A/N: Looking over Lyntek's old illustrations from "Szajha" -- This picture
made me do it:
Difficult to write a chapter that measures up to everyone's expectations -- Hope I'm somewhat succeeding
Dedicated to Sirius Black
VII. Sexuality
"I can't believe he dismissed us," Seamus grumbles, pulling the comforter over his head.
The Debutantes are all sleeping in the chamber adjoining Acca Larentia tonight. Severus promptly dismissed us, insisting that Ron needed some "private instruction." If Ron could have cast "Avada Kedavra" with a glare, I would now be dead on the Szajha's floor. So we, the Debutantes, trudged back to this all-too-familiar chamber for some refreshments and relaxation.
"I'm so glad that he did," Colin declares, plucking a bon-bon from off of a platter and shoving it into his mouth. "I could live the rest of my life without seeing Ron Weasley naked." He cocks his head to the side appraisingly. "Jelly-filled. I rather like those."
"Why'd you have to bring it up, Harry?" Justin sighs.
"It's not Harry's fault," Colin insists, half rising to his feet (in case the Hufflepuff wanted to challenge him). "Professor Snape was the one who asked the question. You should be blaming him. Not Harry."
"Professor Snape. It's been so long since I've thought of him as Professor Snape."
The comment comes from Neville Longbottom. He's sitting on a heap of linen bedclothes, hugging a pillow to his chest. Neville is, without a doubt, the innocent in this entire scenario. Everything about him is so far removed from this world of sexuality and political intrigue. He's the antithesis of everything a Debutante should be -- pudgy, clumsy, and naïve.
And I admire him for that.
"Oh god," Colin giggles falling back onto the comforter. "I wonder what Snape's doing to him in there . . . Can you even imagine?"
"I'm sure Harry can," Justin mumbles, helping himself to one of the bon- bons.
"Is that one of the cream-filled ones, Justin?" Colin asks, leaning over and inspecting the candy. "Because I want to know what exactly they put in those things . . ."
Justin's eyes go wide and he sputters -- letting strings of cream dribble out down his chin. Seamus and Colin bust into peals of laughter, tears beading up in the corners of their eyes. Even Neville smiles sheepishly, barely willing to acknowledge that he picked up on the "dirty joke." The hysterics continue . . . until the door flies open.
For a moment, the world ceases to turn.
Ron Weasley stands in the doorway. His complexion has blanched to a dull gray. His trembling hands grip the doorframe, as if he might fall over if the wind happened to blow the wrong way. His eyes look like they've been glazed over with powdered-sugar icing. He takes a couple ragged breaths, trying to steady himself.
"Severus wishes to see you," he croaks out. He tentatively releases his grip on the door, stumbles forward a few steps, and then collapses onto the comforter. All of the Debutantes rush to him -- except for me, naturally.
I bolt out into the hallway before anyone can ask questions.
*****
"What did you do to him?" I ask, bringing my fist down onto the bureau. Severus is stretched out on the divan, reading some rustic hand-written novel. He barely looks up when I enter the room. So I stand there for a few moments -- silently fuming, hoping that he'll finally show a tinge of concern or regret. But he just lies there, sifting through the pages of his book. Professor Snape -- indifferent and cold, always willing to emotionally traumatize a student for the sake of "education."
And, for a moment, I can't believe I've ever looked at this man with any feeling except contempt.
Finally, I pick up the vase -- filled with lilies -- and hurl it towards the floor. Millions of crystal shards sink into the plush carpeting.
"Now did that serve any purpose?" Severus sighs, putting his book to the side for a moment. "Come near to me."
"I don't think so," I murmur, moving farther back into the shadow of the doorframe. "After what you did to Ron, I don't even know if I ever want to see you again . . ."
"Don't be childish. You don't have a choice in the matter. Now come near to me."
And he's right, of course. I don't have a choice in the matter. I'm a captive -- one of those "birds in a gilded cage." I'm not completely blind to my situation. I'm not keeping up that façade of control like the others. I've been enslaved and all choices are no longer my own. So I lock the door and come near to him, perching on the edge of his bed.
"Not so bad then, is it?" Severus' voice is definitively soothing and I begin to forget the cause of my anger. It slips out of my mind, like a trout, and swims away. Now I'm just curling my fists in the fabric of his nightgown, trying to root myself in him. Trying to find a sense of security and "home" that I lost the moment I was abducted from Hogwarts.
