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Harm	By : her2eternity Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1350 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Harm
- 2-Salt and Copper
- 1
- 2
II. Salt and Copper

As the great screen crackled and popped/The clock of my boyhood was wound down and stopped/
And my handsome little body oddly propped/And my trousers right down to my ankles

-Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, �Do You Love Me (Part II)�

Bathwater swirling red and how it hurt, how it hurt, skin scoured raw but still he
could not stop, he had not even begun, shreds of flesh under finger, under tooth and nail, if he was torn apart, if he was
not beautiful, then she would not want him, then he could forget her hands, her hands, her clawed and harpy hands. Blood
and skin gurgling away down the drain, running deep and drawn again, scalding, bitter, mad and wracking sobs the shriek
of heat on naked nerves. He was naked now, now and forever, bare, his soul ripped out and glittering sweet on her October
claws, haunted season, haunted time, and he was inside his own mind like demons, outside his own mind like ghosts watching
himself wash and wash and wash and wash, screaming, filth, dirt, scum, trash, gutter, nothing, nothing, ask and ye shall
receive, you reap what you sow, wretch, whore, scrub but you'll not be clean again, wash until you bleed, until you're
bone, and you will still be damned . . . (Oh Lucius, Lucius, I am unclean, I am unworthy of you now . . .)

Litany of burning words and he cannot help but recite them, a good boy he learned his lessons and this was branded into his
skin, seared into his brain, lessons through pain learned best, hot and horrible like the Mark, deep crimson, skull and
snake, burrowed into the skin of his tormenter, enchanter, dominator's wrist and he had licked the mark like a puppy,
licked like an obedient dog ane hae had asked him then, oh do you love the taste of corruption now, little boy, is it warm
like mother's milk on your begging tongue? Then she had drawn him down, down into the fetid pool of her flesh, down
into the dagger fangs of her desire, used him again and again and again . . .

Bathwater cooling and he must refill it, he must not wallow here in filth and fluid caked on so ferociously it took his
nails to scrape it from his skin, tear it away, yes, unpeel the pale betrayal that had tempted her, his fault, his fault,
his hand in the air, a smile on his lips, and he was unclean, he was so unclean and she had seen to that, but his fault,
always his fault, eternally his fault, his damnation, and he was sick into the water, sick mixing with his blood and tears,
and he could not care, he could not move, he could not breath, he could not see, he could not think.

CowaCoward, and it should be so easy to slip beneath the surface, to inhale his own decay, but he could not, weak and
useless, hateful and hurting, child turned unmentionable over one fatal night and oh dear god if you are there she had
promised mord mod more and more, peeling him apart and destroying what remained from now until he was gone, from now until
eternity, two years of hell, two years of degradation stretching out before him like the rack. Inquisition and he heard
her again, tell me you like it, his meek and mewling reply, and he gagged, choked, spittle running down his chin,
burning with bile but he was empty he was worn thin, she had not even begun to hurt him and he was dying already.

Oh dear god if you are there, but no, He had fled the scene, no benevolent creator had stepped in with lightning
in his fists and thunder in his eyes to save a simple boy, a single boy, a lonely and hag-ridden boy crucified by his
own capricious prick. (Already I disappoint, I have broken the covenant to Lucius, God has abandoned me now . . .)
If there was a higher power it had turned over and gone to sleep, slept, yes, looked and heard him screaming, found
it dull, let him suffer. Sleep yes he could do that here, down in the water and the murk, he could do that here and
he could rise at daylight, a ghost, white, white shroud, white tub, white tile, white skin, white wings, pure, clean,
arise, be free.

But he was a coward, yellow not white, the grasp of her hands was the evil he knew, the sharp teeth of death was the evil
he did not, and forgive him but he was afraid, he was afraid. No one heard, no one cared, there was no benevolent creator,
the universe was blasted open and frigid, the universe howled with ice and pain, the universe looked down on him with
greedy eyes and laughed.

