Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Devotion and Desire	By : JBankai89 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 12957 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, I gain nothing from this but a way to pass the time.

Chapter List
- 1-Devotion and Desire
- 1
Devotion and Desire
A/N: This was the first Harry Potter fic I ever wrote. I think I finished writing it in like two days, then obsessively edited and reworked it for a further two days afterwards. I'm still quite proud of it, and I hope you guys enjoy it. (Though this fic was written like 3 months ago, I'm still pretty new to the fanfiction part of the HP fandom) This fic is canon-compliant through HBP and I deviate near the beginning of DH. This is set a year after Bill & Fleur's wedding, so Harry is 18 in this story.
Harry could no longer remember a time before now. A time in which his head was not bowed in subservience, where every movement offered with it an aching reminder of his inability to defend himself from being violated and abused for the sheer pleasure of his captors.
He found himself now in such a situation, one that had become all too familiar over the last year. Bruises had bloomed like violets over his jaw and throat, as he had been passed from one Death Eater to another, like some perverse game of Hot Potato. His mind wandered away from the voices above him to what had landed him in this situation—his own stupidity, and his inability to curb his saving people thing, as Hermione had once called it.
But Hermione was gone now. Ron too, and he was left alone and at the mercy of the Death Eaters. It was not that he had willingly chosen to stop fighting, but the loss of his two best friends—more family than his blood relatives had ever been—had broken him. He no longer had the strength to fight. He had lost too much, and the overwhelming weight of his grief had crushed him. Harry had hoped to die, but Voldemort would not even grant him that request, despite his certainty that he would.
“Hmm,” the low verbalization of a voice Harry was all too familiar with dragged him out of his bitter memories. A hand laced itself in his hair and forced his head up, causing Harry to hiss with pain, as the motion was so sudden it caused a crick in his neck. Looking up into the face of his new tormentor, he could not stop the low growl of revulsion that escaped him. “Even after a year in subservience, you still are as arrogant as ever, I see,”
The sight of Severus Snape caused him to relive six years of verbal abuse at his hands in a matter of seconds. The sight of him killing Albus Dumbledore was still burned into his memory, and Harry was uncertain whether there would ever be a time where the recollection of that night would not come to him as easily as the breathing. Snape's fingers tightened in his hair, and Harry grimaced in pain, but unlike his former masters, Snape did not need to lay a hand on him to incite his hate.
“He seems very willful. Considering his state, I would have expected him to be more adequately broken by this time,” Snape said in a tone similar to what one may use to comment on the freshness of the available produce to a greengrocer. He released Harry's hair and he allowed his head to slump forward. He struggled to remain still, and though he had spent the last year in dungeons in varying states of disrepair, his spirit crushed seemingly to the point of no return, but upon seeing Snape, knowing full well what would happen when he was left in his so-called care, it was as though the fire of rebellion had been reignited within him.
“You know me Severus,” replied Macnair with a note of laughter in his tone, “I like to play with my food.” Snape reached out again and grasped Harry by the jaw, lifting and turning his head roughly, studying him so intently it made Harry feel sick with a mixture of anger and mind-numbing fear. He knew what Snape was looking at, he was not so thick as to not be aware how he appeared these days.
He had not exactly changed that much, his hair was as untidy as ever, his eyes were the same vibrant green, and he still carried his lightning-bolt shaped scar, but in addition his face and body were riddled with signs of his maltreatment over the last twelve months.
His left eye was badly damaged, and a gray film had formed over it effectively blinding him on that side—a generous gift from Lucius Malfoy. There were long whip-scars that decorated his back with pearl-white lines that continued to his upper arms, and a jagged scar across his clavicle were all gifts from Voldemort himself. Precious few of the other Death Eaters were daring enough to leave lasting marks upon him, as though Voldemort had laid claim to that right when Harry was first brought before him.
Harry did have a fair few scabbed over cuts and bruises, as life at the mercy of MacNair had been one long haze of beatings and violent sexual encounters, which Harry was incapable of recalling without feeling as though his insides had been shredded. It was better to not think at all. In silence and stillness he was able to survive, at least until now.
"It seems you did not leave any lasting damage, at least,” Snape commented before releasing Harry again, and his head drooped to rest against his chest. His knees were starting to ache from being in the same position too long, but it was a precious reprieve from what he had endured thus far.
The low murmur of MacNair and Snape's voices abruptly ceased, and though their discussion concerned Harry, he felt that even the act of listening was in itself and exhausting task, and instead he allowed his mind to drift. He thought longingly of years long past, of friends dead and buried, of his triumphs and failures—anything to distract himself from the present.
"I believe that concludes my business here," MacNair said. The man's words seemed to tear through Harry's daze, and he realized all too suddenly what that meant. Though his eyes were still fixed firmly upon the plush rug where he knelt, they now bulged with fear, an emotion Harry struggled to quell before he was required to face his new—and old tormentor.
Distantly Harry heard two sets of footfalls fade into silence as Snape escorted MacNair out, but all too soon he felt himself being wrenched to his feet by his hair. He bit back a gasp of pain, refusing to allow Snape see him in a moment of weakness. Once he was on his feet, Snape released him and Harry wobbled for a moment, unsteady after kneeling for such a long period of time. His wrists had been tightly bound behind his back by MacNair prior to being taken here, and while this made keeping his balance something of a challenge, he masked his weakness as best he could, refusing to show weakness in front of his former professor.
Harry was well aware that he stood no chance face-to-face with Snape. Wandless, malnourished, and recovering from a multitude of minor wounds, he was helpless. Snape appeared unconcerned by his charge's defiant stare, and instead circled behind him and cut his bonds. Harry stared at his hands, surprised that Snape would even bother releasing him so soon. His hands were white and numb from the feeble blood circulation, and he massaged his wrists alternately as the feeling slowly returned. A "thank you," was perched upon his lips, he could not bring himself to say it.
His emotions continued to fluctuate between deep, seething hatred and blind terror at what was to come. Instead of approaching Harry in any way, Snape turned to the archway that led out of the sitting room. "Tinsel, come out here," he said, and a female house elf appeared in the archway, looking strikingly similar to Dobby, with what looked like a clean pillowcase draped over her tiny frame like a toga.
"Master called?" the elf asked squeakily, and followed her words with a bow so low Harry actually saw her nose press into the floor. The sight of the elf's perfect subservience reminded Harry painfully of Hermione, though he struggled to keep the grief at her memory from showing on his face. The last thing he wanted was to give Snape free ammunition.
"Take Mr Potter with you and make him presentable. Dismissed." He turned away, and before Harry had a chance to utter a word of protest, the house elf grabbed his hand and all but dragged him from the room. Harry turned back once to look at Snape, confused as to what he looked like had to do with, well, anything. However, despite his best efforts to shake off the elf, she clung to him like a tendril of Devil's Snare, and did not release him until they reached the loo. She ushered him inside, and already there was a steaming tub of water waiting for him. The humid air smelled sweet and floral, and he noticed that the bathwater had been adorned with flower petals, though he could not identify them.
"Harry Potter is to wash himself," said the elf in the same high, squeaky voice, "Tinsel will return with clothes." She disappeared and closed the door behind her, and the soft click he heard as the door shut told him that he had been locked in. Harry turned his attention back to the tub, and while the idea of touching anything of Snape's made his stomach twist in revulsion, he had a feeling ignoring his first orders in a new household would not be wise. He belatedly wondered how the house elf planned on bringing him clothes without inadvertently liberating herself, but the thought did not manage to distract him completely from his predicament.
He stripped off his clothes, a battered tunic with a deep neckline and low-hanging drawstring trousers, and he slipped into the tub. The water was hot, but it did not aggravate his skin. He splashed the scented water into his face, and though Harry hated to admit it, the combination of the hot water and aromatherapy from the flowers succeeded in relaxing him completely.
Harry washed himself slowly, trying to take as much time as he could in this quiet sanctuary, while he struggled to keep his mind off what was to come. The prospect of submitting to Snape made him feel sick, paired with a deep sense of shame, as though he was somehow betraying the memory of all those who he had lost by allowing himself become this hollow shell of his former self.
All too soon, the water had lost its warmth and turned icy cold. Harry reluctantly removed himself from the bathwater, and he roughly dried himself off. He felt refreshed, though the knot of panic in the pit of his stomach never went away.
Halfway through towelling off his hair, there was a soft tap on the door and Tinsel returned, with her a small elf-sized cart that carried a pile of folded clothes. She closed the door behind her, and said squeakily, "Harry Potter will sit now! Tinsel is to make him presentable for Master Severus," Harry was so taken aback by her sudden assertive tone that for a moment he had no idea what she meant. At first, he made a move for the clothes, to see if he could somehow shoulder past her and get out, but Harry had forgotten that house elves had powerful magic of their own, and without a wand, he was at her mercy.
She took his arm, and with strength that did not match her stature, she pulled Harry over to a vacant chair and sat him down. He felt his face redden as she tended to him despite his fear for was what to come. Harry could not help his embarrassment he felt as she shaved his face with a straight razor, massaged a strong-smelling ointment into his open wounds and tended to his blinded eye, but it seemed that even her elf magic was not powerful enough to heal it. Finally, she produced a thin silver circlet of metal, and he watched as she looped it around his throat, and the hinges fused together, making it seemingly impossible to remove.
"Harry Potter must get dressed!" the elf squeaked at him, "Tinsel will wait," she turned and slipped outside, though this time Harry did not hear the door lock. He turned to the clothes that had been left for him, uncertain what to expect. His experience with past Death Eaters and clothes varied from simple fare to embarrassingly sexualizing garments. He was relieved when he picked up the clothes to find sheepskin slacks that were tight, but not constricting, and a tunic made of a thin white material, with a similar neckline to what he had worn while under MacNair's so-called care. He pulled on the garments, he noted that it was designed to show off the circlet. Clearly, Harry mused, Snape liked to make sure that people knew whom he belonged.
The idea of referring to himself as someone's property still made Harry feel sick with shame. Regardless of how many times the concept had been drilled into his head over the last year, he was still unable to accept it. He hoped that this was a good thing, though sometimes he wondered if giving in to the Death Eaters' expectations of his new social standing would be so bad, but what little pride he had left would not allow him to give up so easily.
When he stepped back into the hall, Tinsel jumped to attention and said in the same assertive tone, "Harry Potter will follow," she turned on her heel and marched off, and Harry reluctantly followed.
While the house elf led him away from the bathroom, he had to marvel at the glamour of Snapes home. Though he had expected Snape to live in squalor, something similar to what he remembered of his office back at Hogwarts, he couldn't help but be slightly impressed. Everything was made of stone and marble, the floors were lined with plush rugs and carpets of intricate but tasteful designs, and despite the grandeur of the home, it still somehow maintained a sense of warmth. Harry shook himself as this last thought passed through his mind, "remember who owns this home," he thought, chastising himself, "this is no time to drop your guard just because he's got a nice house,"
Tinsel stopped suddenly, and Harry realized that she had led him to the dining room, which was smaller than Harry had imagined it would be. Snape was standing with his arms folded across his chest, clearly waiting for Harry. "Come here Potter," he said in the low and painfully familiar tone. Bracing himself for the worst, he took a few timid steps forward and stopped just short of his new master. Snape's hand reached out and grasped his jaw, firmly but gently, as though he had no desire to actually bruise him. This was a new sensation for Harry, and for a moment he was uncertain how to react.
Snape spent several minutes prodding his skin, turning his head left, right, up, and down, as though intent to thoroughly inspect him before he did anything. At last he prodded the skin just below his blind eye, and studied it with the same intensity as he had before, and finally moved his hand to rest lightly against the hollow of his throat. "I will see what I can do about that eye tomorrow, Potter," he said, and Harry was startled by these words, but caught himself from asking why Snape even cared. With his hand still resting on his throat, Harry was unwilling to say anything that might provoke him.
"This," Snape said, as he moved his hand to brush against the circlet around Harry's throat, the soft touch causing a shiver to run through him. As before he tried to conceal his fear, though now with less success. Snape paused for a moment and regarded him curiously, as though he was trying to judge whether or not he had imagined Harry's reaction. He pressed on as though he had not noticed, "—this tells people that you are mine," as he spoke, he moved his hand from the silver ring to cradle the back of Harry's neck.
The movements were so gentle that Harry had no idea how to respond to them, tenderness being something he was unaccustomed to. He averted his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. Harry was uncertain why exactly these light touches alarmed him so completely, but he was unwilling to allow Snape to see how easily he was losing his composure. "If you leave the house, the repercussions will be most unpleasant for you, so I suggest you curb any temptation you have to flee."
He let go of Harry and turned his back to him moving to sit at the empty table, which filled a moment later with a rich, sumptuous dinner. "Come," said Snape, curling his finger and motioning to space of floor next to his chair. Reluctantly, Harry obeyed and knelt next to him.
Snape ate in silence, and the quiet that filled the room—save for the occasional clink of Snape's cutlery—was unnerving to Harry. He was used to much rougher treatment than what he had been subjected to at Snape's hands, and he had no idea why the man was even bothering to be nice to him. Harry curled his hands into fists and he pressed them into the top of his thighs, staring at the stone floor and following the natural formation and picking out the hairline cracks that were present—though there were few.
While he was relieved that he had not been abused or violated at Snape's hands—at least not yet—the fact was that it had been more than thirty-six hours since he had last eaten, and the smells filling the room were making it very difficult for Harry to maintain his statue-like composure. His stomach gurgled loudly, and Harry felt himself go red with embarrassment. There was a pause in Snape's movements, making it all too clear that he had noticed. One of his hands came down and raked through Harry's hair, though much more gently than he had anticipated, and he coaxed Harry's head up. He moved his hand to the back of Harry's neck and brushed lightly at the skin he found there with the tips of his fingers, causing Harry to tense. Snape froze his movements and frowned slightly, "have you eaten yet today?"
Harry was startled by the question, as it was the last thing he expected to hear from the man. Some of the cold indifference had left his voice, and if Harry didn't know better, he could swear that it was concern he was hearing laced with those words. He shook his head mutely in response to the question, but Snape did not move or take his eyes from the boy, but cocked a brow in a motion that was clearly inviting Harry to speak.
Harry hesitated, fearful of what might happen if he answered incorrectly, but he felt that keeping silent might be just as bad. “N-no sir,” Harry felt his face redden again, frustrated with himself that he was incapable of answering without a stammer. He turned his head away, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands, and when he felt Snape's fingers leave the back of his neck, he tensed and clenched his eyes shut, waiting for the first blow to fall. Instead, he heard the soft skitter of ceramic being placed against stone. When he opened his eyes, a small bowl of soup had been laid out in front of him. It was something with shellfish, and despite his aching hunger he hesitated, afraid that a wrong movement would segue into a thrashing. Instead, Snape returned to his own plate, and resumed his former action of ignoring Harry completely.
After a few more moments of hesitation, Snape's voice once more cut through the silence, “I haven't poisoned it, you know. Contrary to what you have been led to believe, I take care of my possessions, I do not leave them to decay.” Harry struggled to keep his face blank at this statement, though inside his stomach turned at Snape's reference to him being nothing more than a belonging. With minutely trembling hands, he reached out and cupped the small bowl. He lifted it to his mouth and drank, the broth filling him with warmth and calm. It was the first meal he had had in months that was not scraps left on his former master's discarded plate, or mouldy bread and water.
The richness of the food before him now made his stomach cramp. He was no longer accustomed to eating real food, and he had to force himself to slow down to keep himself from retching what he had just consumed. He picked out pieces of vegetable and crab meat and ate them daintily, licking the tips of his finger and thumb after each bite. It was a few moments before he realized that the soft sounds of cutlery above him had ceased, and when he looked up curiously, he saw that Snape had been watching him eat.
At first Harry was confused, uncertain why him eating with his hands seemed so appealing to his former professor, but the distinct look of longing in his eyes made his stomach somersault with fear. Snape reached forward and Harry flinched, unable to force himself to resist the knee-jerk reaction. Instead of the pain he had been expecting, he felt Snape's thumb press onto his cheek, and brush across his lower lip. The tenderness of the movement made him uncomfortable, primarily because it was something he was not used to, and after being subject to physical, sexual, and emotional abuse over the last year, gentle touch was something he no longer remembered.
When he felt the hand move from his face, Harry opened his eyes and looked up to see Snape licking a droplet of broth from the digit, before reaching back down and plucking the bowl from Harry's hands. Harry was reluctant to let it go, and though the serving he had been given was small, it had been the closest thing to a real meal he had tasted in a long time. Harry hung his head and resigned himself to the fact that this small gesture of kindness was over, though he tried to mask his disappointment, unwilling to give Snape the satisfaction of knowing that he had taken away something else that Harry wanted, no matter how small.
The meal finished in relative silence and Harry was dismissed. He hastened to obey this command, having no desire to be in Snape's presence longer than he needed to. Harry found his way back to the front room, but he was uncertain what to do with himself. He looked around, taking in the objects and furniture of the room, which was just as elegant as the rest of the house, with highly polished bookcases, an elegantly crafted fireplace, and comfortable-looking chairs. On the wall furthest from Harry was a large window that overlooked the front grounds of the house. He was far from London, of that Harry was certain, as the view that was presented before him bore no similarities to the landscapes he was familiar with. Huge, sloping hills of high green grasses stretched on in front of him, and a few miles to the west he could see a copse of trees, no doubt the beginning of some kind of forest.
Harry looked around, uncertain of whether or not he should be here—though Snape had never said he couldn't be here—and he stepped forward, allowing himself to settle on the sturdy window ledge. The sun had yet to fully set, and he watched the outside world with an ache of longing in his heart. It had been so long since he could do what he wanted, say what he wanted, without fear. He pressed his palm against the cool glass of the window and watched enviously as a flock of birds flew overhead, a wild rabbit scampered across the lawn, and in the far distance he could even see a few deer.
As Harry sat lost in his own thoughts, his mind strayed back to his warmer memories, before he had been confined. Remembering those times was painful, many of the faces that floated into his mind's eye were dead—Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Dumbledore—but remembering them seemed less painful to Harry than forcing himself to cope with the present situation he found himself in. Darkness of the setting sun enveloped Harry as he sat by the windowsill, and ever so slowly, he fell asleep.