"What are you thinking?" Severus whispers, brushing his lips against my cheek in a show of affection.
"I'm a canary," I smile. "I'm a canary that's flown down one hell of a coal mine."
And he's about to kiss me when we hear three hard knocks -- knock, knock, knock -- on the door to our chambers. A sharp intake of breath. Flecks of light glint through otherwise dusky eyes. I immediately know who's come calling.
"If I may be excused, Szajha . . ." I slowly slide off the divan, trying desperately to escape. Behind that door is a cluster of possibilities . . . Tonight, however, all I want is a dab of paternal affection and a good night's sleep (preferably in the same room as the other Debutantes, for once). However, Severus seems to have other plans. In his felicitousness, he pulls me into his arms and begins to nuzzle my collarbone.
"We aren't presentable, my lord!" Severus laughs. Then he repeats my previous lesson: "A Debutante would never appear before anyone of importance in a state of undress."
Voldemort sighs impatiently from behind the door. "Severus, I know you. It takes four hours for you to get 'dressed.' And I'm impatient this evening."
"Then come in, my lord." Something about their manner of conversation is so at ease. The tones of their voices seem to warm the entire room. Severus laughs lightly and then looks down at me. He automatically stiffens and says in a show of formality: "You may come in, if you desire. I won't defy you, my lord."
A nudge against the door and it swings open. Voldemort slowly steps into the lamplight. Shadows play over the lines of his face -- making crevices and creases appear deeper. All of a sudden, he looks so much mature. Seventy-three years are beginning to make themselves known. The glint in his eyes isn't quite as vital; the smile that stings his lips isn't quite as feral. Yet still, Severus beckons him into the bedroom with the eager anticipation of a child.
The Dark Lord's eyebrow arches upward when he sees me -- Harry Potter, the precious Debutante -- sitting on the Szajha's bed.
"We have company," Severus whispers (this is apparently some great secret).
"Manners, darling," Voldemort chides. It takes a moment before I realize that this censure is directed towards me. My eyebrows knit together in confusion -- Have I done anything disrespectful? I haven't spoken but, then again, I haven't been spoken to. I must have . . . Suddenly, it occurs to me. I slowly ease down from the edge of the bed into a deep curtsey. One that, if I may say so myself, almost rivals the Szajha's.
"Well done. You've trained him well, Severus."
It's one of the few times I've heard Lord Voldemort call the Szajha by his given name.
"Thank you, Tom."
And it's certainly the only time I've heard the Szajha call Lord Voldemort by that "filthy muggle name."
Severus rises to his slippered feet. He hastily attempts to straighten himself out -- to make himself look presentable. Pins are fastened and curls are tweaked. He checks the mirror and, when the reflection is suitably attractive, he begins to fall into a curtsey. But it seems that, this time, Voldemort has different plans for the evening. The Dark Lord clasps Severus around the waist and pulls him into a tight embrace. They simply hold each other for a few moments. I notice that Voldemort is whispering sugary endearments into Severus' ear. I begin to feel as if I'm intruding on a private moment. Then Voldemort moves closer and his lips collide with Severus'.
And then I can no longer move of my own accord.
I just stare at those two profiles -- that prolific nose grazing against Voldemort's cheek, the deft fingers tangling in cinereal strands of hair, the fleeting moments when I can see tongues flicking out and then retreating . . . I don't know if I'm in love with one, or the other, or both of them. All I know is that I cannot move from this spot.
And soon, Voldemort notices.
"Sit," he commands and Severus retreats to the rococo chairs in the corner. His legs crossed and his fingers peaked like a Christian steeple, he watches attentively.
"You said that I'd see you again soon enough." Voldemort parrots our previous conversation as he begins to unbutton his robe. Cold steel buttons slip out of their holes and, little by little, strips of flesh are revealed to me. Voldemort, apparently, chooses not to wear anything beneath his robe. And, although I loathe to say it, I'm not really complaining.
