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But Not Forgotten	By : Hijja Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 4167 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-But Not Forgotten
- 1
Disclaimer: The characters are J K Rowling's. No harm intended, no money made.

Rating: NC-17 (for non-con and ambiguous consent)

Note: Humble thanks to Anne Phoenix, Isis and Ariss Tenoh for beta-reading. Pure clich� ahead, I'm afraid :).
But Not Forgotten

by Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)

"If that's the best you can do, Potter, I suggest you'd throw yourself at the Dark Lord's mercy at your earliest opportunity."
Harry trembles with exhaustion, too winded to glare properly.
"Again!" Snape demands.
"Legilimens!" Harry whispers weakly and hurls his mind forward against Snape's shields once more, clawing at them until he can't breathe. The walls of Snape's dungeon blur as he struggles for concentration.
Something quivers and shatters under his spell, and then he slips through the cracks into the Potions master's mind.
He sees himself, on his knees with wide, fearful eyes, robes torn so that white, bruised skin shows underneath. Harry looks down at his own face, finds his lips bleeding and swollen, his glasses gone. His younger self � from less than a year ago, but without the bitter lines around the mouth that sometimes frighten Harry when he catches sight of them in the mirror � clings to the tatters of his robe with both hands, clutching them to himself like a frayed shield. There is the familiar Pensieve, standing behind him on Snape's desk.
But... it hadn't happened that way! Snape had knocked him through the room that day, then thrown him out. He hadn't...
"That never happened!" Harry cries, pulse thundering in his ears, light-headed from breathing too fast.
It has to be one of Snape's vile fantasies, something he's made up to mess with Harry's mind!
Snape curves his mouth into an expression that is anything but smile, and Harry finds himself staring right at the tip of his wand. Snape's real wand. A quick flick breaks the link between them and flings Harry back into the confines of his own skull like a piece of elastic snapping back into his face.
"Of course it did," Snape says, and plucks Harry's wand right out of his hand. He makes a feeble grab for it, but Snape just sneers and throws it behind him. Harry bites down on his tongue. He does not want to be unarmed in the man's presence, not when Snape has such thoughts about him...
"But I can't remember-" he protests.
"Yes, I'm aware of that," Snape purrs. "That was your condition, Potter. You insisted that I make you forget."
"What � what are you talking about?" Harry shivers under that feral gaze.
"That I make you forget what you saw." Snape nods in the direction where the Pensieve had been sitting in his memory, and suddenly he looms right in front of Harry, one hand grabbing his chin, the other aiming his wand at Harry's temple. Harry freezes. His skin is prickling in irrational terror.
"Finite Incantatem!"
A thick, grey veil is pulled off of Harry's mind, and Snape gives him a contemptuous shove back so that he bumps into the desk.
"This!" he hisses, yellow teeth bared like a snarling dog.
Suddenly, Harry finds himself back among the last images from Snape's Pensieve, before Snape pulled him out, shaking with rage. He sees his fifteen-year-old father, "Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's pants?" and young Sirius laughing, "Not with the ladies present". And then Snape is floated off between James and Sirius, upside down and still kicking at the air.
They float him through the door of the Quidditch supplies shed, and the crack with which he falls onto his back when the spell is taken off makes Harry wince in sympathy. His heart clenches in fear of the memory, which is not his, and not his to see. He has never seen this. He never wanted to.
Another flash, and Snape is swaying on his knees in front of Harry's father, a purple bruise marring the left side of his face. James's robes are pushed aside, and he's looking slightly flushed, running one hand through his hair while the other is working to unbutton his fly. And Sirius swaggering behind him, swinging one of the Gryffindor Beaters' bats and ordering, "Suck him, Snivelly, and if you so much as think of biting, I'll shove this thing up your arse until you choke on it."
And Snape, eyes swimming with furiously unshed tears, leans forward, half-hunched over battered ribs. He opens his mouth around James's half-erect cock, and James hisses in satisfaction and grabs Snape's greasy black hair to shove himself deeper...
