Thresh
- Vain
06.24.2004
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Standard Disclaimer:
I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. All the quotes preceding the chapters come from Fyodor Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. If you have not read it, take the time and do so. It is an . . . experience.
Summary: SS/HP slash. Voldemort can give Severus the one thing Dumbledore will not: an opportunity. What's a Slytherin to do?
Warnings: SS/HP slash, disturbing themes, underaged-ness, violence, mature content, dubious consent, abuse of power over a minor, somnophilia, bondage, improper use of Potions, and some dubious psychological torture.
Rated: R - this is the EDITED version; links to the NC-17 version can be found at my profile.
Notes: Takes place in the middle of Sixth Year.
Snape is not a warm, fluffy, insipid sap in this: he is a nasty, sadistic, greasy, arrogant, ego-centric wanker. Welcome to the land of IC.
This is absolutely, 100 un-related to any of my other fics.
To facilitate updates, these chapters will be shorter than the chapters in some of my other fics.
This story was originally launched under my secondary pen name, "Hanakai." For convenience's sake, I have decided to streamline my fics under my original pen name, Vain. SAME AUTHOR. SAME STORY. DIFFERENT NAME. As a fic is re-uploaded under my Vain pen name, I will delete it from my Hanakai profile. Eventually, Hanakai will be deleted entirely, so please update your faves and bookmarks to reflect this.
Thank you for all your previous reviews—I saved them all—and I hope you all review again. I'm greedy.
For progress notes on the pen name transition or if you have any questions, please see my Livejournal (linked both my profiles). I hope this doesn't inconvenience anyone & thank you for your patience.
Special Thanks to my betas Apapazukamori and E.E.S. snugs V
UTERRLY A GIFT with much love to EVELIA who draws me pretty pictures.
Plagiarism is no one's friend.
Enjoy!
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Chapter Three:
Keep the Big Door Open
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"In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are so truthlike and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system."
Crime and Punishment
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"How?"
"His food. His drinks. I've already put a tap on the pipes in his rooms. Everything he eats and drinks. Every meal, and snack, and comfort food. The censers in his chambers. I want it everywhere. But you must be discreet. He is ignorant, but he is also maddeningly curious. If he suspects a mystery, he will do anything to seek it out. He cannot suspect anything."
"Of course, Master."
"Inform me when you need some more. Only a few drops at a time will do. This must be gradual."
"As you say, Master." A moment of hesitation. ". . . If I may be so bold, how will you begin?"
"The same way all great undertakings begin, old friend: with a dream."
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Harry appeared in the dining room exactly twenty minutes later. His overnight bag still had not arrived, but the White Room's armoire and closet were filled to bursting with traditional wizarding garb in various shades of greens, blacks, browns, dark blues, and—surprisingly—deep, fiery reds. There was also an abundance of socks and underwear, outdoor robes, seven potions robes, two warded robes, and three pairs of what looked suspiciously like flying robes. All of the clothing seemed to fit him perfectly, something which Harry found to be more than a little bit disturbing. Especially the bit about the underwear.
Flicker had selected his clothes for him—something that the Gryffindor suspected was to be the norm. However, much to Harry's surprise, the Elf had remarkably good taste and insisted that his charge wear a white undershirt, dark red jumper, and black slacks. A comfortable and casual black robe topped off the outfit, along with a pair of pricy looking black leather boots that laced up in the front. Judging by the look of distaste the Elf had given his admittedly shoddy trainers, he would not be seeing his own shoes again. The boots were nice, though—more comfortable and warmer than any other shoes he'd ever owned—and the leather shone in the bright light.
The light was cast by candles and a spill of the moonlight. The silvery disk had risen full and heavy in the October night and shone brilliantly through the enormous windows that took up most of the wall across from him on the other side of the dining room table. The candles were set on the table and in classy-looking brass brackets adorning the walls. The room was large and rectangular and when Harry entered through the main door, he saw that there were doors on both ends of the room. Both were closed. The dining hall itself had the high ceiling Harry had come to expect to be the norm at the manor. Portraits hung on the wall, all watching him with great distaste. Small tables stood next to the wall at even intervals and the center of the room was occupied by the dining table. It was immense—far too long for simply the two of them—and was set as though they were expecting thirty people.