"I've been waiting patiently." One-half of the buttons are undone. "I will continue to wait until the Cockatrice Bacchanalia . . ." Five more. " . . . Where I will finally be able to bed you . . ." Two more. " . . . But for now . . ." One more. " . . . There are still some . . . interesting ways to pass the time." Voldemort pushes the fabric off of his shoulders and he's completely exposed before me. I find it fascinating -- seeing Lord Voldemort is this state of would-be vulnerability. Instead of appearing weaker, he only seems increasingly powerful. It's as if the garments were shielding the common public from the true magnitude of his strength. For the first time throughout my term of servitude, I genuinely cower before him.
There are no requests, no commands. He tugs on the brass knob of a near-by drawer and pulls out a package of Dunhill Cigarettes, wrapped up in cellophane. "From a muggle shop," Voldemort explains, opening the box and pulling out two cigarettes. He lights them and then offers me one.
"Smoking's really bad for you," I lightly object, knowing how childish I must sound.
"Come on, darling." He sits down on the bed, so close that I can feel the blue-heat radiating off of his flesh. I fleetingly think about grabbing one of the near-by pillows -- I could shove it onto my lap, try to conceal my growing erection. However, that would be futile. Voldemort's already seen the efforts of his ministrations, tenting up under nearly transparent cotton. He smiles roguishly and brings the cigarette to his lips.
Fuck.
He inhales deeply and, before I can protest, he brings his lips to mine. The burnt-tobacco taste filters into my mouth, the smoke eases down my larynx and fills my lungs. I automatically begin coughing -- deep, breathy coughs. Voldemort rubs his hand down the expanse of my back.
Severus laughs.
"You'll get better."
Voldemort drops the cigarette into an ashtray and turns all of his attentions to me. Fingers lace through the ends of a grosgrain ribbon -- weaved into my braided chignon. He begins to untie the neckline of my nightgown but, in his haste, he accidentally tangles up the strings into a double-knot. "Damn," he curses under his breath. He tugs at the snag and he's eventually rewarded. The nightgown falls down around my waist. He surveys this new territory for a moment before pressing his lips against the buttery skin of my shoulder.
My thighs spread apart -- unconsciously -- and Voldemort takes this opportunity to position himself between my legs. He continues laving my shoulder with his tongue. I hesitantly wrap my arms around him, pressing him closer -- encouraging him to caress, to fondle, to stroke . . . Until now, I hadn't realized that I'd been holding my breath. However, I exhale deeply when he finally brings his tongue downwards, to gloss my nipple.
"Oh god," I mutter, gently grinding my hips into his torso -- trying to attain some of that coveted friction. "Don't do this to me . . ."
He releases my nipple -- now florid and swollen.
"Don't do what?"
"Don't tease me unless you plan on taking me."
Before Severus can sputter out some sort of apology (trying to atone for my brash words), Voldemort bursts into laughter. He falls back onto the comforter, trembling from the hilarity. Hell, whatever I was expecting his reaction to be, this definitely wasn't it. My erection wilts like a flower in the scorching August sun.
"Oh, my little Debutante," he sighs -- a lofty smile plastered on his lips. "You've taught him how to be wanton, Severus, but can you teach him to be evasive as well? He's not supposed to beg for it . . ." Another fit of uproarious laughter. "So much for the demure . . ."
I glance over at Severus.
And automatically wish that I hadn't.
His fingers are twitching; his mouth contorted into the traditional scowl. I haven't seen Severus looking like this since my days as a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry -- almost an eternity ago in my mind's eye. His pupils are practically boiling over with searing rage.
Obviously Severus doesn't like being laughed at.
Especially not by his Lord.
His lover.
"I'm sorry." I shrink back into the pillows -- as if they could swallow me up in one incredible feather-filled gulp. Then I'd be done with this entire scenario.
"You couldn't have known any better," Voldemort says, in an almost paternal manner. "You're still in training, my Debutante. But let this be a lesson: Never ask for sexual gratification. You never need to ask for what you can have. Do you understand?"
I nod and he kisses me -- a repugnantly chaste kiss.
However, he does take a second to whisper in my ear: "I'll take care of the Szajha."
Voldemort rises from the bed and begins to clothe himself. I quietly observe -- waxen flesh pulling over muscle. Glistening, salty flesh . . . over biceps, deltoids, pectorals . . . dartos, hidden behind the blush-hued scrotum . . .
"How many more days?"
"Four."
Four more days. Four more days to decide what I want.
Who I want.
Draco. Severus. Voldemort.
