Chapter 2: A Pawn At Risk
Dumbledore hadn't wanted to let him go, but in the end, even the Headmaster was forced to admit that Snape had no choice but to attend.
So he dosed himself with every possible antidote--- his former associates had interesting ideas of humor, and not all their little jokes were confined to their enemies--- dragged his dress robes from the back of the closet where he preferred to leave them, and ordered a carriage. He could, of course, have Apparated, or used Floo powder--- but he considered it safer not to drop himself into the midst of one of Lucius' little fetes unawares. To say nothing of the fact that Lucius and his crowd would respect the pomp and the display of wealth. In that respect, at least, he could compete with any of them--- Andropolous and Snape were both old wizarding families, and he was his parents' only child.
In fact, he briefly considered using the family carriage--- then decided against it. Dealing with his mother was about the only thing that could make this holiday worse... and he knew he'd never be able to look his father in the face....
So it was a hired carriage that brought him to the door of Chateau Malfoy at exactly 8:15 by his watch--- fashionably late, his mother would have said (though his father would have insisted on a courteous punctuality).
The place was, as its name implied, a castle, like Hogwarts--- or rather, like the antithesis of Hogwarts: a forbidding and imposing edifice designed, it seemed, for no other purpose than to impress visitors, passersby, and anyone else who had the misfortune to get within seeing distance of it. His carriage clipped through a massive portcullis guarding the drive; the "chateau" itself was all jagged angles and bared windows--- none of which were lit. Par for the course for a Dark Revel.
He was mildly surprised to note that there were no house-elves to attend him as he exited the carriage and ordered it to wait--- then remembered that Potter had managed to lose Malfoy his servant some years back. His lips twitched. Served Lucius right--- and for once, Potter had been deliberately useful, instead of merely being in the right place at the wrong time and getting showered with adulation for it.
Just like his father....
An appropriate set of thoughts for a Death Eater, he sneered to himself as he reached the front door. That's it, Severus, get into character... remember just how far you haven't come....
The door opened, and a very frightened-looking house-elf--- blast, Lucius still had a few servants, did he?--- examined his invitation, took his cloak and hat, and ushered him downstairs.
The dungeon. He remembered the place all too well, from previous... occasions. And--- no mistaking it--- he could hear certain well-remembered sounds echoing up from its depths as the terrified house-elf opened the door to the dungeons.
"You may go," he told the creature coldly--- though in truth its near-panic made him ill--- "I know the way from here."
The creature bobbled a nervous obeisance, then fled.
Severus carefully closed the door behind the elf, took a moment to reswallow his stomach, then descended the steps.
Into Hell.
The stench hit him halfway down the torchlit stairway: blood and sweat and sex and terror. And he didn't know what was the worst: the ungodly sounds of pleasure in voices he remembered all too well--- the terrified cries and pleading in voices he didn't--- or the occasional, sudden silences that told of worse still.
He exited the stairs to find Lucius holding court in the center of the dank stone chamber, a cluster of sycophants around him and a flagon of dragonsblood brandy in his hand. "Severus!" he called, in the too-loud voice of the drunk and sated, "So glad you could make it!"
His greeting was punctuated by a scream. Severus stepped into the room--- over a prone corpse--- and said casually, "So am I." He let his lip curl at the corpse--- he'd never been fond of this sort of homicidal debauchery; to seem to embrace it now it would destroy his disguise just as surely as if he denounced them all.
Lucius met his eyes nastily for a moment. "Oh, that's right, Severus--- you always were a spoilsport, weren't you?"
Snape held the other man's eyes for a long moment; Lucius was drunk enough that he looked away first. "You remember the others, eh? Not your old crowd, as I recall--- except---" He looked round him. "Where the hell's Avery?"
"In the back," drawled a sullen voice that matched Malfoy's for sheer overmonied indolence, "trying out that new sex-hex of his on a Mudblood---"
Mudblood. Snape thought of Hermione Granger, and his stomach, already rallying itself for a protest, did an abrupt backflip. He cudgeled it into submission with the ease of long practice and addressed the speaker. "Patricia, my dear," he drawled, "how nice to see you."