Snape sat to his left at the far end of the table in what was obviously the Master's seat. His long, stained fingers were wrapped 'round a delicate-looking crystal wine glass that was near full with a deep, dark red wine, and he was staring at the flickering candle flames before him with an indistinguishable expression on his face. His sharp black eyes latched onto Harry the moment he and Flicker appeared and his dark gaze moved over the boy critically, taking in every inch of him. The Gryffindor's face burned red beneath the perusal and he felt the sudden urge to bolt. Instead he braced himself and forced himself to meet the man's gaze, ready to face whatever comment Snape had about the incident in the bathroom. The man watched him a moment longer, measuring him.
Finally, the Potion's Master gestured almost languidly towards the seat at the far end of the table without a word. Bewildered, but grateful, Harry released a breath, turning sharply on his heel, made his way to the distant seat on his right. He was absurdly aware of his shiny new boots as he went and slid into the ornately carved oak seat. The back was hard and uncomfortably high, forcing him to sit straight up, and Snape seemed to be miles away on the other side of the table.
Flicker pushed the chair in close to the table and then took up position next to the right arm of Harry's chair. The plates were china and had an ivy-like design around the edges. Silver silverware glittered in the candle light, an array of forks, knives, and spoons of varying sizes and functions that the boy couldn't decipher. The food materialized on the plate with a 'pop'—something that looked quite a bit like a chicken thigh with oregano, mashed potatoes and honey-glazed baby carrots—and the crystal wine glass next to Harry's plate immediately filled with pumpkin juice.
For a moment, he stared down at the food, unsure what to do. He wasn't exactly hungry, but life at the Durselys had taught him to take what he could when he could and Merlin only knew what Snape considered a punishment. Food, sleep, even the clothes he wore . . . all had been withheld from him before. Sure, Snape had provided him with that beautiful room, these great clothes, and he certainly wasn't skiving back on the portions, but how long would it take for fear of Dumbledore to fade into the backdrop? That, he was certain, was why Snape had been so . . . decent so far. Dumbledore. The headmaster had to have said something to make Snape play nice—if only for a little while.
It was no secret that the greasy bastard hated Harry and the feeling was happily reciprocated. Now that Snape had Harry to himself, there was simply no telling what he would do. What he could do.
"Is the food not to your liking?"
The boy jumped as Snape's voice carried to him from the other end of the table. Again, the hostility and . . . loathing . . . was strangely toned down—not at all like the Snape he was used to.
Harry picked up the first fork available—the biggest one—and poked at the poultry. The meat was so tender it practically melted off the bone. The Gryffindor stabbed it and brought it to his mouth almost warily, chewing it carefully as though he expected it to transfigure into something foul at any moment. Snape watched him avidly across the distance between them. Suddenly, Harry's eyes lit up and he dove into the meal with gusto, abruptly famished.
It was good. It was beyond good: it was brilliant.
Snape took a small sip of his wine and continued watching the boy for several more minutes. "I will have Fetch add quail to the menu more often."
Harry instantly froze, knife and fork poised over his plate, and a crimson flush suddenly stained his cheeks. Wordlessly, he set down the knife and straightened in his seat, now using the fork to poke primly at the meal.
What had he been thinking? This was not the Great Hall. He couldn't just eat any old way. Was he destined to make an ass out of himself for the duration of his stay?
"If you're going to attempt to use proper manners, Potter, I may as well inform you that you're using the wrong fork."
Though there was no amusement in his tone, Harry just knew the bastard was laughing at him. He set the fork down and leaned back in his chair dejectedly to glare bitterly at his host. For a moment the words "I'm sorry" seemed to lodge in his throat. But he had no idea what he really had to apologize for, so he swallowed them.