"Come Severus."
And the two of them are gone.
Difficult to write a chapter that measures up to everyone's expectations -- Hope I'm somewhat succeeding
Dedicated to Sirius Black
VII. Sexuality
"I can't believe he dismissed us," Seamus grumbles, pulling the comforter over his head.
The Debutantes are all sleeping in the chamber adjoining Acca Larentia tonight. Severus promptly dismissed us, insisting that Ron needed some "private instruction." If Ron could have cast "Avada Kedavra" with a glare, I would now be dead on the Szajha's floor. So we, the Debutantes, trudged back to this all-too-familiar chamber for some refreshments and relaxation.
"I'm so glad that he did," Colin declares, plucking a bon-bon from off of a platter and shoving it into his mouth. "I could live the rest of my life without seeing Ron Weasley naked." He cocks his head to the side appraisingly. "Jelly-filled. I rather like those."
"Why'd you have to bring it up, Harry?" Justin sighs.
"It's not Harry's fault," Colin insists, half rising to his feet (in case the Hufflepuff wanted to challenge him). "Professor Snape was the one who asked the question. You should be blaming him. Not Harry."
"Professor Snape. It's been so long since I've thought of him as Professor Snape."
The comment comes from Neville Longbottom. He's sitting on a heap of linen bedclothes, hugging a pillow to his chest. Neville is, without a doubt, the innocent in this entire scenario. Everything about him is so far removed from this world of sexuality and political intrigue. He's the antithesis of everything a Debutante should be -- pudgy, clumsy, and naïve.
And I admire him for that.
"Oh god," Colin giggles falling back onto the comforter. "I wonder what Snape's doing to him in there . . . Can you even imagine?"
"I'm sure Harry can," Justin mumbles, helping himself to one of the bon- bons.
"Is that one of the cream-filled ones, Justin?" Colin asks, leaning over and inspecting the candy. "Because I want to know what exactly they put in those things . . ."
Justin's eyes go wide and he sputters -- letting strings of cream dribble out down his chin. Seamus and Colin bust into peals of laughter, tears beading up in the corners of their eyes. Even Neville smiles sheepishly, barely willing to acknowledge that he picked up on the "dirty joke." The hysterics continue . . . until the door flies open.
For a moment, the world ceases to turn.
Ron Weasley stands in the doorway. His complexion has blanched to a dull gray. His trembling hands grip the doorframe, as if he might fall over if the wind happened to blow the wrong way. His eyes look like they've been glazed over with powdered-sugar icing. He takes a couple ragged breaths, trying to steady himself.
"Severus wishes to see you," he croaks out. He tentatively releases his grip on the door, stumbles forward a few steps, and then collapses onto the comforter. All of the Debutantes rush to him -- except for me, naturally.
I bolt out into the hallway before anyone can ask questions.
*****
"What did you do to him?" I ask, bringing my fist down onto the bureau. Severus is stretched out on the divan, reading some rustic hand-written novel. He barely looks up when I enter the room. So I stand there for a few moments -- silently fuming, hoping that he'll finally show a tinge of concern or regret. But he just lies there, sifting through the pages of his book. Professor Snape -- indifferent and cold, always willing to emotionally traumatize a student for the sake of "education."
And, for a moment, I can't believe I've ever looked at this man with any feeling except contempt.
Finally, I pick up the vase -- filled with lilies -- and hurl it towards the floor. Millions of crystal shards sink into the plush carpeting.
"Now did that serve any purpose?" Severus sighs, putting his book to the side for a moment. "Come near to me."
"I don't think so," I murmur, moving farther back into the shadow of the doorframe. "After what you did to Ron, I don't even know if I ever want to see you again . . ."
"Don't be childish. You don't have a choice in the matter. Now come near to me."
And he's right, of course. I don't have a choice in the matter. I'm a captive -- one of those "birds in a gilded cage." I'm not completely blind to my situation. I'm not keeping up that façade of control like the others. I've been enslaved and all choices are no longer my own. So I lock the door and come near to him, perching on the edge of his bed.
"Not so bad then, is it?" Severus' voice is definitively soothing and I begin to forget the cause of my anger. It slips out of my mind, like a trout, and swims away. Now I'm just curling my fists in the fabric of his nightgown, trying to root myself in him. Trying to find a sense of security and "home" that I lost the moment I was abducted from Hogwarts.