No sanctuary, no hope, no trust, no faith, no kindness, no humanity . . . only . . . except . . . could he? Not
brave enough for death, no, not yet, too soon, so young with terrible old eyes, so young with adult wounds torn across
his fragile skin and yet . . .

Lucius. No! He could not know of this sickness, this violation, would not understand why the one he was destined for
had allowed himself to be used, to be taken. Even now the interlude between them seemed shadow-thin and ghost-faded,
though in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley their eyes locked from time to time and the world ceased to exist, though when they
passed on the streets Lucius would surreptitiously touch his hand or his dark and heavy hair, the only outward symbol of
their secret knowledge, and when anyone else in their House dared to grow their hair so long and wild, Severus snarled that
only the Princes of Slytherin were allowed to wear their hair so, and the offenders mane was soon shorn, for Severus
possessed just enough danger and reputation to uphold his title of the Raven Prince. Though they did not fear and worship
him as they did Lucius, they sensed Lucius�s lingering influence and left his prot�g� alone.No, Lucius must not know,
cannot know, for hope for him is all I have . . . and Severus closed his eyes, thought of Lucius Malfoy, tried to draw
strength from his image, draw strength for this ordeal, Lucius with his golden hair . . . but in his mind�s eye, the
golden hair became dark, went from sleek to tumbled, tousled and wild, and only one person at Hogwarts had that gypsy
hair, one person, one boy, one third of a triangle, one frame of a triptych, one untouchable facet of a trinity, but
such a trinity . . . Severus�s eyes opened wide at the implication. There is another way . . .

Three boys. Three boys could be his saviors, his deliverers, three boy whose every word was believed, three boys ever
shining, popular, beloved, three boys and not even she could stand up to them, not even her dark powers could blight
the light of those three boys. Three boys, they protected others and he had seen it, they protected the blighted worm
called Pettigrew, three boys and was he brave enough? Three boys, magnificent, and he would crawl e mue must, go on
his belly if he must, wriggle and slither like the snake that he was, flicker out his pink tongue, taste the air,
and beg them. Three boys, three boys, three boys. Potter, Black, Lupin, trinity, rosary, holy, Potter, Black,
Lupin, names he held to himself throughout the dark night, names for which he scoured away his unclean skin, names
that were candles in the vast darkness of his world, for even now Lucius might be lost to him, might not keep his
own faith in one morning three years before, and without those three names, three boys, Severus was truly lost.

******

The next morning, and he caught one of them, thin and wastrel hand curled around hard muscle, and the boy looked
at him, angel of mercy, long dark hair of his vision complemented by dark eyes, sardonic poet mouth and even under
his robes he moved well, moved sweet, moved warm and oiled, and the girls who liked it hot, who liked it a little
bit dark and dangerous, who liked it rough and potent and bittersweet, these girls sighed his name at night,
his name, a star, like him, like his aura, a star, heavenly: Sirius Black.

Savior, Severus thought and he begged an interview, a moment, a small favor, something, anything, and
the boy-god before him took him in speculatively. He knew a place, quiet, they could talk, the boy with
haunted eyes and battered skin could explain, could expound, could inform him of what he wanted so much.

"Thank you, thank you," and his gratitude was unnerving, fawning, sick little pup slobbering all over his shoe
and what was that about? Potter asked, and nothing, nothing, it was nothing, he is nothing.

******

Fast down the halls and he had class with her after this, but it would be all right, he would be
protected, he would be screened from her claws by the boy-god, the boy-god who would help him. Severus had
been invited to his sanctuary, his palace, the secret room where he and the other boy-gods went to hide.
They were pranksters all, devising a million secret plots, whispered schemes, they could do everything, they
could accomplish anything, and Severus would be but a small cog on the vast wheel of their benevolence.

Arriving late, disheveled, directions poor and had he gone, had the boy-god gone, had he lost his chance? But
no, there he was on a pilfered couch, cigarette between his lips, bored already, cold disdainful eyes,
please, please let him help me.

