I think that after the incident with the first-year, Severus was a bit more on edge. He triple checked that every door was locked, that no one had seen us enter together. He was so undone that we were forced to his bedchamber. He then proceeded to fire off every known trap jinx and hex known to man. The entire detention event was not nearly as cruel as the first had been; there was no Crucio uttered, no emotional beating ensued. In hindsight, I believe it was the fact that I flinched at every contact that saved me from more pain. He used a new spell, one he didn't even speak, to sear into my flesh as he took me like a dog. His cock still gave me both a warm jolt down to my loins and goosebumps from fear, fear I'd encourage more pain by making the wrong movement or sound. He continued to tie me to the headboard with his magical twine, wrists linked so hard they began bruising immediately, as though he feared I'd pull my wand on him or resist. There was no trust. My mind drifted away from the immediate.
My relationship with Snape had never been particularly easy. Even when I'd been on good enough terms to 'flirt' with the man, he wouldn't always react as expected. He would sometimes lash out at a coy compliment and serve me with an extra essay. I never understood why until I decided after that first and most brutal of the five (or more) weekly detentions to know the man as a man (and not my master) the only way I knew how; I was to paint a portrait. Now, I'd done plenty of animated portraits before, but none of a human subject. It was bloody difficult to say the least. I needed a genetic sample, to start, and one that preferably had enough to brew two pots of paint in case of mistakes (a frequent occurrence in the case of beginners, no matter how brilliant the student). With blood running down my back and purple bruises forming at my wrists, I decided upon hair as the easiest and least disgusting way of going about it.
His ejaculate dripped from me as he towered above, breathing heavily and looking off into the gloomy recesses of the chamber. He ordered I dress myself as he slumped down on the bed. The twine unraveled and I quickly found my untorn clothing, all the while massaging the deep purple bruises forming at my wrists. The door opened and I was gone.
I passed a silver ghost on my way back to the dorms, flashing black boots and all pretending not to see me limping from the dungeons. My shirt was dripping a steady line of gems behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Headmaster-ghost reach down, touch a droplet and watch his finger turn crimson. I smiled a little at that. What did he really think it was? Water? I glanced out a window to the frozen world beyond. It was cold.
Harold Tulle was the only one awake in the common room. He glanced up at me in an only semi-conscious haze and then back down at a book. The fire was low and an elf was sure to be by soon to stoke it. I was sure he wasn't able to read by the fire's light and could not place why he was still pretending. I made my way up the stairs to the girl's bathroom.
Peeling the shirt from the open wounds in my back was the worst self-inflicted damage I'd ever done to myself. It reopened every laceration and created a new flow of blood. Luckily, I'd brewed some medications in anticipation of the worst and was able to at least stop the bleeding after a few minutes of trying to reach the whole of my back. I slipped on a pajama shirt and went to bed with my oldest friend.
I opened the rusty-colored bible. It was written and amended by fifty generations of leading magical artists, and the last entry had already been over two-dozen years ago. Some charts were interactive, but mostly it was muddling through old and nearly incomprehensible English dialects. The page I began on started thus:
To paint a portrait is to create a life, much as transfiguration creates life from non-life (refer to Dancing with Statues: A Guide to Non-Life). This being has an existence of its own, an artificial life; it is one of choices and decisions made long after you, the creator, cease to be. To create a living portrait, one must start with the obvious – do you know your subject (intimately or otherwise fully)? If the answer is yes, proceed to Chapter 34, The Life beyond the Portrait's Frame.
I'd read the paragraph religiously, twice a day at least. It was beauty in the form of dried ink and rotting parchment. It presented the grueling task in concise, clear language that even a child could understand. I flipped the pages with loving and tender care. Chapter 34 smiled at me. Jeraldo Tuyftet, the main and original author on the subject, blinked warmly up at me.
"Ah, my dear, it is you again. As usual, ask any question you may have. I know all the answers." He winked.
"Thank you, Love. In fact, I'm beginning my first portrait. Any advice?"
His look became quite serious as he wrote on the chalk board behind him. He referred to a painted copy of the very same book I held as he wrote.
"Don't stop once you begin. If you leave a portrait half-finished, it will never come to full realization. It must be done in one sitting. I mention it somewhere near the middle part of the chapter, but know that this will require full effort. Anything less and your painting will be only a shadow of your subject. Don't skip a single line, Girl. A half-assed background results in your subject's eternal isolation from its fellow beings. An unfinished subject is a mutation against God's own will."
…
Severus covered his eyes with his hand, nothing but the sounds of the dead dungeon to grace his ears. She'd left without a word to him. There had been no artificial attempt to engage him. She had simply left.
"Fuck," he muttered aloud. It was late, later than he'd anticipated. The fucking way she wasted his time…he pulled his clothes on, then his robes. His wand lay discarded on the bedside table. He grabbed this too. Then, he went to clean his bed.
"I thought we agreed to be discreet, Severus."
He whipped around: Dumbledore of course.