And then Harry sees young Snape thrown up against the wall of the shed, those washed-out grey underpants pulled down to his knees, legs kicked apart to spread his buttocks, and Sirius slamming into him with careless abandon. The angry red of his erection flashes in an obscene contrast with the white flesh of Snape's arse every time he pulls back for another thrust. Snape is sobbing with his face pressed into the wood, his fingernails splintering as they fitfully scrabble against the wall...
There is bile burning in the back of Harry's throat, and his stomach gives a dry heave. He throws an arm over his face to ward off the memories, but the images of Snape, battered and bleeding with his mouth full of James's cock, split open by Sirius, are burned inside his eyelids with the force of a blowtorch.
And then Snape's � adult Snape's � hand pries his arm away, and Harry squirms because how can he look into that face ever again? And how could Snape ever bear to look at Harry for all those years, knowing he'd see the spitting image of-
"Did you enjoy satisfying your curiosity?" Snape asks, a near deja-vu.
Harry cringes against the table, weakly shaking his head.
"When the Dark Lord attacked Godric's Hollow, I did not warn Dumbledore," Snape whispers, softly as a lover. The words slide over Harry's skin, cut at his throat like a handsaw. "I goaded Black last summer, hoping he'd be stupid enough to run out and into a trap." Yellow teeth flash in a satisfied grin. "Are you going to rail at me for that, Potter?"
Oh, Harry wants to; he wants to scratch and bruise and rip at that evil thing that has just confessed to having helped murder the only family Harry has ever known. But he can't move. The memory of Sirius, "I'm not proud of it", swinging that bat in an eloquent threat, of his father, eyes shut in self-centred pleasure, freezes him to the spot.
"... sometimes got a bit carried away" Lupin had said about James, way back in Grimmauld Place. Had he known? Had they exchanged those strange looks when Harry went to confront them because they were relieved he hadn't seen worse? Had Sirius failed to sidestep that curse in the Department of Mysteries rather than waiting for the day Snape would let the truth slip?
There is a roughness in Harry's throat, a scream threatening to break free. He wraps a hand around his neck to contain it.
The corner of Snape's knife-edged mouth curves down in contempt.
"End of lesson, Potter. You may leave. Get out."
The mere idea of it � that he could drag that memory, that abomination, out of the dungeons and into Hogwarts � is nearly enough to make Harry throw up. He can feel it fester and rot inside him already, can feel the foul seepage drip into his soul. They have torn him apart, Snape and James and Sirius. In pieces as he is, he cannot fight Voldemort. He cannot even live.
His "No!" dies in a croak at the back of his throat, but he shakes his head again to make the point.
"No?" Snape inquires, a vague gleam in his eye like the first, thunderless lightning of a summer storm. "Do you want me to take it away again?"
Harry nods.
"Please," he manages at last.
"And you expect me to do this out of the goodness of my heart, Potter, after all you've seen?"
Harry squeezes his eyes shut for a second. There is no goodness in that heart; he'd seen it in that shadowy memory of himself through Snape's eyes. And how could there be?
Snape reaches out, runs his fingers over the collar of Harry's robe. Long fingers with sharp nails against black cloth, like maggots in graveyard soil. Harry can hardly feel the touch through the fabric, but his skin crawls as though it were secreting acid. He opens his eyes and pries his hands away from the tabletop.
He knows perfectly well what Snape wants, has seen it in the lovingly cradled memory that swum at the surface of Snape's memory. Himself, wounded as deeply as he can possibly be without raising suspicion. Dumbledore, Harry thinks bitterly, has been given to errors of judgement before.
He unbuttons his robe, forcing the reluctant joints of his fingers to obey. His shirt follows, and then his hands fall back to his sides again. He doesn't dare to look up, praying that Snape will just take what he wants and blot it all out afterwards.
The man looms over him, close enough for the sharp tang of potion fumes to invade Harry's nostrils.
"Ask!" he snarls, the tone as acrid as the smell. Hot breath brushes the side of Harry's face, making the soft hairs behind his ear stand on end.
Tears prick behind Harry's eyelids. He doesn't even have the words for what's asked of him, and if he had, he couldn't bring himself to utter them. He almost chokes on the sob he refuses to let out. But he has to � he can't obliviate himself, and there's no one else he can go to, not