"I don't have much time," the boy-god said and Severus gave him the whole sordid tale, beginning to end, the
flirtation, the implied threats, the clawed hands, her mouth, her body, and he shuddered with the sickness of it
all, with the degradation and humiliation, with baring his soul to this untouched boy-god who could help him,
who had to help him, or he would crack, fall asunder, disintegrate, go mad. Cold sweat on his brow, body beaten
and cringing, pitiful, and the boy-god with dark unreadable eyes and what was he thinking, where was he wandering,
what was his angel-mind doing up in the cool vaults of heaven?

Black laughed. He laughed. Severus felt something shatter in his head, felt something come loose, his body
wooden, cold, hurting. "I fucked her too," the boy-god said, "And I enjoyed it. Everyone fucks her. What the hell
is wrong with you?" He took in the terrified child before him, the little boy with the sharp mind, the man's body,
disgust, she had touched him, she had taken them both, but he was a man, dammit, he took it like a man, he took
her like a man, and this weeping boy on the floor reminded him . . . reminded him . . . of how it had felt to be
hurt like that.

No! He was a man, he liked it, he liked the slick heat, the willing hole at the conjunction of legs, he
got it all the time and he liked it, he loved it, he rolled in it until he stank of it and this soft, sad boy
before him was so vulnerable, so beautiful, so hurt.

"What's wrong with you?" he snarled, "You a fag or something?" There, he'd said it, the word, rolled it off his tongue
like poison and it felt so good. Twisted word, dark and ferocious, spiteful word to bring bite and bitterness and
pain. Word of his most secret thoughts, word he whispered when he thought of himself, when he thought of the one he
loved, twining together, slippery sweat and dragon dreams, the boy, the boy he loved with all his heart and he could
not tell him, would not tell him, because they were magical, they were the Marauders and the Marauders took only
girls. School heartthrobs, the girls all wanted a piece and he was loved, he was worshipped, and it was so potent,
so enticing; give that up for a chance at heaven, hell no, fuck no, the evil you knew and he would smile if it killed
him, smile until his face broke in half, because they were friends, they were close, he saw him every day and he would
not risk that, no, he would not chance that, friendship and dreams would have to be enough, he'd make them be enough.
But the sad child before him on the floor was still speaking, trembling, and Sirius saw him, looked at him, the satin
flesh that showed how well it took pain, the wide wild eyes, the tumble of dark hair, the small patch of white skin
at his throat, the sensitive artistic hands that described shuddering horrors in the air. Sirius saw him, saw him
gorgeous, saw him tender, saw the perfect victim. His deceitbodybody awakening as he watched the bruised mouth move
and never mind the words tumbling from it, cock filling out, growling, hungry, wanted this so much, so much, and he
would never tell, no he would never tell, he just wanted a taste, just wanted a little and how dare this dirty child
fill him with longing? How dare this bit of filth made him need? "What was wrong with what she did to you? You're
nothing special - she does it to everyone else." and the startled, horrified look in the child's eyes was pure eroticism.

"But . . . but she hurt me," Severus whispered and this was not happening, this could not be happening but the
boy-god was lifting his robe, his face flushed and determined, sliding black boxer pants down his legs and
Severus closed his eyes. The boy-god, boy-demon, no, not a boy at all, a man, a cruel and hurtful man, a
monster, a fevered beast that was dying to undo him was standing before him with his mouth in a executioner's smile.

"Suck it," he ordered, "That's what people like you enjoy, isn't it?"

"No," Severus said, and he was shaking, he would not open his eyes, he would not look, he would not be raped
again. There was no desire for this thing before him, this black-velvet demon with the whiskey voice, no. His mouth
had gone putrid and his stomach was quaking, he tried to stand, tried to move but the demon was on him, the demon
was rubbing all over him, the demon was nipping at his throat with sharp teeth and groaning into his hair. Lucius!

