Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

A Perfect Circle	By : gwendolynflight Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 4113 -:- 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
- 2
- 3
I still don't own them, quit hassling me! Still about R for violence and reference to rape.

******************************************
A Perfect Circle
Chapter Two:The Art of Compromise
******************************************
humbled and helpless
learning to pray
praying for visions to show me the way
show me the way to forgive you
allow me to let it go
allow me to be forgiven
and show me the way to let go
illuminate me
i'm just praying for you to show me where i'm to begin
hoping to reconnect to you
-thomas

The room reeked of chemicals. Natural agents, man-made formulas, and above all else the stink of sulfur.
"So, you decided to come."
The voice emerged from the depths of the cavernous room, silk over steel, a deep-throated, venomous growl. Snape as a teacher dripped menace like venom. Snape as a blackmailer was simply terrifying.
"Yes, sir," Harry answered, hesitantly defiant. Something moved in the shadows; light caught a gleam on black hair.
"You're early," Snape continued. "Pity."
"Why's that, sir?" Harry asked, still frozen just inside the door.
"Why, I suppose 'tis a pity I have no excuse to torment that old fool. As I am a man of my word," he concluded, a provocative hiss creeping into his tone. Harry's head came up, and his nostrils flared.
"And which word is that, sir? Certainly not to Dumbledore!"
Had Harry actually hoped to provoke a reaction, he would have been sorely disappointed.
"Ever the Griffindor."
As it was, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Silence ticked through the dungeon like a solid, eddying wave. Harry could hear the pounding of his heart echoing in the stone rafters. He wished briefly that he'd been brave enough--or careless enough--to bring his wand.
Snape was utterly still; only the glimmer of light and the occasional clink of metal on glass gave away his position.
"Sir?" Harry whispered after a time.
"Yes, Potter?" Shadow and flame.
"What do you want from me?" The question that had plagued his mind from the instant he'd received Snape's ultimatum. The foremost question in his whirling mind, next to *why*.
Snape chuckled.
Never a pretty sound, now it curled the fine hairs of Harry's neck in an atavistic response of fight-or-flight. Harry shuddered.
"Cooperation," Snape said at last.
"In what, exactly?" Harry asked cautiously, an awful feeling of foreboding roiling from the base of his spine.
Snape's shadow paused its rhythmic movement, and seemed to consider him. A drop of sweat ran down Harry's neck to streak his collarbone and breast. He flinched.
"Come," Snape said, rising in a swirl of black robes. Nazgul he was not, but Harry followed him on trembling legs through a series of stone-mantled doors into a room deep in the dungeons. A black-robed Siren. Or as Riley once said to Buffy, "Even when he's being a good guy he's all Mister Billowy-Coat King of Pain." And Snape was definitely *not* being a good guy.
He followed the Potions Master into a firelit bedroom in the dungeon's depths; the decor was predictably dark, all rich gleaming woods and thick fabrics. A mirror glimmered the firelight in one corner, waves and licks at odd angles, independent of both natural laws and physical logic.
Harry paused, feeling that same unease ripple through him. The Orb lurked, an unassuming opacity on a small cherrywood settee.
"What do you want from me?" Harry asked again, voice thin and near-silent. Snape glowered at him wordlessly for a few long moments before speaking.
"Undress and get on the bed," he said coolly, as though assigning his latest project. Harry just stared at him.
"What?!" he gasped finally, frankly gaping at the taller man.
"Mirror," Snape said obliquely, turning to the far corner. "Professor Dumbledore's office."
The mirror rippled, though not *with* the firelight, which disappeared into darkness. Its surface swirled, looking for a moment like unicorn's blood before resolving into a perfect view of the headmaster's office.
Whether there was a corresponding mirror upstairs or whether the mirror acted outside of such limitations, Harry was unsure. But the image seemed "live": Dumbledore was writing something at his desk, probably a missive to the Ministry of Magic, and occasionally sipping from a delicate china cup. The scene looked very . . . mundane. Peaceful.
