's going to happen - won't last forever - but right now you can't even imagine and you're crying again just thinking about it; whimpering around the hot flesh in your throat and clutching his robes, trying to suck like a god so that he'll stay with you just a little bit longer...

His fingers tense and spasm along your jaw as he comes, and you lean your face into them - swallowing over and over again, tears streaming down your face, holding him deep in your throat long after you have to don't leave me don't leave me and only drawing back when he begins to soften. Any second now he'll let go of you. The thought makes you sick to your stomach. Without planning to do so, you kiss the head of his cock with swollen, desperate lips.

When he says your name, a jolt runs through you; that's right, you have a name, don't you? No one has called you Harry in months, and Snape has never once used your first name, even during those long-lost potions classes. The syllables feel as warm as his hand does, stroking your bruised psyche like fingers. He coaxes your chin up - you still can't believe how gentle he's being - tries to make you look at him but you're too scared; eye contact has been trained out of your psyche, become synonymous with a mouthful of blood. Instead you flick glances at his face, unable to keep your eyes up for more than a second but trying desperately to do what he asks you to, drawing a few fragile shreds of confidence from these fleeting moments of gentleness. You've never tried to behave before - you've submitted in a thousand ways out of pain and fear and sheer exhaustion, but this is different, worth it; he's given you a reason to be a dirty little slut and you'll do it, you'll do anything, to earn a bit more comfort.

You deserve better than this, he tells you.

It's the first time that he's lied to you; because there is no better-than-this, anymore, and even if there was you wouldn't deserve it. You are tainted, you are sick, you are dirty and vile and you are a whore; valued for nothing save your tears and your body, and even your body is not something to be cherished. They have made you into something worthless, subhuman, and when he tells you that you deserve better you want to sob that you don't deserve anything anymore, but would he please stay with you anyway? Instead you sniff, swallow hard, lean your chin into his hand and nod just a little to indicate that you heard him. Snape strokes his thumb along your jaw, murmurs something that you can't quite make out - maybe it's good boy or maybe it's sorry or maybe it's I never meant to do this to you and someday I swear I'll get you out of this Hell, which is what he's thinking even though you can't hear it. Whatever it is, the words are soft against your ears; you close your eyes and let them caress you.

You don't wither, or shatter, or sputter out like a torch in the rain. When he takes his hand away you are simply cold, and you can barely contain a little moan at the loss of physical contact, but it takes only seconds for you to re-acclimate. You find, to your surprise, that the kindness sticks with you longer than the hands do. You don't feel so scattered anymore, and you're not about to fly apart at the seams; you just feel tired and sore and a little bit calmer for all of it, like some of the stirred up things inside of you are finally beginning to settle to the bottom, like someone's thrown a cool sheet of detachment over you. He puts the shackles back on you before he leaves; they're cold and they hurt, but you let him do it, offering up one battered wrist and then the other when usually you fight to keep your hands out of them. When Snape does it, it doesn't seem like such a big deal - and you find yourself wondering why you bother to fight them so much in the first place; it's so much easier to just allow these things to happen to you. You're calm, now, and you can think of these things - but the next time they come for you, the panic will rise up again and you won't be able to help yourself. You'll scream and sob and struggle, and tonight won't even cross your mind in those moments - but for now, you're able to breathe just a little bit easier.

He turns and looks back at you when he reaches the door, but you can't look at him; you never watch him leave. You know that he wants you to meet his eyes, but you just can't do it. You don't want him to see how much you're hurting, not after he's been so kind to you - so without lifting your eyes from the floor, you whisper "thank you"just loud enough for him to hear.

Next time, you promise yourself, you won't cry at all when you're with him.

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Author's Note : Please don't call the cops on me, or burn any crosses on my front lawn! I've got part 2 of this in the works - gimme some feedback, and tell me if I should continue to post the rest of this (while I can, anyway.)