On the other end of the table, Snape carefully cut his piece of quail apart and used one of the forks from the middle of the silverware formation to eat it, seemingly oblivious to Harry's glare. He speared a baby carrot and looked up, eyes flat and unreadable. "Stop pouting."
"May I please be excused?" the boy countered with a forced, fierce kind of politeness.
Dark eyes flickered to the Gryffindor's plate and Snape sneered at the devastated remains of Harry's quail. "No."
He returned to his own meal with no further elaboration.
Harry balled his hand into a fist and stared at the Potions Master for a moment, eyes narrowed in silent anger. Then, he abruptly pushed back his chair and rose. Flicker squeaked in distress at his apparent disobedience as Harry stalked across the room to the door he'd used to come in.
"Little Master! Little Master!"
He ignored the Elf and set his shoulders into a stiff line. If Snape wanted to be an asshole, fine. Harry certainly didn't have to stick around for the show.
Snape, however, had other ideas. "Accio Harry Potter!"
It felt like a vise had wrapped around Harry, or as though a giant hand had picked him up and flung him backwards. The teen yelped as his feet lifted up off the floor and he became airborne, sailing backwards towards the professor. Snape grabbed his collar as he went past, momentarily strangling the boy with the motion, and Harry's hip slammed into the edge of the dining table so hard that the impact rung through him as though he were a bell, garnering a cry of pain.
Snape easily held him up by the collar, feet dangling, while he thrashed about like a cat held by the scruff. "Let me go, you bastard! You can't do this!"
Ignoring his guest's protests, the professor twisted Harry's collar so that it effectively cut off his air entirely, and then proceeded to half drag, half carry the Gryffindor back up to his seat. He threw the red and trembling boy into the chair so hard that the seat rocked backwards and would have surely tipped over entirely had Snape not planted his hands firmly on the arms of the chair so that he could loom over the Potter heir. The back of the boy's head knocked into the wooden seat back with a solid 'thunk.'
Red faced and gasping, Harry cringed back despite himself, pain radiating from his throat and hip, as well as his head. His glasses were crooked and his green eyes were wide and frightened. "You can't—you can't—"
Snape leaned down do close that Harry could feel the man's breath mist over his face. "Shut. Up."
Harry felt his lower jaw snap closed so fast he bit his tongue. All he could see was Snape's eyes.
"Now listen to me very closely, Mr. Potter." The man's voice was a low rumble: half a whisper, and half a threat. "Today your education begins. I have told you before that I will not tolerate disrespect. I have taken you in, fed you, clothed you, and protect you all as a favor to the headmaster."
He leaned impossibly closer, invading Harry's space totally, and the boy paled dramatically as one of the professor's legs slid between his, forcing Harry to spread his thighs slightly and lean further back in the chair. The scent of Snape overwhelmed him: strong, citrus, and almost bitter; and the Gryffindor felt his fingers curl uselessly into fists.
"I do not like you, Potter. You are nothing but a stupid, useless, arrogant child with an over-inflated ego and a gross inability to learn from your own idiotic behavior. You are average. Mediocre. There is nothing special or attractive about you. You're nosey and impertinent and your overwhelming ineptitude completely overshadows any and all dubious virtues you may have leeched out of your worthless father. Your sole attributes involve a marginally impressive and ultimately fruitless talent to catch a Snitch"—here the scorn in his voice was palpable—"and the only slightly more useful talent of not dying. Everything you touch turns to utter ruin, and death and destruction follow you around like a tornado. You leave nothing but disaster in your wake."
