Out of the Woods
by: darklydraco*
Summary: Draco's experience throughout DeathHal. Sequel to Into the Woods.
Pairing(s): Primarily HP/DM, but also SS/DM and SS/RL.
Warnings: Graphic violence and (canon) character death.
Disclaimer: the Potter-verse belongs to JKR. All hail.
Prologue: A Teaser
Stumbling and staggering, Draco struggled to keep pace with Snape's long strides, all while trying, and failing, to keep his bearings in the maze of cobble-stone corridors, sconce-lit hallways, and dark, dungeon-cell doors with barred window. With his ankles still loosely shackled, all he could focus on was staying upright. He lost track of the turns and stairwells, tripping and choking as the collar around his neck yanked him ever further into the depths of this dark old house. The noise of the jubilation had long-since been drowned by the echoing footsteps of Snape's cold, hard boots on the stone floors, so that now, standing in front of iron-bolted door high in what must be a turret, surely, judging by the number of steps they'd climbed – all he could hear was the blood rushing in ears and a faint, rasping breath from the tall man looming beside him, hand held out in front, key poised before the lock, pausing… hesitating… and then, with a rusty clink, the great iron bolt unlocked, and the door creaked open, and Draco allowed himself to be tugged by the neck toward his doom.
Chapter 1: Wretched
As soon as the boy was over the threshold Severus slammed the door shut and began to pace from end to end of the small study-cum-bedroom that he would now be relegated to. Most of his supplies, and books, and so many other things he would rather have with him, had been left behind, naturally. He'd managed to sequester some of his most precious possessions over the course of the last few months, tucking them into the magically concealed alcoves around his family home far away, but none of these were here with him either. Merely a small collection of books, some of the more rudimentary potions supplies, a few changes of clothes, and… the boy. Hardly part of the plan. But then very little had gone according to plan this year, and somehow he had managed to slip through the bars of inevitable capture, and yank his stubborn, wreckless fool of a godson with him into the clear.
He gazed around the austere little room. The bed stood off to one side, near a small window beset with elaborately wrought iron bars in the shape of serpents. A few threadbare tapestries hung dustily from the wall, depicting gruesome battles of wars past. Candles in wall sconces lit the stone walls and floor. Against the far wall stood his desk and some books on shelves cut into the stone above. The bed itself sat much lower to the ground than he was accustomed to, and was comfortably wide but short, and he could already tell it would be no match for his long legs. Off against the far wall was a small door the led to the bath. Behind him, immediately beside the door and tucked into a corner against the wall was a small straw palette with a coarse sheet laid across it, meant to make a bed for a dog, or slave.
Severus glanced at the rigid brown leather collar around the boy's neck. How apropos.
Now what? Draco was obviously not to be trusted. He had betrayed Severus so spectacularly tonight – if Granger hadn't woken him in time, Merlin knows what might have happened. Gods, he could only hope the body he'd leapt over on the way out of the castle was that of an auror and not a student.
Taking him for a slave was probably – no, definitely – a very stupid idea. But despite the bitterness of Draco's betrayal, Severus was a talented enough legimens to know the boy had, in some twisted way, been trying to help him. Gods, he's bloody stupid. And unpredictable. And that, really, was worse.
Severus heaved an exhausted sigh and sank into the hard wooden chair beside his little writing desk. The boy still stood, naked and stiff, by the door, the leather leash hanging heavily to the ground. Severus waved his wand and the leash affixed itself to the wall, looping through the iron ring embedded in the stone.
"Sit."
The word echoed in the cold room, and Draco struggled to understand. Snape was pointing vaguely in the directly of a straw palette on the floor in the corner behind him. His leash was now tied to an iron ring beside it. Dazed and shivering, Draco shuffled over and sat down, knees drawn up to his chest, and stared defiantly away from the dark eyes boring into him.
Draco fixed his eyes on the space between to large stone slabs in the wall across from the straw palette, and stared, jaw stiffened. He resolved to survive. His choices that night had resulted from a series of miscalculations of inconceivable proportions but he was alive, and he was determined to recover from this wretched state. But first, he would need to figure out exactly the extent of his wretchedness.
