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The Spoils of War	By : tambrathegreat Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 16618 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and settings from Harry Potter. They are owned by JK. Rowling. I make no profit from this endeavor nor do I intend copyright infringement.

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It's been three days since I brought Potter to my hideout, a bothy in the centre of an island in the middle of a loch in the Scottish highlands. The remote location suits me. The Highlands, for all their stark beauty, are a lonely place. Economic policy goes to the victors, and Scotland is still feeling the effects of their disastrous support of the Bonnie Prince two and a half centuries after he fled. The Battle of Culloden left its mark on Scotland in ways that no one alive at the time could have anticipated. The population has never recovered after they fled to the Americas, were murdered by famine, or transported to Australia.

War does that to groups of people. It destroys them, makes them flee, and marks them for generations.

However, my concern at the moment is how our wizarding war has affected Potter personally. I dither over when I should remove the stasis spell which I placed on him. He's in a type of suspended animation, whilst he heals. Poppy always recommended the same type of treatment for me. She said it helped the healing process, but I suspect it had more to do with my general recalcitrance in accepting her fussing. Regardless, I placed Potter under one and it seems to have helped, if only a bit.

The boy's body has been ravaged by disease, neglect, and malnutrition, a good deal of which occurred in his childhood according to my scans. He is a child of war of one sort or another. I knew Petunia when she was a child, a more disagreeable sort there never was... well besides me, but at least I had the intellect to back up my surliness. Tuney did not, nor did she contain the barest shred of decency apparently. I no longer have to imagine how well Potter's magic was received in her household. I see the evidence with each scan.

At least my own marks on the boy weren't physical, though to be honest psychological scars are often harder to heal.

I turn from his body; I will need to brew more healing potions than what I have on hand. I will also need to catch a few hours of sleep.

Who knew that watching someone in a coma was such a tiring, round the clock occupation?

&*&*&

The fucking megalomaniac has called and I, to appear the faithful toady, must dance attendance to him.

I check Potter once more, hoping that I will be able to tend to his needs if... when I return. I remove the stasis spell. I know the horror of awakening under one, not able to move, not able to give voice to the fear that clogs one's throat at being unable to move. I look out the window, a grey day, typical of northern Scotland, matching my mood. Snow will fall soon. Fog already swirls around the heights of the small mountain in the distance.

I see a flash of silver in the distance, a car streaking past us, the occupants blissfully unaware that the world has ended.

I turn from the window and watch Potter's somnolent figure, the rise of his chest the only thing that shows he still lives. I ready myself, gird my mind against the Dark Lord's prying intrusion, pull on my black weeds, worn out of habit now, rather than any real sentiment. Mourning the dead is futile, especially when one might meet them at any Summons.

I slip out the rough-hewn door, warding it in case one of my compatriots is tasked to follow me. Paranoia is still a hallmark of the Dark Lord's personality. It's no wonder that he's lived so long.

I spin away, Disapparating to the gates of Hogwarts, my former home.

I walk the path that I've trod, with only a few breaks, since I was eleven, still feeling as if I am coming home, regardless of the mad man who sits in the office of the Headmaster. I mourn the loss of youthful energy filling the hallways. I hate the aura of menace and despair that now clings to the ancient stones of its edifice.

Once inside, I turn to the Great Hall. It is where the Dark Lord holds court. I see him sprawled in a decadent attitude of repose, his anguiform, ring-bedecked hands resting on the throne he has had fashioned from the bones of his faithful. It is as gruesome as it is unfinished. I wonder, as I always do, where my skull will rest on his seat of power. I sometimes think it will be the headrest, an ossified antimacassar, or at his feet. Perhaps I will hold no place on his seat. Perhaps in death I will be denied as much as he has done me in life. I will be forever banished to the earth, the Black Lake, or burnt and scattered. I have never known my true place in the Dark Lord's hierarchy, only that he bides his time in letting me die the second time.

He is the cancer that eats my soul. He is the stroke that waits in my veins.

I bow with just enough deference and then take my place amongst the assembled, confident in my ability to hide my hope, as slim as it is. If Potter survives the next few days, I will be able to begin to unravel how Albus' plans could go so colossally awry. I think that whilst I am at Hogwarts, I will visit the rooms below my old rooms. Both Albus and my libraries are housed there, and I hope to smuggle some books out. I'm certain the silencing spell can be broken on Potter without detection by the Dark Lord. I need to hear what the boy has to say about the portion of the war I missed whilst I bled out on the floor of that foul shack.

The Dark Lord speaks his sibilant tones more irritating to me today than they normally are. "Ssssseverussss, you have been absssent for far too long. I have grown to missss your assscerbic commentary."

I step forward, head held aloft, but eyes cast down. "My Lord, you honour me."