~

Harry woke the next morning in a very different place than he remembered falling asleep in. He found himself on a soft bed, with thick plush blankets and more pillows than he could reasonably use. His clothing had been changed to more appropriate sleeping garments and this realization made him shudder, as the idea of Snape touching him in any capacity made his skin crawl. No matter how kind he had been to him over the last several hours, Harry had no illusions about what kind of man Snape was.
He plucked his glasses of the bedside table and put them on, slid off the bed, and looked around at these new surroundings. He found himself in a room that reminded him of a lavish hotel suite. Aside from the bed he had just climbed out of, more plush rugs covered the stone floor, and even in bare feet he felt no chill. There was a sofa on the other side of the room that faced a fireplace and low coffee table, and to its right Harry saw a door that led to the loo.
Harry stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He washed the sleep from his eyes, and looked up at himself in the mirror. He had to admit, he did look significantly better than he had when he arrived. His shallow cuts and bruises were mostly gone—thanks in no small measure to whatever the house elf had used on him the previous day—and some colour had returned to his face.
When Harry returned to the main room, he noticed that breakfast had been laid out for him on the coffee table—simple fare of buttered crumpets, tea, and bacon. Harry felt a little uneasy at being waited on like this, not completely certain what Snape's motives were in treating him to such luxuries. He sat down to eat, though he found it difficult to get anything down. Every small noise made him jump, half-expecting the abuse he had become so accustomed to to be unleashed upon him at any moment.
Harry had no sooner finished his breakfast and he was quickly back in the bathroom, throwing it up. His anxiety paired with his body's unpreparedness for such rich fare had conspired against him and he stood on trembling knees, sweat dotting his forehead as he heaved, waiting for the wave of sick to stop. Harry went to the sink to wash out his mouth of the acrid taste, and he mopped the sweat from his brow. He and took a few tentative sips of water, and it helped settle his stomach somewhat. He moved back to the main room, to find the remnants of his breakfast and the dishes had already been taken away.
Harry dressed in similar garments to what he had been given the previous day, and he moved to the door that he assumed led to the hall, only to find it locked. “Oh, great,” he mumbled as he released the door's handle. He turned back to look around the room, and he had to admit, as far as prison cells went, it was better than what he had been subjected to before, but a prison cell was still a cell, no matter how you dressed it.
For the first few hours, Harry tried to occupy himself by keeping track of the passage of time, but with no clocks to speak of, he quickly lost count. He slept, but it was interrupted frequently as nightmares of his past abusers invading his subconscious, jerking him from sleep in a sheen of cold sweat, a fearful cry caught in his throat.
Around midday more food was sent up to him, though this time it was a clear but tasteful broth and water. The liquid was more filling than he expected it to be, and it thankfully stayed down. He assumed the house elf had probably taken his weak stomach into account this time around, as he doubted Snape would ever be that considerate.
Harry passed the time for the remainder of the day by sitting near to the window sill, and he watched the outside world pass him by. The room he was in was on the second floor, and there was precious little for him to observe from this height, but it was better than succumbing to his nightmares.
As evening fell around him, a soft tapping on the door snapped him out of his daze. Harry had hardly moved from the window all day, contenting himself with fantasies and daydreams, watching the clouds pass overhead, anything to keep himself from dwelling on the present situation. The soft knocking he now heard made fear lance through him, and it took a good deal of energy to keep his breathing steady. Harry looked up and he saw the house elf poke her head in, her great, bulbous eyes shining in the dim light given off by the fire.
“Harry Potter is to see Master Severus,” she said squeakily. Harry had known that this was coming, but that made it no less terrifying. He stood and rotated his shoulders, releasing some of the tension that had collected there from staying in the same position for so long, and after taking a moment to steady his nerves, he forced himself to follow.
The house elf led him through the second level, which was far more spacious than he had expected, to a door that stood near to the winding staircase which—presumably—led back to the main level of the house. The house elf left Harry standing before an ornately carved oak door, and he had half a mind to leave, just to see how far this thinly veiled kindness would stretch. Something in him decided against this masochistic train of thought, and Harry lifted one knuckle to tap on the door as lightly as he dared.
“Enter,” Snape's slightly muffled voice came from inside. The sound sent another thrill of fear through Harry, and with shaking hands he pushed down the handle and opened the door.
Inside Harry found not a bedroom, but an office. The back wall was lined with bookshelves constructed of some kind of dark wood, most of which contained thick volumes that looked almost new. Another bookshelf, more narrow than the others, was pressed into the corner closest to a high, shuttered window, and it had been crammed with a variety of jars containing potion ingredients. Some of the contents Harry could easily identify—eye of newt, unicorn hair, dragon's blood—but others he was not keen to name, especially something floating in an electric blue liquid that looked like a human ear.
The sight of the pickled and preserved items floating in their mysterious liquids never ceased to disquiet him, though Harry had little time to dwell on this as his focus shifted to the man sitting at the other end of the room. Snape sat watching him with his fingertips pressed lightly together, observing Harry in the same way a cat watches a mouse—like prey. “Close the door, Potter,” he said, and watched as Harry hastened to obey, though he struggled to conceal his trembling limbs as he pushed the door closed. The click of its lock shifting into place did nothing to quell Harry's fear.
“Come here,” Snape said the moment the door had closed, and as he spoke he reached over to the desk that rested behind him and he picked up a shallow bowl, that contained a thin violet liquid. Harry did as he was told despite his urge to bolt, and he stepped towards his former Potions Master. “Kneel, and remove your glasses,” Snape instructed, in a tone that almost suggested he was bored with the task at hand.
Harry slid gracelessly to his knees and removed his glasses, folding them closed before hooking one of the arms through the collar of his shirt. He looked up at Snape and even with him so close the man was little more than a black and white blob. “Look at me Potter, and try not to blink. This may sting a little,” Harry realized too late that Snape was attempting to mend his blinded eye as the first drop of the liquid fell. The pain was horrible, and Harry gasped, his eyelids quivering with their desire to shut. A second, then a third drop fell into his eye, and it burned so painfully Harry was uncertain how he was managing to keep his eyes open at all. “Close your eyes Potter,” Snape said in the same tone of voice, and as the world blinked into darkness. Harry felt the tug of his glasses being taken from him and placed back on his face. His eyes were watering from the aftershock of the pain, and he could feel tears streaking his cheeks, his body's reaction to trying to flush out the liquid Snape had dripped into his eye.
“You may open your eyes now,” Harry did so, and was surprised to find that his depth perception had improved somewhat. It was clear that the blindness he had suffered in his eye was fading. He blinked a few times, and looked up at Snape, finding, not for the first time, that he had no idea how to react. He wanted to thank him, but he also wanted to hate him. He was a traitor; a murderer. Why then was he treating Harry with such kindness? The questions chased each other around in Harry's head, leaving him with a bitter taste of frustration in his mouth.
“Why?” Harry finally asked, utterly perplexed why a man of Snape's station would even bother helping him. To Harry, it made no sense. Instead of answering verbally, Snape reached forward and pressed his thumb into Harry's left temple, and traced the bone structure of his jaw. He stopped at Harry's chin and Snape tilted his gaze upwards to meet his eyes.
“As I have said, you are mine, you belong to me. I have no interest in owning a damaged item.” The reminder of his status made him feel sick with misery. Harry averted his eyes from Snape's intense gaze and stared at the floor. He felt sick with shame, and Harry hated how far he had fallen from a position as a beacon of hope and of strength for the rebel forces, and now he sat at the feet of his oppressors as little more than a toy for them to play with.
Snape jerked Harry's head upwards, forcing him to meet his eyes. Harry grimaced as his neck muscles ached in under the strain, but he did not dare move. Snape's eyes now reflected something he was all-too familiar with seeing—desire. Harry swallowed thickly, bracing himself for the worst. Snape pulled him upwards, and Harry forced his muscles into relaxation, allowing his movements to appear fluid and willing, contrary to the firestorm of fear that threatened to consume him. He braced his hands on Snape's thighs, while the older man cradled the back of Harry's neck while he pulled him in for a kiss.
The kiss itself was nothing compared to what Harry had been expecting. It was tender, but dominant, as though the act of this first kiss between them somehow secured their positions as master and slave. But at the same time, it was tender and felt to him more like the kiss of a lover than a kiss of a captor. This realization made Harry tremble, and he was uncertain how he felt about that. Snape's hand moved from the back of Harry's neck to thread through his hair and he gripped it tightly, but not painfully. Harry's breath hitched, and his fingers twisted into the fabric of Snape's robes. Harry's back arched and his lips parted, and the kiss melted into a frenzied tangle of tongues, lips, and teeth. Snape stood abruptly, dragging Harry with him, and he and forced him back into the bookshelf that was directly behind them.
The sharp edges of the books bit into Harry's back, causing him to gasp. Snape did not relent in his ferocity, and took hold of Harry's wrists and pinned them one-handed above his head. Harry was privately grateful that Snape was holding him in place, as he felt that if he were to be released at that exact moment he probably would have collapsed, overwhelmed with the mixture of emotions welling inside him. Snape caught Harry's lower lip between his teeth, forcing a soft, involuntary moan from him. He struggled for a moment to try and reach Snape, unsure whether he wanted to hit him or hold him, but his movements were met only with the older man tightening his hold upon Harry's wrists, while he rested his palm on Harry's abdomen.
The sudden touch forced a gasp out of Harry, though this time not out of fear, but out of surprise. He had little time to dwell on this however, as Snape leaned in and captured his lips in another kiss. Harry could barely explain, even to himself, why he was so taken at that moment. The tenderness he was now being subject to was so strange to him, and he was so emotionally starved for tenderness he was now being subjected to that he no longer cared that it came at the hands of someone he purported to loathe. Snape's hand slid downwards, and Harry trembled as the first tendril of fear began to resurface in his mind. Snape seemed to sense this and he pulled back. Harry looked up at him, his face flushed and lips parted.
“I'm not going to hurt you Harry,” his first name sounded strange coming from Snape, but the reassurance did help him relax. Though he had no earthly reason to trust him, for some inexplicable reason—he did.
Snape's hand slid further down to the ties of Harry's trousers and loosed them, allowing him to extract Harry's painfully hard erection. Even at this gentle touch Harry's breath hitched, and he rotated his hips in a halfhearted arch, desperate to not lose this contact, but also hating himself for how much he wanted it. “You felt my kiss that strongly?” Snape's voice held a tone of amusement, and Harry felt his cheeks grow warm, and his gaze flicked from the floor to meet Snape's cool dark eyes. Harry wanted nothing more than to deny it, the intensity in Snape's stare only succeeded in heightening his arousal, instead of quelling it.
Snape gripped the shaft of Harry's cock, and he moaned softly, squirming in the other man's grip, his arousal eclipsing his desire to fend off his would-be attacker. Snape slid his hand slowly up and down, brushing his thumb lightly over the tip, making Harry moan and arch his back, no longer able to control his own actions. Snape's moments gradually sped up, and Harry's cries of pleasure became more frequent, his breath coming out in short, pained gasps, until finally he felt his climax hit and he cried out one final time, as his seed sputtered across his stomach and Snape's hand.
Snape released Harry's wrists, and the spent youth crumbled to the floor. His form radiated heat from his orgasm, and his breathing was slow and shallow, as he slowly began to regain some form of composure over himself. He looked up, and felt a flush of embarrassment stain his cheeks, as Snape stared down at him, a look of careful calculation in his eyes, while he lifted his hand to his mouth, and licked off the cum that clung to his fingers. “Get out of here Potter,” Snape said thickly, as though he had little desire to actually send him away. The order confused Harry, but he stood up slowly and pulled his trousers back up. While tying them shut, he slipped out of the door and headed back to his own room.