"What are you thinking?" Severus whispers, brushing his lips against my cheek in a show of affection.
"I'm a canary," I smile. "I'm a canary that's flown down one hell of a coal mine."
And he's about to kiss me when we hear three hard knocks -- knock, knock, knock -- on the door to our chambers. A sharp intake of breath. Flecks of light glint through otherwise dusky eyes. I immediately know who's come calling.
"If I may be excused, Szajha . . ." I slowly slide off the divan, trying desperately to escape. Behind that door is a cluster of possibilities . . . Tonight, however, all I want is a dab of paternal affection and a good night's sleep (preferably in the same room as the other Debutantes, for once). However, Severus seems to have other plans. In his felicitousness, he pulls me into his arms and begins to nuzzle my collarbone.
"We aren't presentable, my lord!" Severus laughs. Then he repeats my previous lesson: "A Debutante would never appear before anyone of importance in a state of undress."
Voldemort sighs impatiently from behind the door. "Severus, I know you. It takes four hours for you to get 'dressed.' And I'm impatient this evening."
"Then come in, my lord." Something about their manner of conversation is so at ease. The tones of their voices seem to warm the entire room. Severus laughs lightly and then looks down at me. He automatically stiffens and says in a show of formality: "You may come in, if you desire. I won't defy you, my lord."
A nudge against the door and it swings open. Voldemort slowly steps into the lamplight. Shadows play over the lines of his face -- making crevices and creases appear deeper. All of a sudden, he looks so much mature. Seventy-three years are beginning to make themselves known. The glint in his eyes isn't quite as vital; the smile that stings his lips isn't quite as feral. Yet still, Severus beckons him into the bedroom with the eager anticipation of a child.
The Dark Lord's eyebrow arches upward when he sees me -- Harry Potter, the precious Debutante -- sitting on the Szajha's bed.
"We have company," Severus whispers (this is apparently some great secret).
"Manners, darling," Voldemort chides. It takes a moment before I realize that this censure is directed towards me. My eyebrows knit together in confusion -- Have I done anything disrespectful? I haven't spoken but, then again, I haven't been spoken to. I must have . . . Suddenly, it occurs to me. I slowly ease down from the edge of the bed into a deep curtsey. One that, if I may say so myself, almost rivals the Szajha's.
"Well done. You've trained him well, Severus."
It's one of the few times I've heard Lord Voldemort call the Szajha by his given name.
"Thank you, Tom."
And it's certainly the only time I've heard the Szajha call Lord Voldemort by that "filthy muggle name."
Severus rises to his slippered feet. He hastily attempts to straighten himself out -- to make himself look presentable. Pins are fastened and curls are tweaked. He checks the mirror and, when the reflection is suitably attractive, he begins to fall into a curtsey. But it seems that, this time, Voldemort has different plans for the evening. The Dark Lord clasps Severus around the waist and pulls him into a tight embrace. They simply hold each other for a few moments. I notice that Voldemort is whispering sugary endearments into Severus' ear. I begin to feel as if I'm intruding on a private moment. Then Voldemort moves closer and his lips collide with Severus'.
And then I can no longer move of my own accord.
I just stare at those two profiles -- that prolific nose grazing against Voldemort's cheek, the deft fingers tangling in cinereal strands of hair, the fleeting moments when I can see tongues flicking out and then retreating . . . I don't know if I'm in love with one, or the other, or both of them. All I know is that I cannot move from this spot.
And soon, Voldemort notices.
"Sit," he commands and Severus retreats to the rococo chairs in the corner. His legs crossed and his fingers peaked like a Christian steeple, he watches attentively.
"You said that I'd see you again soon enough." Voldemort parrots our previous conversation as he begins to unbutton his robe. Cold steel buttons slip out of their holes and, little by little, strips of flesh are revealed to me. Voldemort, apparently, chooses not to wear anything beneath his robe. And, although I loathe to say it, I'm not really complaining.