Patricia Parkinson, mother of the social-climbing Pansy, held out a bloodstained hand to him like a duchess in a drawing room. "So good to see you, too, Sevvie, dear," she said languidly. "Some of us were wondering if you'd show."
To an outside observer, it might have sounded like an idle remark, but, given the wording of the invitation, Severus knew it for a challenge. "My dear," he said, stepping forward to take her hand and bring it to his lips--- forcing himself not to cringe away as the blood smeared his mouth--- "I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Though," he added, dryly, "given recent events, it doesn't seem as though I'll have to choose."
Triumphant laughter greeted that remark, and two of the other Death Eaters made room for him at the table.
Lucius laughed thickly, poured himself more brandy, and of course did not offer refills to the rest of the table. "I'm dreadfully glad to hear that, Severus," he said silkily, "be such a shame to lose you to the other side---"
"I'm not a fool, Lucius," Snape said calmly, leaning back in the chair. "Indeed---" he looked around him--- "to be frank, it's your wisdom I'd question at the moment." He flicked a hand round him casually. "Isn't this a tad... extravagant, considering the circumstances? I'd have thought it would make more sense to save the festivities for after our Lord's triumph--- when you won't have to dispose of the evidence in secret." He steepled his fingers, and looked at Lucius inquiringly.
There was muttered comment from the others--- not all of it, Severus gathered, in Lucius' favor. But Malfoy raked the group with a glance, and they subsided. "Well, I'll admit it isn't the kind of showing we'd have been able to put on in the old days," he said, swigging the brandy with the casual attitude of a man who can treat hundred-Galleon liquor like butterbeer, "only a few... playthings--- what, six or seven?" He looked around.
"Eight--- well, seven," said Patricia boredly, looking at the corpse at Snape's feet, "though it'll be six if Avery gets his way." She pouted.
"Can't have that--- the night's only half-gone." Lucius flicked a glance at Andrew Crabbe and Victor Goyle (the fathers of Draco's two goons; he was certain the Crabbe and Goyle families plotted their whelping on the orders of the Malfoys, lest one of the spawn of the latter have to survive Real Life without attendant thugs). "Talk him out of it, will you? Get him to wait a few hours, let someone else have a turn."
Malfoy's hulking thugs moved off, and Snape smothered a smile. Some things never did change.
Lucius looked back at him over the rim of the glass. "As for the ones we do have, they'll never be missed," he drawled. "Muggles are so good at producing garbage--- their own society creates throwaways for our amusement, as if it were designed for no other purpose." The evil glint in his eye said that that was exactly what he thought.
"And the Mudblood? Where do you find those?"
"Same place," Lucius belched. "You know that, Severus--- half the Mudbloods go mad, living with Muggles and no one knowing their magic's for real. Find them the same places we find the other sort." He looked up, as Crabbe and Goyle came back, looking pleased. "Took care of it, did you?" Goyle nodded, and Lucius waved his hand. "Well, then, friends, I suggest you enjoy yourselves--- before Avery gets... frustrated... enough to start looking for other playmates." His laugh was unpleasant, and the group around him dispersed in a haste born half of lust and half of fear, until only Lucius and Severus were left at the table.
Snape made to follow the others in haste, not wanting to be alone with Malfoy even in a crowded room, but Lucius' voice, silky-smooth and seductive, stopped him.
"Funny you should mention Mudbloods, Snape," he said. "I've got a little surprise for you--- 'tis the season, and all." He chuckled and got to his feet. "Come along."
Snape, trapped, had no choice but to follow the pale cold man, though his stomach renewed its protests and brought his heart into the rebellion at the thought of Lucius Malfoy's idea of a Christmas present for a man he despised.
Lucius led him down one of the honeycomb passageways off the main room, to a thick wooden door at the end. He pulled out a key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy padlock. "In here---" He grinned cruelly. "Wouldn't want the others to get to your present first, now would we?"