~

The morning dawned cool and bright, and Harry woke to a fine tracery of frost clinging to his window. He slipped from his bed and moved to the pane of glass, and he lightly ghosted his fingertips over the cold frost, wanting to brand its elegance into memory. It was far too early for snow, and as soon as the sun rose properly, Harry knew that it would be gone. To him, it felt as though some of the outside world had come to greet him, a silent promise that one day he might taste the free air once more.
Harry sat and watched the frost, and as he had expected it began melting as soon as the sun's first light burst over the top of the hills. It faded into little droplets of moisture, and Harry felt as though he had lost a friend as he watched the water trickle down to the edge of the window.
He ate breakfast when it arrived, and though there was still a part of him that loathed accepting anything Snape had to offer him, after the previous night, he found his resolve was beginning to wane. He stirred his spoon through the porridge that had been brought up, and he was aware that the food he was being given was still light, though it still irked him that his well-being and capacity to keep down certain kinds of food had been taken into such careful consideration. However much this bothered him, he was pleased that he managed to keep down his breakfast that morning.
Harry went through the motions of washing and dressing himself, though the lack of clothing options for him were slim. Snape seemed eager to keep Harry wearing the same style of wear for the entirety of his stay, and while he had grown used to wearing uniforms at school, this seemed different somehow. Harry struggled to articulate in his thoughts exactly why it bothered him so much.
He took his time getting ready for the day ahead, and even with his slow preparation, it felt as though no time at all had passed since his waking. Harry's eyes shifted to the door that led out to the rest of the house. Like everything else, it looked expensive—highly polished wood with a handle of brass. Despite its beauty, Harry still could only see it as a cell door, and his mind conjured up images of rusted cage bars, the reek of his own filth, bitter cold that came from within him, not from the temperature of the room...He shuddered and shook himself out of his memories. If nothing else, he was grateful for what he had been given in this house—despite the fact that it came at the hands of someone he despised.
For lack of anything else to do—the room was devoid of any forms of entertainment—he stepped to the door and tried the handle. To his great surprise it gave without resistance, and the door creaked open. Harry was so astonished that for a moment he could only stand frozen at the threshold, uncertain whether this was some sort of test, just to see how obedient Harry had become after less than two days.
Harry's toes perched on the edge of the room's entrance, like a diver about to take the plunge, and with his eyes clenched shut he stepped out into the hall.
Harry stood, his hands clenched tightly into fists and his back curved forward, bracing himself for punishment at this simple act, and he was more than a little surprised when nothing happened. He opened his eyes and looked around, straightening up slowly and cautiously. Harry looked to his left and right, but the halls were empty and silent.
It took Harry a great deal of time to work up the courage to move from this spot, his once ever-present Gryffindor courage severely muted from his time in captivity. Once his mind had regained a sense of calm, he began to wander through the house, uncertain what to do with his newfound freedom, and afraid of going anywhere that may be considered off-limits. Unfortunately, Snape had not detailed where he was and was not allowed to go, and this conjured within him the acrid taste of anxious fear, and he soon found himself wandering down to the main level of the house.
He found himself back in the sitting room, and Harry felt as though his eyes were magnetically drawn to the plush rug in the centre of the space. Though it looked as neat, clean, and almost new as ever, Harry could almost see the indentations his knees had made upon it barely forty-eight hours earlier.
Harry shook his head, and turned his attention to one of the many bookcases that filled the room. Curiosity piqued, he wandered over to it and glanced at the titles it contained. He expected it to be filled with volumes detailing some medium of the Dark Arts, or perhaps tomes of potion-making, but he was surprised to find that it contained neither.
Instead what Harry found was row upon row of fiction. Not just fiction, but muggle fiction. He recognized some of the titles—The Wind in the Willows, The Time Machine, Silverwing, The Call of Cthulhu...the genres were all jumbled together, and he was surprised that Voldemort would allow one of his most favoured Death Eaters to get away with having such blatantly ordinary items in his home. He brushed his fingertips over the book spines, as though seeing them at all was an illusion. Harry's hand paused over one of the titles, Kafka on the Shore, and he pulled it out.
Harry soon found himself immersed in the novel, and while he had never been much of a reader—a hobby that was generally left to Hermione—he could not help himself. The cold, hard world he had found himself in seemed to fall away, and he was aware only of the images his imagination conjured, and of the warm crackle of the fire before him. His time in captivity had given him some new habits he was not consciously aware of, such as his disinclination to sit on furniture. Instead he was sprawled in front of the hearth like a contented house cat.
The house elf brought him something to eat around noon and he closed the novel, committing the page number to memory as he did so. While he was uncertain whether or not he would actually return to it, the cold comfort it offered was a blessed reprieve. He took note that his meal was much heartier than what he had previously been given, and it filled him up nicely. Harry was grateful that his anxiety seemed to have calmed, allowing him to eat without fear of bringing it all back up again.
After Harry had eaten his fill he turned back to the hearth, the fire now little more than glowing embers amongst the ash, and he stretched out on the cool stone. He folded his left arm under his head like a makeshift pillow, and he dozed.
Harry woke sometime later with a soft groan. The fire before him had been rekindled, and the sudden light stung his eyes. For a moment he wasn't certain what had woken him, but then he felt a finger prodding into the small of his back. Harry rolled over to face the house elf that had woken him, and he supposed his annoyance at being woken showed on his face, as the creature's bat-like ears drooped slightly under his gaze. “Apologies for wakings you sir, but Master Severus requests your presence in his offices,” she said, and the words tore through Harry's peaceful haze of wakefulness like a knife. His gaze flitted to the windows, and the outside world was still bathed in bright afternoon sunlight. Surely it was too early for such a request? Harry took a few seconds to mentally prepare for what was to come, and he stood up slowly.
The house elf turned and scampered out of the room and Harry followed behind, his mind halfway between panic and numbed thoughtlessness. He struggled with his conflicting emotions, due to the fact that he wanted to fear Snape, it was easier than this slow sense of trust that was beginning to fill him. Harry's desperate need for emotional and physical closeness that did not come hand in hand with abuse had made him weak, and it was an unsettling that he felt himself giving into Snape's whims so readily.
The elf led him all the way to the door of Snape's office, and though Harry remembered the way, he supposed the elf's presence was to ensure that Harry did not wander off. Like the previous night, as soon as they arrived the elf headed off, leaving him alone before the door. Harry took a slow breath to calm his jangling nerves, and knocked softly.
The door opened of its own accord, and Harry stepped inside. It looked the same as it had the night before, and as he looked around he felt the heat rise in his face when his eyes fell upon the bookcase that Snape had pinned him to. He was jerked from his memory by the slow, even tones of his master's voice. “Close the door when you decide to come in, Potter,” His back was turned to Harry, and the soft scratching of the quill that filled the otherwise silent atmosphere indicated to Harry that he was working on a letter or paper of some sort.
Harry turned and closed the door. Regardless of how gentle Snape had been with him up until now—at least in comparison to his previous captors—Harry had no illusions of his standing. Sooner or later, Snape would take what he wanted from him. Moving stiffly with his heart beating out a wild rhythm in his chest, he turned back to Snape. The Potions Master made a lazy gesture that indicated for Harry to come forward, and Harry followed the command, despite the ever-present desire he had to run as far and as fast as he could from the present situation.
“Kneel,” Snape said when Harry had reached his side, and he slid to the floor with the assumption that this would be very similar to last night's events. He was surprised however when Snape reached out and twined his fingers through Harry's hair, pulling him to rest his cheek against Snape's thigh. Harry's first instinct was to resist, but he knew he had no choice and forced his muscles to relax, and allowed himself to be pulled in. Snape laced his fingers idly through Harry's hair, stroking it lightly in an absent-minded sort of way. His hand moved gradually to the base of Harry's neck, touching the skin so gently it felt like butterfly kisses. All the while, Snape remained focused on his work.
It was a strange sensation for Harry to be petted in this manner. It was a far cry from the heavy handed treatment he had grown accustomed to, and he was almost uncertain how to react. Snape's hand moved back up to Harry's hair, allowing the dark, unruly tufts to lace through his fingers. Though the concept of being touched like some sort of household pet filled Harry with a mixture of conflicting emotions, his body reacted to the gentle touches with little encouragement. He relaxed into the pillow that was Snape's thigh and he allowed a soft, contented sigh to escape him.
Snape kept him in this way for a long time. From Harry's angle he could only see the underside of Snape's desk and as such had no accurate way to tell how much time had actually passed. The movements of the shadows changed slowly, and he assumed that it had been a few hours, at least. He could not recall ever feeling so relaxed, so at ease, in the presence of a Death Eater. Harry knew this fact should probably trouble him more than it did, but he couldn't find it in him to care, and allowed himself to enjoy the sensation.
Dinner was brought up to Snape by a house elf buckling slightly under the weight of the platter that it carried, and he continued to work as he ate, punctuating the meal with offering Harry tidbits off his plate, which he gladly accepted. Snape's left hand never strayed far from touching Harry in some way for very long, and he was slowly growing used to the light caresses. More than that, Harry felt himself thoroughly enjoying them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the smallest tendril of resistance that told Harry he shouldn't enjoy this, this feigned kindness. However, after such a long period of nothing but abuse and neglect, even his fire of rebellion had dimmed, and he was exhausted. Harry was tired of fighting, tired of losing people he cared about, and sitting here, accepting these gentle touches, with little to no expectation for him to reciprocate—it made a nice change.
A rustling above Harry snapped him out of his daze, and he looked up, but couldn't see much from his angle. From the way Snape's hands moved, he supposed whatever he had been working on was finished, and he was folding up a thick wad of parchment. Snape stood up, and Harry stayed where he was, watching his movements curiously. Snape stepped over to the window, unhooked the latch, and a cool autumn breeze danced across Harry's face. He watched as Snape called down a handsome horned owl and handed it the letter. The owl seemed to bow slightly under the weight of the parchment in its beak, as it was rather thick, and spread its wings and flew off.
Snape closed the window and turned back to Harry. His look carried the same even, calculating expression of the night before, and he observed Harry in silence, as though he was carefully deciding what to do next. This was an expression Harry was familiar with, having seen it in more than one of the Death Eaters he had been 'given' to. Usually this look would fill Harry with white-hot fear, but this time he felt calmer, and while there was still a sense of nervousness he seemed unable to rid himself of, he was slowly beginning to feel as though he was in no serious danger.
“Come here Potter,” Snape's voice was low and hoarse, almost a whisper, and Harry slunk from his place on the ground, and only stood up once he reached him. Even up close Snape was slow to react, as though every action he did only after careful consideration. He lifted his hand and traced the contours of Harry's cheek and he leaned into the touch. Snape moved his hand to cradle Harry's head and he pulled him in for a kiss.
Harry melted into the embrace, his fingers tangling into the folds of Snape's robes, and parting his lips willingly to allow Snape's expert tongue to entangle with his own. Snape moved his hands to Harry's hips, his right hand resting in place, fingers seeking out the slightly protruding bone that he found there, the touch causing Harry to tremble with desire, while his opposite hand moved to the boy's back, snaking under the fine material and tracing the curve of his spine.
The gentle touches emboldened Harry, his handss moving up Snape's front before he wrapped his arms around his neck. The small gesture of daring Snape seemed to not expect, starting slightly at Harry's movements, but he relented, allowing the boy to take what he wanted.
Snape pulled back abruptly, ending their kiss and staring down at Harry through half lidded eyes. Harry faltered and he tensed slightly, afraid that he had done something wrong. “Go,” Snape said thickly, and he pulled from Harry, giving him a slight nudge towards the door at the same moment, the abrupt dismissal not immediately registering.
Harry bowed his head and left, uncertain why Snape had stopped. His actions were entirely baffling to him, and as he wound his way back to his room, he wondered why he would leave Harry like this, unsatisfied and confused as hell.