"I've been waiting patiently." One-half of the buttons are undone. "I will continue to wait until the Cockatrice Bacchanalia . . ." Five more. " . . . Where I will finally be able to bed you . . ." Two more. " . . . But for now . . ." One more. " . . . There are still some . . . interesting ways to pass the time." Voldemort pushes the fabric off of his shoulders and he's completely exposed before me. I find it fascinating -- seeing Lord Voldemort is this state of would-be vulnerability. Instead of appearing weaker, he only seems increasingly powerful. It's as if the garments were shielding the common public from the true magnitude of his strength. For the first time throughout my term of servitude, I genuinely cower before him.
There are no requests, no commands. He tugs on the brass knob of a near-by drawer and pulls out a package of Dunhill Cigarettes, wrapped up in cellophane. "From a muggle shop," Voldemort explains, opening the box and pulling out two cigarettes. He lights them and then offers me one.
"Smoking's really bad for you," I lightly object, knowing how childish I must sound.
"Come on, darling." He sits down on the bed, so close that I can feel the blue-heat radiating off of his flesh. I fleetingly think about grabbing one of the near-by pillows -- I could shove it onto my lap, try to conceal my growing erection. However, that would be futile. Voldemort's already seen the efforts of his ministrations, tenting up under nearly transparent cotton. He smiles roguishly and brings the cigarette to his lips.
Fuck.
He inhales deeply and, before I can protest, he brings his lips to mine. The burnt-tobacco taste filters into my mouth, the smoke eases down my larynx and fills my lungs. I automatically begin coughing -- deep, breathy coughs. Voldemort rubs his hand down the expanse of my back.
Severus laughs.
"You'll get better."
Voldemort drops the cigarette into an ashtray and turns all of his attentions to me. Fingers lace through the ends of a grosgrain ribbon -- weaved into my braided chignon. He begins to untie the neckline of my nightgown but, in his haste, he accidentally tangles up the strings into a double-knot. "Damn," he curses under his breath. He tugs at the snag and he's eventually rewarded. The nightgown falls down around my waist. He surveys this new territory for a moment before pressing his lips against the buttery skin of my shoulder.
My thighs spread apart -- unconsciously -- and Voldemort takes this opportunity to position himself between my legs. He continues laving my shoulder with his tongue. I hesitantly wrap my arms around him, pressing him closer -- encouraging him to caress, to fondle, to stroke . . . Until now, I hadn't realized that I'd been holding my breath. However, I exhale deeply when he finally brings his tongue downwards, to gloss my nipple.
"Oh god," I mutter, gently grinding my hips into his torso -- trying to attain some of that coveted friction. "Don't do this to me . . ."
He releases my nipple -- now florid and swollen.
"Don't do what?"
"Don't tease me unless you plan on taking me."
Before Severus can sputter out some sort of apology (trying to atone for my brash words), Voldemort bursts into laughter. He falls back onto the comforter, trembling from the hilarity. Hell, whatever I was expecting his reaction to be, this definitely wasn't it. My erection wilts like a flower in the scorching August sun.
"Oh, my little Debutante," he sighs -- a lofty smile plastered on his lips. "You've taught him how to be wanton, Severus, but can you teach him to be evasive as well? He's not supposed to beg for it . . ." Another fit of uproarious laughter. "So much for the demure . . ."
I glance over at Severus.
And automatically wish that I hadn't.
His fingers are twitching; his mouth contorted into the traditional scowl. I haven't seen Severus looking like this since my days as a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry -- almost an eternity ago in my mind's eye. His pupils are practically boiling over with searing rage.
Obviously Severus doesn't like being laughed at.
Especially not by his Lord.
His lover.
"I'm sorry." I shrink back into the pillows -- as if they could swallow me up in one incredible feather-filled gulp. Then I'd be done with this entire scenario.
"You couldn't have known any better," Voldemort says, in an almost paternal manner. "You're still in training, my Debutante. But let this be a lesson: Never ask for sexual gratification. You never need to ask for what you can have. Do you understand?"
I nod and he kisses me -- a repugnantly chaste kiss.
However, he does take a second to whisper in my ear: "I'll take care of the Szajha."
Voldemort rises from the bed and begins to clothe himself. I quietly observe -- waxen flesh pulling over muscle. Glistening, salty flesh . . . over biceps, deltoids, pectorals . . . dartos, hidden behind the blush-hued scrotum . . .
"How many more days?"
"Four."
Four more days. Four more days to decide what I want.
Who I want.
Draco. Severus. Voldemort.
"Come Severus."
And the two of them are gone.