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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.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
It has been days since the Death Eater attack on the village. I exhausted my magical core during our escape and I know enough not to do Legillimency on Ha-- Potter, until I have rested sufficiently. The boy has hovered over me for days, a look of expectant dread on his face. It is my fault that he dreads the process so much, after those failed lessons his fifth year. It is my fault that I used him so brutally, so resentful and bitter was I that Albus forced me to interact so intimately with the spawn of my worst enemy... my worst enemy aside from myself, that is.
I find great irony in the fact that I am contemplating doing much more than plundering Potter's mind, and with a great deal more relish than is strictly necessary.
Today, after I have walked the perimeter of the island and assessed my mental and magical acuity, I feel sufficient strength to Legillimise Potter, and so, frost from my breath riming my scarf, I return to the bothy. It is bitter outside, seasonably so, but still disheartening in this bleak environment of scrubby trees and gorse. I feel Potter watching me from the bed, I smell the musk of his lithe body, and I want nothing more than to enter his mind so that I might have an excuse to fuck him. I want more than anything to feel the slid of his skin on mine, the pull of his flesh on my cock. I want to feel... less alone.
I tell myself that the spell requires that type of intimacy, even though I know there might be other ways to effect a cure. There are always other ways, to be sure, though I cannot think of a single one that would be as pleasant or as efficacious.
I pull off my outer gear, stowing my cloak and scarf on the hooks by the door. I sit by the fire and pull off my shoes, seeing the white of my toes through the worn yarn of my dark socks. I say into the silence, as I catch Potter's gaze with mine and level my wand at him, "Legillimens!"
He is, of course, unprepared for my assault. I have always found that truer readings of a person's thoughts can be effected with such a direct and underhanded approach. I need to know how the Slavery spell was cast, and I need to know quickly. I do not trust that my magical strength has recovered enough for politesse.
Potter's mind is still as disorganised as it was in his youth, but in some ways, it is stronger. He struggles against my invasion for a moment before suddenly drawing me further into his mind. He is able to direct me to things he wants me to see. It's not as effective a method against my assault as an actual shield, but at least it's novel. He seems to be attempting to lead me towards a particular set of memories, but I resist. I must see what I came to see before I allow him control.
He feeds me stale grief and unrequited love, a set of emotions that resonate with me all too well. I am forced to follow this line, suspecting the Weasley girl is the cause of this sorry passion. It is a torture to me to think as much. I want Har... no Potter...to want me without the shadow of ancient despair that so mirrors my own. I know it is wrong, this impulsive desire, but here it is. He was my reason for living for so long that he has become more to me than even Lily. I brutally cut off that line of thought as I feel tendrils of curiosity rise from Potter’s mind.
As I delve further into his psyche, I come across an unexpected construct; a box of memories as it were, one that seems as familiar to me as my own thoughts. Potter seems to be pushing them to the forefront of his mind, but I will not be distracted. I fly past these obviously alien things and finally arrive at the casting of the spell. It will be easy enough to break, as I see it cast, even with the silvered pain that coats the scene. I watch the casting of it, the agony of his first communication afterwards, the burning shame of before the spell...
What shame has Potter to bear compared to mine? I feel outraged at the ridiculous notion that he might bear any responsibility for the tapestry fate has wrought in our world. It is I who bears the burden of us all. I alone bear the stigmata of failure.
He pushes against my mind and suddenly I am flooded with scenes from the Battle of Hogwarts. Molly Weasley cold and dead, along with two of her sons and the Lupins. Lucius striding through the battlefield, finding Potter, burning his face with a well-placed spell. In the memory, Lucius' vulpine features loom above Potter‘s for only an instant.
“For Draco,” Malfoy says, before he swirls away in a flurry of fustily furred robes.
I see memory Lucius as he was during those days, stretched too thin, fighting his own battles from the bottom of a bottle, uncharacteristically haggard. It is apparent now that he knew the cause to which we had all damned ourselves in our youths was defeated, no matter who won. The Dark Lord had apparently taught Lucius well. We were all fools, only I learned it sooner than most.
