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 dubious psychological torture.
Rated: NC-17
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.
Translation note: Regarding the word "duco," when I double checked it, I found the following definitions: duco: to calculate, count, reckon, esteem, considered; duco: to charm, influence, mislead, draw in; duco: to draw, shape, construct/ (time) spend, delay; duco: to lead on the march, marry a wife, command; duco: to lead, draw, esteem, consider. One of my betas left me the following note: "Admittedly, I have been letting my already very incomplete knowledge of Latin go to seed a little, but for "to command," shouldn't it be "ducere?" Also, I thought it only had to do with marriage as part of an idiom. "Ducere in matrimonium" or something like that." Now, I know even less latin than my betas, but I'm going to stick with what I wrote. If this is erroneous, I apologize and tip my hat to my beta (who is probably correct). 3
For reference, I use this as my primary Latin dictionary: http/humanum.arts.
Regarding Updates: I do have a life away from my laptop and it tends to be extremely time consuming. While I LOVE reviews and feedback, harrassing me for updates is a sure-fire way to ensure that I get disgusted with the entire fic and don't work on it. Please do NOT pressure me excessively for updates. I don't mind things like "Please update soon!" or "I can't wait for the next chapter!" (I actually find them very flattering), but I do not like mildly insulting reviews on how I "should" be spending my time. When weighed against getting a degree, working, paying tuition, and taking care of my self and my family, fanfiction will always come last in my life.
Special Thanks to my betas Apapazukamori and E.E.S. snugs:-) All remaining errors are my own.
This fic is 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 Five:
The Mark of a Man
""In short, I maintain that all great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals--more or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it's somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are in general divided by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter a new word. There are, of course, innumerable sub-divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that's their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood—that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It's only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There's no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so fulfill quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me—and vive la guerre éternelle—till the New Jerusalem, of course!"
in generala new wordvive la guerre éternelle"Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?"
"I do," Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet.
"And . . . and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity."
"I do," repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry.
"And . . . do you believe in Lazarus' rising from the dead?"
"I . . . I do. Why do you ask all this?"
"You believe it literally?"
"Literally." "
Fyodor Dostoevsky
Crime and Punishment
Harry dreamed.
He dreamed of the Ministry building—the long ivory halls streaked and damaged from a battle recently past—filled with people in somber black robes, herding white-clad aurors and ornately dressed politicians before them. As they passed, Harry tried to catch their eyes, but a gentle tug on his left elbow made him quicken his pace. Startled, he looked up and was surprised to see himself looking at Severus Snape's sharp profile. The Potions Master met his gaze and his hard face softened almost imperceptibly in concern.
"Are you well, Harry?"
Harry's lips parted, but no sound left them. His scar seemed to burn dully. Severus paused and then gently drew him towards the wall, out of the main walkway. A shockingly ginger hand cupped Harry's cheek, but rather than be bewildered by the treatment, the Gryffindor found the touch incredibly comforting. He sighed and found himself leaning heavily against the Professor's chest as arms wrapped 'round his waist.
"Severus . . ."
The older man leaned down slightly and pressed gentle kiss was to the top of his head. "It will be alright."
The teenager gripped the lapels of his guardian's dress robes tight in his fists, as though holding onto the man would allow him to retain the moment in his memory. Try as he may, however, he would not remember the dream upon waking.
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The half-blood Tom Riddle, known to all and sundry as The Dark Lord Voldemort, settled back comfortably in one of the overstuffed chairs in Severus's private study. He sighed at the feel of the fabric before turning to his companion. "How have you fared thus far?" His strangely sibilant voice sounded small and airy in the large room.
His host turned from the mantle and, holding the glasses of cognac he'd prepared, walked over to the Dark Lord to hand him one. A slight frown marred the man's already bitter-looking face as Voldemort accepted the glass. Red eyes watched the Potions Master avidly.
"I have placed him in the White Room. It has well proven its usefulness throughout the ages. Nonetheless, he is strong. He is attempting to resist."
Voldemort made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and fortified himself with a hearty swallow of liquor. It scorched his throat, like breathing in spice. His eyes fixed on the broad lip of the glass and his serpentine, lipless mouth twisted into something that vaguely resembled a smile. "I am ssure," the dark wizard murmured, slightly exaggerating the "s" sound.