Let me up! But he could not say it, scream it, he could only fight, fist cracking into the demon's skull,
but it didn't faze him, didn't stop him, he was jerking up Severus's robes, hands everywhere, hands hurting and
twisting, hands hungry and aggressive and Severus thought that he would be sick, here on the floor, all over the
demon and himself. Trapped and he couldn't move, he couldn't move, hot weight of man above him and he wanted to
die. In the bathtub last night he could have gone under and this would never have happened, he would be white,
all white, pure, gorgeous, think of snow, think of ice, wrap it around your heart and squeeze, squeeze until
you can't breath, squeeze until it all goes away, until it is all oblivion, oblivion.

"What's the matter," the demon hissed, "Don't you like it?"

Shake of head, side to side, their dark hair on the floor like a corona, their dark hair mingling, coming
together and coming apart and just that simple sight is enough to make the demon start kissing and thrusting again.

"Move, goddammit!" But Severus can't, he is sick and pinned and the nightmare is never-ending, the nightmare has
opened a new chapter and the shadows on the wall point and giggle, the shadows on the wall are gleeful, immune.

Then the weight is roughly off him, a moment�s sweet relief before it shifts, changes, and the demon is crouching
over him with knees on his hair, pinning his head to the floor, eyes mad, eyes lustful, and between them hovers the
vast pulsing ziggurat of his cock. "Suck it," Black says gently, "And I'll make sure Professor Acantha never touches
you again."

Tears, hot, silver, precious, melt down Severus's cheeks and he remembers a story from when he was innocent.
A beautiful princess has taken a lover, and her father does not approve. He places many obstacles between his
daughter and her lover, but she will not relent. She is jealous, calculating, impassioned. At last the King catches
the lover, and places him in an arena. There are two doors: behind one door is a beautiful lady that he may marry,
and behind the other is a very hungry tiger. The princess knows what lies behind each door, and she told her lover
in the dungeon that she would indicate behind which door the lady stood. But the princess was jealous, the princess
was capricious, which would she really choose? Was her lover better dead and hers forever, or alive but another woman's
husband? When he opened the door, would he find the lady or the tiger?

The lady or the tiger? Severus wondered dreamily and he had never understood the story until now, had never
known the price the princess would pay for either decision, had not known the cost of freedom, of flight. He howled
in the darkness, wolfen, alone, no one heard the echo in the emptiness that was his body, and if he had been a
puppet before he was dead now, he was hollow, rigor mortis, and at least he did not have to hurt, he did not have
to feel. The lady or the tiger? And did he really have a choice, would the dark-eyed demon let him go if he refused?
Could he let the lady continue, could he survive another onslaught of her hands, her hands, her gleeful perversion,
the sharp white teeth that ripped him asunder? The lady or the tiger? he could not decide, he did not decide, his
mind was gone from the shell of his body and he watched, he watched, he watched from very far away as his tongue
coiled from his mouth and around the tip of Sirius Black's eager cock. (Lucius, forgive me . . .)

Black cried out and fell to his hands and knees, hips pulsing as he rode the hot mouth beneath him. His brain sizzled
in his skull and it felt so amazing, so right to have a man's mouth wrapped around him, a man's mouth sliding over
swollen skin, lips, throat, and tongue harmonizing, perfect understanding, this was right, this is what he'd always
wanted, and in his mind's eye the slender boy whose mouth he raped faded and became the willing caress of Remus's
tongue, Remus's spit, Remus's hot breath against his belly.

He couldn't last long with that image in his mind, too beautiful, too gorgeous, an epiphany, admitting it to himself
like this, but it had to be his secret, his dirty little secret, his dark desire, and this sweet fuck pit beneath him
would be the vehicle of his desires for two long years. No one would know, no one would suspect, and he could have this
boy whenever he wanted to, have this boy like a piece of meat and it would be between them alone. The boy would learn to
like it, would learn to crave it, and he could take him in the dark, in the light, imagine him into whomever he needed
him to be, take him for himself, take him for having that damning, beautiful mouth and those sorrowful eyes, for the
artistic hands that scrabbled fruitlessly at his belly as the boy tried to escape.