Snape tried to swallow, found that between the lump in his throat and the dryness in his mouth it wasn't happening. "Indeed. His heart was very loud in his ears.
Lucius swung back the door, gestured for Severus to precede him. "See for yourself."
Snape stepped into the room.
And froze on the threshold, stunned quite out of his wits.
Lying on a narrow cot in the cold, bare cell, stripped naked and bound hand and foot, and regarding him with heartfelt panic, was Hermione Granger.
It took only a second for Snape to recover himself, but Lucius was already speaking. "Draco told me you'd taken to keeping this little Mudblood after hours--- and naturally, I figured you had a good use for her," he drawled, "so I thought I'd make it... convenient... for you to... indulge."
Snape found his voice. "Are you out of your mind, Lucius?" he hissed. "For Merlin's sake, the girl has parents---"
"Who have been informed that she was unavoidably delayed at Hogwarts," Malfoy said, and added with a snigger, "which is only the literal truth, since that's where we picked her up." He sobered, regarded Snape coolly. "Don't tell me you don't... appreciate it?"
Snape got control of himself--- which wasn't easy, with Hermione Granger's frightened brown eyes boring into his skull. Thank Merlin the child at least knew he was a spy... she'd probably die of fright otherwise.
On the other hand, given her present circumstances, death might be a better option. "I've never been one to bed children," he snapped, shaking. Dear Merlin... to rape one of his own students! The thought twisted his guts. Nothing was worth doing that to a mere child... a child who trusted him... whose eyes held the same spark he saw in the mirror, when he could stand to look at himself....
And it was his fault she was here--- his own blasted stupid weakness, showing an interest in the child. His fault.
The mask of camaraderie Lucius had worn began to slip away. "No, Severus," he said quietly, "you never were--- always a spoilsport, weren't you? Never knew how to indulge yourself like a normal man, always buried in your books and your potions." Malfoy stepped closer, until his face was an inch from Snape's. "Even now, lurking in that lair of yours at Hogwarts... you're not flesh and blood, Severus, you're a mechanical contrivance." He laughed and stepped back. "Fortunately, some of us know what to do with a woman---" He turned toward the bed, and Hermione, his face a study in sadistic anticipation.
The girl's eyes widened still further, and whether it was courage or terror that had held her still until now, it broke, and she began to struggle. Lucius laughed. "How nice to be... appreciated---"
"Lucius," Snape said coldly, a sudden painful clarity sweeping through his mind, cutting off the horror-static as if he'd thrown a switch, "You're a damn fool."
Malfoy turned back to him, his eyes ugly. "What are you saying, Severus?"
"I'm saying," Snape said coolly, gliding past him, "that you're about to waste the best opportunity imaginable." It made him sick to think about it--- about twisting a child's heart and soul--- yet the worst that he would do to her tonight was better than the best she could expect from Malfoy. I'm sorry, Hermione.
Lucius regarded him with mocking skepticism. Snape spread his hands. "It's so simple," he said, tauntingly. "Why have a few moments' pleasure... when we can have the perfect pawn?"
Now Malfoy looked interested. "What did you have in mind?" he asked. "The Imperius Curse?"
Snape snorted. "Oh, Lucius, Lucius, you're a simple-minded brute sometimes, you know that?" He looked the other man in the eye. "You know a great deal about the pleasures of power... but you lack the subtlety to recognize the power of pleasure."
Lucius' eyes narrowed, then widened in comprehension. "Perhaps I'm not as simple as you think, Severus," he said. "Why don't you show me?" He leaned back against the wall, shoving the door closed with one hand, and regarded Snape expectantly.
"Oh, I intend to." And he turned back to the bed... and Hermione Granger.
Who stared up at him with dawning horror in her eyes.
His back to Malfoy, he let the mask slip a little--- a verylittle; he didn't trust the other man as far as he could throw this castle without magic. But it was safe, for a moment, to lock his eyes with those horrified, innocent ones--- Trust me, child? Please--- for both our sakes?
For a moment, they stared at each other--- no, she was too terrified, too traumatized already---
And then a miracle happened.