Severus's sharp, dark eyes flickered to Voldemort and he stopped on his way to his own chair. "I will succeed, my Lord." His lips drew into a harsh, thin line and he set his own glass down on the coffee table that sat between them. His dark eyes glittered almost eerily. "Of that you may be certain."
A dark chuckle answered him as the man sat stiffly in the chair next to his Master's and it was plainly obvious that Severus was irritated. Amused, Voldemort watched the younger wizard for a moment and he bared his sharp teeth at him in a parody of a smile. "You are impertinent, Severus."
If anything, the Professor became even more rigid. "For—"
"You have always been impertinent," the elder said, dismissing the unhappy apology with a casual wave of his unnaturally large hand. "It is part of your peculiar . . ." a hiss of laughter, lightly tinged with malice ". . . 'charm'."
Severus resolutely fixed his eyes on the merrily crackling fireplace in front of them and retrieved his drink. He made no effort to hide his dour expression. "Indeed."
More hissing laughter. Severus watched the fire sourly as a log split in two with a loud crack.
"You will succeed," Voldemort resumed after a moment in a conversational tone of voice, "or both your lives will be forfeit."
Severus nodded, his features schooling themselves once more into their usual mask. That had been their arrangement when Voldemort had given him permission to embark on this . . . task.
One of the ends of the cracked log slid down the pile and clattered against its burning brethren.
"Tell me of your progress then. It has been . . . a week, yesss? I have sensed little change in him."
Severus took a slow sip of cognac before setting the glass on the table between them again. "Yes. I kept him asleep on his first full day here, as well as the third and fifth. Allowing him to wake only every other day will be most effective, I think. Many of the initial changes must take place subconsciously and the boy has always been particularly vulnerable in his sleep. The sleeping potions work well, but his will is not very malleable—I may have to increase the dosage of Invitus Inclino that Fiddle has been cooking into his dinner. I have managed to distill the Esurio potion into both a salve and a mild incense that I have found to be very effective. Ever since I tailored it to suit him, he has proven to be most receptive, though as yet, he cannot seem to quite place the nature of his desire. Thus far, gentle physical persuasion as he sleeps appears to be effective, however, the process will be time consuming."
Red eyes narrowed darkly. "How time consuming? I do not need to remind you how very much hinges on your success, do I, Ssseverus?"
Severus turned slightly and bowed his head, although whether it was a gesture of submission, acknowledgement, or both was anyone's guess. "No, my Lord." He raised his eyes again and looked strangely contemplative. "Nevertheless, the process cannot be rushed if you would like the results to be assured. Already his behavior is changing, even if such changes are occurring slowly. To ensure their permanence and his compliance, they must occur slowly. If there is too much of a disparity between the behaviors he expects of me and the way he believes that he himself should be acting, he will attempt to reject the treatments. As it is, he fights without being aware of it." The man retrieved his glass and turned back to the fire. "He has a most defined sense of self and order, our Mr. Potter. Training him to reorganize those things will be difficult and must be done carefully."
The Dark Lord watched his servant carefully for a long moment as shadows danced around the room. Waiting had never been his forte, nor patience his particular skill. Nevertheless, if Severus's plans succeeded, the benefits would far outweigh whatever inconvenience this delay might cause. If Severus's plan succeeded. Burning red eyes turned back to the fire and his thin, almost non-existent lips twitched towards a sneer.
Putting all of his eggs in the Potions Master's proverbial basket did not sit well with Voldemort—especially not when Severus Snape changed his affiliations as easily as a summer breeze changed directions. Even if Harry Potter could be used as a leash to bind the man, Snape was not someone to be trusted. Voldemort's eyes narrowed as he thought back to the repeated accusations against the man, as well as Severus's less than helpful behavior during Potter's first year.
"You are making progress, then . . ." Voldemort murmured to the flames, "and yet you seem . . . dissatisfied."
"He is . . . stubborn." Severus scowled. "Occasionally I find myself vexed by him. Yesterday afternoon I was compelled to . . . discipline him." He enunciated the word 'discipline' very carefully, as though it was unpleasant on his lips. "He has been sleeping ever since then."
"Mmmm . . ." Long, skeletal fingers tapped against his glass as the Dark Lord stared at the fire with unseeing eyes. "He has not noticed that he is missing time?"