"I would strongly suggest your immediate and complete compliance, Mister Potter," Snape growled silkily. "There's rather more at stake here than a few house points."
Harry continued to stare at Dumbledore's image, as everything inside of him--a turmoil of fear and disgust and doubt--froze into an impenetrable well. His mind, separate of feeling, seemed to be floating over this well, and was surprisingly coherent and cool-headed. Detached.
"What must I do?" he asked in an altogether different voice; he sounded dead. Indifferent.
Snape smiled slowly, and Harry's carefully disconnected heart fluttered in his chest like a trapped sparrow.
"You, Mr. Potter?" he said with genuine humor. "*You* do not have to do anything, aside from undressing and laying on the bed. *I*, however, am going to rape you. Any questions?"
Harry licked his dry lips, feeling his indifference bleeding into confusion.
"Excuse me, but I don't understand," he whispered.
"Now there's a surprise," Snape said dryly. Harry continued as though the Potions Master hadn't spoken.
"But you said "rape'. I don't understand."
Snape folded his arms into his robe and across his chest, glowering.
"It's quite simple, my boy. I've been ordered to either kill you or bring you under control--"
"Voldemort," Harry whispered sickly.
"Precisely," Snape acknowledged. "My options were few: tell the headmaster, and lose you both to the third forbidden curse. Kill you, and lose the world to the Deatheaters and their master . . ."
"And the third?"
"Make Lord Voldemort believe you broken." Snape smiled, and again Harry shivered. "Not an easy task, and one achieved through few means. Consequently," Snape said with finality, advancing slowly on the frozen boy. "I shall take you under control."
"But I don't understand," Harry repeated himself, sounding lost. "You mentioned . . .rape." Said as though afraid to bring it to the Potion Master's attention.
"Why, so I did." Snape paused. "When I say "under control', I'm not referring to your grades or your continual delinquency within the school. No, Lord Voldemort wants you either dead or a puppet to his will. I prefer the puppet option, though I'm willing to consider your opinion on the matter."
"I fail to see how raping anyone will help the situation," Harry pointed out, channeling Hermione's gift for logic.
"Perhaps my motives aren't entirely selfless," Snape admitted, a curious smile curling the bare corner of his mouth. Harry swallowed.
"You would do this?" He asked shakily. "You would kill Dumbledore over some perverse desire to sleep with a student?"
"Yes," Snape said slowly. "It's odd . . ." he continued, furrowing his brow and looking down. "I swear I didn't feel this for you when you first arrived. I *hated* your father . . . Perfect Potter, so very Griffindor . . . Just like you . . ."
He trailed off, and met Harry's fear-widened eyes.
"No matter," Snape purred, leaning in to run his finger across Harry's brow, smiling as the boy winced away. "Lord Voldemort wants to *see* you broken. You'll be coming to a meeting when I'm through with you, and then you'll pray for a return to our time alone."
"Don't do this," Harry said, with a last forlorn look to Dumbledore's image. "Please don't do this."
Snape cupped Harry's cheek in his broad palm, forcing the green-eyed boy to meet his glare.
"Get on the bed," he growled. "For Dumbledore's sake, don't make me tell you again."
Harry staggered back from the touch, feeling it stinging through his scar as though Voldemort himself were in the room; Snape merely watched him as he rubbed at his scar, and then began fumbling with the buttons of his cloak.
The room was cold, he noticed as his cloak fell away; he shivered in his jumper and white dress shirt, and wondered if he would freeze to death before Snape . . . His mind refused to finish the thought, and he settled on a recitation of Transfiguration incantations as he pulled the jumper over his head.
His eye caught the hand-knitted "H' on the front of the green jumper, and his fingers stuttered to a halt. The Weasleys. What would Ron think if he found out? What would everyone think? What would Dumbledore think? It would be worse than the Triwizard Tournament, worse than Rita Skeeter's articles about his propensity for midnight tears, worse than Draco's continual taunts. Worse than--
A hand caught him across the face, and he staggered back, palm flying instinctively to cradle his cheek in a protective hold. He stared up at Snape, somewhat taken aback.