~

The next few days passed without incident. Harry kept to himself most of the time, and went to Snape willingly when he was called. Harry would never admit it aloud, he had begun to look forward to their encounters, though every time he was still left unsatisfied, and it forced Harry to finish the job that Snape had started in the privacy of his own bedroom.
The entire thing utterly baffled Harry. He found himself dwelling less on his traumatic immediate past, and focusing most of his energies on trying to figure out why Snape had yet to bend him over that overpriced desk. Harry had yet to even know where Snape's bedchambers lay, and that in itself was just as confusing to Harry as the rest of it was.
Despite his fixation on trying to work out exactly what Snape's motives were, Harry hated to admit that he was definitely no longer an unwilling participant in their activities as he once was. It took a great deal of self restraint to keep from making the first move, and when Snape finally touched him, he was so careful, so delicate, treating Harry as though he was as fragile as fine china. He had tried on a number of occasions to move things along beyond a session of heated kisses and gentle touch, but every time Snape stopped him short. This in itself was as confusing as the rest of it, and though Harry had tried desperately to not think about it, not let it get to him, suddenly he seemed incapable of focusing his mind on anything else.
On Harry's ninth day, he was summoned by a house elf as per usual, though instead of leading him to Snape's office, library, or sitting room, he was led down a spiral staircase. As he followed the elf the temperature around them dropped sharply. Harry shivered, his thin garments nowhere near warm enough to stave off the cold, and he struggled with the sudden awareness that he was being led to a dungeon. The elf disappeared with a sharp crack and Harry was left alone.
The dungeon was dark, dimly lit by few sputtering candles against the walls. The stone floor was icy cold beneath Harry's bare feet, and his memories of his time under the care of other Death Eaters began to assault his mind, and it took a good deal of self control to keep from falling into a state of blind panic.
Harry stepped further into the dungeon, his trembling no longer simply from cold, and at last he saw Snape standing against the far wall, watching him silently. Relief filled Harry and he took a few eager steps forward, but stopped short at the cold expression upon the man's face. Something felt very wrong. Harry took a nervous half-step backward, but before he knew what was happening, he heard a soft utterance from his master.
“Crucio.”
The world fell away. Harry crumpled to the floor, his cries reverberating off the walls as he clawed blindly at the stone. His fingertips quickly became a bloody mess as he tried to find something, anything to keep him grounded and aware. Unwilling tears streaked his cheeks, and he tasted blood in his mouth.
The curse lifted as quickly as it had come, and it left Harry trembling on the floor, his breath short as he struggled to regain his sense of self. He cast a fearful look at his master, but his expression was guarded, and if Snape felt any guilt for his actions, he did not show it.
He flicked his wand and Harry was thrown into the wall behind him. He choked out a gasp of pain, and his teeth sunk into his tongue sharply, filling his mouth with blood. Harry fell to the floor in a heap and spat on the ground, trembling as he tried to ignore the burning pain of the new scrapes that had blossomed on his back, legs, and arms from the contact.
The Cruciatus Curse hit him again, but his cries were muted as he hacked and gagged from the blood flooding his mouth. Harry thrashed, arching his back, his eyes bulging from the pain. When it was lifted, Harry struggled to his knees, staring at Snape with a questioning, wounded look in his eye. Suddenly, it seemed, the truth had been revealed. This was a method of torture Harry had not anticipated—let him experience security, the feeling that he was cared for, maybe even loved—and then tear it all away.
Snape flicked his wand in Harry's direction and his breath hitched in pain as deep gashes appeared across his chest, staining the light fabric a deep crimson. He repeated this again and again, until Harry's body had become a bloody, shredded mess. Tears continued to trickle from Harry's eyes, unable to find the strength to stop them. His legs buckled, unable to stand up to the blinding pain coupled with the blood loss. Harry's vision was going fuzzy, and the last thing he saw and felt was Snape grabbing him by the throat and tossing him bodily into a dark prison cell. Harry's world faded to black even before the door had shut.

~

Harry was amazed when he woke up the next morning, and had not died sometime in the night. He ached all over, every movement was an agony of pain, but somehow, incredibly, he was alive. Harry placed a hand to his throat and winced. Though he had no mirror to be certain, he was sure his entire throat had been bruised.
He looked down at himself, but in the near-total darkness it was difficult to make out much of anything. He could feel that his clothing had fused to his wounds, though he was uncertain whether or not this was a good thing, at least they had stopped bleeding. Harry was reluctant to peel them apart, afraid of re-opening the wounds. Despite his best efforts to minimize his movements, the scabs cracked and blood trickled down his chest and legs in thin rivulets.
Harry dragged himself to the furthest corner of the cell, pulled his knees up to his chest, and buried his face in his arms in an attempt to make himself as small as possible. There were no windows and the door was solid steel, and he was entirely cut off from the outside world. The lack of stimulation filled Harry with a crushing weight of misery, and it took every ounce of effort to keep himself from falling into a well of despair.
No food was brought to him, only water, which he sipped slowly to make it last as long as possible. Harry'd stomach rumbled loudly in protest, but as time passed—he was unsure how long—he began to fear that Snape would actually leave him to starve to death down here.
Harry was left there for what he could estimate was about three days, based solely on how often he had been given his so-called 'meals', though he had no real way of being absolutely sure. Barely any light made it into his cell, and the constant dark had begun to make him hallucinate. First Harry thought he saw other people in the cell with him, faceless creatures with human bodies that surrounded him, reminding him horrifyingly of Inferi. Harry screamed and clawed at the door, desperate to escape, only to find that his phantom attackers dissolved before his eyes. Other times, he was certain he could feel hands on his arms and throat. Terrified cries ripped from him during these moments, they becoming progressively more hoarse as time went on.
When his cell door was finally opened, Harry was uncertain whether he dared believe it. He peeked through a crevice in his arm, his hands covering his head in a desperate attempt to protect himself, and the dim light was blinding to his eyes. It took several moments for his vision to clear, and Harry saw a house elf standing there, holding a small candle to light its way. “Harry Potter is to come,” it said, and something in its tone quivered with fear.
Using the wall to support himself, he struggled to his feet and hobbled towards the elf. Harry was grateful to be out of the cell, but why he was being let out scared him. What new torture was Snape planning to unleash on him now? The elf turned and led Harry towards the staircase that led to the rest of the house, its pace slower than what it normally would have been, allowing Harry to easily keep up, despite his grievous injuries.
The house elf led him out of the dungeons and onto the main level of the house, and into the sitting room, where Harry's heart turned to ice.
Sitting across from Snape was Lord Voldemort.
Harry could barely control his own breathing, and he could feel his body tremble with fear. “Ah Harry,” Voldemort's soft, high, voice washed over him like acid rain, “so nice of you to join us. Please, come closer, I want to see you.” Knowing full well that disobedience meant certain death, and without a wand in hand he had no option but to obey. Harry walked forward, struggling to mask his near-incapacitating fear, and slid to his knees at Voldemort's feet.
Voldemort placed his long, spidery, index and middle finger under Harry's chin and lifted his head, forcing Harry to look at him. The motion hurt his aching and exhausted muscles, and the pain seemed to show on his face. Voldemort seemed satisfied at this, and allowed his head to drop. Harry clenched his hands into fists on his knees, wishing desperately, not for the first time, to feel his old holly and phoenix feather wand clutched in his hand.
“I see that you have not taken him yet,” Voldemort observed. His tone was light and unconcerned, as though he was discussing something as menial as the weather.
“I am taking my time with him, my Lord,” Snape said in a similar tone of voice, and Harry felt sickened with himself, hating that he had ever been so stupid as to dare to trust the man that now faced his back.
“I don't doubt that. It's quite amazing Severus, to have my loyal Death Eaters subject this boy to such pain and torment, and yet I can see he is not yet broken.” The comment was laced with a tone of amusement, much like a child who had plucked the limbs from a spider, just to see how long it would live.
“He is an arrogant child, a trait he inherited from his father, no doubt. He will break my Lord, it is only a matter of time,” Snape spoke in a similar tone, and the barb towards his father caused Harry to tense. He felt sick, and at that exact moment he had a strong desire to turn away from Voldemort and throttle Snape. His limbs shook from the effort of keeping his emotions in check, something Voldemort did not miss as he chuckled in response.
“Yes, he was always so incredibly like his father. And like him he will die, begging for his life.” At that moment Voldemort stood, and Harry was grateful that from this angle he would not be able to see the angry tears that welled in his eyes. Tears of anger, of frustration, and of self loathing that he was too weak to fight back. 'I might die,' Harry thought viciously, 'but I'll take you with me.' The anger he felt completely eclipsed his fear, and distantly he was aware that Voldemort was leaving. “I must go Severus, I expect another status report on the boy's progress in three months. Until then, I leave him in your capable hands.”
“It is an honour, thank you my Lord,” Harry could see Snape bow in his peripheral vision, as he straightened up and escorted Voldemort to the door. Distantly Harry heard the pop of Voldemort disapparating, and he felt some of his tension evaporate. Harry pressed his forehead into the floor, uncertain whether he was going to vomit or faint.
He felt a hand gently press into the small of his back and his breath hitched, flinching away from the light contact. Harry braced his weight on his aching arms and he turned to look Snape in the eyes. His expression was guarded and fearful, but Snape looked at him with pity and regret. He lifted his wand and pointed it at Harry, he cringed, waiting for the pain to come, but instead he heard the soft murmur of an incantation, and sleep engulfed him.
When Harry next woke he found himself in his sleeping quarters, dressed in warm, clean clothes and tucked under the snug duvet. The room smelled sweet, and he could see a small pestle on his nightstand smoking slightly, presumably filled with burning incense. For a moment, Harry wondered whether the entire ordeal had just been a particularly traumatic nightmare, but when he shifted to sit up, pain lanced through him, and he gasped, falling back onto the soft bed. The throbbing ache passed slowly, and he noted that provided that he did not move, there was no pain.
It was at that moment that he noticed that he was not alone in his room, and he saw Snape sitting at the end of his bed watching him silently. Harry was uncertain how he had not noticed him before, but he felt the same fear fill him, and ignoring the pain as best he could, he braced his weight on his forearms and pulled himself as far away from the man as he could. The memory of the violent assault and subsequent encounter with Voldemort had chased away any trust he had had for the man.
Snape watched him in silence, and made no effort to move any closer. He seemed aware of Harry's distrust and fear. “Your wounds have been cleaned and tended to, and they will not scar. You have a back sprain, and it will heal on its own in time. I suggest you sleep, I will have your meals sent up to you.” He stood up and moved to leave, but paused and turned to look back at Harry, carrying an apologetic look in his eyes, “whether you believe it or not, this was for your own good. Sleep well.” He turned and left Harry alone with his thoughts.
While Harry was grateful to be out of the dungeon, grateful to be back in a bed, and grateful for his wounds being tended to, he was still uncertain about Snape's motives. He had flayed Harry within an inch of his life, then tended to him as attentively as a loved one. Harry had no idea how any of the events of the past few days could be for his own good, and he was hesitant to press Snape further on the matter. The entire ordeal had left Harry feeling both frustrated and more confused than ever.
True to his word, food was sent up a few hours later, and Harry ate slowly, as his stomach once more had to grow accustomed to taking in solid food. After a few bites he began to feel nauseous, and he pushed his plate away.

Harry was in bed for nearly a full week. His cuts had healed completely, aided along by the ointment the house elf massaged into his wounds daily before she re-bandaging them, but it took longer for his back to heal. On the fifth and sixth days, Harry had begun to get up and walk around his room, flexing and bending slowly in an effort to help his back along. He was uncertain whether this was a good idea, but he was growing increasingly fidgety from being in one place for so long and by the following week, he had begun to feel like himself again.
At this time, Harry began to fear being called again by Snape, either for one of his heavy petting sessions that he seemed so fond of, or another beating. Harry doubted whether he could stomach enduring either, and began to wander around the house. When he was certain that he was alone, he would test the locks on nearby doors and windows. Not too surprisingly, the latches refused to give way to his touch. This did not deter him, and Harry continued to try every door and window in the house.
On the second day of doing this, he found that one of the windows along the staircase unlatched, and he was able to look outside without a pane of glass obstructing his view for the first time in over a year. The unfortunate side to this was Harry knew it was too far to jump, and he wondered whether he dared try. In the distance he heard the soft sound of someone approaching, and he quickly shut the window.
Under the pretense that he was still healing, Harry managed to avoid any alone-time with his master. As night fell, Harry slipped from bed and padded as quietly as he could to his bedroom door, and tried the knob. While Snape never locked him in anymore, he worried that it may automatically lock overnight. He was surprised and pleased when the door gave way and allowed him to slip out into the sleepy silence of the hall.
He tip toed towards the stairs, his ears pricked for any sound that might be someone coming, but he heard nothing. He was dressed in his usual day clothes, which far from being very warm, were at least warmer than the pyjamas he had been provided with. Harry stepped down the stairs to the window he had tried earlier, and was relieved to find it still gave way to his touch. It swung open and Harry inhaled the sweet smell of the cold night air.
He closed his hands around the window sill, and prepared himself to climb out, when memories of Snape's warnings filled his mind, 'If you leave the house, the repercussions will be most unpleasant for you, I suggest you curb any temptation you have to flee.' Harry's hand moved to the silver circlet, which he had given little thought to until that moment. It was fine but strong, and hung just above the hollow of his throat. Even after wearing it for just under three weeks, it still felt cold against his skin.
Harry hesitated, uncertain what might happen if he went through with this, but realized at almost the same moment that he didn't care. He took a deep breath to steady himself, climbed up to straddle the window, placing most of his weight on his legs to avoid crushing certain delicate body parts, and he carefully turned to pull his other leg outside. With his hands tightly gripping the window sill, he lowered himself as much as he could. There was still a good distance between his feet and the Skullcap flowers below him, but he estimated that it couldn't be more than eight feet or so. Harry took a deep breath to steady his resolve, and let go.
He landed awkwardly, one of his knees digging into the flowerbed and he grimaced as he felt a stray pebble bite into the pads of his bare feet. He stood quickly, certain that the noise he made during his fall would not go unnoticed, and he turned, his eyes flitting back and fourth through the garden, trying to find the way to the main road. Harry took a few steps out of the garden and paused. Was it imagination, or was his circlet getting heavier? He touched the silver, but it felt no different, and he dismissed the thought. After a moment of searching, Harry located the weaving path that led to the road, and he took off at a run, clearing the distance in a few wide strides.
The further away from the house he moved, the stranger he felt. The silver circlet bit into the skin at the back of his neck, and he wobbled, nearly losing his balance. This time, there was no mistaking it. It felt as though the tiny circle of metal had been attached to an anvil, and Harry felt his head bowing forward from the weight. He struggled to straighten up, but the closer he got to the edge of Snape's property, the heavier it became. Harry groaned under the weight, beads of sweat dotting his forehead and the back of his neck as he struggled to keep moving.
Finally, finally, the juniper bushes along the edge of Snape's property came into view, and Harry's spirits rose. Freedom was so close, he could almost taste it. The weight of the circlet had increased to the point where Harry's legs were shaking under the strain, but he forced himself to keep going. When he was within an arm's reach of the bushes, he felt the weight increase again, and with a groan he collapsed.
Harry tried to stand, but it was as though he was tied to a sixteen ton weight. Despite his best efforts, he could not get up or move. When this realization hit him, he pressed a hand over his eyes, and groaned in frustration. His renewed desire to escape seemed to be cut short, and now he was stuck outside, pinned to the cold ground, with no way of getting himself out of it.
As the night passed, Harry had tried repeatedly to get up, but it was quite clear that it was useless. The weight did not lessen, and he was as trapped as ever. It was too cold out for Harry to relax and sleep, but had the temperature been more favourable, he doubted his panic would allow him that luxury, as the thought of Snape finding him like this filled him with cold dread.

