Disclaimer: All characters and settings of Harry Potter are the property of J.K. Rowling and her publishers. No money is being made.
Content: Past torture and non-con

She's lying with her eyes closed, naked except for her knickers, long blond hair spread out around her head. She doesn't move, doesn't speak, and he's grateful that still, after over four years, she treats him with unwavering patience. That she gives him what he needs, gives herself to him in this way.

His hands are trembling when he finally reaches out. There's a smile from her when his fingers touch her skin. It's soft and warm. Slowly, he lets his hands glide over smooth flesh, the curves of her shoulders, down her sides, and then . . . He hesitates, but takes heart and cups her breasts, and she sighs.

"Hmmmh. That's nice."

Before, he was never allowed to touch. He didn't want it either, didn't know how one couldwant it. Or at least that he could – they wanted to, and they did it whenever they pleased. But never like this.

Severus's hands wander down to her stomach, and he lets them lie still for a while, feeling it rise and fall gently as she breathes. He'd never have imagined this when he'd first come to her, and even now, sometimes it seems like a dream.

He remembers the first time he'd touched her, almost a year after she'd bought him. He hadn't used the furniture yet and hadn't been able to look anywhere but to the ground. She'd sat with him for a while in his corner, not speaking, only holding his hand like she did every day. Even that had him shaking for weeks with confusion and fear.

"I'll do something new now," she'd told him that day. "You needn't be afraid." He'd got used to her hands around his own. They never hit, were never harsh, and they never wandered. Still, he'd gone rigid, eyes firmly squeezed shut.

"It won't hurt, I promise."

And it hadn't. Slowly, she had guided his hand up until he had felt something other than her fingers. He'd flinched but not dared to pull away.

"You're touching my cheek now. Feels good, doesn't it?"

He'd sat frozen, never opening his eyes, heart threatening to beat out of his throat as he'd waited for whatever pain, whatever punishment must follow. It had never come. Seconds had ticked by to the sound of his ragged breathing, and all he'd felt was the warmth of her skin and the soft roundness of her cheek against which she'd kept pressing his hand. When she'd begun humming, bit by bit, he'd relaxed.

Now Severus takes his hands from her stomach and raises them to her face. She's still smiling, her eyes are still closed – he wouldn't dare touch her if she were looking at him. There's a pink flush on her cheeks, and he brushes his fingertips first over them, then over her nose, her mouth, her forehead.

She'd guided his hands for weeks – over every inch of her face, into her hair which felt like silk. After some time, he'd almost looked forward to it.

"Look at me, Severus," she'd whispered one day, when he'd been petting her hair, fingers entangled in long strands that caressed his skin. "Look at me. I'll close my eyes. You needn't be afraid. It won't hurt, I promise."

They were familiar words, words that were always true coming from her. Nothing she'd done, and nothing he'd done at her bidding had ever hurt him. Still, he hadn't been able to do it. They had wanted him meek and submissive, too scared to face them, and they'd known just how to hurt, how to punish. After twenty years, he'd almost forgotten that he'd ever looked anyone in the eye.

Severus breathes deeply and runs his fingertips over her closed eyelids. Her smile grows wider, and he doesn't feel frightened now, not anymore. He loves looking at her: at her white skin with the faint dusting of freckles, the blond hair, and the full, pink lips, always smiling for him.

But he had been frightened then, too much to obey her, and that, in turn, had made him panic. He still does, far too often, ending up in his corner in the living room, unable to respond or understand what she says. She never gets angry. She waits patiently for him to recover, sitting with him, holding his hand, humming softly, as she had done back then. The next day, she'd tried again.

And finally, weeks later, he had done it, had raised his head and looked at his new Mistress, who was so different in a way he could not understand. But he'd realised then, after almost a year, that he was glad to be with her, and that he wanted to trust this new life. She was nothing like them: she never hurt him, and everything they'd punished him for, she rewarded with praise and kindness.

Her hair is beautiful, shimmering in the flickering candlelight. Sometimes, it vaguely reminds him of the hair of another woman, hair that was red – but that was in another life, and he can barely recall it. There are blurred bits and pieces: faces without names, Hogwarts, war, Voldemort. A trial, a boy with a scar and angry green eyes, angry because nobody believed him. "I'm so sorry," he'd said before they had taken Severus away.

Now he doesn't want to think of it, though, and for a while, he concentrates on running his fingers through her hair before he raises some strands to his lips. She's allowed him to kiss her if he wants it, wherever he likes, but for now, he doesn't feel ready for more than this.

"If you want it." During the first months with her, he hadn't understood what the words even meant, hadn't been able to relate them to him. She was his Mistress, she owned him. She could demand whatever she wanted and he had to obey without thinking or feeling anything.

Since then, she's been able to coax him into both thinking and feeling; slow, muddled thoughts that make his head hurt sometimes; feelings that in turn scare and amaze him.

Right now, he's amazed: at her beauty, the softness of her skin, and that he's allowed to touch her like this. When she had undressed for the first time almost a year ago, there'd been nothing but dread and a sense of betrayal to which he had no right. But he'd understood, eventually.