"I'd appreciate a knock, Headmaster." Snape's face was cold. His wand bobbled threateningly, though they both knew it was a bluff. "What if I'd been changing?"
"To business, Professor. I know you've many things to correct, lessons to prepare. I heard from the mouth of a little bird that a first-year saw the Potions Professor being intimate with a seventh-year girl. Is this true?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I'm pleased to see how many precautions you took this time…" Dumbledore swept his arms wide, drawing attention to the glistening alarm threads that were just beginning to dissolve, appearing for all natural purposes to be cobwebs. "Still, I'd appreciate if you kept me informed of…lapses in security."
Severus simply stood, arms crossed, wand resting on his arm. Dumbledore smiled amiably and left. With frustration, Severus swept his wand around, and the threads disappeared into his wand. He sat on the edge of his bed and rested his head in his hands. He recognized that without control he was a ruin. He would lose her. He would lose his position and the pitiful life he'd formed around himself. He would lose Dumbledore's trust and, more importantly, his protection.
With pain in his heart, he swept the things on his bedside table to the ground. Glass shattered and tinkled like tiny bells. Books fell in piles and paper ripped softly. A picture frame clunked heavily on the stone floor. He picked this up delicately, leaving the rest in broken piles. Lily's genial face smiled and blinked sweetly at the camera. The picture and frame were small enough to fit into a wallet, but it was still his most prized possession.
He wept then. It was not a sad, wretched type of weeping. There was anger, distrust and revulsion in his tears: he was angry at Lily, angry at himself, and most of all angry at the girl; he distrusted her and her motives, for she had to have motives if she was pretending to want him; and there was revulsion directed inwardly at his betrayal of her trust, a trust based on his position as a teacher.
…
I lost Bill that week; he was home for the holidays. I was alone again, physically and mentally. I say alone, though the man stood lurking in the shadows, yearning and lusting but never coming up to me for fear of...scandal? There was no being that made contact with me during the weeks. I made an appointment to meet with Dumbledore, the silver ghost that simply observed my pathetic wanderings in the dead of night. He flinched not at my request. The password was "Strawberry Snakes".
I made my way up the spiral staircase and entered the grand study. Those sparkling eyes greeted me with false kindness and the phoenix squawked as I sat before them. He did not greet me with words. He did not prompt me to begin. He knew anything and everything I could possibly say. So, I began without invitation.
"It isn't good for a fellow your age to be lurking around the dungeons so often, Headmaster. You'll catch cold in this weather."
There was a cool smile on his face, but he still did not speak. He motioned for me to continue, but I would not until he acknowledged the truth in my statement. I told him so.
"Dear, Piroska, it is in fact my duty to watch over my school, top of towers to damp and slimy bottom. That I happen to meet you once, perhaps twice a week in the dungeons is a fact of probability. I do not lurk, as you say, waiting for interesting people to happen upon. I am simply making rounds."
My face began to burn, even as I knew his lie. He smiled in full and I shrank back in my chair. He had no intention to help, as I had known and feared. I was alone in my turmoil. Hot acid bubbled in my stomach. Tears threatened to burn my eyes. I was disgusted with the man and it showed in my face. Saying it aloud would only provide outrage from the portraits hung about the room and nothing more. He would not admit fault. I said it anyway.
"You let him do it." I stared at my black and white shoes. "I thought it, but now I know it." There was a moment of silence. "You're a manipulator and a tormentor and you pretend with your false faces to be the kind grandfather." Just a cool smile. I did not cry. I would never cry for this man and so I grit my teeth. I did not shout. I kept my voice even. "I'm torn apart, blood flowing down my legs and back, mind broken, soul broken, and you stare with your smug smile from the shadows and let a professor, your employee, rape a student. You won't do anything for me. I know it now better than ever. I expected it."
The paintings began to whisper in a buzz, every one suddenly awake and aware.
"Did you hear-"
"The nerve!"
"Dumbledore? Really now? I hardly-"
"Pity they don't torture the students for these sorts of outbursts anymore-"
"I never liked that Snape..."
Dumbledore's face stayed collected, but his eyes hardened at the statement. He knew that even if I had no backing, I could create a shit-storm of trouble for him and the rest of the staff. It was less about justice and more about upholding the peace, and we shared that understanding as I looked back up at his eyes.
"I would never let someone do something to a student against their own will," Dumbledore said as he broke the eye contact for the first time. The statement was edged in a daring poison.
"I'll not tattle on you or him, Headmaster." I spat the words and the bitterness tainted the air. There was such electricity in the room that it was hard to breathe. Having nothing else snarky to add, I pushed back my chair and knocked over a doo-dad. He did not look toward me, even as I stood and went. He was too busy looking hard at a cabinet with a large basin. There were already more important things to worry about than me.
In a hall somewhere deep in the castle, I began to cry. My stomach was in knots. My breath hitched miserably in my chest. What felt like acid burned my eyes and I wailed the pain aloud. I stopped mid-sob. Even if Dumbledore had been willing to fight my battle, it would have been just that: a single battle won in a war. I had real work to do and no more useless crying. It only provoked him.