“Well, I did warn you, Potter.” It was several hours past daybreak by the time Snape had found him, and Harry had a sneaking suspicion that he may have left him out longer on purpose. He bit back a sarcastic remark and settled for looking away from the amused smirk on the man's face. Snape murmured something under his breath and the weight receded, and he hoisted Harry up by his upper arm and all but dragged him back inside.
The second the front door clicked shut behind them Snape flicked his wand at Harry's circlet, and it felt momentarily warm, and he knew the charm had been put back in place. Snape then gave Harry a sharp shove, and his back hit the wall, forcing a gasp from his lungs. Snape pressed his hands onto the wall on either side of Harry's head, and he struggled to meet Snape's angry gaze.
“Your stupidity never ceases to astound me, Potter. Do you think I got any pleasure from destroying your emotional stability and breaking your body? What do you think the Dark Lord would have done if he knew of the treatment I had bestowed upon you here?” The anger in Snape's voice was only barely controlled, and Harry kept his eyes down, as it became perfectly clear exactly why Snape had attacked him in such a way. The truth behind his actions did little to quell the newfound fear he had for the man, but Snape refused to take Harry's silence as a proper answer. He grabbed hold of Harry's jar firmly and forced him to look into his eyes. “Well?”
“He would have taken me away, or killed me,” Harry mumbled, his face red with shame, and his eyes flicked down to the ground.
“More likely the latter, as I'm sure you know,” Snape pushed back from the wall and released his grip on Harry's face, “get out of my sight.”

~

After his outside adventure, Harry did not try to escape again. He avoided face-to-face encounters with Snape where he could, but once it was clear that he was no longer in any visible pain, he had begun to summon Harry's evening company once again. Each time he was summoned, he was filled with cold dread that he had not experienced since his first night in the house, but Snape acted similarly to before, taking his time reacquainting himself with Harry.
The sexual desire Snape felt for Harry was obvious, it hung around the Potions Master like a miasma, but still he was patient, and he was gentle. Harry's recent experiences in Snape's dungeons were still fresh in his mind, and every time the older man reached out to touch him he could not help flinching, expecting pain, when all he offered were gentle caresses. Still, he never summoned Harry directly to his bed, but instead resumed his summons for Harry to sit by him in his office, at the dinner table, in the sitting room. Every time Snape reached for him, Harry struggled to mask his fear, but Snape seemed to sense it. Harry could not clearly read his reaction in these instances, as his hand that reached for him fell to rest at the back of his neck, or in his hair.
The touch was both familiar and terrifying to Harry, and though it had been more than a week since Voldemort's visit, he could not shake the memories of what had been done to him. Even with the knowledge of why, he still struggled to move past it and accept Snape's advances. If anything, he was grateful that he had not yet forced himself on Harry, though at the back of his mind he could not help but wonder what was holding him back from this action, which his fellow Death Eaters seemed to have no qualms about taking what they wanted from The Boy Who Lived, no matter how much he resisted.

On the eighth day past, Harry was summoned in the late evening to the sitting room, and he stepped in silently, finding Snape sitting in a squashy armchair near to a blazing fire in the hearth. The gently flickering warmth was comforting, but it did little to quell Harry's nerves. “Come here Potter,” Snape said, setting aside today's printing of the Evening Prophet that he had been reading, and Harry hastened to obey. Snape shifted in his chair, and pulled Harry down into the space between his legs. The armchair was big enough for him to sit comfortably, but the press of Snape's thighs on either side of his legs was unsettling, and made his heart leap into his throat.
Snape curled one arm lazily around Harry's waist, his hand hovering on his stomach, the other cupped the side of his face, gently coaxing him to turn and face his master. “I have tried to reassure you with keeping my distance, but it seems that putting your mind at ease requires a more direct approach.” He tilted Harry's face up gently, and captured his lips in a kiss.
Despite Harry's longing to resist, he felt himself giving in and he returned the kiss unconsciously. Snape's free hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, dancing across the fine hairs on his stomach, the light touch making him tremble. Snape released Harry from the kiss, and his lips trailed down the side of the youth's throat, leaving gentle indentations of his teeth along the way.
The contact was gentle, but sensual. Harry felt almost as though he was floating, and his fears seemed to fade away under the older man's expert touch. The hand in his shirt slid up to his chest, brushing across the sensitive flesh it found there. Harry's breath hitched, and he could feel a familiar tightness in his pants, which, for the moment, Snape seemed contented to ignore. He pulled the shirt over Harry's head, and he consented to the action, lifting his arms to aid Snape in its removal.
Harry heard the distant flump of the shirt hitting the floor somewhere behind them, and he let out a soft moan as Snape again turned his head with the lightest touch of encouragement and kissed him again. Harry lifted a hand almost unconsciously to rest against Snape's cheek, and his thighs parted slightly, as his erection became almost painful, as it strained against his pants. The gentle touch of Harry's hand was enough to elicit a gentle groan of desire from the older man, and he coiled both his arms possessively around him, and for the first time in a long time, his instinctual desire to flee had left him.
Snape broke the kiss, and moved again to lick and bite his way along the side of Harry's neck, while his right hand slid down Harry's front to the ties on his pants. Harry trembled and arched his back ever so slightly, all but begging to be touched. He took his time unlacing the ties, and Harry had reached up, coiling his arm back around the base of Snape's neck, gripping him as though afraid he might disappear. “Please...” he moaned, his voice broken and pleading, as his breath burst from his lungs in shallow gasps.
“Please what?” Snape murmured into his ear, his hand hovering over Harry's painfully hard cock, close enough that Harry could sense its presence, but not close enough for contact.
“Touch me,” Harry mewled the words, and he turned his head, burying his face in the hollow of his former professor's neck.
This seemed to be all the invitation Snape needed as he freed Harry's cock from its confines, and closed his hand around it. Harry moaned, and Snape stroked the hardened member, slowly at first, but picking up his pace gradually, timing his strokes with Harry's piteous moans of pleasure.
It took very little time for Harry to cum, and he cried out as his semen sputtered over his stomach, and he turned his head to further bury his face in the crevice between Snape's throat and shoulder, and tears stung his eyes. He clung to Snape as he wept openly, his emotions a shattered mess of misery, desire, and love. Snape did not stop him or ask for an explanation, but instead soothed him, stroking his hair and murmuring softly to him.
It took a long time for Harry to regain his composure, and he pulled himself back, his eyes red and slightly swollen around the edges, and he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “I'm sorry,” Snape reached out to stroke his cheek, and Harry leaned in to the touch. For the first time, it was as though Voldemort had not come at all.

