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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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I own nothing, I make no money from this.

This chapter is unbeta'ed because my beta is visiting family and actually has a life outside of me and my stories... the NERVE of her!

Legillimens

I wake tonight to the sound of a voice. Rusty and disused though it is, it can only be Potter's. He is singing, a scrap of song that I recognise from my summers spent at Spinner's End between school terms. It was popular when I was a young man. It is something by The Who, I think.

I feel outrage radiating from me turning to fury directed at Potter. It is my first instinct when deceived to revert to anger. It is the ease of expression that I find most effective. I almost fall on my face as I rise from the bed, tangled in the thin blanket I have appropriated as my own. Before I realise, I am striking him with the flat of my hand and then with fists. All I risked to bring those books from Hogwarts to break an apparently non-existent spell, all I have done to save his sorry arse over the years, are behind the blows that rain down upon his head, shoulders, and back. It is only after the first rush of madness passes that I realise the only noises in the room are my laborious breathing, and the dull thud of flesh on flesh as I pummel Potter. It takes me more time to stop my fists.

I have endured years of torture, years of derision. I sacrificed my life, whatever it was, to give Potter the chance to defeat the monster I served. I have spent years looking for him, weeks nursing him to health, and days desiring him simply because he is Lily's son and I am weak, and my answer to his only means of controlling his environment is to strike him. I am a bastard no better than the mutt.

Potter makes no noise as he curls in on himself. He is silent as glistening tears slip past his closed and swollen lids. My own bruised and aching hands fall to my sides, the impetus of my rage subsiding as I stare at him. I have obviously missed something.

I stalk back to the bed, my body and my emotions spent as if I have had a satisfying sexual experience. I am ashamed at the sense of release I feel given the circumstances for it.

Potter rises painfully and follows me, stripping his borrowed clothes from his body. He stands before me, his flaccid sex in the line of my vision, his expression closed. As I raise my gaze, I note the dark spots blooming on his ribs, blood trickling from his nose. He stares at me mutely and I return his gaze trying to hide how much I want him. He wants something from me also, but I am at a loss for what it is. I break eye contact reluctantly, and he sighs.

"I... can... speak. W-we... all... can...it... just..., " he doubles over, the trickle of blood from his nose becoming a torrent that soaks the wooden floor. "hurtssss..."

Understanding floods me and then is quickly replaced with horror. I know the spell, or at least a variant of it. It is one I employed one time on loathsome Pettigrew during his summer sojourn that fateful year of vows. It has been modified to be sure, but it is the same spell that I placed it on him to keep him as silent as I needed him to be in order for me not to enact the vengeance that Black attempted after the rat's betrayal of Lily.

The spell and I know this well, not only enforces silence on the victim but also precludes any attempt at conveying a message. Body language, non-verbal vocalisations, and communicating facial expressions are blocked. The spell I used on Pettigrew sadly did not have the sadistic element of punishment that is so evident now on Potter. Breaking the original spell requires equal parts sexual gratification and emotional investment on the part of both the curse breaker and the victim. I wonder idly who it was the broke the curse for Pettigrew, even as it becomes clear exactly why the Dark Lord has punished those of us with slaves for treating the wretched souls as more than an object. Obviously the breaking of this curse remains much the same.

It is suddenly clear what I must do. I curse the fact that I look forward to it.

Potter is doubled over now and I can see the effort it takes for him to suppress his vocalisations. What I had thought was disdain was hard-won control. I rise from the bed. I want to apologise for my ire and for the abuse, I heaped upon him, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I ease him onto the side of the bed and rise. I put his fingers on the bridge of his nose and then reach under the bed for the small safety kit I have assembled there. I pull out some gauze and push it under his nose. "Hold this there whilst I conjure some ice for the swelling."

Potter says in a breathy monotone, "It... snowed..."

He almost pitches forward in reaction to the obvious pain. I steady him and remonstrate, "Shut up, you fool. I don't need you in vapours whilst I try to heal you."

Potter fixes me with an incredulous look but remains silent as I dab at the bleeding wounds. "Stay there. I'll fetch some snow for the swelling."

I don my old teaching robes over my nightshirt, slide into some fur-lined slippers I purchased years ago whilst teaching at Hogwarts. The dungeons were as cold year round, as the bothy is in the winter. Once outside, I give myself permission to react to the situation with shaking hands and an unwelcome lurching of my groin.

I have never been one to give into fantasy. The one and only fantasy I held was of Lily, and even she was more a shield to keep the world out. Yes, there always was a sexual component to my worship of her, but it was always tempered by my hatred of my own masochistic tendencies. One does not survive under the Dark Lord without recognising and stamping out any desire to be punished even by so fair a hand.