She tore her gaze from his, looked past him at Malfoy. And, shivering horribly... subsided onto the bed.
Snape smothered a sigh of relief, fixed the mask onto his face again, and shot a look over his shoulder at Lucius. "You've made my job easy, Lucius," he said. "Now, do me another favor--- don't interrupt."
Lucius snorted. "All right, then." Not a pleasant sound... but Snape could read him better than most: Malfoy was curious, and his curiosity and cruelty both would hold him silent.
Satisfied that Malfoy wouldn't ruin his efforts, he turned back to the girl.
And turned up the silk, dialed a caressing, commanding warmth into his voice, a kind of cruel, half-mocking tenderness, a parody of a lover's tone... yet just sincere enough that her senses would register it as something welcome. "That's right, girl," he breathed, coming to sit next to her on the bed. "That's right... I'm the lesser of two evils, aren't I? That's a start." He brushed his fingers over her forehead, felt the pulse at the soft sensitive flesh of her temple. "And you want to make me happy, don't you? You know what will happen if you don't?"
She swallowed--- her throat most likely as dry as his--- and nodded, once, shivering.
"Yes... there's a good girl." He brought his fingers down over her eyebrows--- the ridges of hair silky-soft under his touch--- and coaxed her eyelids closed. "That's better, isn't it?"
She nodded again, though it hadn't really been a question.
Snape paused, his hand resting lightly on her face, her shallow breaths warm on the hollow of his palm.
He drew a deep, slow, breath.
I'm so sorry, child....
And began.
*****
Hermione Granger had never been so frightened in her life.
She didn't remember much about the kidnapping--- one moment, she'd been crossing the barrier between Platform 9 & 3/4--- then next, she was here, in this room.
With Lucius Malfoy standing in front of her.
She'd stood her ground, bravely as she could--- but it had done her no good. With a word, he'd put her under the Petrificus Curse--- and with another, stripped her... then bound her to the bed using his own hands.
At which point, she'd fully expected to be raped, but he simply left her tied up there, to await her fate.
She'd lain there in the darkness, her mind conjuring up ever more gruesome scenarios for that fate--- deciding that whatever else happened to her, she wasn't going to give Lucius Malfoy the satisfaction of breaking her. Whatever he did, she had to stay sane... to survive... this: to survive, and escape, and try to get him punished for this. It was a grim thought but--- like Sirius' memory of his innocence--- it was something to hold onto.
And then the door had opened, and Malfoy returned... with Professor Snape.
Snape. She hadn't been certain whether to be relieved or terrified still more. She knew where Snape's loyalties lay... but neither of them could afford to let Malfoy know that.
Which meant that there was absolutely no way out of the nightmare... except to trust him, and hope that he knew a way out of this. Even if it was just to kill her, and see to Malfoy's punishment himself--- which she was certain he would.
She thought of his countless cruel remarks, of the times when she and her friends had been certain he meant to kill them or worse... and realized that Snape was probably perfectly willing to sacrifice her for what was unquestionably the greater good. She could only hope he'd have enough mercy to make it as quick as possible.
She could hardly stand to listen to the conversation between him and Malfoy--- too appalling to hear herself discussed like a piece of meat--- but her heart almost stopped when Malfoy began to come toward her.
She saw the cold horror on Snape's face, for just a second--- and then his expression hardened into a silkily vicious mask.
Her heart pounding in her ears, she just barely made out Snape's words--- until a phrase sounded in her mind like a siren.
The power of pleasure.
Oh, God. What was he going to do?
And then he turned to her, his back to Malfoy, his face in shadow.
And the icy mask slipped--- just a fraction.
She couldn't look away from the dark eyes locked on hers. From the pleading in them--- and the remorse.
Of a sudden, she remembered the night in the Potions lab, and his finger tilting her chin up so that their eyes met, and words of praise that she'd never expected from him.
She heard his voice again: "You have an eye for intrigue--- though apparently not the discretion for it."
Time to learn. To keep her promise to herself.