A nasty smile twisted Severus's lips and he turned slightly to look at the man who had once been his mentor. "No. Nor will he until it is no longer a matter of consequence. I have been very careful to keep him isolated from anything that could damage my efforts. Though things are still in the initial phases, soon he will be entering a very delicate stage, during which time he could very easily be upset. After that, though, you will be free to move against the Ministry and Hogwarts. Until his memories have completely eroded and been cleared of extraneous information, it could prove to be difficult to control him, should you choose to act early."
Voldemort turned and gave Severus an appraising look, his eyes shining dangerously in the dim lighting. "You have taken great care to preserve the boy's health and keep him relatively intact. If I did not know you better, Severus, I would almost be tempted to say that you have come to care for this creature."
Not a muscle twitched in the other man's face as he slowly turned to face his "master." Blank of any expression, the Potions Master cocked his head ever so slightly to the side and his oily hair fell into his face. "He is mine, is he not?"
"Yes. So I have promised . . ." Voldemort's eyes narrowed dangerously as he stood firm in the battle of wills between them. ". . . dependent on your success, of course." The threat in his voice was barely hidden.
Severus did not back down. "Then it is my own prerogative what I do with my things."
The two stared at one another for a long, long moment. The fire ate at the wood in the hearth, suffusing the room with heat and sound and eerie, flickering, red-yellow light. The weak illumination ate at the shadows, danced, and then retreated again. The war between light and dark cast both men's already cruel faces into an even deeper darkness.
Brown, almost black, eyes narrowed, irises and pupils restricted to two tiny points of umber against white, white sclera. Severus felt his face harden. Voldemort's resurrection had changed him. Though still brilliant and undeniably mad, there was a deviousness that had been lacking in his previous regime. Before, the Dark Lord had been content with stroke and counterstroke—like shifting pieces on a chessboard. Now, however, that no longer seemed to be enough. Harry Potter had changed that. The boy was the crux of it all—the winch on which the entire war would pivot. Severus knew that. Albus knew that. Voldemort knew that. Everyone knew that except Harry Potter. Whoever wielded the boy would win the war.
Potter's heritage, his inflexibility, his overwhelming importance . . . It was all like a drug—one that Severus couldn't help but consume again and again. He wanted to own the boy—wreck him until he was fit for no one but Severus himself—possess and devour him until the two of them were indivisible. He craved Harry Potter. Everything from the faint swell of the boy's hips to the angry flash of those jade eyes, the barely restrained swell of power when those cheeks flushed with rage, the way the boy panted when he was aroused and desperate for some sort—any sort—of completion; he wanted it all. Those dark, hard pupils seemed to shine. And he would have it.
Across from him, Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the man who remained—for all intents and purposes—his servant. It was not a concession, merely an acknowledgement of the other man's refusal to yield. Had Voldemort been any other man, it would have been an acceptance of equality . . . But Voldemort was not any other man.
For a few moments more, the two stared at one another, veiled animosity heavy in the air. Then, the Dark Lord reclined in his seat and, still maintaining eye contact, smiled gracelessly at his host. "Be careful Severus. You go too far."
Severus's spine stiffened, but he looked away. He knew when to stop pushing. If he had not, he would have been dead by now. He turned back to the fire, forced to content himself with watching the real flames as opposed to the ones burning within the Dark Lord. ". . . Forgive me, my lord."
The heat seemed overwhelming and the younger man retrieved his cognac and took a slow sip, despite the fact that he knew it would provide him with no relief. He licked a faint trace of alcohol off his upper lip as false heat coiled through him. "Give me the boy," he murmured to the flames, "and I will deliver you your war, my Lord."
"Your lord." Voldemort sneered at his companion and gripped his glass tighter than necessary. "You should not play with fire, Ssseverus."
The other man turned away from the flames and regarded Voldemort with dark, hooded eyes.
Voldemort smirked. "But, obviously, thiss child means a good deal to you. I would even ssay he iss dear to you . . ."
The implication made the heavy, overheated air between them seem even thicker—almost solid with the weight of potential.
"You underssstand therefore," the Dark Lord continued, "that if I ssense even a hint of treachery from you, I will be forced to act against him. He is, after all, helpless, is he not? Any mental defenses that he may have developed against me would prove to be an impediment to your ends."
