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Old Habits Die Hard	By : NihilEtNemo Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 12792 -:- 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
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Title: Old Habits Die Hard

Author: setosgirl

Words: 2401

Warnings: Slash, MPREG

Disclaimer: I do not now, nor have I ever, nor shall I
ever, own Harry Potter or any characters therein. I only own the plot.

Parings: Voldemort / Snape, Harry / Snape

Summary: Snape’s secret mission for the Order is
revealed – Voldemort’s personal – hem hem – ‘slave’! Then
the Dark Lord makes a revelation that stuns him… and he blames Harry for
everything.

Notes: Harry is seventeen, at the end of his last
year.

Old
Habits Die Hard

Chapter
1

setosgirl

“Hey, I don’t see Snape
anywhere…”

Ron clapped him on the back. “All the better then! Why would you want to see that slimy
git? Come on – Quidditch is waiting!”

Harry shrugged and followed him
toward the Quidditch pitch.. It wasn’t any of his
concern if Snape decided not to show up, even though he did think it was rather
strange that he should be absent when it was his team that was playing. In
fact, Ron was right. He still had an essay to do for him – the last week
of real classes, and he had to write a foot and a half of parchment about why
he failed so horribly at his last potion. Somehow, he doubted he could write
that he had failed so horribly because Snape had been sneering at him the whole
time and made him forget everything as soon as he read it. Of course, it
didn’t really matter if he did – N.E.W.T.S. started next week, and
he’d probably never have to see the greaseball again.

Ravenclaw put up a good fight, at
first, but by the time their Seeker finally caught the Snitch, they were down
by almost two hundred points and it was just to end the game. Harry was
disappointed that Slytherin won, but it was still odd not to be able to look
over and see Snape’s thin-lipped smirk in the green and silver stands.
He, Ron, and Hermione trudged back toward the castle, knowing that Slytherin
had just secured at least a second in the Quidditch cup, but the potions
master’s absence made him start thinking.

“You know,” he said,
interrupting their conversation about something – most likely S.P.E.W. – and not much caring, “Snape’s
been gone a lot of weekends lately. I hardly ever see him except in class
anymore.”

Ron shrugged. “So? Good
riddance, I say.”

Hermione, of course, seemed more
concerned. “What do you think it means, Harry?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. I
don’t know if it means anything. It’s just a little strange, is
all.”

Hermione nodded, but Ron shrugged it
off. “So what? Anyway, listen, about the
Tornados…”

* * * * *

Severus Snape had his teeth clenched
tightly to keep from making a sound, glad that his face was hidden in the dark
bed, which smelled unpleasantly of dust and sweat mixed malodorously together.
His wrists ached from the manacles attaching him to the creaking iron bed
frame, his back and rear felt like they were on fire, and he felt as dirty as
he did every time he did this. For the
Order… he thought fixedly, doing his best to ignore everything but
his thoughts. It’s all for the
Order…

He could fake his reactions well for
the first thirty hours or so, but on the second day he had to control himself
tightly, so that his disgust didn’t some through. Or
– perhaps more frightening still – so that his reactions
didn’t become real. It was so easy to fall back into old habits,
even when those habits had been out of use for a decade and a half.

He felt the warm slime of
Voldemort’s release coat the inside of him, and clenched his teeth
against a noise of disgust at the knowledge, even as his body reacted as
expected, reacting to the sensation in the only acceptable manner and emptied
himself into the bed, though it made him unspeakably dirty to do so.

A skeletal hand gently patted him on
the head, and he barely quelled a shiver of disgust. “Good boy,” he
heard, a quiet, sibilant murmur near his ear.
“You always were good at your job.” His job, which consisted mainly
of lying silent and motionless on the bed while Voldemort did whatever he
pleased to him, unless he wanted more than that, in which case he would moan of
scream or writhe as desired, meanwhile always telling himself it was for the
Order… everything was for the Order…

The manacles around his wrists
opened, and he sat up, carefully keeping his eyes lowered from
Voldemort’s face. He may have been the Dark Lord’s favourite toy,
but he was not any more immune to his attacks in fits of temper than any other
Deatheater, and he did absolutely nothing that could possibly incense him,
while keeping in his character.