Potter, with surprising strength of purpose, compels me backwards in his mind, towards the office that still bars the Dark Lord, was once mine, but will always be marked by Albus. I see him standing over the pensieve, see mercurial memories swirling in the bowl. Potter winds them one by one onto the end of his wand and places them in his own mind. The shock of them, the alien way they slide into his centre jolts me as well. I lose focus until I realise that the memories being restored are scenes from my own childhood, my own private agonies, missing pieces I didn’t quite know existed. It all comes flooding back to me, muffled by the years and the emotions surrounding them in Potter’s head.

And there at the nexus of these memories lies a small ember of... admiration... hero worship... love... that is fanned into existence in Harry’s breast by the very memories that I sought to bury with me. It is after viewing these paltry offerings that the boy decides to save me, and damns the world to hell.
My mind reels as I finally acknowledge what I must have known all along. It was Potter who worked for hours in that hut. It was he, in some sense of self-preservation, who ignored the deadline writ on the air by the Dark Lord, ignored the cries of battle, until I was as whole as I could be under such circumstances. Potter failed to give himself to the Dark Lord as the lamb to slaughter that Albus had reared him to be, so that I might live.

That unwillingness to kill himself, to selfishly save me for his own purposes, and solely that, is the source of his regret.
The boy's thoughts issue sullenly out of the man's mind. "It's not fair! I've not lived yet! I have just now discovered love and... I'm only seventeen! I'm afraid of the dark... I’m afraid... afraid.. afraid... that no one will ever love me, no matter where I land... I am only a boy!"
On these thoughts swirl until I batter them away with my own self-deprecatory humour.
"Was I worth it?" I ask him in his mind as I push my own, extremely accurate, rendering of my self-image towards him; lank hair, sallow skin, cadaverous thinness, dour scowl. Potter's unequivocal answer is affirmative as he super-imposes a more dashing image that he thinks he sees on my mental construct, poor deluded fool that he is.
It is enough for me and I reach for him physically. I barely catch him as he sags into my arms. We fall together onto the hardened earth of the bothy floor.
We have both been fools for love and the fear of it, this man that is now beneath me, tangled in my clothes, legs around my waist. We have both wanted what we thought was unobtainable, have feared the unknown it would bring.
I am only a weak man and I slide further into his mind, filling him with the desire (and fearful love) I feel, that I have felt for weeks, possibly since that night in the shack. I want the completion we both apparently need, even if it is as ephemeral as a blossom’s petal on a windy day. We are connected as intimately as two people can be without the sticky mess. But I’ll be damned if I stop. I want the ruddy mess, as greedy as it seems. I stroke his cock with my free hand, and Potter cries out in completion. I feel the wet heat on my belly, see the shattering stars in his mind. I withdraw from the delirium before I fall over that precipice with him.
When I come I want to feel his skin against mine. I want to have his body draw out my essence. I want to fill him with my seed.
I attempt to move away so that I might prepare him for my intrusion, but his arms grasp my neck, his hands draw me forward, and he kisses me. It is a clumsy gesture at first, due to his apparent lack of experience and my own shock. There has only been one who ever wanted to kiss me, and that was done on a cruel dare. She is long dead with her werewolf husband, somewhere on the field of battle. Once the preliminary clash of teeth is over, he slides his tongue into my mouth, shyly at first, but bolder as I experimentally stroke that organ with my own. His breath is hot against my cheek as his respiration increases. It stirs my hair, makes it cling to my sweat-dampened cheek.
Potter breaks away communicating with his body, “I want... I need...”
I pull him closer to me as I grind my cock against his burgeoning erection.
Oh, to be young and so reactive again, my mind quips, until Potter moans and whatever thoughts had accumulated to mock me skitter away in the rush of blood that flows from my head to regions south. I am lost for the moment, even as my hands work automatically to free my cock from its fabric prison. Potter struggles out of his dungarees, assaulting me with the delicious agony of his effort.
I prepare him perfunctorily with a schoolboy spell that is known to be adequate in these matters, and even though I have breached him with my hasty fingers, he hisses as I slide my cock into his slick passage.