A muscle in the other man's cheek jumped wildly as he clenched his jaw. "I will deliver you this war, my Lord Voldemort." And you will leave me and mine in peace.
Voldemort turned back to the flames, his unnatural eyes distant and shadowed. "Excellent. Mudblood or not, the boy would make a formidable brood mare."
Something indefinable danced over the Potions Master's face for an instant and immediately vanished, but Voldemort noticed anyway.
He turned back to the other man and offered another, nasty smile. "Do not fret, Severus." The Dark Lord looked amused by his servant's apparent displeasure. "I have no intention of poaching your plaything from you, nor will anyone else's interest be tolerated. I have promised you that the boy will be yours and yours alone and Lord Voldemort keeps his promises."
Severus stared at the other man for a moment and then turned away. Me and mine in peace. "Thank you, my Lord."
"I expect many children from you, though." The dark wizard watched the other man critically. "You have been childless for far too long and potential Snape-Potter progeny are far too valuable to our cause to allow you both to go to waste."
Severus nodded, weary of both the conversation and the company. He stared back down into his glass and suddenly wished he were alone.
The Dark Lord watched the flames as he spoke, mind on the future and the promise of things to come. "You may have your pet then, Severus. But do not fail me, and do not disappoint me." He placed the half full glass of cognac back on the table and rose. There was too much to do to suffer Snape's company a moment longer. His robes whispered around his ankles as he moved towards the flames. "Should your theories regarding Potter prove to be as sound as your other judgments, I would very much hate to lose the alliance and service of both the boy and my Potions Master."
He stepped into the enormous hearth, apparently untouched by the flames, and stared back at his Potions Masters from amidst the fire and heat. "Do not disappoint me, Sseverus."
Then Voldemort vanished in a vague, carbon-scented flash, his parting words hanging heavily in the air. Severus stared into the flames for a long time after both had finally vanished. The clock in the corner chimed loudly, ringing out eleven perfect tones and breaking the Potions Master's concentration. Against the arm of his chair, Severus clenched his right hand into a fist and stared down into his glass as though the golden-amber held the answers he sought.
. . . He would have what he wanted.
The glass slid out of his fingers and dropped to the floor with a dull flat noise. Cognac splashed up against his robes and onto his boots and soaked into the expensive carpeting at his feet. He did not notice.
As the fire continued to dance and the grandfather clock continued to tick, he did not notice anything at all.
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You are sleeping. Long, gangly limbs sprawled carelessly on the mattress. Your head is tilted back, granting me free access to that soft, delectable neck, and I press the advantage, nipping the skin with just enough pressure to leave a small, red mark. You taste of sweat and potions and aged, faded pain. It is easier to think with you asleep. Through the open buttons of your shirt, your right nipple is soft and responsive beneath the fingers of my right hand. I want to kiss you—claim those rouged, pouty, sullen lips with demanding, vicious, biting affection—but that is something that will have to wait.
I will be patient. I can do that.
If I can sacrifice, then I can wait as well.
"Give me the boy and I will deliver you your war."
I can wait.
The curtains are open and the moonlight pours into the room, reflecting and refracting off of the crystals hanging overhead. The runes on the wall glow silver, humming with power, weaving their spell around you. My spell. The spell of all the Snape heirs. This room is the bridal chamber—the White Room. As I lay on my side next to you and stare at you in the moon-diluted darkness, it seems fitting. White suits you—softens you.
I am softening you.
Slowly. Day by day. Potion by potion. Hour by hour.
You reached out to me when I opened the door to that room. The old room. The Dark Room. You were huddled on the floor, clawing at phantoms, tearing yourself apart, and then I came and you reached out for me. I wanted to push you away, but couldn't. Is this what my predecessors faced, I wonder, when setting up their reluctant mates in the bridal rooms? I've allowed you to be ignorant of it all—my gift to you.
This room is what used to be called a Duco Chamber. Duco is a Latin word—it means both 'to command' and 'to wed a wife.' In Snape Hall—and in most purebred families—the two are very closely linked. In the old days, a mate coming into this room would know what it meant: she would be twisted, bound to yield to her husband—to love him—even if she could find no cause of it.
I am twisting you.
I wish I could see their faces. Black. Potter. Lupin. Even Lily . . . Ever helpful, impossibly pure Lily . . . I want to watch them twist as I twist you. I want to watch them all twist the way they twisted me.