“I have a treat for you, my
pet,” the Dark Lord continued. One light hand ran through his hair at his
temple, not seeming to notice the admittedly greasy texture of it. Snape looked
up silently, into the repulsive face of his erstwhile master, a feeling of
dread taking up residence somewhere in the pit of his stomach as he wondered
dully what this surprise could be. All he wanted right now was to get back to
Hogwarts and make his report to Dumbledore, then cleanse himself with about a
vat of boiling salamander blood – that might get the stench of Voldemort
out of his skin.

“What is it, master?” he
asked as obsequiously as he could manage.

Then Voldemort smiled at him, almost
making him shudder again. He was not faint-hearted, but it was almost enough to
honestly frighten him. Sometimes, after he had seen Voldemort smile at him, he
would have nightmares that only wore off in time for him to go back the next
weekend. “I have been planning for my future, Snape,” he said, his
hand still in his hair possessively. He found it hard to believe that once upon
a time he had been honoured to have been chosen for this job. “For the
unlikely occurrence that this Potter brat does manage somehow to defeat me – ”

“Never, my lord,” Snape
said automatically. “He shall never defeat you.”

“Be that as it may, if –
if – he does somehow manage to
do so, I have decided that I must have an heir.”

“An heir, my
lord?”

Voldemort’s red eyes glinted
dully in the dim light. “Yes, my pet – “ he
wished he would stop calling him that “ – an heir. And I have
chosen you to carry it for me.”

Snape felt frozen for a long moment.
Was it possible that he had just heard that? That Lord Voldemort had chosen him
to bear his child?

The Dark One narrowed his eyes
somewhat. “You seem less than pleased, Snape,” he said coldly. The
potions master realized that he was treading in dangerous territory here. He
mustn’t let on about his true feelings – Voldemort would kill him,
slowly, if he so much as suspected less than total obedience.

“Merely surprised, my
Lord,” he managed to say, looking him square in the face. He was lucky he
was a skilled Occlumens, or that sentence would have been his death warrant.

“I imagine,” Voldemort
said, once again in his better mood, though not unwatchful. Never
unwatchful. “I imagine that you must be quite surprised. Not
everyone is lucky enough to be granted such an honour… You are perhaps
wondering why I chose you?”

“I was wondering how you meant
that.” Perhaps, he thought, this was just a cruel joke, or he had simply
misunderstood. Something close to a prayer ran through his mind at that
thought.

“Quite literally,”
Voldemort assure him, and Snape felt himself getting faint. “You are to
be the mother of my child – in fact, you are already carrying it.”
He seemed pleased with himself. “It was difficult to create the proper
spells and potions – quite difficult, indeed – but I have finally
managed it. You will produce my heir, who will avenge me and carry out my plans
if I should fail.”

Potions…? Snape slowly looked
at the goblet he had been drinking from since he had been here – he had
detected nothing. Voldemort had disguised it completely. “And…
why me?” His voice seemed to come as from a great distance.
“Surely one of the witches – If it is a question of Pureblood,
Black’s cousin Bellatrix –” He
could barely hear his words, but his thoughts were clamouring through his head,
a never-ending chorus of Why me? Why did
he choose me? Why did he do this to me?

“No, boy, it must be
you.” Boy? He was forty years old. Even though, the first time, he had
been barely more than twenty. “If it gets out that I have an heir, no one
would ever think to look there – you are the perfect hiding place for my
child. If the worst happens and I should die, you will be able to raise it and
teach it, and it shall through you learn of its father and the unjust end to
which he was put. You will make sure that I do not go unavenged.”
He narrowed his eyes again. “Unless you don’t like my gift to
you…? The honour you have received?”

“That is not it at all, my
Lord,” Snape assured him, inclining his head respectfully. “I am
honoured to – ” he nearly choked on the
words, but kept his voice steady “ – carry your child.”

“Of course you are,”
Voldemort said maliciously. “Any real Deatheater would be.” His
words gave Snape a start – was he onto him? No, he couldn't be. It was
just a coincidence. He was only proving his point. Still, he couldn’t
quite stop a shiver that ran through him. “And now I suppose it is time
for you to go – lest you be missed at the school. You must do nothing to
arouse suspicion, especially now. If anyone finds out about this…”
He let the threat hang in the air.