She steeled herself, and deliberately looked past him, at Malfoy... then back to those dark and desperate eyes.
And, fighting against the panic in every nerve and muscle, made herself relax.
Snape said something to Malfoy... and came and sat beside her on the bed.
His nearness made her tremble, of a sudden, this obscene casual intimacy. She wanted to cover herself, to run, to hide....
And then he spoke.
His voice was silky-soft, and quiet, and there was something in it that wormed its way under her skin and started to play with her tight-strung nerves, caressed them with something that was a threat and a promise in one. She found herself mesmerized by it, as if it were a silken thread leading her out of the labyrinth of terror in which she'd found herself.
And all the while, his dark eyes locked on hers, with something that was at once a plea and a promise.
It was a distinct relief when his long fingers brushed over her eyelids, closed them for her. Now there was only that voice, that wonderful, terrible voice....
And then he began to touch her.
His hand slipped from her face, down to her throat, as his other hand came to rest on her opposite shoulder. His hands were warm, a welcome contrast to the chill of the dungeon; his touch was firm but very, very gentle... almost as if he thought she were made of glass.
Which wasn't too far from how she felt--- fragile, breakable, as if one wrong move would shatter her. She shivered under his touch, her whole body harpstring taut.
And then, slowly, easily, his hands slid lower--- firm strokes, his palms flat against her sides as he traced them down her ribs to her waist, to her hips, to her thighs---
"There," said that promising, threatening voice, "that's better, isn't it? Nothing to fear...."
Unspoken: yet.
His hands came back up her sides, leaving trails of warmth in their wake, making her shiver as they moved and lean into the warmth. This time, when he reached her shoulders, he traced his hands up her arms, bound over her head, his fingers flicking lightly into her hair, then brought his hands back down again to her shoulders, down her sides, then up.... One hand came to rest on her stomach, rubbed a warm circle, before continuing back up her ribs.
And all the while, his voice caressed her, in half-understood whispers, threatened pleasure and promised pain.
Her whole being narrowed to that touch, that wasn't pleasure and wasn't pain, that was simply there, and to the voice, guiding her and coaxing her--- she'd never thought his voice could sound like that, never imagined the safety and warmth of his long fingers, and it terrified her and shamed her to be so vulnerable. She tensed with every stroke of his hands, her body wound in knots---
And then, suddenly, a spasm shot through her, a violent seizure like the ones that sometimes wracked her on the verge of sleep, ripping through her bones and startling a little shriek out of her.
In its wake she was limp on the narrow bed, like a puppet with its strings cut.
And he laughed, in that silky terrible voice, and murmured, "Felt good, didn't it? Better now?"
She couldn't help but nod. Because she did, because somehow the worst of the shame and the fear had melted with that shudder and she was weak with relief.
He chuckled again, the sound seeming to touch places on her body that she'd never known were there, and murmured, "That's only the beginning...."
And then his hands resumed their gentle progression along her sides... but with a difference. Now his fingers trailed along her flesh in a whisper of touch, as he left her sides with little flickering caresses, teasing, tempting, promising.... He was coaxing feeling out of spots that she hadn't imagined were this sensitive, warming her chilled skin inside and out....
And it seemed really no time at all before she was arching into those caresses, rubbing herself against his hands, whimpering softly as those wonderful fingers explored her body....
Quite intimately at times--- deft delicate flicks under her breasts, a teasing fingertip brushed over her inner thigh, then quickly withdrawn--- and at times no more than a friendly petting of her thighs or arms or stomach, so that she didn't know when suddenly the warm pleasant stroking would spark into real delight. She could only twist under the caresses and try to guide those hands to the places that wanted touching, could only beg for more....
Sometimes, he obliged her... sometimes. Other times he simply laughed, in that silken voice, and scolded gently, so that she lapsed back onto the bed and tried to hold herself still--- anything, anything, to keep him touching her and pleasing her....