With a small sigh, she stretches and turns over on her stomach, and Severus brushes her hair away from her shoulders and neck. She likes how he touches her, likes to feel his hands on her skin, stroking down her back, then up again, and back down, for minutes.

It had only been when he'd touched her like this and he'd seen her reaction, heard her soft sounds of pleasure, that he'd made the connection, that he'd understood that gentle touch could be more than the absence of pain.

It had been months after he'd touched her face, months after he'd looked at her before she had ever tried touching anything but his hand. Her hands on his shoulder and hair had had made him freeze, expecting the pain he was used to, and for weeks, he'd regressed to how he had been when he'd arrived.

She'd not given up, though, and the point had come when he had understood that her touch was different, that he would not be hexed or used. There were no demands, no torture. Her touch was tender. He'd not remembered the word, hadn't had words for most of the things that she was and did. They'd come back to him slowly, over the months, seeping into his consciousness. Gentle. Kind. Caress.

They took that from him, she'd said once. He hadn't been able to wrap his mind around it. They'd been his Masters. Everything they had done was right.

He still can't think of it that way, it's confusing and goes against how the world is ordered in his mind. But he can think that he likes the way she treats her slave better, and he's come far enough to express the things he wants from her – things she's shown him she's ready to give him, over and over again.

What he wants now is for them to switch places, and so he sits up, pulling away and looking down at the sheets – she'll soon know that he's done, and she'll need to open her eyes to see his answers.

"Severus? That was lovely. Thank you."

Her hand comes to lie on his head, and he breathes shakily, savouring the warmth spreading though him at her praise.

"Would you like for me to do the same?"

Severus nods. He wants it, he needs it. Now that he can enjoy instead of endure it, it seems that he can't do without it anymore.

"All right. Do you want to undress?"

He hesitates; it's something new. He's only done it a handful of times. But then he makes the decision and takes off his jumper, remaining only in joggers – he can't take those off, not for a long time. The first time, he'd believed that she required it, but she had stopped him.

"Don't do it until you feel ready," she'd said.

Severus lies down on his side in a foetal position, eyes closed, waiting with bated breath.

"You needn't be afraid," she whispers, like she always does. "It won't hurt, I promise."

The words help, as does knowing where she'll touch first, but he still flinches when she makes the contact.

"Shh. It's all right."

Her hand lies still on his shoulder in what he knows is a feather-light touch, but it feels threatening and heavy. Severus clenches his fists; he's trembling.

"Severus. Shhh, I won't hurt you. You're safe."

He can't seem to breathe.

Slowly, the touch moves over his shoulder and down his arm, then back up to his shoulder blade, and down his side, brushing over a thick scar that still hurts now and then. A knife flashes before his inner eye, there are rough hands, laughter, and red, so much red . . . He wants to jump up and run, get away from the pain, just away, just hide – and that is when he hears it.

It's the melody, her melody. Soft humming, always the same simple notes. He takes one deep, shaky breath, then another, trying to listen through the fog of fear in his head. The tune means Mistress and safety. Unbroken promises that he won't be hurt. His hand is grasped in a gentle hold, which takes him back to when he first heard this melody, when she'd done nothing but sit with him, get him used to her presence.

She hums it whenever she touches him, every single time for the last four years, and now his mind clears and he knows it is her. Slowly, he calms down and relaxes, trembling less, no longer wanting to flee. For minutes, they stay like this and he lets the tune soothe him, remembers how nothing bad has ever come to him from her.

"You're doing so well, dear," she finally murmurs, then she goes on humming – and touching, her hand leaving his. Like he did with her, now she lets her fingers wander, over ribs and scars, over a ravaged face into limp greying hair. He can't understand why she'd want this, what she wants with him. They had wanted him so they could punish him, and he can't fault them. One of the things he remembers well is what he was, what he did in the service of Voldemort. He tortured as well. He murdered.

There's the Dark Mark, still standing out in stark contrast to his pallor after all this time, and when she had first given him clothes, he'd felt as if he would never want to take them off again also because they hide it. Now he tenses as she touches just there, but when she leans down and presses a kiss on the blackened skin, he goes limp, whimpering low in his throat. There's another kiss on the Mark before her warm hand cups his cheek.

He's not a bad person, she never gets tired of telling him that. He did terrible things, but he did good as well, and he's been punished enough. Everyone deserves to be forgiven. It's hard to comprehend, but he tells himself that she knows better than him. He vaguely remembers being her teacher, a long time ago, but now she teaches him, and her lessons are about more important things.

"That's it, Severus," she says when he turns his face into her caress with another soft whimper. "Let me hear your voice."

He'd lost it at some point during cold, lonely years, when speaking had been forbidden and rewarded with torture, and sounds of pain had been ignored. The point had come when silence was more comforting, wrapping around him like a protective skin, keeping them out. However much they had tried, they couldn't make him scream, couldn't make him whimper. He hadn't given them that satisfaction.

He'd heard her satisfaction clear in her voice when she had coaxed out the first hesitant sounds, and he'd found that he craved to hear it again. At first, he had complied only to please her – it was what he was there for, after all. Only later had it come to him that this must be something she is doing for him, not for her. He is still mute most of the time, but he feels that he's regained something important, something that makes him more than the object as which they had seen him. The object as which he'd come to see himself.