My recent fantasies of Potter have taken on their own lurid life, dangerously teetering on the edge of that well-known French Marquis' content. After I survived the Dark Lord's special brand of regard during the Final Battle, I have no desire to punish the boy. Yet, the idea of rogering him after a session of spanking has aroused me on several occasions to the point where I have had to seek release.

Yes, Severus Snape has become re-acquainted with his right hand of late. It's not something of which I'm proud, but true nonetheless.

Once I have my burgeoning emotions under control, I scoop some fresh snow into a watertight sac that I've conjured and return to the bothy proper.

Potter sits on the bed, shoulders slumped. The posture gives him an air of defeat, which I have not observed before.

I grasp him by his chin and raise his head. His lips, now crusted with drying blood, part as I gently place the sac onto his swollen eye. I watch him until he squirms under the weight of my gaze. He is the author, once again, of my own sense of discomfort and it's good to be able to return the favour. "Keep that on your face as long as possible. I'll have to brew bruise-paste in the morning. It needs to be fresh to be effective."

I stride to my side of the bed and slip out of my clothes before sliding under the bunched quilt. He sighs and I tense, feeling the heavy weight of accusation in the noise.

I fall asleep to the sound of the fire and the soft drip-drip of the blood from Potter's nose as it hits the floor.

We need to fetch the supplies I ordered last week from the Muggle shop in the village. It might be my last trek there, as I've heard talk of Death Eater raids going far afield from Hogwarts. The last one I heard of was in a small town near Aberdeen. The Dark Lord seems to have his eye on training up his troops so that he can start his subjugation of the Muggle population. It's taken him long enough to move.

I tell Potter about our trip as I apply the fresh bruise paste to his face. Potter's eyes slide to mine then down in the submissive way he has now. I hate it. It irritates me in the same way a cringing dog's posture does. I say to goad him, "Not to worry, Potter, there are some acceptable Muggle clothes for you to wear on the outing in the cupboard, and it's appropriate that you are as marred as I am ugly. No one would believe our association otherwise."

Potter remains silent, as expected and even though I am not one given to idle chatter, I feel I must fill the void between us. "I can break the silencing spell on you, if you wish."

Potter makes no move to acknowledge my statement, but I can see from the straightening of his shoulders and the way his pulse quickens that, the news has pleased him. I say, "It is a simple matter to break it, however..."

Damn him, he looks at me then, his expression trusting. I will have to destroy that trust to break the spell. I know this, but my imagination betrays me. I see, in the small corner of my mind that still functions for such idiocy, Potter laid out on the bed, his limbs tangled in the blankets as I suck his cock. I envision him writhing under my touch, thrusting against my hip, accepting my intrusion with the same abandon I have seen him with whilst he flew as a student. I tell myself that I simply desire him and I hope that my desire will be enough feeling to effect the cure.

I come to myself, imagining a mirroring hunger in his gaze where I know there can be none. I am old, ugly, and unwanted. I have been my entire life it seems. "The task will involve... certain intimacies... between us... I will have to... become... intimate with you." I damn myself for my sudden inability to speak concisely. "We will have to fuck, Potter."

Potter raises his hand to my wrist, caresses my skin with his work-hardened thumb. It burns, that touch. It brings my body to attention even as I struggle to keep my mind from straying to the images that form so easily these days. Potter's thumb moves rhythmically against my skin, his mouth opens and I can see his tongue slide between his lips. It is a spell he's cast on me, one that keeps me still as his hand moves up to my arm, across the expanse of skin which holds the Mark, down to the hollow of my hip where he pauses. He glances up at me, his marred brow drawing his features into a falsely hopeful expression.

I step away from him after what seems like hours of mutual scrutiny. "I will need to Legilimise you to ascertain exactly how portions of the spell were cast. There are aspects layered onto the original curse of which I am unfamiliar."

Potter drops his hand then, scoots away from me on the bed. He seems to fold in on himself. I am the reason for this retreat from those ancient lessons in ancestral retribution I gave him. Instead of feeding him tales of false reassurance, I turn to the cupboard. I return to him, thrusting a musty jumper and worn denim trousers upon his lap, both articles donated by a forgetful tourist or hunter some years past if I am any judge of fashion. "Put these on. We must hike to the nearest village to retrieve my order, and I wish to leave this morning before snowfall begins again. I don't want to use magical means of transport, I'm sure that even you can understand why"

Potter lingers in the shop over the herbs lined up in bottles ready to use for cookery. He has drawn undue attention in his silent perusal of the shop as I pay the attendant for the boxes of goods. The woman looks at him with a pitying moue of disgust on her face. "Your young man, he was a handsome one. It's too bad about his... well, I s'pose it doesn't matter to ye."

I scowl at her. I have never been one for idle chatter and am less inclined to allow comment from a relative stranger go unremarked. I open my mouth to give her a suitable set-down when a clatter of falling bottles sounds behind me. The attendant bustles over to him. "Oh, you puir thing. Le' me help ye put these back."