with those memories.
"Please!" he repeats, barely audible, and when Snape keeps hovering, he blindly grabs one of Snape's hands and puts it against his bare chest. It burns there, as if the fingertips were not resting on skin, but sinking through to touch raw flesh and muscle underneath.
With the abruptness of an adder striking, Snape grabs Harry's neck and pulls him against his body, until Harry is only inches away from the hate-filled face. He shoves robe and shirt off Harry's shoulders, and the distinct lack of care with which he unzips and pulls down Harry's trousers makes Harry wince. Snape's nails rake down his sides and dig into his hipbones, bird claws tightening in greed.
Potion-stained hands swivel him around and shove him face-first into the desk. He pulls up his arms to cushion his head from the rough wood.
Trapped there between guilt and pain, Harry understands now the source of his blinding, irrational hatred for the man he'd felt ever since that fateful evening when he'd peered into the bastard's Pensieve. He wonders, as Snape rudely kicks his feet apart � like Sirius! � and pushes his upper body down flat against the desk with one hand while fumbling with his robes with the other, whether Snape left that Pensieve standing there unsupervised as a lure in the first place.
The first sharp invasion forces Harry onto his toes and he muffles a cry against his folded arms. Snape's... thing is coated with something cold and slick, but it still hurts, a raw scrape that seems to run up Harry's nerves till he can feel it on the insides of his skull. He wants nothing so much but to curl up, or scream and fight tooth and nail, but he keeps lying over the desk, trembling like some small, caught animal, trying not to tense and failing miserably as it goes on and on.
This is not his penance, he knows, as he writhes in near-soundless pain under the onslaught in which Snape takes revenge on his father and godfather. But the sheer agony of ill-prepared flesh stretching his insides, and the occasional spark that forces a gasp from him whenever the pain falters, serve to scour the images of young Snape's suffering and the callousness of those Harry had thought he loved most from his mind.
He can bear this, he has survived it before, and yet he feels his fingernails splinter as he digs them into the desk, against the pain but even more so against the sheer vulnerability and humiliation of it all. And then he just goes limp, allowing the pain to wash over and through him until Snape's vicious thrusts echo through his skull. Let Snape take and remake him in his own image. Even if Harry might not deserve this kind of retribution for his moment of impulsive curiosity, Snape might, for a lifetime of acid sloshing around in his brain. Not his penance, but perhaps Snape's catharsis.
There is a grunt of triumph when Snape comes at last, and he grips Harry's hips as if he wants to snap them in two. It hurt less, towards the end, but the sudden wetness in the most vulnerable parts of Harry's body fills him with even greater disgust than Snape's prick forcing its way into him. Harry wants to dissolve through the table and take shelter underneath until the monsters go away. He wishes, at least, that he could escape the sound of Snape pulling out.
Harry's voice is muffled against the tabletop as he asks, "Have I managed to break into your mind before?"
Snape's long body drapes itself over Harry's back like a blanket, robes scratching against his skin. Snape's chin comes to rest atop Harry's shoulder as he bends forward to whisper in his ear.
"Every week's Legilimency session since the beginning of term, Potter."
Harry buries a nod that might be a sob in his still-folded hands on the tabletop. He recalls mornings waking up with fuzziness creeping through his brain, an oily taste on his tongue, and a variety of aches in his lower body that he has blamed on the exertions of Quidditch practice after almost a year without sitting on a broom.
When Snape grabs his shoulder and pulls him to his feet, he shoves his fist into his mouth to muffle a scream. His arse burns as if Snape was still lodged inside. He throws his head from side to side, unable to stand without Snape holding him upright. He tastes blood in his mouth, and realises he's bitten down on his knuckles.
After the worst trembling in Harry's knees has subsided, Snape lets go and pulls a small stoppered vial from the pocket of his robe. He never even took it off, and the string fastenings have already been redone. Snape looks like he always does. It's only Harry who's out of order, hunched over, bleeding, naked but for his trousers dangling around one foot.
"Drink, and put your clothes back on," Snape orders, gaze fixed on Harry's despoiled form until Harry can't hold back tears of sheer mortification. Snape's eyes drink them in with even more greed than he'd shown when he'd waited for Harry to beg for him.
The vial is suddenly in his hands, the stopper off, and Harry feels the sickly-sweet taste of a Restoration Potion on his tongue. There isn't very much of it � Snape must know by now he can leave Harry with lingering aches because he'll just rationalise them away. It takes three attempts to get back into his trousers with trembling hands, and he gives up after doing two buttons on his shirt and just throws his robe over it, pulling it close around his shoulders.
"You've bought yourself another week of blessed ignorance, Potter," Snape murmurs, lifting his hand.
Harry cringes, and shrinks away in terror. If Snape touches him now, he'll come apart, he knows it. He wants nothing more than for someone to hold him, craves it so much that the very nerves under his skin are prickling. But forgiveness would break him. Forgetting will not.
But it's Snape's fist, curling around his wand, that is reaching for him, not his fingers. Harry screws his eyes shut in anticipation, tightly enough to hurt. Only when he feels the wooden tip touching his temple, the invisible fist around his heart begins to loosen, just a little.
"Obliviate!"

~ finis ~

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But Not Forgotten