Ashes of Armageddon | By : emilywaters Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 94917 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1 |
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. |
She glanced at him quizzically.
“How well do you understand the slave-bonds?” He asked.
“I know the basics, but...”
“Did you know that, centuries ago, when slavery was common place in the wizarding world, it was customary for the owner to place spells on whips and other tools of chastisement, ensuring that only the Master could heal the injuries caused by them?”
She paled slightly. “I've read about it, but...”
“Can you guess why?”
She stared at him uncomprehendingly, and then, with a tremor in her voice, offered a guess:
“To force a reconciliation of sorts, I suppose. To get the servant to come to the Master in submission to receive the healing.”
“Correct,” he said.
She stared at him with dread, and then continued, on her own:
“The same applies... to the injuries of the soul, I presume?”
“Of course it does,” he said with absolute derision. “In every bond. That is what slavery means.”
She took his scarred hand in hers, and squeezed it gently.
“What do you dream about?” she asked.
He scowled, but did not withdraw his hand. “You realize, if you repeat this to any living soul, I will murder you in your sleep?”
She nodded with conviction. “I would expect nothing less.”
“Fragments,” he said tiredly. “Back at Godric's Hollow, there were moments... of mercy. Sometimes, in midst of absolute depravity... unsurpassed cruelty... a hand on my shoulder, an occasional healing spell, a kind word that did not belong. And...” his voice trailed off, and he looked away in embarrassment.
“That's what you dream about then,” she murmured. “The moments of mercy. And wake up loathing yourself for it.”
“Who wouldn't?” he spat bitterly. “As if it is not enough that I have been reduced to some sort of miserable wreck, who wants to be coddled and pitied, the bond condemns me to require such dubious mercy from the same hand that tore strips of skin from my body.” He glared at her. “This will not happen.”
She did not argue with him, but stood up, still holding his hand in hers.
“Would you come home with us?” she asked.
He glowered ferociously. “I do not see the point...”
“Well,” she mused. “We do need to start weaning you off Dreamless Sleep. It'll likely be unpleasant. After three years, there will be physiological withdrawal, in addition to everything else. I'd rather that we did it in the privacy of our home, than St. Mungo's.”
“Just let me be,” he muttered. “I know. You are right. It needs to happen, but I'll do it on my own.”
“Why?” she demanded bitterly. “Haven't you done enough on your own, without a soul in the world to do anything in return for you?”
“I am used it being that way,” he said simply.
“I know,” she conceded. “But please...” Her gaze fell on Hugo, who was standing in front of the fridge in the kitchen, poking a lump of mold with his finger with an awed expression on his face. “He just earned himself a month of being grounded for breaking into your place,” Hermione said with a mischievous smile. “Let him serve his sentence with the knowledge that it was not in vain.”
His upper lip curled into a contemptuous sneer. “That is emotional manipulation.”
“Of course it is,” she agreed unapologetically. “Is it working?”
“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly.
A few minutes later, they left Spinner's End together. August sun was approaching the horizon, the last of it reflecting in the dark river. They walked down the street towards the hideous Weasley flying car, watching Hugo skip along recklessly, kicking the pieces of trash littering the riverbank with his feet.
“You know,” Hermione murmured. “Watching him like this, it just dawned on me. It really is over.”
“What is?” Severus asked absently.
“The war,” Hermione told him. “It's done with. You've kept the nail, you've won the kingdom.”
“Hmm,” he muttered.
Her fingers brushed against his sleeve, and sought out his hand again, squeezing it firmly.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“I've been thanked enough,” he said dryly, suddenly feeling much older than his forty-six years of age. “I have the bloody Order of Merlin, First Class.”
“No. For coming home with us. We've missed you.”
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