Snape pulled back, and his eyes narrowed darkly, staring at the pale and rattled boy the way a breeder regards a pedigree bitch. He crossed his arms over his chest and the knee that separated Harry's legs bent slightly so that it was pressed against the edge of the seat cushion. "However—hopeless though you seem to be—there lurks within you a potential that I cannot deny. A potential which makes your mind-numbing idiocy all the more maddening. The Headmaster has kindly ordered me to help you realize this potential whilst you are under my care and free of your distracting . . . friends. This means that you will work, Potter. You will work harder than you have ever had to before in your charmed life. And you will excel. I will not accept failure and stupidity as readily as your other instructors."
"You can't do this to me," Harry whispered roughly, suddenly finding his voice. His eyes looked huge and frightened. "You can't just go throwing students about whenever you please—"
A slow, cruel smile twisted Snape's thin lips. "Does this look like a school to you, Potter? No. You are my ward, not my student. And I will do as I please."
Panic darted over Harry's face and he looked ready to attempt to bolt, but Snape moved closer again, forcing him to draw back into the seat again. The boy averted his eyes as Snape leaned in.
"Look at me, Potter."
Harry pulled back into the chair as through preparing to try to climb over the back of it. A pale, stained hand snaked out and gripped his chin with bruising force, fingers digging hard into the boy's soft cheeks as he forced Harry to look at him.
"Look at me," the older man hissed.
Emerald eyes snapped up to meet brown ones so dark they appeared black and the hand gripping his chin suddenly became gentle. "I am not an overly cruel man, Potter. What I do, I do so that you might survive. But you will obey me. I will not tolerate anything less."
Snape's forefinger gently glided over Harry's cheek, but his eyes remained hard as chiseled stone. "Whatever punishments you receive, you will have earned, Potter. Always. And you will always know why you have earned it. I have better things to do than waste my time on you."
He let go of the boy's chin and drew away, taking several steps back from his ward. The chair jerked roughly forward and slid in close to the table. Harry looked down at his half-eaten meal with dull eyes.
There was the soft clink of glass and two small Erlenmeyer flasks of potion were set on the table next to his plate. Snape stared critically down at the top of his head, his face fixed in that same curiously neutral expression as before, looking as though nothing untoward had happened at all. "Once you have finished, drink those and then go to bed. You look exhausted. The blue one will help prevent the Dark Lord from invading your mind as you sleep and the green one will take care of whatever discomfort you may be in. Tomorrow we will start with Defense. Then you will have Potions and rudimentary Herbology and then a study hour in the Library. Flicker will monitor what books you read and you will be given several assignments to complete. After lunch, you will have Occlumency. You will practice and prepare for this. Then you will have Arithmancy. I'm well aware that you chose the asinine subject of Divinations instead, but I will not tolerate such nonsense. You will learn only useful things here. After that, you will have more Defense and then free time till dinner. Then you will study in the Library. You are to return to your rooms at nine pm every night and you are to be in bed with the lights out by ten-thirty without exceptions. If you do have a vision, you will tell me immediately, understand?"
Harry nodded mutely, unable to look up.
Snape sniffed above him and turned away. "Finish your dinner, Potter. You will not be having dessert tonight."
He stalked out of the room, using the door behind Harry. It slammed loudly as he left.
For a moment Harry stared mutely down at his plate, green eyes glassy and too moist. Trembling fingers reached up and removed his glasses. Everything looked blurry even with them on anyway.
Flicker, who had watched the entire exchange with wide eyes, crept back to Harry's side, practically twitching in distress. "Little Master . . .?"
Harry randomly selected a fork and began to eat mechanically. Though it was still warm, the previously delicious food now tasted like ashes on his tongue. His stomach roiled in protest as he choked the meal down. A small Elf hand gently rested on his thigh as his manservant tried to comfort him without success.
"Everything you touch turns to utter ruin, and death and destruction follow you around like a tornado. You leave nothing but disaster in your wake."
When he was done, Harry downed both the potions without thought.
Far away, on the other side of the table, Snape's food had gone cold.
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There was something running over his chest. It was soft and feathery.