Once, he drew his hand along her body, tracing a straight line from the tip of her nose down between her breasts past her navel, pulling away, bit by bit, so that she was forced to arch her back to maintain that delicious contact. And he laughed, and murmured, "A puppet on strings...." And did it again, and she felt vaguely that she ought to be ashamed, but she couldn't stop herself from rising to meet that touch....
And then, just when she was drowning in the ever more intimate pressure and pleasure of his hands and his voice--- both abruptly went away.
She cried out in the silence, the sound torn from her throat, and he chuckled. "Want more, do you?"
"Yes, oh yes...." She could barely recognize her own voice.
She felt movement, and then his face was very close to hers, his breath warm and smelling of mint and lemon. "What would you do," he murmured--- cruel parody of intimacy--- "if I asked, hmmm? If I promised you..." a suggestive purr, "more?"
She sobbed aloud. "Anything... anything...."
A long pause, during which she shivered and shook with frustrated want. Then, very softly, ice and silk to her ears.... "Open your eyes. Look at me."
Something told her she shouldn't, it would be a mistake... but the promise and the threat were there, and the thought of those hands was enough to overcome sense.
She opened her eyes.
And it was Snape's face above her, which she hadn't wanted to think about--- Snape, the sarcastic, the cruel; the greasy-haired and hook-nosed; her professor, for Merlin's sake....
Her professor, whom in the last weeks she'd come to admire, and for a minute here and there to like.
Whom she'd never be able to look in the eye again.
She turned her head to hide from him--- and that was a bigger mistake, because there was Lucius Malfoy leaning against the wall, his pale face flushed and his eyes avid and cruel.
She gave a little cry and buried her face in one arm, closing her eyes against everything.
And a gentle hand stroked her neck, moved lower to her chest in a warm caress.
She shuddered, and couldn't look up, but that warm feeling was back, reminding her what those hands could do... if she did what he wanted.
"Look at me," he ordered in that silken voice. The hand slid lower--- then stopped, drew away from her straining body. "Look at me."
Slowly, shivering inside, she turned her head, opened her eyes.
He looked back at her, his eyes intent on hers, the mask firmly in place, that little warm glint in his eyes that might be concern and might be something else altogether....
And his hand moved, with unerring instinct, to a verysensitive spot.
He lingered there for an instant, then drew back. "You liked that, didn't you?"
She gasped, nodded, not trusting her voice.
"Say it." That silky-smooth voice brooked no defiance.
"Yes. I liked it." Oh, dear God, she was going to die of shame.
His fingers played over her body again, and, helpless now under his touch, seeking the pleasure as much to escape from this horrid reality as for itself, she twisted up under the caress. It was good, so good....
He chuckled wickedly. "And that?"
"Yes." Don't let him stop, please don't let him stop....
Please let me die, now.
"You want more...." Another lingering caress, the most intimate yet, drawing back quickly before she had a chance to register more than the moment's flash of shameful pleasure. "Don't you?"
She sobbed aloud. "Yes, oh, yes...."
Gentle fingers caught her chin, turned her head. "Look at me when you say it. Look me in the eye and tell me...." He caught his breath. "Tell me you want me."
No, no, why was he doing this? She couldn't say it... and yet--- flash of shameful shock--- it was true. She did want him, wanted those hands and that voice, had never wanted anything more in her life....
"I want you---" flash of insight, she decided to say it before he could make her, let this one small act be hers to control--- "I want you, P-professor Snape."
His eyes widened at that--- for a moment, the mask seemed to slip a little, revealing something she couldn't fathom---
And then it was back in place and he laughed, that deep and silken caress. "Good girl," he said softly. "Very good indeed...." Flash of the black eyes. "I think that deserves a little reward, hmm?"
And then his long fingers trailed over her body, stroked down over her stomach... and moved lower.
She arched against the pleasure, rubbing herself up against that light soft touch that teased and promised... and this time, she kept her eyes on his.
"Good girl," he murmured again... and then the caresses deepened in their intensity, weaving a warm cocoon about her that protected her from the fear and the horror that she knew was just on the edge of her awareness, and she gave herself up to it gratefully, because it was safe, because it was a welcome alternative to the horror and the fear. And she let herself yield to the deft fingers bringing a pleasure so intense it was painful....