Severus's brain was all buzzing white light, he was choking on the muscle and sinew sliding between his lips but the
demon above him would not stop, would not stop. Airways blocked, black roses bursting before his eyes and
he snatched breath when he could, eyes watering and Black thrust into his throat again and again and again.
This was no skilled manipulation, this was raw lust and Severus was drowning in it. He hated this man, hated him
with a dark and baleful devotion that blossomed inside him like a stain, a tumor, filled with loathing and growing
with every panting thrust. He was going to smother down here, die, ignoramus, choked to death on Black's cock and
last night he thought he'd experienced hell. This was worse, this was misery, this was the most degrading thing
his mind could have conjuring, this was his darkest night, his most desperate hour and no one cared, Black was
going to kill him and he beat his hands against the body above him, fought the piston surging in his throat but
Black was too far gone to hear, to care, Black was close, so close and now would be too soon, now would be too
fast, he wanted more, he wanted more . . .

Black ripped his cock from Severus's mouth and leaned back against the couch, "Now come here and suck me good," and
Severus complying, just someone's whore doing his job, worse than that because no money exchanged hands, because he
had no value, used, low, dripping with filth, with sweat stinging his eyes as he did what he was told, he was a good
boy he learned fast and he had chosen the tiger, no doubt in his mind, because this was sick, this was foul but it
would only happen this once and never again, only this once and Professor Acantha with her claws would never have
him again.

Black's hands closed in his hair and drew him down, down, down, fitted groin to mouth with an inhuman groan,
in his own world, lost , dissolving, and Severus hated and hated and hated.

"Remus," Sirius whimpered, "Remus," and he was quickening, fluttering, on the edge and this was so hot, so wild,
nothing would ever be the same for him again, nothing mattered but the mouth and tongue of a man wrapped around
him, sucking at him, dragging out his secrets and making him throb and twitch.

Remus . . . Severus heard the name, soft and beloved on the demon's lips, spoken with love, spoken with
longing and he was glad, he was fiercely glad � Sirius Black, Sirius Holier-than-a-covenant-of-angels Black,
cried out the name of another man as he grew close; this was blackmail, this was potent and he could use it to
rip Black apart if Black betrayed him. Who are you, Remus? vaguely familiar but he needed a last name, a final
piece of the puzzle to shackle Black to him surely as he was shackled to Black, locked wrist to wrist and eye to
eye, breath to breath and secret to soul. Black's hands were rough in his hair, his panting ragged with longing,
and Severus knew he was close. Come on, you monster. Scream his name for me. Condemn yourself.

Sirius screamed and bucked, it had never been this good, never, and when he came it was glorious, hot, stinging,
strong, wave after wave and he was dying, drowning and he never wanted it to end, shrieking Remus's name again
and again and again, howling, unholy, tearing at the boy wrapped around his cock wanting to make him feel, make
him suffer, how dare he, how dare he, how dare he make him come like this? Oh but it was so good, so warm, his
soul sucked out through his cock and he locked his fingers in Severus's hair to stop the motions of his head.

"Swallow," he ordered and he felt tears, hot and pitiful, splash onto his thighs but he would not be appeased.
"Swallow," he repeated.

Severus's mouth burned with the taste of hot salt and copper, thick and undeniable, Black had shot in his mouth,
Black had defiled his lips and tongue and now he had one more demand, one parting degradation but if he did it,
it would be over, it would all be over, no demon, no clawed hands and he could sleep without nightmares one day, someday.

He swallowed, and his soul cried out in agony.

Black shoved him away, furious, sickened, it had been too much too fast, but the boy was even more beautiful through
hate-filled eyes, the boy made him hot even though he wanted to tear him apart. The boy was his slut, his toy, and he
had tired of him. "Get out!" he spat and he had him by the arm, dragging him to the door, fingers biting hard at the
white skin, ignoring the blank puppet eyes and when they shifted he saw madness there. It was the boy's fault, if he
had not been so beautiful . . .