~

Snape did not ask anything of Harry that night, and though he did not remember going back to his room of his own accord, he woke in his bed, his mess of the previous night still clinging to his flesh. The memory of it sent a tremor through him, though he was uncertain whether or not it was entirely fear for the man anymore. He got up and headed to his bathroom to shower, and when he stepped back out fifteen minutes later, he found the house elf waiting for him.
“Master Severus says to tell Harry Potter he is leaving for a few days,” it said in what Harry assumed it believed to be a dignified tone of voice, though it was as high and squeaky as ever. This news sent through Harry a torrent of conflicting emotions, both relief that he would not have to see Snape for a few days, as well as the smallest flicker of worry.
“Where's he gone?” Harry asked before he could stop himself, though he was not entirely able to mask the concern in his voice.
“That is not Harry Potter's business, you is nosing, you is.” The house elf disappeared with a sharp crack before Harry could press it any further, and it left behind a platter of food for him, which was far from as satisfying as it normally would have been.
The days passed in a haze around Harry. He wandered the empty halls, and without another soul in the house—save the house elf, which he rarely saw—he began to feel terribly lonely. Outside, it was an unpleasant combination of rain and snow that fell, turning the grounds into a slushy, soggy mess. Harry found himself spending more and more time sleeping, turning to his subconscious for comfort when the lack of social stimulus became more than he could bear.
A few days later, Harry had stopped keeping track how long it had been, he woke to the feeling of fingers in his hair. He opened his eyes slowly and turned his head, and he saw Snape sitting there, his cheeks flushed and still wearing his travelling cloak. “You're back,” Harry murmured, his voice still heavy from sleep, and he was unable to hide how pleased he was to see him. While he recognized that there was something bitterly twisted about that fact, he chose to ignore it.
“I am,” Snape said, moving to run his fingers through Harry's hair again. His eyes fluttered closed, enjoying the touch, and realizing at that moment how much he had missed it. “I suspect I will be called away to the Dark Lord's side more often, your Order of the Phoenix seems to have reassembled.” Harry could not identify the emotion he heard in Snape's voice, but this thread of news made his spirits soar. Snape did not elaborate further or offer up any more news, and Harry thought it better not to ask. He stayed there for a few moments longer, then leaned in and pressed a light kiss to Harry's forehead, before standing and striding out of the room.
In light of the news of the Order of The Phoenix returning to the forefront of the rebellion, it seemed as though a great weight had been lifted from Harry's shoulders. The weather seemed to feel it too, as the horrific weather gave way to unseasonable warmth and sunshine. Harry, while thrilled and hopeful that maybe this was the beginning of the end of Voldemort's reign, he could not help but feel the crushing weight of guilt that had settled in his heart. 'I should be out there,' he thought, hating that he was sequestered away in this grand home, being treated like a treasured house pet instead of standing on the front lines with his friends.
Harry spent more and more days curled up on the sill of the sitting room window, watching the outside world pass him by, while idly fingering the silver circlet around his neck. In the evenings, he dutifully went to Snape when he was called, but it was as though Snape had lost his nerve, and seemed to want his company, rather than his body. This concept never ceased to puzzle Harry, though despite his own wanting he had developed for the man, what remained of his pride intermingled with his growing despondency kept him from acting on these feelings.
As Snape had told Harry, he was away from the house with growing frequency. Each time he returned he looked exhausted, but within two or three days he seemed to return to normal. Snape did not offer up any more news about what was happening outside the walls of the house, and Harry was almost afraid to ask.
Two weeks passed, and the outside world had been blanketed with white snow. Harry supposed it had to be December or January, but he had no way to be certain. In the evenings, the snow almost seemed to glimmer in the starlight, and Harry contented himself in watching it fall. Harry pressed his palm into the window, wincing slightly as the cold stung his bare flesh. He retracted his hand, and the fog on the window had perfectly outlined his handprint. Somehow, the image made him sad. Slowly the print faded, and a gust of wind and snow obscured his view entirely.
Harry jumped when he felt a cold hand grip his shoulder, and he turned to see Snape standing over him. He opened his mouth to speak, but when he found himself at a loss for what to say, and closed it again. Snape's hand moved to cradle Harry's chin, and tilted his head upwards and enveloped him in a kiss.
As always, the kiss was so intoxicating that Harry felt as though the rest of the world had fallen away. His opposite arm curled possessively around his waist, and Harry turned slightly to coil his arms around Snape's neck. Snape's grip on him tightened, and Harry let out a small noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan, hoping desperately that tonight he would not be left unsatisfied.
Snape broke the kiss and pulled Harry to his feet, turning him slightly so that he faced the window, while his lips moved across Harry's throat and shoulder blade. Snape held him, one hand sliding down the boy's front and into his pants, eliciting a moan from him as cold hands came into contact with his burning flesh. He reached up and curled his fingers around the back of Snape's neck, a silent plea for him to continue. Harry could feel his face flushing with desire, and as the older man stroked him to hardness, he continued to hold fast to his once-professor, certain that if he let go his legs would refuse to support him.
Snape's hand movements slowed, and Harry let out a mewl of protest, the hand resting on his painfully hard cock, but had frustrating ceased stimulating it. Snape nipped at his throat, “Harry look,” he murmured in a hoarse tone of voice, his first name sounding as strange as ever coming from him. Harry's eyes fluttered open and he looked up at Snape in confusion. “The window is a mirror,” Harry turned to look, and felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. He could see himself, all too clearly, entangled in the embrace of Severus Snape, his hair sticking up much more than usual, his face flushed with desire, his clothes rumpled, and the older man's hand buried in his pants.
The image filled him with a mixture of shame and burning heat. It seemed that Snape agreed with him at least in part with this sentiment, as he could feel the distinctive press of the Death Eater's erection in the centre of his back. Snape resumed his stroking, each movement met with small gasps of pleasure from Harry, and he shifted backwards slightly, in an attempt to grind into Snape. His free hand gripped tightly to Harry's hip, restricting his movements just enough that he could not press back into Snape. Harry whimpered, Snape stroking his member so slowly it had to be deliberate, keeping him almost painfully aroused, but not allowing him to orgasm. “Please...” Harry murmured between gasps, reaching up to blindly claw at Snape's robes.
“What do you want Potter?” The voice was little more than a purr, his breath tickling his ear.
“You,” Harry said, though the word was little more than a moan. “Please, fuck me.” It was as though Snape had been waiting for this request. He lifted Harry in his arms with surprising ease, and carried him up to his room.
The trip couldn't have taken more than thirty seconds, but to Harry it felt like nothing short of an eternity. He sank into the warm folds of Snape's canopied bed, and Snape braced his arms on either side of Harry, leaned in and captured the youth's mouth in a hungry kiss. There was less tenderness in it than what Harry had grown used to, and it was replaced now with hungry need.
Harry reached up and clung to him, afraid of being turned away. Their kisses were a mess of tongues and teeth, interspersed with heavy gasps of breath. Snape caught Harry's lower lip between his teeth and tugged gently on it, educing another soft gasp of pleasure from him. Harry reached up after a brief second of hesitation, and fumbled blindly with the catch on Snape's robes. Snape shifted slightly and lifted one hand to cover Harry's and guided it to the catch. He unclasped it, and slid his hands beneath the robe, helping Snape to shrug it off. Beneath the robe he was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black slacks. Harry tugged lazily at the hem of his sweater, but for the moment Snape ignored it, and instead slid his free hand underneath Harry's thin shirt, and eased him out of it.
His skin broke out into goosebumps that were not entirely caused by the chill in the room. This seemed to amuse Snape, as he lowered himself down, caressing the fair skin of Harry's abdomen, and trailing love bites down his chest. Harry arched his back and moaned softly, in part from frustration as Snape paused just above his navel. He crawled back up, pinning Harry in place with his knees, while he reached down and peeled off his top garment.
Harry was not entirely certain what he had been expecting, but Snape's upper body was much more elegant than he would have guessed. The skin stretched taut over lean muscle, and the sallow tone that his skin had always seemed to carry seemed less pronounced, and instead there was a strange iridescence to it that Harry struggled to identify. The sight of it caused Harry's heart to beat faster, both with excitement and fear. This was a taste of fear he was unaccustomed to, as it was not linked to fear of pain or force, but of the realization that what was happening was very real, and he was not dreaming. Harry reached up a trembling hand and allowed his fingertips to slide across the smooth flesh, and he felt the muscle twitch ever so slightly under his touch.
Snape appeared amused by his reaction, and he tangled his fingers into the boy's untidy hair, pulling him in for another kiss. Harry let out a soft groan of pleasure at the contact, while he coiled his arms lazily around Snape's neck. Snape shifted his free hand to the ties of Harry's pants, his actions obstructed only by the closeness of their bodies. Harry managed to wiggle the garment down to his ankles with Snape's help, and he kicked them off, hearing the rustle in the distance of them landing on the ground.
Snape slid Harry further into the centre of the bed, grasped the wrists of his young lover and pinned them over his head. Harry gasped softly and squirmed beneath him. The act of pinning him in place seemed to increase his arousal. Snape leaned in and caught Harry's lips in a light, tender kiss. He pulled back and pressed his forehead lightly into Harry's, his dark eyes observing Harry with that familiar, calculating look. “I want you to be absolutely certain.” He murmured, his free hand pressed lightly into Harry's inner thigh.
“Please don't stop,” Harry murmured, “I want this.” As if to ensure Snape of his consent he parted his thighs and shifted his position, giving the older man easier access to Harry's ass.
Snape kissed him, his tongue slipping between Harry's parted lips. Their tongues twisted and tasted each other, their movements slowing from hungry desire to something more tender, and at the same moment Harry felt something cold and wet touch his opening. He gasped into the kiss, and broke it abruptly when he felt Snape's fingers begin to penetrate him. He threw his head back and arched his spine, letting a soft moan escape him. “Keep going,” Harry murmured in a tone just barely above a whisper, trying to dismiss Snape's concern about hurting him.
A second, then a third finger entered Harry to join the first, thrusting in and out gently, and with each addition Harry mewled appreciatively, shifting his hips in time with Snape's thrusts. After several minutes, Snape removed his fingers, and released Harry's wrists. Harry opened his mouth to protest, but watched with relief as Snape unbuckled his belt, and dropped out of his slacks. In one fluid motion, he returned to the bed, Grabbed Harry by his calves, and lifted them to rest over his shoulders. Harry reached up above his head and tangled his fingers in the bed sheets, his lips moving as though to say 'yes,' though no sound came out.
Harry felt the press of Snape's cock against his anus, and ever so slowly, he penetrated him. Snape's fingers bit into Harry's thighs, pulling out slowly before thrusting forward again. Each thrust seemed to send Harry into a fit of pure bliss, crying out his pleasure with every movement, his body jerking against the soft bedding beneath him. Snape groaned, picking up his pace while throwing his head back, Harry moving his hips as best he could to meet Snape's thrusts. Snape shuddered and moaned, clinging more tightly to Harry as he jerked forward in quick thrusts, while Harry writhed beneath him, his breath coming out in short gasps of pure ecstasy.
Harry gasped as he felt Snape's release fill him, and he reached down and brought himself to orgasm. Slicked with sweat, he pulled out and collapsed next to the youth, his left arm draping over Harry's upper body and his chin resting lightly against his shoulder. “You are remarkable,” Snape murmured to him in a hoarse whisper, but instead of speaking, Harry folded himself into the embrace, sleep coming quickly as one last conscious thought passed through his mind, 'I could get used to this.'
Harry woke the following morning alone in a tangle of blankets. In his drowsy state, it took him a moment to remember where he was and why he was there. The memories came back to him, and he could not help but smile indulgently as he remembered his activities of the night before. He could not remember feeling this happy, this content, in a very long time.
He stretched his arms above his head, and he felt his spine pop in a few places. He rolled off the bed, and upon looking around the room, he realized that someone—most likely a house elf—had cleared away his clothes. Despite his good mood, he was in desperate need of a shower, as he could feel the dried semen that still clung to his stomach and the back of his thighs. With little concern for hiding his nakedness, he stepped out of Snape's room and into the hall. It was deserted, which at this point hardly surprised him, and he found that his room had been in the same part of the house as Snape's. He had been too preoccupied the night before to take much notice of his surroundings. Shivering slightly from the cold, he hastened to his room and closed the door behind him.
After showering and dressing, he found a platter of food had been laid out in his absence. He dug into the meal, suddenly ravenous, and could not help but relive the play-by-play of last night's events in his mind. The memories of it caused him to smile, but at the same time he was not ignorant to how strange his life had become. From schoolboy to The Chosen One, to captive, to...Lover? He shook his head at that last thought, “get a grip,” he mumbled to himself as he picked apart a piece of bacon with his fingers.
The day passed slowly for Harry, the few activities available to him failed to keep his attention for very long, and the howling blizzard outside did little to alleviate his mixed emotions of frustration and boredom. As night fell, Harry was surprised when no summons came for him. He had been in his room, waiting impatiently, but no house elf appeared in his doorway. He became more puzzled by this as the night wore on, and he struggled with these new feelings of wanting. He wanted to see Snape. That in itself was a strange concept, and he was uncertain how to accurately articulate his feelings for the man. Harry raked a hand through his hair in frustration, though he struggled to admit that the main point of his annoyances centred around the fact that Snape hadn't called for him.
“Fuck it,” Harry muttered to himself, and made for the door, but paused when his hand touched the cool brass of the door handle. Disobedience at Snape's hands had been remarkably subdued compared to his experiences with other Death Eaters. However, he wondered whether it was a good idea to test his limitations like this. It was amazing to him that Snape had taken Harry's consent into consideration at all, and that thought alone gave him the encouragement he needed to open the door.
For one halting moment, he was afraid that it would lock at night after Harry's last nighttime stroll, but he was pleased to find that it gave way easily, and he stepped quietly into the hall. For a brief moment, as he glanced up and down the hall, he was afraid that he would not remember the way to Snape's room. He swallowed thickly, and as quietly as he could he stepped down the hall towards a door that had been left ajar, and beyond it Harry could see the faint flicker of firelight.
While doing his best to keep from moving the door, he peered inside to see if he had gone the right way. He sighed with relief, and the muscles in his shoulders relaxed. Beyond the door he saw the familiar canopied bed, and he recognized the form that lay in it. As far as he could tell, Snape was fast asleep. The contented, peaceful look on his face was strange, and though Harry had caught glimpses of it before during their intimate encounters, seeing him like this was different somehow, and he was loath to disturb him.
He shook off his doubts and took a soft, steadying breath. He slipped through the door, relieved that he was skinny enough to slip through without moving it too much, and after peeling off his shirt, he shimmied under the covers next to Snape.
Despite Harry's best efforts, his movements in the bed had woken Snape, and through half-lidded eyes he muttered, “what, pray, do you think you're doing Potter?” Harry felt his face flush a deep crimson.
“I, er, wanted to see you,” his voice was barely a whisper, highly embarrassed and now wondering what the hell he had been thinking. He remained stock still in the bed, waiting nervously for Snape's response.
Snape shifted in the bed, exhaling a sigh that carried the implication of amusement, or annoyance. Harry wasn't entirely sure which, and he reached out, pulling Harry close. He pressed his bare chest into Harry's back, and wrapped his arms around him. “Just for tonight, Potter,” he muttered, his breath slowing in a way that told Harry he had gone back to sleep. Harry removed his glasses, setting them aside as he laced his fingers with Snape's, and allowed sleep to take him.
The following day Harry woke once again to an empty bed. He was uncertain if this was because Snape was exceptionally good at being sneaky, or if he was a heavier sleeper than he thought. He allowed himself to lay in his master's bed for a few more minutes, then feeling as though lying here all day might not be the greatest idea, he forced himself out of the bed and he headed back to his own chambers.
He went through the motions of readying himself for the day ahead, and he found that he was beginning to feel the first inkling of Cabin Fever. He paced in the sitting room, unable to sit still, as brilliant winter sunshine illuminated the room. He paused several times to gaze outside, and he gripped at the circlet around his neck in frustration. He no longer felt an overabundant need to escape in the strictest sense, but being stuck in the same house for the better part of two months was finally beginning to get to him. The newness of his environment had finally worn off, and despite the enigma that was his changing relationship with Snape, he could not quell his aching desire to move.
As evening fell around him, Harry estimated that he had wandered through the house at least five or six times. He was reluctant to run, afraid of what might happen if he broke something or bumped into Snape, but the constant movement had eased his mind somewhat. Harry still felt frustrated at his confinement, but in some ways it was odd how the feeling had struck him so suddenly. However, without the crushing emotional weights he had endured when in the custody of Macnair, Malfoy, or most of the other Death Eaters he had come into contact with, he had little else for his mind to dwell on in the hours he was left on his own.
As evening segued into night, Harry felt a strange sense of relief when he was approached by a house elf, informing him that his presence was requested in the master bedroom. The house elves no longer felt the need to escort him, and he made his way over to Snape's room with little hesitancy.
Harry knocked once, and the door opened automatically, granting him entrance. His eyes danced across the room momentarily before he found Snape, sitting in an armchair near the fire, his fingers laced together. He observed Harry in a way that made him feel as though he was being x-rayed, and while this was not necessarily a new feeling to him, it carried a different weight to it when it came from Snape and not Dumbledore.
“Sit.” It was not a request. Harry sat on the end of the bed, as there were no other chairs in the room, and he swallowed nervously. If he had done something wrong, he hadn't the faintest idea what it could be. “During our...encounter the other night, I noticed something interesting,” Snape cocked an eyebrow at Harry, as though this explanation would be enough to explain his mood. When Harry didn't respond, he continued, “certain...scars upon your person.”
Oh.
Harry felt his face tint pink, though for once it was from shame instead of embarrassment. He knew exactly what Snape was referring to, though he did not like to remember it, but of course, there was no earthly way Snape wouldn't notice the collection of scars around his most intimate areas. Though he could not contort himself to see them with his own eyes, he knew they were there. Jagged scars on his ass, on and around his anus, and near his coccyx. Harry struggled to contain a tremble, and he felt momentarily faint as a wave of sickening memory passed over him. “Tokens of Fenrir Greyback,” Harry mumbled, unable to muster the courage to look at Snape as he spoke.
“I see,” Snape remarked after a solid minute of awkward silence, after it had been made abundantly clear that Harry was not keen on discussing it. Harry looked up at him, and found that Snape was still observing him with a mixed look of curiosity and something that looked strangely like worry.
“I-it's not something I like to talk about, or think about.” Harry's voice was still little more than a mumble, and his eyes again shifted to the rug below him. Flashes of memory filled his mind and he struggled to suppress a shudder.
Harry distantly heard the soft swish of Snape's robes, and a moment later he found him crouching in front of him, forcing Harry to meet his gaze. He reached forward and wrapped his fingers gently but firmly around the back of Harry's neck, and he rose up slightly to capture Harry's mouth in a deep kiss. “It is the past,” Snape said, his tone was even and firm, “he no longer has any control over you.”
Harry stared into Snape's eyes, and an unfamiliar sense of warmth seemed to fill him. It was a strange feeling, as though Snape's words held some physical weight. He felt some of the torturous scars on his memory left by the werewolf being wiped clean. Harry leaned in, and kissed him.
Harry's movements were feverish, and he clung to Snape as though he was the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence. Snape indulged him in his unspoken desires; touching him tenderly, deliberately taking his time, showing Harry in actions as well as words that he was protected. He turned Harry over, and he lifted himself into the air, an attempt to show Snape how desperately he needed this. Snape made such tender love to him then, for a fleeting moment Harry forgot everything—forgot that he was a captive here, forgot about Voldemort, forgot that he was supposed to hate this—and he realized then, that against his better judgment, he felt loved.
Without a word being said between them, Harry had become a permanent fixture in Snape's bed. The charms upon his circlet had been removed, and despite this new freedom, he felt absolutely no desire to flee. Harry spent more and more time in Snape's company, and when Snape was called away, he explored the grounds outside. He felt as though he could finally spread his wings again, as he wove through the trees at the southernmost edge of the property, and walked along the edges of the frozen gardens.
He still felt distinctly cut off from the wizarding world at large, and despite Harry's pestering, Snape was reluctant to divulge any information about what was happening one way or the other. This fact initially infuriated Harry, he felt as though Snape was treating him like a child. Belatedly, he thought that there was a good reason for this, but that reassurance did little to quell his burning curiosity.
In the depths of mid February, Snape had once more been called away. Harry had a feeling it was Voldemort himself that had called for Snape. He didn't know this for sure, but over the last several weeks he had begun to notice that whenever Voldemort called for him, his entire demeanour changed dramatically. His movements became more tense, his voice carried a sharpness that wasn't there before, and he was more cautious in his words and actions prior to leaving.
Each time Harry was left alone, he felt lost, and uncertain what to do with himself. He spent large portions of his time curled up against the sill of the sitting room window, waiting for Snape to return.
The snow-covered grounds had begun to defrost before the old potions master reappeared. Harry was woken by a gentle hand shaking his shoulder, and his eyes opened to see Snape standing over him, looking weary but otherwise uninjured. He peeled himself off the window pane that he had been leaning against, and rubbed his eyes. “Welcome home,” he said sleepily, while stifling a yawn. “What time is it?”
“Not yet midday,” Snape's hand slid from Harry's shoulder to the back of his neck, and he unconsciously leaned into the touch. Harry looked up at him, trying to think of something to say. So much had changed between them in such a short span of time, but still Harry could not entirely repress the small root of fear that seemed unwilling to vanish completely from his mind. There were many things he wanted to say, 'I missed you,' being chief among them, but the words seemed to be caught in his throat. In the back of his mind he wondered if he dared ask for news of the war, but something told him that it wasn't worth the effort.
Without saying anything, Snape seemed to understand what Harry was feeling, and he pulled him to his feet and kissed him tenderly. Harry did not know if there would ever be a time where he did not feel completely swept away, feeling as though nothing else existed beyond this moment, this man, this embrace.
Harry felt his back press into the wooden panelling of the wall. The wood felt cold through his thin garments, but not unbearably so. Harry felt Snape's hands—still cold from the temperature outside—ghost down his sides and grip blindly at the flesh stretched over his hips. Harry could barely contain the soft moan that escaped from him, and he heard Snape chuckle. He had lost count of how long it had been since he had last been touched like this, and it was in that moment Harry realized just how much he missed it.
Blindly moving towards the bedroom, but unwilling to break their kiss for long, they shambled up to the second level, and the door swung shut behind them as they tumbled onto the bed. Harry gasped they tugged off each other's clothes, any pretense of delicacy and tenderness lost in the haze of their arousal.
Harry felt Snape grab hold of his wrists and pin him in place, but no longer was it a pure act of dominance, but almost a game, pushing Harry to see what lengths he would go to to free himself and take what he wanted. This time, Harry relaxed under Snape's grip, but the mischievous glint never faded from his eyes.
Snape leaned forward, his knees braced on either side of Harry's waist, and Harry lifted his torso as far as the position would allow, but still Harry could not reach. He let out a small whine of frustration, twisting his wrists in an attempt to free himself, but Snape only chuckled and tightened his grip. “Is there something you want, Potter?” his voice was teasing, though Harry failed to see the humour.
“You know damn well what I want,” Harry replied between soft gasps, his frustration apparent as he once more tried to lift himself up, with no more success than his first attempt. Snape chuckled and leaned in, biting hard on the flesh of Harry's throat. He gasped sharply, and he knew at once that it would bruise, though he couldn't say that he was exactly bothered by this. The shock of the pain sent a tremor through Harry, and he couldn't contain the mewl of desire that escaped him. “Please, God, I haven't...” Harry broke off abruptly, and he felt his face go red.
“Oh?” Snape shifted so that he was looking into his eyes, close enough that his dark hair tumbled over his shoulders and brushed across the sensitive skin of Harry's torso, making him shiver. “You mean to tell me that you haven't touched yourself in nearly a fortnight?” His hand ghosted down to Harry's crotch, and Harry arched his hips invitingly, but Snape did not touch him, causing the boy to groan in frustration. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”
As Snape taunted him, Harry sensed the opening he was waiting for. In his focus on other parts of Harry's body, he felt the grip upon his wrists loosen, and in one swift movement, he tightly grasped Snape's right shoulder, and braced his forearm against his left, and flipped him over.
Snape smirked at him, seemingly amused by this turn of events, and Harry took a moment to swallow his surprise. He had been uncertain whether he had the physical strength to pull his little manoeuvre off, and he was amazed that it had worked. His surprise was clearly apparent on his face, as Snape watched him expectantly, but seemingly in no rush to see what Harry would do next.
Harry could feel the flush in his cheeks, and it took him a moment to regain his composure enough to move. He tore his gaze from Snape's and slid his body down to rest lightly above his knees, and he pressed his hands into the plush bedding on either side of the older man's hips. He rotated his jaw a few times, opened his mouth, and swallowed Snape's cock.
Harry felt the tip press into the back of his throat, and he forced his muscles to relax in order to keep himself from gagging. Above him he heard Snape groan appreciatively as he hollowed his cheeks and bobbed his head in a steady rhythm. He felt the cock in his mouth give a small jerk under the stimulation, and Snape let out small gasps of pleasure.
After several minutes, Harry felt the muscles of Snape's abdomen contract, and he stopped. Harry ignored Snape's disgruntled exclamation of protest, and crawled forward to grip Snape's shoulders, pulling him up into a sitting position.
He balanced himself precariously on the backs of his ankles, and while tightly gripping the older man's shoulders, he slowly lowered himself onto his once-professor's erection. Snape's breath hitched in both surprise and pleasure, and Harry pressed his forehead against his shoulder, panting as he felt the man's cock fill him completely.
Harry took a moment to reorient himself, then slowly rocked his hips, sliding himself up and down in a slow but steady rhythm, effectively fucking himself on Snape's cock. Under him, the older man vocalized his appreciation, tightly holding onto Harry's hips and helping him remain steady. Sweat trickled down Harry's back from the effort, and Snape shifted one hand to close around the youth's hard-on, eliciting a strangled gasp of pleasure from his throat.
Snape pumped his head over Harry's erection steadily, thrusting his hips in time with the boy's movements, as both of them gasped from a combination of the effort and pleasure that radiated through them. Harry came first, burying his face against Snape's sweat-slick chest as his seed shot onto his stomach, and despite his sheer exhaustion, he did not abate his movements and he brought his lover to climax a moment later.
Utterly spent, Harry collapsed forward onto the bed, dragging Snape down with him. Snape shifted slightly, removing his softening member from the confines of his young lover's ass. Harry sighed contentedly at the feeling, and curled up closer to Snape, his glasses biting into his temple. Snape twined his arms around him as he murmured, “you are truly exquisite,” his hand ghosted across the flesh of Harry's cheek, and he felt a soft kiss press into his forehead. Harry felt too exhausted to move, much less speak, but his lover seemed to understand as he held him close, allowing him to bask in the afterglow of their passionate reunion.

