I didn't realize the last time I updated that you'd reviewed twice too Léne so thank you. What you said made complete sence, don't worry! Sorry for the delay, I caught up with what I'd written.
Just a warning, this chapter is particularly horrible.
Day 8.
Snape Family Mansion:
Serverus sat in the bath-tub scrubbing frantically at his skin. The water had been scalding when he'd gotten in but had long ago gone cold.
'Got to get the blood off.'
Parts of his arms and chest were now pink and scratched from the continuous abrasion.
'It won't come off.'
His eyes were wide and saw nothing of the room around him. Instead he was looking at the face of a little girl. She was crying, struggling against the grip of the death-eaters who held her. She wanted to reach her parents. Whether or not she understood they were dead, that there was nothing she could do, it was impossible to tell. Her father was pinned to a tree by a sword through his abdomen. His wife lay naked near his feet. Both of them were covered in blood. The child was frantic, tears staining her small face. Voldermort smiled and leveling his wand on her cast the crucios curse.
Serverus scrubbed harder.
The tiny girl screamed and screamed.
He was drawing blood now.
Dead eyes. Forever staring. Accusing. Dead eyes. And Malfoy laughing.
The nail brush slipped from his fingers. Finally, his gaze seemed to come into focus. He realized what he'd done to himself. For several long moments he just sat there, feeling his breathing return to normal, watching the tear shaped specks of crimson as they dropped into the water.
'I let it happen. It was my fault.'
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his wet hair soaking the back of his robe, when the door opened. His father staggered in. Clenched in his left hand was an empty bottle of fire-whiskey.
"Where the hell were you?" he slurred.
Emotionless, "a meeting."
"You think you're such a big thing now, don't you?" He took a step closer. "Just because the Dark Lord wanted you for his little group. Well you're not! You're nothing! You're a pathetic little whimp! The only thing you're good at is making stupid worthless potions. That's all he wants you for."
Serverus did not argue. He didn't struggle when a hand grabbed his shoulder and threw him to the ground. The pain in his broken arm no longer mattered to him.
"You think you've the right to just run off whenever you feel like it? You're mine! I own you and I can do whatever I want with you!"
He raised the bottle over his head and flung it at his son. Slicing through skin and lodging in flesh it shattered into a hundred pieces.
The teenager didn't resist as his father tore away his robe, even though the touch of the man's hands made him want to vomit. Those hands had killed his mother.
'But I deserve this.'
'Stop touching me. Stop touching me! Go away! I want you to die! Stop touching me.'
'But I deserve this.'
A hand squeezed his genitals sadisticaly.
'I just want it to stop.'
He was flipped over. The broken glass cut into him and the floor became slick with blood. Then his father pushed inside him and he had to force himself not to scream. With ever viscious drunken thrust the glass fragments pushed in farther. His skin, now dark and shiney with blood, crawled and he fought the urge to gag.
'I deserve a hundred times worse than this.'
Number 12 Grimaland Place:
The next Sirus knew of consciousness was a pair of gloved hands clasping each of his arms. He groaned in pain.
"Shut up!"
A sharp slap to the face caused his head to loll to one side.
But he recognized the voice as his father's. The hands holding him had not moved.
"Take the traitor. Take him! He is nothing to me. Let the Dark Lord decide his fate."
A few seconds passed. Then he felt himself being dragged from the room. There was a brief surge of unbearable pain before once again he passed out.
The room was dark. After a moment of confused thought he corrected himself. The room might be dark but he couldn't tell. His eyes were swollen shut again.
Everything hurt. He thought his father must have broken half the bones in his body. In fact, this assessment was not far wrong. He was in so much pain he was having trouble differentiating one injury from another. 'Everything hurts' was about as far as his knowledge stretched at that moment.
Gradually he became aware of chains around his wrists and the cold stone floor beneath him. He realized where he must be. He wondered vaguely what Voldermort would do to him. He knew it would be bad but just then could hardly bring himself to care. It was hard to imagine things any worse than they already were. With something like shock it occurred to him that this was probably the worst his parents had ever injured him.
'At least that's three summers I won't have to spend with them.'
'But I don't want to die.'
'Not like there's much choice.'
He laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. Then he stopped, remembering the attack on Hogsmeade.
It must have happened by now.
'I didn't even manage to stop it.'
He wondered how many people had died.
'I failed them. I'm so useless.'
He lay still, listening to his heartbeat to reassure himself that he was still alive, that this wasn't hell.
Hours passed. He faded in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he dreamed and was confused, forgot what had happened and thought he was waking in his bed in Hogwarts.
'Are those footsteps on the stairs to the dorm? Has James been up to some mischief under his invisibility cloak again? Why didn't he ask me to come? But that's not how James walks. His steps are lighter and slower to match his swagger. No, that's not James.
In fact, there's more than one person coming.'
A word was muttered and there was the sound of a heavy door opening. Louder footsteps now, and someone trying to suppress a laugh.
"Hello boy."
The voice was rough and mocking. Sirus found his throat too sore and dry to respond. But it didn't matter since he couldn't think of anything to say anyhow.
"The Dark Lord is letting us do whatever we want with you."
He heard the laugh again. A few seconds passed. Someone grabbed his head, forced him to sit up. The hands traveled to his shoulders, then ran down his chest, brushing injuries. He gasped in pain and confusion. Now the fingers encircled his waist. Sirus felt his fly being opened and then his trousers were being pulled off. Suddenly aware of what was happening he tried to cry out, to resist. But it was no use. Before he knew what was happening he'd been thrown back down to the ground. The deatheaters pinned his wrists to the cold stone. Conspiratorial laughter. Then sudden pain. A sharp knife was tracing patterns on his skin. Sirus bit his swollen lip and tried to stay as still as possible.
But the 'guards' tired of that quickly. The stood. The teenager held his breath.
A sudden violent kick to the stomach caused him to choke. He tried to curl into a ball but too many of his bones were broken and he wasn't able. Then two pairs of hands took a hold of him and forced him to lie face down. Someone climbed on top of him and he started to panic, trying to break free. A punch caught the side of his head. Skin touched his skin, just at the end of his back. He cried out, the sound somewhere between a scream and a whimper. There was that awful laugh again. He felt wetness at the top of the death-eater's penis.
'No.'
There was a violent push and an explosion of pain. Sirus was screaming and didn't know it. His attacker rocked against him sickeningly. As the sudden flow of semen invaded his body the boy wondered how hell could ever be any worse than this.
Then a new voice spoke. "Come on, get up. It's my turn now."