I am almost tempted to withdraw as the slight noise slices through his teeth and threatens to bring me to my senses, but he bucks against me impatiently seeming to say, “Move, damn you!"
I am as enflamed as one of those lusty bucks in the silly bodice rippers that I confiscated for so many years as a teacher. I am lost in the sensation of his flesh around me, his hands claw my back as I ride the certain crest that will peak all too soon.
His cock, which had gone flaccid as I entered him, has hardened and leaves a slick trail on my stomach each time I thrust. He tosses his head in what can only be ecstasy, and I nip along the tendons on his tender, exposed neck. I am entranced by the trust he gives me with that unconscious gesture of submission.
It is that abandon that swims like molten gold through my veins and brings me over the edge of the void. I am aware of my hoarse cry as I come, and Potter joins me only seconds later.
We lay in a tangle of limbs and hastily doffed clothing, both of us nearly insensate, until I realize what I've done.
In my greedy rush to consummation, I have forgotten the reason for such indecorous intimacy. I failed to enact the counter spell that would end his enforced muteness. I say as much to him and feel Harry smile against my neck. I can almost see the cheeky grin he gives me. He finally grinds out, "S'okay. Practice makes it better, right?"
I lift my head and scan his features through heavy lidded eyes. He seems to be less affected by the curse, for whatever reason. I say with little rancour, "Shut up, idiot boy. I need you whole."
&*&*&
It is done.
The curse is lifted after a few fumbling and satisfying attempts. Harry lies at my side, our sweat-slicked skin rubbing as he pulls on my painfully erect nipple. The man is insatiable and I am inclined to oblige his questing fingers, but we must talk, and soon. I fee,l with a great deal of certainty, that the Dark Lord knows what I've just done to his slave. Even though I set wards during the actual casting of the counter-curse, even though He is at least a hundred miles away, He knows.
I expect the painful call in my blood from a summoning soon, and I must know why Potter had to die for our side to win.
I won't let it happen... not again.
I won't sacrifice my little bit of peace to save the world.
Yet, even as I think this, I know the decision is not mine. It never was.
"Po-- Harry..." I croak, as his questing fingers slide further down my body. I clasp his hand, pinning it to my stomach, bringing it up to my lips. "We must talk."
Potter wrests his hand from beneath mine, a slow smile on his lips. "We will. Just one more time, Sna-- Severus, please."
He gives me a look from under his lashes, one that is purely him. It's flirtatious, coy, and knowing. I lift his chin with a potions-stained finger, still yellowed after years of daily brewing. "No, Harry. He knows. We'll have to act soon, before I'm summoned... otherwise..."
I fear for both of us, no matter the outcome of this talk. The Dark Lord still has the Elder Wand. He is still the most powerful wizard on the planet, no matter his seeming weakness.
Potter grimaces before sliding his hand from beneath mine, renewing his titillating exploration even as he speaks. "I know he knows. I've had a piece of his soul in me since he murdered my parents. He's not strong at all right now, believe me."
I open my mouth to scoff at such a ridiculous comment, but Potter has different ideas, and soon he is between my legs, nuzzling my still damp cock, passing a questing tongue over my scrotum. I hiss in frustration but let him bring me to tumescence. I watch the way his lips stretch over the head of my cock, how he bobs his head down, slicking my skin with the end of his tongue as he moves up again. I love seeing him like this over me and accept that even though it may damn everyone in our miserable world, I will let him have his way.
After we spend ourselves once again, Harry begins telling me of his part in the war, of the Horcruxes, and the accidental one that has been part of him since he was a toddler. That festering shard is the reason for the Occlumency lessons, and why we both failed so spectacularly.
I want to vomit. I want to rage and shout and tear things up. I want to smash things, but instead I say, "I see."
With these two words, I acknowledge what he wants me to do, and I know that I will do it. I will brew enough poison for the two of us today. I will promise him that I will complete the killing of the Dark Lord, but someone else can have blood on their hands. I have had enough.
I will not let Harry go into the dark alone.
I will follow him.
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The Spoils of War