This chapter's warnings: Incest (not graphic), a leetle bit of blood-play, butchery of Shakespeare (many, many apologies to the Bard)
Epilogue coming soon.
Author's Note: Big shout out to my lovely reviewers. Thank you so much for your feedback, it really makes my day to know that you've enjoyed my story.
An especially big thank you to Ms. Padfoot: You've been my most faithful reviewer, and I'd like to thank you for all the time you've taken to read and review my stories. Yours are equally wonderful. Feel free to carry on reading and, of course, reviewing ;-)
Absolution
Pausing to swipe a stray lock of hair from his face, Severus flinched as he recognised the familiar sensation of blood on his skin. He realised detachedly that the cut on his palm was still bleeding. He should bandage it again and let the wound heal.
The fumes now rising from the potion were noxious, and were beginning to take effect. His vision dimly fogged, Severus realised as though for the first time, why it was so important not to consume alcohol whilst working with Asphodel. He should have thought about ventilation.
This was the calm in the aftermath of the storm – the boy's abrupt departure having proved to be the catalyst… Some small part of Severus had been exposed by the boy's hollow grief, and with the few brief, violent tears which had fallen – for himself, for him, for the both of them – something of a heady, precarious plain had been reached. The vacuum had been filled by a desperate, manic high, and Severus kept his tenuous grip on sanity only by forcing down rational thought and bleeding out the emptiness.
He could hear her cruel words, mocking words, gently lilting with the pretence of the jest: Always afraid of the kill, little brother? And he had loved her. Gods, he loved her. Worshipped her, adored her. As she read him a story about loyalty and sacrifice and glorious death for the cause, and as she kissed him and showed him things he was too naïve to understand. The gasp she always gave as his fingers slid into her, or as his tongue flicked out to taste, as though she were the virgin and he the seducer.
Her death had served only as proof of the futility of his existence. So she had finally succeeded in destroying him, crushing him, and he had fled to Hogwarts, to the open arms and twinkling eyes of Albus Dumbledore, and the life of Harry Potter.
And Severus took some comfort – pleasure? – from the fact that the boy knew exactly what it had felt like, to see her interred. Yet he doubted that Potter had cried those lover's tears for his beloved Godfather…
And, Severus now noted with grim amusement, his thoughts had come, as the saying goes, full circle, ending as they began – with Harry.
The name did him an injustice. It was clumsy, awkward, childish. It described the 11-year-old who had rejected the friendship of a Malfoy, and in so doing set himself immediately a cut above Severus. 'James', if it was possible, was worse. It belonged to an arrogant child, one who had broken or disregarded the rules with an alarming regularity, and defended his father's name, under the mistaken impression that it deserved the defence. It was three years since that he had been brought swiftly and cruelly down to earth by that foolish stolen glance into a Pensieve.
This new Potter, the one which had sat in Severus' comfiest chair and sobbed in front of the fire, had no name. Like a blank slate, a clean blackboard, a vacuum to be filled, he was empty, new, desolate.
What's in a name? A rose by any other name would taste as sweet…
The bleeding hand forgotten, Severus slipped into the chair, which smelt of Harry, and closed his eyes, inebriated and wired to the point of exhaustion.
His dreams were broken and fevered, tortured for what seemed an hour, maybe two. Then cool hands stroked away the hair from his face and wiped away the blood. They bound his hand and laid it on the arm of the chair. And then, after a pause during which Severus wondered whether the cherub had departed, soft lips pressed a rough kiss to the corner of his mouth. A shuddering sigh, and warm breath on Severus' cheek, and the angel was gone.
When he awoke some hours later, Severus first realised that the fumes had now cleared and he was no longer in danger of being gassed to Kingdom Come. Secondly, as he raised his hand to run it over his unshaven, weary face, he realised that someone had indeed bandaged the wound on his palm. His eyes snapped open and he found himself, rather disconcertingly, to be seated opposite Harry Potter, who, it seemed, had been watching him for some time.
Gone were the surreptitious, almost coy glances of countless lessons, whereby Severus would look up to find himself observed and the emerald eyes would widen in surprise and flicker shyly downwards. The boy now held his gaze, although not in defiance or wilfulness. A simple, quiet gaze which reminded Severus slightly of Remus Lupin.
For a moment they sat in silence, until the boy spoke, quietly: "I brought your cloak back." He indicated the third chair, over which Severus' travelling cloak lay.