"Why--"
"You were hyperventilating, Potter," Snape sneered.
"I was?" Harry asked, still a bit dazed, fears rising in his head again. Snape glowered at him.
"Indeed. You might want to stop thinking and bloody well get on with it before I lose my patience," he answered sharply. Long, flat-tipped fingers -- a pianist's hands -- reached for the tiny white buttons marching down the center of his chest, undoing them with the ease of long practice. Harry stood quietly, to all appearances staring with some fascination at Snape's left nipple.
Of course, when the Potions Master's shirt had vanished was something of a mystery to Harry.
Snape stripped him bare, his hands not rough, necessarily, but not exactly gentle either. The flat-tipped fingers were cold along Harry's bared skin, points of ice on satin, and he shivered his way to the bed. The Potions Mater followed him, also naked, cock nesting half-aroused in dark curls as he crawled onto the four-poster like a great cat, all long-limbed grace.
Or like a snake, Harry decided, looking into the flat black eyes. The Orb was a glitter to his left. He swallowed.
"What will . . . I don't . . ." Harry stammered, edging back nervously from the older man.
Snape smiled.
"I repeat, absolutely nothing," he said in a tone that might have been meant to be reassuring. It wasn't. "Turn onto your stomach," Snape continued, raising up onto his knees to arrange the boy like a modern art sculpture or his personal fuck toy. Snape smiled again, though to himself; he rather liked that last idea.
Of course it was more than the raw sprawl of bone-pale flesh, *more* than the sharp demarcations of Quidditch-browned skin, *more* than the liquid shift and coil of sheathed muscle, than the tousle of ebony hair. Or perhaps it wasn't *more*. Perhaps it was simply that very thing.
Snape's hands ran down the smooth back, soothing a hitching breath, reaching up to remove clunky glasses and toss them across the room; as though calmed by blindness, Harry stilled under the flexing hands, apparently content to wait out the Potions Master.
Snape ignored Harry's mental absence, for the moment; the mind would return with pain, of that he was sure. *** . . .
*** Harry was in the Third Floor Boy's Restroom, though he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten there. He was curled in a fetal position on the floor of the leftmost stall, shivering.
Snape had . . . No.
Don't think about it.
Harry ducked his head, scrubbing his forehead against his jean-clad knee. His robes were draped over his shoulders like a car coat, and he huddled into the warmth. His wand was still in his room, where he'd left it. He shuddered.
The only sound for a long time was his own sobbing breaths; the castle was dark, and quiet with the dark, until Peeves rattled and clattered down the hall. The poltergeist didn't venture into the bathroom, though, and didn't pause on his rampage through the lonely halls.
Harry was still alone.
He buried his head in his arms, cradled on his knees, letting the knowledge that he was leaking blood from his torn anus shiver through him.
He could still feel those hands--smoother than silk, rougher than honey-- on his skin, *on* him, *in* him. He rubbed one hand over his left bicep, as though to sooth the skin through the woolen jumper(Weasley green).
Oh Merlin.
The Weasleys. Hermione. Dumbledore . . .
Harry's hand had sped in its rubbing on his arm, nails scratching futilely against the thick wool. His body shoved deeper into the corner, and his breath began coming in gasps.
Either his nails cut through the wool, or the friction simply tore his skin, for blood began to run down his arm; a few drops spattered to the acoustic tile floor, and he sobbed, once, deep enough to choke on.
He couldn't do this anymore, he decided, trying to breathe through the sobs. He couldn't face everyone else with this knowledge. Not this. Not . . .
His head suddenly thumped back against the wall.
Oh Merlin . . .
He'd forgotten that double Potions was first thing in the morning. ***
Please remember, these are unreliable narrators we're dealing with. Who knows if they're telling the truth? ;)
To be continued in A Perfect Circle Chapter Three: Never Ever Choose
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

A Perfect Circle