It is all the answer he requires, this monster. I know that for which I have been called has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with Dolohov who lies cringing with his latest child rape victim at the Dark Lord's feet. The Dark Lord rises; the rustle of his robes the only sound in the sparsely populated room. There are few faces that I recognise, none of them, aside from Antonin's, from the first war.

I feel the stricture of time under which I work and nearly succumb to a rare moment of panic. I made a vow to Albus before I murdered him that I intend to keep. If the boy failed, I would find a way to defeat the Dark Lord. Until I found Potter the other day, I worked under the delusion that my vows to the old man meant nothing still.

I believe in Fate, even if she turned her back on my miserable existence from the beginning. Though to be fair to her, perhaps I was destined to be the Judas in this little charade.

I realise that the Dark Lord has been speaking at length about Antonin whilst I have been tending my milling thoughts. I must regain the mental acuity under which I laboured for two masters all those years ago for my as yet amorphous plans to succeed.

I watch as Dolohov cringes against the child, a girl of about fifteen this time. His tastes have obviously matured. She is silent even as her mouth is open in a scream of obvious terror. She is a slave. I smirk as I remember Antonin's scorn of one of our fallen brethren. Lucius I believe, who made the mistake of falling in love with one of his slaves.

How Icarus has tumbled, his wax wings crumbling under the heat of his own hypocrisy.

The Dark Lord levels his wand at Dolohov and the girl. She is the first to fall, silently and ungracefully, a swift death for an unimportant slave. Dolohov attempts to flee on his flailing legs, his own desperate noises making up for the mute death of the girl. "Please, My Lord, I have much to offer you still... I promise... I didn't mean... Potter... I will find him... I will never betray you..."

The Dark Lord makes a slicing motion with his wand and opens a gaping cut in Antonin's belly, the blood staining his mouldering fur and spilling on the floor. Dolohov screams, clutching his midsection as the sickening plop of a freshet of blood hits the floor. "Yesss, you will never betray me for any reason, Antonin. I will ensure it."

Dolohov raises one gore-covered hand in supplication as the Dark Lord slices through the air again. Antonin's severed hand flies upward, smacking the wall with a wet sound as his head rolls into the assemblage. It stops at my feet, his eyes still open, and a dawning look of horror in them. It takes seconds for him to die, and I watch as dispassionately as I always have. Even if I have lost my edge, I can still act as though the scene does not bother me, though I tremble inwardly.

My Lord hisses into the silence of the room. "Dolohov failed me in hisss misssion to find the insssolent whelp who opposssesss me and inssstead wallowed in the dubiousss pleasssuresss of the flesssh of filth. Find the blood traitor, or meet hissss fate!"

The Dark Lord turns back to his throne, dismissing all of us with a tired wave of his hand. The lack of strength in the motion captures my attention. There is something I am not remembering.

I've had great lapses in my memory since my near death. I don't believe they are because of my lack of oxygen after the Dark Lord attempted to kill me, or for some other metabolic reason. The lapses seem to be centred too specifically around key incidents in my life. I have a vague memory of loving Evans, but no idea as to the reason for her withdrawal. I have no memory of meeting her, yet I remember our days spent in play as children. It is as if she sprung whole from my past. I remember the feelings associated with her, but they are muffled without context.

I follow the crowd out of the Great Hall, mingling with them, letting them carry me towards the dungeon stairs. I take an opportunity to slip down a corridor that I used to use during those hectic days under Albus as a double agent. No one alive remembers this passage. I am as sure of it as my wand skills can make me. I have used it often when I don't want to be noticed by the Dark Lord or those few who are still truly faithful.

I steal down the darkness of the hallway to the room. I have hours of study ahead of me.

&*&*&

I return home late at night. I took a great chance in staying at the castle, even if the chambers in which I lurked are warded against spying. I am weighted down by the books I have smuggled out of Hogwarts. Several tomes hold some information about the nature of a spell that prevents communication. From what little I was able to read, it will be a difficult curse to break, and frankly, my charms skills are not what they should be. I go about daily life practicing as little magic as I can. Wand work can be traced, and my little stone bothy with its lime-washed walls is my sanctuary.

I enter the hut, hurriedly unburdening myself of the shrunken library, again wishing that there were some spell to displace density as well as mass. Magic must still obey the laws of physics.

My gaze darts to the bed and my heart nearly stops. Potter is awake, his pale face turned to me from the bed, his eyes glittering in the moonlight that streams from the window.

I turn away from him, unwilling to acknowledge the relief that washes through me and I busy myself with resizing my packages. I hear Potter move restively as I finish, and I buy more time as I stir the banked embers, and place another block of peat on the fire. The fuel catches fire almost immediately and light blooms in the rude chamber.