"Now do you know what it means to be punished?"
No.
When I am done, you will know nothing but what I allow you to know. A tame ball of light, clutched in my hand. Grasped in my fist.
I release a slow, trembling breath next to your pulse, and then recline slightly to rest my head on your chest. Your heart thunders furiously beneath my ear, reminding me of a small bird . . . Of a bluejay.
During my youth, I used to range the woods beyond the property in search of herbs for potions and small animals for pets. It worried my hypochondriac mother eternally, as I had always had a weak constitution and she saw every cough as an impending bout of plague, but the dark solitude of the forest called to me and I always answered, regardless of her concerns. Once, when I was roughly 7 years old, I managed to capture a small bluejay. I dashed back to my room with the creature and put it in a discarded owl cage, intending to keep it. Most of my pets had been small, wounded creatures that I would take back to test my rudimentary healing potions on. The ones who lived and recovered, I released back into the wild before my father found them. The rest, I gave a quiet ignominious burial in an unused portion of the garden.
This bluejay, though, was different. He was healthy and whole, and had no need of my fumbling forays into healing or poisoning. I had thought to tame him, train him to love me and accept me as his rightful owner, but it never worked. No matter what I did, the creature rejected my entreaties and seemed to think only of the freedom of which I'd robbed him. He refused food and I had to stun and forcibly extract him from his cage to force a water dropper into his beak to hydrate him. He hated me, I think. After a few weeks, he had taken to thrashing his wings against the bars of the cage in an attempt to escape. He did this so much that he'd soon worn away his feathers and the bars were reddened with his blood.
I should have released him—even as a child, I understood that. But I resented him. When I had first captured the bird, I had hoped to make myself a pet of him—a companion. Instead, the creature only despised me. I could not forgive him that. Three weeks after I had captured him, I returned from my private lessons one day to find him laying on the floor of his cage, dead, neck twisted at a curious angle. I could only surmise that he'd somehow injured himself attempting to escape. In a fit of pique I hurled the bird, cage and all, into the fire. It took weeks before the scent was fully gone from my chambers.
Father refused to let me charm it away. "Some wild things cannot be tamed, boy. Remember that when next you see fit to take something that is not yours."
My father was a bastard and I have spent my entire life proving him wrong. This will be no different. I will not tolerate anything less. You will twist as I desire or I will twist you until you break.
I will not give it up. Not ever.
I kiss you to seal it, soothing and biting you with the same motion.
I will not give it up.
I straddle you and watch your stir beneath me, fighting through layers of potion and an incense and ointment induced haze to come to the surface and the feelings I'm offering you. Take it. Choke on it. Because I won't give you up.
Twist for me. I won't give you up.
Your skin is soft and warm beneath my hands and you moan fitfully, the sound forcing my dichotomous feelings to melt into one solid desire. Moan for me. I won't give you up.
You gasp and open your eyes as I bite down roughly on a nipple and for a moment you shake your head roughly as though trying to make sense of the feel of my hands on you. I pull away and stare down at you. Your eyes are wide and unfocused. You don't even know where you are.
I can't help but sneer at you. I could do anything I want to you now. I could kill you. Your eyes shine dully in the moonlight. I could kill you.
Instead I lean in and gently kiss your chapped lips. You try to respond sluggishly, but don't know how. You're useless. I pull away and lay down heavily on your chest, suddenly exhausted. He won't take you from me. I have asked for nothing except for this, and no one will take it from me.
I exhale heavily and a shuddering breath leaves you as the air wafts over your chest. "Never, never, never, never, boy." I want to tear you apart. "I will not ever let you go."
I tilt my head back to watch you.
"Some wild things cannot be tamed, boy."
Vacant green eyes stare up at me and for a brief instant I think that you cannot possibly comprehend this moment beneath the influence of the room's magic and the potions. Then you smile at me, a soft, gentle Gryffindor smile that makes me feel as though I've swallowed a ball of raw cotton. So I reach up at an odd angle and cover those terribly green eyes with my hand until the butterfly flutter of lashes against my palm stills and you are sleeping once more. The throbbing thunder of your heart is loud in the still room. I listen to it for a long time.
No.
I won't give it up.
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Chapter Six:
And He Went Forth Conquering and to Conquer
"Please don't touch me."
Coming soon (re: when I manage to complete it)
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