~

Harry was uncertain when exactly he had fallen asleep, but when he next woke, the sky was the deep indigo of twilight. At first, Harry did not know what had woken him. Snape was still deeply asleep next to him, and the house sounded silent. After a brief moment, he heard a soft noise, something close to a whisper. Was he imagining things? He lifted his head a few centimetres off of Snape's shoulder and listened hard. The silence seemed as complete as ever, then several things seemed to happen in quick succession: Harry had laid his head back onto Snape's shoulder, planning to return to sleep, and at the same moment a hissing but distinctly familiar voice said, “no, out of my way!” followed by someone else crying, “Reducto!”
The door flew open with a bang, and Harry and Snape shot up in alarm.
Standing before them was at least half of the Order of the Phoenix.
Harry felt all the colour drain from his face, as his eyes shifted from one face to the next. Remus Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Hestia Jones, Nymphadora Tonks, Arthur Weasley...along with a handful of other people he recognized, though their names escaped him. It was quite obvious the shock was mutual, as the faces that stared back at him carried a variety of expressions from shock, to disgust, to anger. Harry opened and closed his mouth several times, uncertain what he could possibly say to explain the situation to his would-be rescuers.
“Impeccable timing as always Remus,” Snape said, breaking the silence with an amused drawl, while he snaked an arm around Harry's hips, as though he had no desire whatsoever to deny or explain away the situation. Harry on the other hand was overwhelmed, as he struggled to find some possible way to explain himself. Caught with his pants down was an understatement.
Snape's words seemed to dissolve the shocked silence, and Harry pulled away from him, and with his face burning he threw on his clothes. Snape was slower to rise, but did little to ease the tension, taking his time fishing his clothing off the floor and pulling them on.
Harry looked up to the faces of people he had once viewed as his family, and his eyes stopped on Mr Weasley. His face was as red as his hair, and he seemed incapable of articulating his rage. Before Harry knew what was happening, Mr Weasley's hand flew out, cracking Harry's cheekbone with his open hand, before turning and storming from the room. Harry lost his balance from the force of the blow, and he fell to one knee. The skin had split, and a thin line of blood trickled down his cheek. Harry staggered to his feet, while Snape watched the exchange calmly, seemingly unsurprised by the violent reaction.
Harry prodded gingerly at the cut, but decided maybe it would be better to keep his mouth shut, as the odds of six on one made Harry extremely nervous. He took a careful step sideways, moving between Snape and the Order members. This simple action caused a few more people to turn and leave, not bothering to hide their obvious disgust, but Lupin, Tonks, and Kingsley didn't move.
“I take it that the reason you have broken into my home is to inform us of the Dark Lord's demise?” Snape asked, while Harry looked up in surprise at this.
“He's dead?”
“Yes Harry,” Lupin said with far more weariness in his tone than Harry would have anticipated, “he's dead.” His eyes flicked from Harry to Snape, and back to Harry, as though trying to work out the situation. Harry was least worried about Lupin, as he at least did not look as openly hostile as the others.
“I assume you have been tasked with rounding up the Death Eaters,” Snape said from behind Harry, and he tensed, looking up at Snape, unable to keep the pained look from his face.
“Yes, Severus. While Dumbledore had an unwavering amount of faith in you, I am suddenly finding it very hard to believe.”
“No, please—”
“—silence Potter,” Snape snapped, resting a firm hand upon his shoulder. The small contact seeming to infuriate Tonks, and she too turned and left the room. “If the aurors feel the need to take me into custody I will—what is the phrase? Come quietly.” Harry felt as though he was going to be sick. It was as though he had been consumed entirely by his conflicting emotions of joy and heartache.
“I don't believe we need go that far, Severus,” Kingsley said, raising his voice slightly over the heated voices in the hall. Harry couldn't make out the words, but tone made it all too clear what they were most likely discussing. “I don't believe we said anything about arresting Death Eaters, did we?” He flicked his wand and a bright violet light shot from the end.
Harry didn't think. It was as though his mind and body were no longer connected and he reacted purely on his sharp Seeker instincts. He moved his body to the side, leaping up, distantly hearing someone cry, “Harry, no!” as fiery pain engulfed him. He had only the briefest of moments to take in the horrified looks on Lupin and Kingsley's faces before he sunk into unconsciousness.