Suddenly, it was pain, as that caress became a pinch, and she yelped and shivered--- but the pain was almost good, was a relief after the intense delight, and she looked into his eyes and saw the knowing glint and knew he had done it on purpose.
And then for a long time he touched her that way, and now it was truly maddening, because she never knew when the exquisite pleasure would suddenly sharpen into pain, and she sobbed and cried and begged for some relief.
But she never looked away from his eyes.
After a time, she didn't want to, because those eyes caressed her like his hands did, a probing, knowing touch that reached something deep inside of her. And the look in them--- that lingering hint of kindness beneath the glitter--- was like a silken thread and she knew if she followed it, it would lead her to safety.
And slowly, the world blurred into the dark eyes that raked her with caresses and the deep silken voice and those deft knowing fingers that brought her spiraling steadily upward to a kind of delight she had never imagined....
And then all her senses exploded, waves of ecstasy ripping through her body like lightning, and for one shining moment there was nothing but pure physical delight and release---
And then the waves receded and took her with them, down into a dark safe place where there was
only warmth and peace....
*****
Snape wiped his fingers on the mattress, took a deep breath, thankful for the cold air and the torchlit darkness.
He touched Hermione's neck, felt for a pulse, careful to keep the contact impersonal, mindful of Malfoy's eyes on them. The blood beneath his fingers moved in steady waves; she was fine, then, simply overwhelmed by the sensations.
For which favor much thanks. It was better for her to be unconscious, safely in Morpheus' care, while he bargained their way out.
He looked up at Lucius, the mask he'd made of his features feeling stiff, fevered. "A few more sessions of that," he said lazily, "and she'd slit Potter's throat herself if I told her to."
Lucius pushed himself indolently off the wall. "I'd say you have the little Mudblood pretty well under your command as it is," he said, then added, with a sneer, "I wouldn't have imagined any woman, even filth like that, could say she wanted you with a straight face."
Snape regarded him coldly, but inside he felt a bleak sort of exultation. That had been a cruel gambit to play with the poor child--- but clearly it had proved his point to Lucius: Hermione was completely under his control. "I suppose your bedmates put up with your sadism then, in exchange for your pretty face," he sneered, "or is it your money?"
Lucius' face contorted in anger--- then, suddenly, he laughed. "That's the difference between us, Severus," he said snidely. "I don't give a damn what a woman in my bed wants... as long as she does what I want."
Snape felt his stomach heave, but he kept the sneer fixed on his face. "After tonight's... demonstration... you still say that?" he laughed. "You are a brute, Lucius, do you know that?" Before Malfoy could respond, he added, "And now, I hate to rush off--- but it would be as well for my purpose if little Miss Granger wakes up somewhere more welcoming than this---" he waved his hand around the dank dungeon. "So, if you'll excuse me, Lucius---" He touched his wand in its concealed pocket, muttered a series of charms--- and Hermione was quite abruptly dressed in her school robes. He flicked the wand at her, and she rose into the air, hovering above the bed.
Lucius gave him a long thoughtful look. "You'd better go out the back way," he said finally. "The others won't think as much of your... purpose... as I'm beginning to."
Snape restrained himself from doing a double take by main force of will. "A Malfoy? Impressed? The world will surely crack in two with shock."
But he didn't refuse the hand Lucius held out.
Nor could the rising tide of guilt and self-loathing chewing his guts alive entirely obliterate the twinge of satisfaction he felt. He'd known this little show would be exactly to Lucius Malfoy's tastes... even if the man couldn't quite bring himself to admit it.
But he only gestured for his host to proceed him out of the chamber. "Lead the way, then."
Author's Note: Those of you who have read J. L. Matthews' "Slytherin Rising" will immediately
note the "abusing someone to save her life" parallel. I swear upon my dubious Slytherin honor
VEG that I had the notion courtesy of the Cherryh/King gestalt, but JLM's fic is wonderful in
its own right--- go read it (when you're done here, of course ;).