As if he was reading his mind – and perhaps he was – Snape finally spoke: "You are not a guest in this house tonight. From here on out, you are my property, Draco. You will obey me, or suffer the consequences. No one, least of the all the Dark Lord, will resent me if I choose to dispose of you. Make no mistake: I will dispose of you if you in any way undermine my authority, or attempt to jeopardize my work. You are bound to me now, in ways you have yet to even discover. The life-debt you owe me will only strengthen that bond," he said, almost wearily.
Gods, but the man was hard to read. The words sounded harsh and self-satisfied but the tone… almost sad. And certainly exhausted. But then, Snape had spent so many years of his life bound to one or another powerful man, living dependent upon, and depended on, by so many others, yet somehow entirely, utterly, alone.
Well, except for the werewolf. And now, Draco.
Draco, who was not little more than chattel to him.
Absurdly, Draco thought this was still better than being anyone else's property. Because Snape was now, if ever, in favour with the Dark Lord. And as long as his owner was in favour, then Draco was safe – relatively speaking – from harm.
If he wanted to survive in the New World Order, then he would have to do what any good Slytherin would – pay obeisance to the Lord most likely to keep him safe. And right now… that was Severus Snape.
So when Snape threw a dirty old blanket at him, he clenched his jaw but accepted it without protest. And when Snape instructed him to sleep, he lay down, still naked, shackled, and collared, and closed his eyes, praying that he wouldn't dream.
A sharp cold draft from the door woke him the next morning… vague morning light was peaking timidly through the iron bars on the window across the room, but most of the chamber was still steeped in the chilly shadow of dawn.
Snape was gone.
Draco felt it before he even noticed it. He felt a faint tugging at the corners of his mind… a distracted buzzing… that left him curiously unsettled.
All of this he felt whole seconds before he realized that he was alone in the room. The door had opened and closed – Snape must have gone. That's what woke him.
And the nagging feeling on the edges of his mind? Probably just well-suppressed anxiety and nothing more. Or possibly hunger.
He lay back down on his palette, and reached a lazy hand to scratch an itch on the back of his head when, suddenly, a sharp burning sensation jolted through his arm, shooting down from where his errant fingertips had brushed against the collar around his throat.
He pulled his hand away wincing and peered at his fingers – a purplish residue, like ink, had apparently stained them upon contact, though they no longer hurt him. And rub though he tried, he couldn't get the ink to come off. Frowning, he was about venture a second attempt when the door opened with a whoosh of cold air and Snape billowed in, black robes trailing behind. He glanced at Draco and barked, "hands off, you foolish boy."
"I didn't," Draco protested pointlessly, but Snape only scoffed and grabbed his hand, long potion-stained fingers brushing over the purplish stains,
"You did," he replied. "Don't."
And then he dropped Draco's hand, now stainless and pale as ever.
And then Snape left again.
It went like this for hours. For the whole day. And the next. No one else ever came in. Only Snape, coming and going. Issuing terse commands. Freeing him to go piss, or bringing him some bread and cheese to eat.
It was a strange imitation of imprisonment.
And after all, Draco had survived much worse. Locked up in a cell at the ministry, he'd slept and wanked and sobbed. But then again, he'd had the liberty of absolute isolation then. Here, there was always interruption. Coming and going. Always. It was as though Snape didn't trust him alone and shackled for more than a few hours at a time.
But he never spoke to him, except to command, or reprimand.
And Draco found it… tolerable.
When he thought about the other slaves… the ones he'd seen that night, in the haze after the battle… raped and tortured for the amusement of the crowd… well this was better.
Except… except that every time Snape left the room, Draco felt the tug of his thoughts drift outward, too. His concentration ebbed away… his thoughts followed him down… down the winding stairs, past locked doors, through dark corridors. Down into the foyer, marble floors echoing in the empty hall… through the doorway into the room lit by blue flames and full of the smell of death…
Was he only remembering the many times he, too, and walked into that room?
He couldn't ponder it, because to do so required more attention than he could muster. So he slept.
And when Snape came back, and clarity returned with him, the notion that anything other than boredom was affecting him seemed absurd, of course.
Not until the third day of sitting, and sleeping, and trying not to scratch under the collar, not until after the second night asleep on that hard palette, and the third day of sitting, did Snape finally stop and say anything of substance to him again.
He'd been dozing as the chilly evening air drifted in through the open window when he felt the heaviness in his chest lifted and knew that Snape must have returned. Draco opened his eyes only to thin slits.
Snape was pacing again, robes billowing around his ankles at each abrupt turn.