"Same time tomorrow," he hissed, and Severus knew then that the taste of salt and copper would never leave his tongue.

Mourning the Raven Prince

Something is wrong. I know this, know it as I know how to breathe, how to speak, how to lead. I know it as I
know myself. Something is wrong.

For the past six years, I have spent every waking moment dreaming his body and seeking his eyes in public places, and
always, always, finding his eyes already upon my own. My fingertips against the back of his hand as we pass in the
streets is a thousand times more for intimate than the trifling pleasure I�ve had with the dozens since that moment, and
a lingering gaze is more significant than the waning infatuation I had with the Gryffindor. But now I can only look, look
with longing and burn inside at his nearness, yet he is not yet to be touched. By night I dream him, dream him in a
million deviant, delirious ways, and the distance between Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor seems a trivial gap to bridge.
One word, one touch, and he would melt into my arms, the Raven Prince, the Lord of Silence, who keeps to himself, who bears
our secret, who lit the fire within me. I cannot even run my fingers through the beautiful hair that is our vow, cannot
wrap it around my wrists like the shackles I would gladly wear for him, cannot feel it across my bare and starving skin.
I allow others to have me, but none can touch my heart or my soul, for they are already contained within another. I
worship him from afar, as I know he worships me, and yet, something is wrong.

Perhaps he senses my doubts, how my hatred of my heritage oppresses me, how the politics of creating an heir will sunder
us, how the vicious gossip of the Wizarding world will destroy us before we�ve even begun. I care nothing for their
opinions and their intrigues, but I cannot, must not, disappoint my father, my family. Already, my Uncle Darius has
succeeded him as heir to the family home in Rouen, though how this travesty came about I do not know. Ophelia, my
specter-twin, drowned at age six, claims she knows what secrets my father has hidden from me. she she is bound in
Rouen, and her fear of Darius binds her further still. My father sickens, a dying lion, and before he is gone I must make
him proud. How could I come home with Snape (oh, Severus!) on my arm, claim him openly as my love, allow the family name
to die in England because I lack the will to produce an heir, to place the family before my own desires? I know that my
father wishes me to wrest the ancestral home from Darius and to replace his son Louis as head of the de Malfoy family,
and Snape cannot help me obtain that end, for the ancient laws state that I will need a son of my own to carry my name.
Then by what cruel joke did I meet Snape? Why do I feel so strongly that without him, my life is meaningless? Merde,
I am too young for burdens such as this.

Does he know of my doubts? Does he see them in my eyes, feel them in my secret touch? He has grown so thin and haggard,
so distracted and miserable and the bruises . . . merde I saw the bruises, and I am no longer at the school to
protect him, and that makes me loathe myself beyond anything else. And yet . . . and yet he does not ask me for help,
does not even offer me the opportunity to intervene on his behalf and destroy the creature who would dare lay finger upon
his precious skin. Perhaps he no longer desires me; perhaps he has forgotten the morning, sex years ago, and the times
that followed. If he has forgotten, I will go mad, for I am damned.

Does he sense my reservations regarding our eventual union? If so, why has he not attempted to speak with me? That he may
doubt only makes me question my own convictions. If I go to him with my love, with my arms open wide, and he shuns me,
then all these years living without a heart will be for nothing. I will not be his fool.

No, his hair remains long. His soul is loyal to me, his spirit still bound to mine. One day, we will be far away from
this place, from these people, and we will be free to love one another without reservation. One day, my father will die
and I will no longer labor under the caul of his expectations. Somehow, an heir will be created, and Snape and I shall
never be parted. All will be as it should, and I will never look back upon this time we spent unjustly apart.

My mother never told me faerie tales as far as I can remember, though she died when I was quite young. Perhaps that is why
I must invent faerie tales of my own.
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Harm