Severus nodded. Standing slowly, he made his way towards the cauldron, determined not to let his unsteady feet stumble. The flames had been extinguished, no doubt by Harry, and the potion itself lay congealing and very much condensed in the bottom of the cauldron. So much the better; he had unwittingly allowed it to become more concentrated than initially intended.
As he muttered and brought the flames to life once more, he felt Harry stand and move closer, watching him. For a moment he watched the potion heat, the bubbles beginning to rise, then Harry spoke, curiosity obviously having gotten the better of him: "Wandless magic?"
Severus nodded, eyes still on the swirling mixture before him, "A wizard controls his magic, a wand merely helps him direct it."
"I know," Harry replied. "You tried to teach me, remember?"
Oh, yes. Twelve weeks spent in a classroom teaching the boy to focus, to exert some self-control. Severus realised that he should have known after the Occlumency fiasco that it would be pointless. But Albus had insisted. "And you appear to have learned something from it," Severus said.
"Yes," said Harry, blankly.
For a moment more there was no sound other than the bubble and hiss of the broiling liquid. It was beginning to deepen in colour; no longer the grey-lilac of before, now a deepening, blackening purple. A sudden fragrance began to rise in pale clouds… Myrrh and decay –
"Death," whispered Harry. Eyes previously fixed on the cauldron flickered to look at Severus. "What…?"
"Dreamless Sleep, with a few additions," Severus supplied.
Harry's eyes came to rest on Severus' bandaged hand and he understood. "Will it kill you?"
"If I drink it."
"If I drank it…?"
Severus nodded, "Eventually."
"… Will you drink it?"
Severus remained silent and took up the knife from the bench beside him, slipping the tip under the bandage. Slicing away the material, he let it drop to the wooden bench-top and held his hand up to the flickering light of the fire. Another cut would be needed, another wound inflicted. The blade glinted, reflecting the firelight and catching Harry's reflection as he watched, morbidly fascinated.
"The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures." Severus murmured, "'Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil."
He pressed the blade to his palm and watched as blood welled in the new cut, cross-ways to the other. Holding his arm over the cauldron, he squeezed and waited until enough blood had dripped in rivulets through his clenched fingers. With a hiss, the potion turned suddenly black, darker than any midnight, and poured forth a great cloud of pale smoke. Caught by the fumes, Severus reeled momentarily, and stumbled backwards into Harry's arms.
For a moment there was stillness as he regained his balance, then Severus turned and met a gaze only slightly lower than his own. Emerald eyes, darkened – by the fumes or by desire Severus couldn't say – and empty. Loneliness screamed forth and deeper there burned something violent and hungry. It was a moment before Severus recollected himself and moved backwards, trapped between the bench and this burning, aching man-child.
It took a further moment for him to find his voice and when he did it was hoarse and dark, "Go, Har- Potter." The boy didn't move, and Severus shouted: "Go!"
"Why?" Harry asked breathlessly, confused.
"GO!" Severus turned away so that he wouldn't have to look.
"Professor…" Harry moved to place a hand on Severus' arm, but the older man tore away.
"Do not touch me!"
"What've I done?" Harry asked, bewildered, angry, "I don't –"
Severus turned sharply and Harry almost stumbled backwards at the darkness of his eyes. "You over-stepped the mark, Potter! Kissing a sleeping teacher is hardly appropriate behaviour! Or am I mistaken, and it was all a dream?" Severus sneered.
At this Harry did stumble, falling backwards a little, his eyes wide. "You… I thought –"
"It is quite clear that you didn't think," Snape snapped. Harry didn't reply, only gazed at Severus with faint, glistening tears in his eyes. Then, slowly, he raised one hand and made as if to touch the older man's face, and for one moment his fingertips grazed the unshaven cheek. But Severus was too quick, and caught Harry's hand in his own vice-like grip.
With a hissed intake of breath, Severus realised that he had used the wrong hand, and that Harry's nails now dug into the open wound on his palm. For a moment he remained still, then twisted his hand away sharply. Gazing down at the blood under his nails, Harry seemed distraught and when Severus spoke his voice was barely a whisper: "Please, go. I will not take you."
For one glorious and terrible moment Severus thought that the boy would do as he was told and leave, but he then realised how foolish it was to trust to Harry doing anything he was told to.