Snape inclined his head respectfully
and dressed with slightly trembling fingers. With a bow to
the Dark Lord, he Disapparated, to reappear just outside the Hogwarts grounds.

* * * * *

“I still don’t know where
it is I go every weekend,” Snape reported levelly to Dumbledore.
“It doesn’t matter – I believe that he only uses that house
with me.” He wrists were still throbbing, and he
hadn’t been able to bathe yet…

“As we suspected,” the
elderly wizard said. “Do go on.”

“He didn’t tell me much.
Apparently he’s beginning to consider the idea that he might actually be
defeated by –” and here he sneered “– Potter.” He
needed to get down to his dungeon and take a potion for the pain… He had
essays to read, potions to grade, before he could even think about class
tomorrow… “He was talking about having an heir, in case Potter
killed him.”

Dumbledore’s bushy eyebrows
rose a bit. “Really. That’s
encouraging.”

“Indeed,” he said
shortly. “I didn’t see the snake anywhere – it could have
been out doing a task for him. He did mention a weapon. Probably the same one I
told you about last time.”

“Anything
else?”

“Nothing.”

Dumbledore just looked at him, and
he felt pinned to the chair. He couldn’t have left if he had tried, he
was sure of it. He’d felt exactly this way as a student, in Dumbledore’s
class, whenever he would get called upon for misbehaving when James Potter
provoked him…

“What’s bothering you,
Severus?” he asked kindly.

The power of his voice almost made
Snape want to break down and tell him everything, just like a little first-year
– but he hardened his heart to it. “Nothing,” he snapped.

Dumbledore, instead of backing off,
offered him a lemon drop. “I always find they make it easier to talk,”
he said rather absently.

“No thank you,” he answered
coldly. Dumbledore just shrugged and popped one into his own mouth, before
settling back to look at Snape over the tops of his half-moon spectacles.

The headmaster said nothing and
looked serenely at him, until he felt that he must explode under the pure kind
intensity of the gaze. Mastering his will, with a great effort, he managed to
stand. “If there is nothing else…?”

For a moment it looked like Dumbledore
was going to call him back, and if he had done he would have told him the whole
story. He just nodded, though, and Snape turned and fled as calmly as he could
from the room. Almost before he knew it, he was in his dungeon office, hand
reaching instinctively for a pain potion – well, a pain-relieving potion,
actually – with vague hopes that he might feel halfway normal tomorrow.
Before his hand closed around it, though, he collapsed to his knees, pain
forgotten, Dumbledore forgotten, class forgotten. All
that he could hear was Voldemort’s voice saying “Yes, my pet, an heir. And I have chosen you
to carry it for me.” He gagged quietly, the urge to throw up almost
overwhelming, but he mastered it and stared blankly at the wall in front of
him, his hand still on his desk as though he were holding onto it to remain
anchored in the room, his knuckles whiter than parchment, even paler than
normal. He had an urge to drink a powerful nausea potion, but he knew no child
of the Dark Lord would be dislodged so easily… he doubted there was much
he could do to rid himself of it without killing himself…

Wouldn’t he rather be dead
than the cause of such an abomination, though? No… he didn’t want
to die. He was past that. It had taken several years, but he was not suicidal,
and he couldn’t allow himself to entertain such thoughts even briefly,
lest those feelings return. But how could he allow this to happen…?

A noise that could have been a choked
sob forced its way from his throat. He couldn’t allow this to happen –
such an atrocity could not be allowed to live. He must rid the world of it,
even if it meant killing himself in the process. But how could he? If he was
gone, then He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would just impregnate someone else…
and as it was, the child was at least under the control of the Order… But
it was him! It was in his body! How could he let this happen…?

“Professor…?” he
heard from the doorway, in an irritating confident voice.

He stood and spun on the student. “OUT!”
he yelled, barely seeing a flash of blond as Malfoy
ran away in terror. He collapsed trembling in his chair behind the desk and
held his head in his hands, closing the door with a vague gesture and locking
it with a mumbled spell. He couldn’t just let this happen… he had
to do something…
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Old Habits Die Hard