A thing doesn't have feelings and can't express them, can't react like he does now to the way she's so gentle. Once again, her hands run over old scars and down his back in slow strokes, infusing him with warmth. Severus can't hold back and moans softly. And again, there is praise.

Time blurs and becomes unimportant. He can't remember beginning to cry, doesn't know when she stopped stroking and instead lay down behind him, his back pressed against her breasts and stomach, her arms wrapped around him. All that he knows is that it's good and warm, and that he could listen to her hum for him forever.

When she withdraws in the end, he is both relieved and disappointed. He needs this so much that it almost hurts for it to end, but at the same time, he often can still barely take it.

There's a soft handkerchief drying his cheeks, then a kiss on his temple.

"You're doing so well, Severus. I'm so proud."

He sighs and his stomach flutters. It's the thing he wants to hear most from her.

"Now I think we should both go to sleep. It's late. Do you want to wear your pyjama top tonight?"

The last time they did this, a week ago, he'd hesitated to put it on. He had wondered how it would be to feel her hands on his skin while falling asleep, and she had noticed, like she does so often when he wants or needs something he can't express.

Today, though he doesn't feel as bold, and he nods and sits up. He wants the comfort of the thick fabric hiding his body, like he does most of the time.

"Can you use your voice again, Severus?" she asks gently.

He hesitates – he still is ashamed that he's not made more progress in speaking, no matter how often she tells him that it's all right. It's one thing when she touches him, but this . . . it's different.

"You know how much I love to hear it," she coaxes before she leans in and brushes her lips over his temple once more. "And you used it so well just now. Tell me, dear: do you want to wear your pyjama top tonight?"

I the beginning, he'd been afraid when he couldn't obey her, but these days, when he's lucid enough, he is certain that she won't hurt him. If he were to nod again, she wouldn't chide, wouldn't punish. She'd dress him and hold him, tell him he's come so far already, and that tomorrow will be another day. She always reacts the same, and it makes him feel safe to know what will happen.

But he wants this today, wants the praise and the rush of warmth that comes with it. He wants her to be proud of him, and to be proud of himself. That, too, is something she's taught him again.

"Aaahh," he says, an inarticulate groan that makes him sound like a retard even to his own fractured mind. Saying it once means yes, twice means no, they've agreed. When he'd come to her, it had been twenty years since he'd last been allowed to speak. Every word had been punished, and now they're locked deep inside. He can't reach them. She says that it's normal, that it's not his fault. Every time he wins out over the muteness is him being brave, is a victory. It sounds comforting and he tries to believe her; believing her always helps, always makes everything better.

"Thank you, dear. That sounded very good." There's another soft kiss, and he shivers. He could never tell her, but he loves her. She saved him, and all that he wants is to belong to her for the rest of his life. It's more than he deserves, and he can't understand how he could be this lucky.

"Here it is," she says, "now please give me your arm." He holds out his arm and she slides the sleeve of the pyjama top over it. He could dress himself, but it makes him feel cared for, reminds him of a woman from long ago, dressing him, slowly closing button for button.

"All finished."

She puts on her own nightgown and lies back against the pillows, holding her arms out for him, and he crawls over to her and snuggles in closely. It's only recently that he's dared to sleep in bed with her. His head comes to lie on her shoulder, face nestled against her neck, and after she's pulled the covers up over them, she begins running her fingers through his hair in a slow, soothing rhythm. His body quickly grows heavy, his eyes flutter shut. All is well, and he hopes that maybe he can sleep without dreams.

"Do you feel safe for the night?"

Every evening, she asks him, and if he were to shake his head, she would start speaking, telling him stories until he falls asleep. Some are fairytales, and he remembers a few of them, but most are about her parents and strange Magical Creatures. They've got names like Snorkacks, Humdingers, and Nargles, and Severus has never heard of them before. Then again, he's forgotten so much, he can't rely on his brain.

The stories help, though; they're sweet or funny, and more and more often, they'll make him smile. A few times, over the last weeks, he felt tempted to laugh. Maybe he will, someday.

But tonight, he feels good and tired; he'll fall asleep quickly. He almost nods, but then stops himself. He gathers his courage, thin fingers working themselves into her nightgown, holding on tightly. It's much harder without her prompting and coaxing, even though it's been only minutes, but he wants this, wants it badly.

"Aaahh."

Her hold on him tightens and he arches closer as well.

"Good," she says, then rewards him with one last kiss on the temple before they'll both go to sleep. "And look, you did it again. You'll find your words one day, you'll see."

At this moment, he believes that he will. Not today, not tomorrow, but he's got time. They've got time. She'll never sell him, she promised.

And he knows already what he will say. There's only one word he can think of, for now, one word that feels safe and right. He can't help thinking of her as Mistress most of the time, but lately, when they touch and she holds him like this, he can hear his own half-forgotten voice in his mind, speaking the name by which she allowed him to call her.

Luna. It sounds like a promise waiting for him along the path, this path of comfort she keeps leading him down by the tips of their fingers.

This night, Severus falls asleep with a smile.