~

“—shocking, absolutely shocking. Wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.”
“The boy actually protected Severus?”
“He seemed to be under the impression that he carried some deep emotion for the man. God knows what sort of damage he's done to Potter's mental state, and after everything he's been through you'd think a man in Severus' position would know better.”
Harry opened his eyes. He felt as though he'd been run over by a truck. Every part of him ached, and every minute movement carried with it another twinge of pain. Where ever he was, the lights were dim, but not completely extinguished. His vision was fuzzy and he could not make out details of the room, but something about it was very familiar.
Trying to not move too much, he reached over to the side table and found his glasses, slipping them on while doing his best to not alert the two speakers that he was listening.
“I heard he was taken in, tried before a full court, no less.”
“Small mercy, I think the Order felt it was the least they could do to humour the Potter boy, assuming he ever comes to.” Harry clenched his fists in anger, but as he listened, his stomach knotted with anxiety. Able to see clearly, he recognized now where he was, even the joy of being at Hogwarts was quelled by his anxiousness to hear what had happened to Snape.
“Is it true then? He was really let off?”
“Cleared—of all charges. Of course, the Prophet is keeping it quiet. My guess is gold exchanged hands. I'm sorry, I don't care how highly Albus regarded him—after what he's done there's no doubt in my mind that he was never truly on our side.”
Harry's brow furrowed as he listened in, and while he was relieved to hear that Snape was free, the words stung. He wished he could articulate to these men how very dead he would be if it hadn't been for Snape, but the idea of divulging that sort of information filled him with a cold dread.
“Oh, good, you're awake,” said a voice, and Harry turned to see Madam Pomfey bustling in, eyeing him with a strange look. Harry couldn't identify it, but something in the way she was looking at him made him feel very uncomfortable. “How do you feel?”
“Like I've been run over by the Knight Bus,” Harry mumbled, shifting his elbow to try and sit up, but gasping in pain, and allowing himself to fall back onto the bed.
“I wouldn't try to move,” she said in a matter-of-face tone, while she placed an empty glass on the side table, and filled it with a measured amount of acid green potion, which was smoking ominously. “You were hit with a very powerful Hex, Potter, I'm afraid you're in for a rough few days. Shacklebolt wanted to take you directly to St. Mungo's, but Remus seemed to think you'd be more comfortable waking up someplace familiar.” If Madam Pomfrey had an opinion about this decision, she did not show it, but Harry couldn't help but smile a little at that, grateful that Lupin had intervened on his behalf. “Drink that directly, Potter. It will help with the pain.” She slipped out and shifted the screens back into place, giving him some privacy, for which he was very grateful.
The potion tasted awful, which did not surprise Harry in the least, like lemon-flavoured battery acid. But almost immediately some of the pain lessened, and he eased back into his pillows. The two speakers had fallen silent, and Harry suspected they had taken their leave in the commotion of his waking. Harry looked up at the blank ceiling, uncertain what was going to happen now. He still knew next to nothing about how Voldemort had been killed, which was frustrating, but he couldn't even sneak out of the hospital wing in this state—every minor movement was far too painful. His thoughts drifted back to Snape, and he felt a flash of white-hot emotion, joy and fear mixing together in his mind, and he struggled to separate the two.
He was relieved to hear that Snape had been let off, but he worried if he would ever be able to see him again. He was eighteen, having become of age before the past year's nightmare had really begun, so as far as he knew no one could legally keep him away from him but...would Snape even still want him? Was it all an act? His vision grew foggy as his eyes flooded with tears, and he let them flow, not bothering to wipe them away.
Two days passed, and finally some of the physical ache began to lessen. At this time Madam Pomfrey finally relented to some rather persistent visitors, and Harry was surprised when Luna and Ginny walked into his little partition.
“Hiya Harry,” Luna said in her familiar dreamy tone of voice, and Ginny offered a small smile. Based on her reaction, Harry guessed that her father had probably told her everything.
“Hey,” Harry replied, shifting a little to sit up as the pair took a seat across from him. He glanced to the opening of the screens, wondering if any other DA members would make an appearance.
“It's just us,” Ginny said in an even tone, but her voice was devoid of anger or any accusatory tone, for which Harry was grateful. “Everyone's heard, of course—they're a little upset.” Something in the way Ginny's cheek twitched after she said this gave Harry the impression that a little was not exactly the right descriptor.
“Hm,” Harry grunted. While he wasn't exactly surprised by this, it stung, though he couldn't exactly blame them, he had a fairly good idea how bad it looked. Desperate to steer the conversation away from himself he asked, “what happened, with Voldemort I mean?” The pair flinched at the name, but Harry ignored it and pressed on, “I mean, I heard that he's dead but no one will tell me anything...”
“I don't know all the details,” Ginny began tentatively after a moment's pause, “but he's definitely dead. We saw the body and everything.” She paused and glanced to Luna, who nodded encouragingly and she pressed on, “Neville took off about six months ago. He sort of took your place as the leader of the DA and then vanished without a trace. He told us something about 'unfinished business', but he wasn't really clear, and then he seemed to be everywhere. I don't know what he was up to, but he came back to Hogwarts looking just awful.” Ginny paused, as though carefully considering her words. “I don't know how much you've heard—”
“—nothing. I've been totally cut off for over a year,” Harry said, though immediately he regretted these words as Ginny narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. Luna, on the other hand, was staring off at a point two feet to Harry's left. At what, he had no idea.
“Well,” Ginny continued, “Hogwarts had sort of been turned into a school of Dark Arts. A bunch of Death Eaters took up teaching posts, and Bellatrix Lestrange had been appointed the Headmistress, but the thing was, we had no idea until we arrived at Hogwarts on September 1^st. We were sort of stuck, all our post was being searched, so we couldn't write home and tell them what was going on. Anyone who tried to rebel disappeared and we never saw them again.” Ginny shuddered. Harry felt a pang of guilt as she spoke. At some level, he knew that even if he had known what was going on, there was little he could have done, but it did little to ease his conscience.
“Anyway, like I said, Neville was everywhere. The Daily Prophet was putting out all sorts of mad reports, I have no idea how many of them were true—of Neville breaking into the Malfoy Manor, breaking into Gringotts, and outrunning virtually any Death Eater that came into contact with him...but then two weeks ago he showed up at Hogwarts with the Order, and all hell broke loose.” Ginny's mouth twitched into something close to a smile.
“Yes, it was quite an ordeal,” said Luna suddenly, with the air of someone commenting on the weather. “I think Neville was very brave.”
“What happened?”
“He confronted You Know Who.” At Ginny's words, Harry felt himself jolted into a memory, and he could hear the faintest whisper of Dumbledore's voice in his mind, 'Sybill's prophecy could have applied to two wizard boys, both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom.'
“Huh,” Harry grunted, for a moment lost in that memory, before he remembered where he was and what he was doing, and looked up. Ginny was watching him with an odd look in her eyes. Harry averted his gaze, feeling the familiar twist of shame in his gut. If anything had happened to Neville he'd never be able to forgive himself.
“It was pandemonium,” Ginny continued, though there was a hard edge in her voice that Harry couldn't identify, “the Order was trying to evacuate as many kids as they could, but we refused to go, not with what was going on. Everyone was duelling everyone, and then You Know Who showed up and people panicked.” She broke off abruptly and gave Harry a hard look. He frowned, but didn't speak. Somehow, he felt like saying, 'I'm sorry,' wasn't enough to apologize for not being there to help everyone.
“Neville went straight down to You Know Who, you know,” Luna added, after it was made clear that Ginny had momentarily lost her will to speak. “we were up in the astronomy tower at the time, but Ginny's mum told us what happened.” As she spoke Harry turned his focus to her, and he felt another pang of guilt as he noticed a thin cut on Luna's cheek. “Neville and You Know Who shot curses at each other, and that was it.”
“That was what?” Harry asked, puzzled.
“You Know Who's Avada Kedavra backfired when it hit Neville's charm, and it killed him,” Ginny elaborated, and Harry felt himself slumping back into his pillows. It was truly all over, yet somehow he still had a hard time believing it. He tried to conjure the image in his mind of Neville facing off against Voldemort, but his imagination seemed incapable of envisioning it. He slid his thumb and forefinger under his glasses and pressed them into the corners of his eyes, giving his hands something to do while he tried to decide how to verbalize what he was feeling.
“I'm...relieved. I'm glad. I dunno, it doesn't really feel over, y'know?” He looked up and saw that they were still eyeing him strangely, though while Luna appeared politely curious, Ginny's expression was much closer to rage.
“There's only one thing that no one knows for sure...” Ginny said, and Harry felt as though his lungs were constricting, as he had a fairly good idea what was coming next, “And that's what happened to you. Mum saw you grabbed by some big Death Eater at Bill's wedding, and that was the last anyone saw of you.”
Harry shuddered, but the memory filled his mind easily as though someone had begun playing a film in his mind. Ron and Hermione were dead at his feet, people around him running, screaming, apparating and disapparating every few feet, and all Harry could feel at that moment was the fury and grief that filled him so completely. He remembered running at the Death Eater who had killed his best friends, lunging at him, but the same second he grabbed onto the robes of the Death Eater, he was grabbed onto, and he was taken far away from the skirmish, and to a dungeon that he did not recognize.
Thinking back, he was amazed that he had not been killed. He looked up and realized that Ginny and Luna were watching him expectantly. He struggled to find a way of explaining everything that had happened, but at the same time he realized how much he didn't want to explain what happened. How would Ginny and Luna look at him if they knew what he'd been through, what he'd done? “I—er, I was taken captive by Voldemort's Death Eaters.” Harry couldn't bring himself to look up as he spoke. But the feeble explanation sounded false to him, regardless of the truth in the words.
“Whatever wine-and-roses image you think I've been living in this past year, you're wrong. I was put through hell.” He paused and looked up. Luna looked mildly curious, but Ginny's expression was more difficult to read. He couldn't exactly blame her, as it probably looked to her as though he had left her for their old potions master, something Harry doubted he would ever be able to explain away. “Snape—he—” Harry broke off as the well of emotion filled him, and he took a few slow breaths to steady himself. He had no desire to cry in front of them like this. “He saved my life. If it wasn't for him, I'm sure I'd be dead right about now.” At the name, a new wave if tension seemed to fill the air between them, and he plucked at a loose thread in the blanket that was draped over him.
Even to Harry's ears, his voice sounded hollow. “I didn't know what was going on,” he said after a long pause, as though trying to explain to them why he couldn't have helped, no matter how much he wanted to, “I was a prisoner.”
“Well, we'll let you get some rest Harry,” Luna said suddenly, as she pulled Ginny to her feet. Her red-headed companion still looked like she didn't entirely believe him, not that he blamed her. “It's good to have you back.” She sounded as though she meant it, and Harry offered her a weak smile.
His next few days in the Hospital Wing were punctuated by no shortage of guests, mostly adults who wanted to press him for information, and Madam Pomfrey for daily checkups. Despite her best efforts, the scars on his back and upper arms stubbornly refused to disappear, and while this was a disappointing discovery, it didn't exactly surprise him, either. The circlet around his neck also refused to come off, despite the efforts of Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and a smattering of adults in the Order. Privately, Harry was pleased about this, but he didn't dare vocalize it. It was obvious that their feeling towards him had gone dangerously cold since his so-called rescue.
More difficult to deal with was the slow trickle of his classmates that had begun coming to see him. He still hadn't seen Neville, and he assumed that the rumours of his rescue had probably reached him. It was mostly girls, the boys that came to see him looked distinctly uncomfortable, and constantly teetered between wanting to ask him what actually happened, and not wanting to know. On his fourth day, he was greeted with a visitor he had not been expecting.
“Good afternoon Harry,” Harry looked up and saw Lupin sliding into his makeshift cubicle, smiling at him with his familiar, weary smile.
“Afternoon,” Harry replied, but he couldn't stop his hands from clenching the bedsheets. He had lost count of how many adults had come to see him with this would-be friendly air, most of whom he had only known by name and had never spoken to, with the sole intention of wresting from him details of his captivity.
“No need to look so defensive,” his former Defence Against the Dark Arts professor said with a small smile, as he pulled up a seat next to Harry. “Believe it or not, I am not here to press you for anything.”
As hard as Harry found that to believe, he released his hold on the bedding, though he continued to watch Lupin with the same wary expression. “Why are you here?” He struggled to keep his tone civil, though Lupin seemed somewhat amused by the question.
“I have spoken with Severus. It seems you owe him a great debt of gratitude,” Harry couldn't tell if Lupin was being sarcastic or serious, but for the moment he remained quiet, waiting for him to continue. “He told me in confidence what he knew of your captivity prior to his...involvement. You needn't worry, I have no intention of repeating what he has told me. It seems he cares a great deal for you,” Lupin paused for a moment, his fingertips brushing over the stubble on his chin, and added as an afterthought, “more than I ever thought possible.”
“You need to understand Harry, that the anger of everyone is not because of the gender of the person you were caught with—I believe the muggle world holds more intense prejudices in that regard than the wizarding world ever has—but it is because of who it was. No matter what your feelings are, there is a large amount of wizards who believe Severus never stopped being a Death Eater.”
“I know that,” Harry mumbled, while it was a relief to find someone that didn't appear completely enraged with him, he still could not meet Lupin's eyes. “I'm just tired of people looking at me like I'm a traitor. I couldn't, I mean, I didn't...I was a prisoner. Snape saved my life. Why won't people listen to me?” The words poured out of Harry in a flood before he could consider them, and he looked up at Lupin miserably.
“Because,” Lupin said after a moment of contemplative silence, “in the eyes of many adult wizards, you are still a child. Many people believe that your devotion is nothing more than the effects of Stockholm Syndrome, or a particularly effective Confundus Charm. To them, Severus is a predator, a belief, I'm afraid to say, may not disappear any time soon.”
“Snape saved me,” Harry said. He knew he was repeating himself, but he had no idea how else to explain it. He looked up finally, and Lupin was regarding him with a look of pity, which, for once, he had little desire to shake off.
Lupin watched him in silence for another moment, then spoke again, choosing his words carefully, “the question I have for you now, Harry, is what you plan to do next?”
The question caught Harry off-guard. He had lived moment-to-moment, having no idea what would come next, having no control over his future for such a long time, that the very idea that he now had a choice struck him as odd. He turned his gaze from Lupin and looked down at his hands. He flexed them, watching the faint contraction of muscle and tendon at his wrists, the white flecks of minute scars that dotted his skin. He reached up and pressed a hand to the hollow of his throat. The circlet still there, and the cold metal under his fingers seemed to strengthen his resolve.
He lifted his gaze to meet Lupin's, but he struggled to find the right words. Fleeting memories of the varied reactions of disgust at Harry over the past week had scared him, and he had no idea how to verbalize what he was feeling now. “I believe,” Lupin said after a moment's silence, when it had become clear that Harry wasn't going to answer, “that to anyone not blinded by their personal bias, it is abundantly clear that neither of you had gone into that arrangement, so to speak, unwillingly. I will impress again upon you Harry that there are precious few that would agree with me.” He paused for a moment, and Harry felt his shoulders sag slightly.
“I—I...love him,” the words felt strange in his mouth, though his tone was barely that above a whisper, and the revelation filled him with a strange feeling of weightlessness.
“I know, Harry.”

~

Not for the first time, Harry's sense of time eluded him. The days bled together into a mass of faces, experiences, and uncomfortable discussions with Lupin, Madam Pomfrey, and a multitude of St. Mungo's Healers. The next time he found himself outside it was April, and with his wand in hand (returned to him by Kingsley) and a warm spring breeze tousling his hair. It felt as though his life could finally return to normal, or as normal as life could be in the wizarding world.
Around him, the hustle and bustle of Hogsmeade residents and visitors milled around him, and though he could feel their eyes on him and hear the hisses of whispers that chased him, he had little difficulty ignoring them. He walked along the main street, past the Three Broomsticks, past Zonko's, until he found himself in a secluded spot at the end of the lane, where he saw a familiar path that led into the mountains. He smiled, and for a moment he half-expected to see a great, shaggy black dog loping towards him. The memory stung and warmed him in equal measure, as he remembered the last time he had seen his Godfather. He supposed in the years to come, there would be many moments like this, seeing a shop, a street, a house, and unable to not see the memories he had shared with his lost loved ones there.
Harry took a deep breath to steady himself, turned on the spot, and vanished.
He landed awkwardly at least fifty meters away from where he had intended to, and grasping to the low-hanging branch of a nearby tree saved him from face-planting into a shallow brook. Harry looked around, and carefully picked his way through the wood he found himself in, and down to the road. The road was little more than a trail of tightly packed dirt, and he looked to his left and saw a grand, familiar house that filled him with unrivalled joy at the sight of it. He walked slowly down the road, struggling to resist the urge to run.
As he reached the juniper bushes that hugged the perimeter of the property, he felt a moment of hesitation, the old worry crossing his mind once again—what if he was no longer wanted here? The thought made him feel as though someone had taken away the ground that he stood on, and he looked up hesitantly at the house.
It was then that he noticed that the front door was open. Leaning against its frame, arms crossed, with the same cool, reserved expression upon his face, was Snape. “Are you coming in?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at him. Harry could no longer contain himself. He broke into a run and all but threw himself at the man.
They fell back into the ajar door, their mouths locking together with complete abandon, and for the first time, Harry felt like he had come home.

The End!
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Devotion and Desire