Then something wet and hot pressed down on the hollow of his throat. Harry knew without opening his eyes that it was a mouth. He tried to move, but the effort seemed to be too much and so he remained still and relaxed as pleasant, heady sensations rose and ebbed in him like warm water. Thick, wet, hot and firm, a tongue swiped roughly over his skin as though tasting him. His breath caught in his throat.
"Hush."
He knew the voice but that was unimportant when the mouth found a nipple and latched onto it with numbing ferocity. A hand tended to his left side as his right nipple was nipped and sucked and twisted and ravaged to the point where spots danced behind his closed eyelids.
The mouth withdrew and he moaned faintly as the pleasure/pain abated. His chest was cold for a moment, but then his left nipple was receiving the same treatment the right had gotten, while one of those warm, callused hands soothed the neighboring bruised nub of flesh with gentle strokes. Aching, throbbing pleasure warred with the utterly relaxed feeling in his bones, and had he been capable of it, he would have been writhing. But he couldn't quite seem to move and there was nothing but a hard, painful pleasure in the ministrations of the mouth that made something hot and needy coil up in his belly and forced his sleeping penis to rouse.
By the time the mouth ceased and there were two hands working over his swollen, abused nipples, Harry was a trembling mass in the bed.
Someone chuckled faintly. Breath was close to his ear. It smelled like almonds and something sweet. "Silly little Gryffindor. You're mine now, you know."
And Harry whimpered an agreement because it seemed to be the thing to do at the time and he desperately wanted that hot mouth pressed against his erection. The voice laughed at him again. It was not a kind laugh, but it made Harry moan all the same and he tried to open his eyes. The effort was just too much.
"Do you want more, you stupid boy? Do you want me to touch you . . ." a hand gripped his arousal hard and Harry's hips jerked violently, "here? Like this?"
"Yes . . ."
"Do you want me inside you? Do you want me to make you scream?"
"Yess . . ."
Then his erection was released and Harry cried out in protest, painfully hard from the hungry voice and the ache radiating from his nipples, but a gentle hand pressed him back down in the unbelievably soft mattress. One of his nipples was tweaked—he couldn't tell which, and it hardly seemed to matter—and a kiss was pressed against his forehead. A hand gently petted him, slowly moving up and down between his legs, and he spread his thighs a bit wider.
The voice seemed to find the act amusing. "No . . . not yet, pet. Not yet. Soon. Go back to sleep."
As one of those hands gently kneaded him through his pajamas bottoms, Harry surrendered to the approaching darkness without protest.
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The next morning he awoke with fuzzy recollections of a dream about hands, an aching throughout his chest, and a quiet voice, but he couldn't quite recall what had happened. He mulled it over in silence as Flicker helped him get dressed in preparation for his first lesson. He checked the standing mirror in his room the moment he'd managed to clamber out of bed, but of course there was nothing wrong with his chest. Even when he experimentally prodded at his sternum, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, though his every instinct screamed to him that something was amiss.
The fact that he was also ferociously aroused did not help matters. He simply closed his eyes and tried to think of anything that could possibly kill the sex drive: Filch, Crabbe and Goyle, Snape, Crabbe and Goyle together . . . Flicker watched him curiously, but Harry would be damned if he wanked in front of a House Elf.
Unable to come up with alternatives, the only thing his mind could rest on was Voldemort. The idea sent a pang of fear and homesickness through him as he thought of Hogwarts and wondered if everyone was alright. Such thoughts, however, only made him more agitated about his confinement and the dream. It hadn't felt like a vision, but he didn't know what else could have worked its way through Dreamless Sleep. The experience, coupled with the strangeness of Snape Hall, Snape himself, and Flicker's smothering presence made him feel groggy and bewildered. He was thoroughly outside his element.
As Flicker ushered him off to a lonely breakfast of waffles, fruit, and milk, Harry decided not to tell Snape about the dream. Dumbledore may have trusted the man with Harry's life, but that didn't mean that Harry had to.
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Chapter Four: This Bottle of Beast
"Now do you know what it means to be punished?"
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