Slowly, tremblingly, Harry took Severus' injured, bleeding hand in his. He turned it so that the palm lay facing upwards and Severus held his breath, trying not to pull away. Raising Severus' hand to his lips, his breath falling warm against the abused flesh, Harry pressed a soft kiss to the stained fingertips. Willing himself not to make a sound, Severus watched, his eyes darkening, as Harry carefully, reverently kissed each finger. When Harry's tongue flicked gently out to taste the skin, it was all Severus could do to hold in a strangled sound, something between a hiss and a moan. Harry's kisses continued, soft and gentle along each finger, along the first, semi-healed line on his palm. Then, with a small, whimpering noise at the back of his throat, his eyes falling shut, his tongue dipped into the wound which still bled, eliciting a groan from the older man. Harry lapped gently at the blood, cleaning, licking, tasting, drinking. Severus tried to resist but let his head fall back, listening to the small sounds of pleasure which Harry was making.
When the blood no longer flowed, and Severus' hand was clean, Harry raised his head slightly, gazing at the older man with hooded eyes. Severus opened his own eyes, not having realised he had let them fall closed, and felt a shudder run through him as Harry's breath fell cool on his wet, heated skin.
In a low, murmuring voice, Harry began to speak, his eyes on Severus', his lips red and moist, "If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentler sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough work with a tender kiss…"
Severus tried to pull his hand away, to close his eyes, to move, but he found he didn't want to. The words of protest died in his throat as Harry began to speak once more: "Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?"
Don't play along, Severus, don't give in… But, with a groan, Severus complied: "Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer."
"Then move not while my prayer's effect I take." With Severus' hand still clasped in his, Harry moved forward, so close that his lips barely brushed Severus' and pressed a gentle kiss to Severus' mouth. "Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purged."
Unable, unwilling to move, Severus could only reply, his lips moving against Harry's, against the sweetness of Harry's breath, "Then have my lips the sin that they have took."
"Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again."
For an eternity they neither breathed nor moved, then Harry collapsed forward and pressed a fierce but chaste kiss to Severus' lips and Severus hated himself for aching for a further touch. His eyes snapped open a moment later as he felt those lips pressed to his throat, the warm wetness of a tongue sliding down his skin, hands pushing aside his high collar to lick at the pulsing vein. He groaned and felt Harry chuckle darkly against his throat.
He knew, as Harry slid to his knees, that it was too late to protest. And as Harry pushed away the black folds of Severus' robes and began to fumble with the buttons on his trousers, he found he really didn't want to. Harry impatiently pushed aside the material, and trailed one finger against the hardness within the last barrier of cloth. Severus shuddered and as Harry freed him from the confines of his underwear, the look of reverence on his face almost made Severus come far earlier than he wanted to. And then he was enveloped in warmth and wetness and God, but it had been so long, and he needed more. With one hand twined in Harry's hair and one braced against the bench behind him, he moaned something – later, he wouldn't be able to remember what – and the world exploded.
When Harry drew himself back up Severus' body he was trembling and kissed the older man desperately, teeth and tongues clashing. And it was when Severus tasted himself on Harry's tongue that he realised the magnitude of what he had done. This desperate, luscious man-child, hard against his hip, hands fumbling for the buttons of his shirt…
Severus tore himself away and used his hand in Harry's hair to stop him from moving.
"What are you…?" Harry began, reaching for Severus, but the older man pushed him away.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them they would be cold, unfeeling, scornful… They would hold no sign that Severus was mere seconds, a single kiss, away from taking Harry to his bed and making him scream, making him cry out, calling Severus' name as he came... Always afraid of the kill, little brother?
Not this time. Kill this now, and let the boy live, or have it consume them both.
"This was a mistake." Severus said, trying to infuse his voice with as much of his usual ice as possible, "I'm sorry to have disappointed you, Mr Potter. Please, go."
"But –"
"Go!" Severus tried not to sound as though he was begging, and clenched his trembling fingers.
Harry didn't move. Then, slowly and deliberately, he leaned forward and kissed Severus, fierce and desperate, flicking his tongue over the older man's lips. But when Severus remained unresponsive – and Gods, it was killing him – Harry drew back. A swift turn, the slam of a door, and he was gone.
Severus let out the ragged breath he had been holding. He reached for the edge of the bench and missed, instead slipping to the floor, the forgotten Dreamless Sleep potion bubbling away to itself beside him.
You see, Albus… you see what you've reduced me to. Our unfulfilled saviour, The Boy With The Midas Touch… Have I tarnished him, deflowered him? Gods, Albus, I'm only human. I'm only fucking human.
~~~~~
Notes:
'The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures. 'Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.' – Macbeth act 2, sc. 2, l. 53
'If I profane…Give me my sin again' – slightly mangled extract from Romeo and Juliet act 1, sc. 5, l. 93-110