I finally turn to Potter. He has swung his legs over the side of the bed and is fishing beside it for something. He clutches his gut and a soft exhalation fills the room as he moves the quilt I gave him aside, revealing a metre of nut-brown flesh and corded muscle. His face has taken on an alarming pallor, his brow is suddenly dotted with perspiration and his cheeks are flushed, yet I can't help but admire the well-defined muscles that join his torso to his hips, despite his starvation-enforced angularity. With all that is wrong with his world, he is still as handsome as he was as a child.

"You shouldn't stand, Potter." I say as I begin to move towards the foolhardy idiot. I hear the scrape of metal on wood. He has positioned a rubbish bin between his feet, and the splatter of liquid on the rough-hewn wooden floor followed seconds later by the acrid stench of urine held too long reaches me. I curse under my breath.

Up until today, I had taken care of his bodily needs, spelled liquids and potions into his stomach, siphoned his urine from his bladder both accomplished with a spell Poppy taught me. He has not needed more. Potions do not create solid waste.

I quickly vanish the contents of the bin and turn away from the sight of his nudity. His flaccid cock, even now, blazes across my mind. It is as beautiful as he is. I steal to the side of the room that holds the kitchen implements. "I suppose you're hungry now."

I sound resentful to myself. I'm glad of it. It will do us no good if Potter knows he holds some power in our unequal relationship. I remember how angry and manipulative he was as a child. It will do no good for me to once again become a fool for love or lust, or whatever tawdry emotion I have for the boy who should have been king.

I open a tin of soup and pour it into the mean aluminium pot left in the bothy by some other traveller. I situate it over the peat fire on the hook meant for such work, careful not to burn my hands.

Potter is supine again and he's looking at me with that half-lidded stare of his. I sit on the side of the bed since it's the only furniture in the room aside from a broken chair in the corner, and a waist height table at the wall. Potter budges over, his expression expectant. I pull out my wand and cast the diagnostic spells meant to ascertain his overall health. He watches with mild interest as the colours coalesce over his abdomen, his wrist and his head. He gives a scant smile and then turns from me in apparent disdain from what I can tell from the grimace that crosses his features. I sneer at him and at myself.

The man still displays the boy's arrogance. I will do well to remember that.

Once I administer the potions needed to strengthen Potter, I fetch the soup from the fire and give it to him in a mug. He drinks it greedily at first. I'm sure it's the first meal he's had in days if not weeks. Once he's done, I remove the dishes to the small washbasin I keep by the door. I will do them tomorrow when I bathe.

I tread to the side of the bed and hastily remove my outer robes, aware of my own physical shortcomings next to him. I strip to my singlet and pants and pull my own threadbare blanket over me. I listen to Potter's breathing as he drifts from wakefulness to healing sleep, and I wish for one moment of normalcy in my life. My wish is for one moment where sleeping with a person means more than duty, where it means a pleasant ache in the morning, and satiation for a time. I wish that Potter would touch me for any reason. It has been so long since someone did. The mere sensation of a heavy arm clutching me would be enough, even if the person holding me would never do so whilst they were awake.

&*&*&

We go about our days in much the same way we started. Potter has recovered enough to be able to take over some of the lighter chores, thus freeing me to research and to gather plants for his potions.

He makes no effort to communicate with me at all. I want to believe this condition is because of his disdain for me, but I suspect...

My mind veers from the topic as I hear Potter in the small, chemical WC that is attached to the bothy by a thin wall of still-fragrant pine, an apparently new addition. His movements behind the half-closed door are rhythmic and disturbing. I have told him not to over tax his strength. I rise with no small amount of ire, damning the boy for his obstinacy.

If he wants to kill himself, he can do it after he defeats the Dark Lord. That is the extent of use I have for him. At least it is all I can admit at the moment.

I steal closer to the door and am suddenly frozen.

Potter is leaning against the panelling, one hand braced against the far wall as he strokes his cock, the rough trousers I have given him pooled at his feet. His eyes are closed as he fists himself. On the down stroke, he lets his small finger trace over the flesh of his scrotum. His head drift back as his fist pumps up, covering his glans with a twist of his wrist.

I watch in fascination as his motions speed him to culmination. I feel the heady pull of desire in my gut, a heaviness pooling in my testicles. I should turn away, but cannot. I want to see Potter reach orgasm. I want to enjoy vicariously his pleasure.

I am pathetic.

Potter's wrist speeds, his hips canting into his fist, his movements becoming rough. My entire attention is on the darkly glistening member that is being abused so thoroughly. I take an involuntary step towards him and stifle a moan behind my wrist as he ejaculates. He milks his cock, his chest heaving, his legs trembling. It is only after he finishes and I take my gaze from the scene, that I realise he has been watching me watch him. His expression is closed and challenging, and yet contains an element of desire that should not be directed at me. He is Lily's son, after all and I am the enemy as far as he knows.

I flee the bothy, my feet flying with equal measures of shame, arousal, and desire.

&*&*&

Thanks go to Jilliane for her red-mousing skills.

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The Spoils of War