But at length, the dark figure halted, sighed audibly, and began to open and closed the closet doors, and drawers, in search of something apparently, though Draco found he didn't care. He closed his eyes again.
Then something cold and cottony jolted him awake again.
"Put that on," Snape instructed gruffly, and Draco shifted in his shackles to unfold what appeared to be an undershirt, and a pair of soft cotton pants, and a the plain grey robe of a servant. He stared at them stupidly. Why was he being given clothes? It seemed… generous, almost. Then it occurred to him that he was still shackled at the ankles, albeit loosely. Snape seemed to realise this, too, because he scoffed audibly and flicked his wand to release the bonds and allow him to dress.
But just as he was about to try to put on the clothes he'd been given, Snape laid a hand on the pile, stilling him. Then he spoke: "There is to be a banquet tonight. I am expected to attend. And you, as my slave, will be expected also. You will wear these robes. And you will obey my orders."
Draco nodded mutely.
"You will not speak to anyone. You will not look anyone in the eye. You will obey me, and the Dark Lord, and no one else. Some of the men allow their slaves to be used by others but I do not… share… well," he sneered, and Draco almost snorted at that little slip of absolute honesty.
Draco nodded again, and waited for more. Snape seemed to think about his next words very carefully. "It is highly likely that you and I will be expected to… perform… in a highly undesirable manner."
It took Draco longer than he'd like to admit to interpret the nuance in this statement.
And he did finally catch on, he felt the pit of his stomach dropping heavily, and a cold trickle of panic running down his back. What would they do to him? What would they make him do? Would Snape allow them to… to torture him? To rape him?
Snape seemed to read his mind, because he coughed uncharacteristically awkwardly and looked away again.
"You should bathe," he said, his lip curling, and Draco tried to contain the shame he felt at the realization that he had not done so in three day, which, doubled with the now growing anxiety about what would happen to him that night… was making him feel light-headed and shaky.
Snape released the leash and evaporated the shackles, leaving on the collar around his neck to signify Draco's status. "Come," he said, and Draco followed him, bundle of clean clothes in hand, into the bathroom. With a flick of his wand, Snape turned on the tap and a bath began to fill.
Images flashed in front of Draco's eyes – hot soapy water, slick hands, a strong, Marked arm around his waist. But this was not the same. Then, Snape had trusted him. Taken him as his apprentice. Taught him. Saved him.
Now… now he was nothing but property.
Draco stepped into the tepid water and his finger slipped along the ledge until he found a small brown brick of dried up soap. He worked it into a lather between his shivering hands and scrubbed it into his skin and scalp with his nails. He hadn't realized how much sweat and fear and dusk had caked onto his skin. He washed and scrubbed and rinsed as well as he cold, all while carefully avoiding contact with the collar still fastened around his neck.
He glanced up once or twice and noticed Snape averting his eyes with a scowl that suggested most of his anger was turned inward. Perhaps it was about whatever absurd display they would be obliged to put on that night.
Or perhaps it was something else entirely. Something not at all new… but that had been lingering between them long before…
When he had finished, he stepped out and stood on the fold stone floor, a puddle collecting at his feet, shivering but making no effort to hide his naked body from his owner. If only the flicker of desire he'd sensed wafting off of the man all those months ago – carefully, painfully hidden but peaking here and there around the edges of his mask of dispassion – if only he would spark that again. Then maybe Snape would keep him. Keep others from using him. Save him again.
But Snape only stood by, and scowled. With a flick of his wand, the freezing cold whoosh of a drying spell flew over him.
Draco dressed in silence, and went back to sit on his palette. Obviously he'd imagined it all. There was nothing but disgust in Snape's demeanour. And there was no hope of anything else.
They didn't speak at all in the ensuing hours. Draco sat leaning against the wall on the palette, watching Snape delay and delay preparing for the banquet. Finally, ten minutes before they were due to leave, the man swore and ducked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. When he emerged five minutes later, he had bathed, and his wet hair hung down the back of his robe, until he waved his wand to dry it.
Just as he had many months ago, Draco watched the pale white skin of Snape's chest disappear as the tip of his wand drew slowly down from his collar. Draco shivered involuntarily and tried to steel himself for the night ahead.
The descended the stair slowly, Snape leading the way, and Draco leashed and in tow.
Even before the reached the last stairwell down into the foyer, the could hear the sounds of celebration echoing in the dark old house.
Draco shivered in spite of himself.