Potter backs away from the woman, hands behind his back, head bent submissively. I can see the frantic way his fingers work at the frayed cuff of the jumper and the way his face heats. His eyes remain downcast, but I can feel him imploring me to intervene. The woman reaches for him and Potter flinches backwards, knocking a stack of tinned beef to the floor. I see the ragged beat of his pulse above the bulk of the jumper's sweat darkened neck and I step forward. It is not kindness that compels me to aid him. It is an admixture of fear of exposure and irritation at him. Potter cannot make anything easy on either of us.

I bark, "Put that to rights and wait outside, boy."

The relief I see in his posture irritates me as much as the disapproval of the woman beside him does. I swirl away from them both, gathering the groceries into the mesh bags. The woman retreats to the far end of the counter, shooting both Potter and I speculative looks. She jumps slightly as Potter exits the building, signalled by the discordant jangling of the bells over the door.

I fish out my father's ancient wallet and hand her a wad of bills. She counts out her portion with an odd expression and puts the rest on the counter for me to retrieve. We've done this before, but it never ceases to surprise her that I seem to be blissfully unaware of how the Queen's currency works.

The bells above the door rings again. I look up to see Potter crouching wild-eyed in the interior of the shop. A dark clothed figure passes outside the window, a man in wizarding robes with a bone-white mask dangling from his fingers. I know the face but not the name. He is a ruthless bastard, a true believer, and one of the few left from the first war. Potter ducks down below the level of the window and I turn to the woman. "Go to your store room and remain there, no matter what you hear."

She starts to protest and I grab her by her fleshy upper arm, propelling her towards a curtained doorway at the rear of the shop. I bid her to silence with a finger to my lips as I motion Potter towards me. Two other dark-clad figures pass the window as Potter crouch-crawls towards us.

"Stay here," I say as Potter reaches us. "Do not come out until I summon you."

I push Potter to the woman and hastily ward the room against notice. It is a poor ward, to be sure, but the only one I can effect with such short notice. I spin on the spot and Disapparate to the edge of the village.

A young Death Eater chases a boy past me. He is screaming, rivulets of blood running down the Muggle's back from whatever curse he has employed to torture him. The Death Eater grins at me, flicking his wand at the boy again, hobbling him with a slicing hex to his Achilles tendons. He falls and the young Death Eater walks leisurely to the Muggle, his grin growing as he falls upon the boy with a flurry of wandwork.

I turn away from the scene. There is nothing I can do for the boy, nothing I can do to save the village from the depredations of my brethren. Saving Potter is the focus of my attention. I must draw the Dark Lord's forces away from the village so that I might make our escape. It would not do for me to draw any attention to my hideout, nor to Potter's presence in it.

I can only hope that this raid is coincidental and not a result of some colossal fuck up of my own.

I focus my attention on finding the first Death Eater I saw. His name is Morrisey or something like that. When we were young he wore a flat-brimmed hat that covered his eyes. I remember that he is not a pureblood, but one like me who fell into our little group of anarchists in that era of disenfranchised youth and disaffected men. He liked the torture, from what I remember of him. There is no high-flown grace about his fall from humanity, no true reason for him to become what he has.

I find him near the entrance of the town's nursery school. Children and women are screaming inside. The carnage wrought inside is already evident on the glass that drips red. I don't want to dwell on it, so I halt him with the simple expedient of a well-applied Expelliarmus and then an Impedimenta, even as I shiver at the thought of how Gryffindor my actions are.

I pull him around the side of the building, out of view of the windows, out of hearing of our compatriots. It takes only seconds to secure his gaze and soon I have pulled the information I seek out of his Swiss cheese psyche.

The raid was not called for by the Dark Lord. It was not even planned. It just happened with my usual Sod's Law luck. There will be consequences for this war party and I do not want to be noticed. I Obliviate the man, carefully excising my actions from his already ruined memory. I sense some of Lucius' finer work in some of the older scars in his mind. I then cast a glamour on myself, nothing too intricate. I don't have time for my usual subtlety. I then backtrack to the young Death Eater who was toying with the Muggle.

When I see what he is doing to the body of his victim, I don't bother with finesse. I kill him with a box knife I keep hidden in the ankle of my boot. It's more mercy than he deserves.

I return to the shop, my hands sticky from the shed blood. The woman's snuffling sobs are what I acknowledge first. Once I'm through the curtains, I stun her quickly, shoving her flaccid body into an alcove that seems to be more hidden than most of the room. I grab Potter by the elbow and turn. We Disapparate to a small Iron Age cot that lies in ruins in Wales. I then take him to Brittany in a small group of standing stones I visited once as a teen with Lucius. We hop across Northern Europe, the South of England and finally back to the bothy all to maintain our cover.

Potter struggles to maintain my weight as I collapse. I fall insensate at his feet and I don't wake for days.

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The Spoils of War