And If That Diamond Ring Turns Brass

And If that Diamond Ring Turns Brass
~ Broken Lullabies Arch; Line C ~
- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
03.08 – 06.15.2003
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Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this.

Warnings: HARD R Rating. AU, slash, angst, language, and Sev being generally creepy. What else do I write about?

Continuity: This is the 3rd in the Broken Lullabies Arch and occurs after Hush, Little Baby and Don’t Say A Word.

Notes: If you’ve been emailing me, then please know that while I have received your messages, I can’t reply because my family uses a VERY proprietary ISP. (Damn Juno! >.<)
Becauseof that, chapters 3 & 4 of “Diamond Ring” are completely un-betaed. (*flees from irate English professors!!*)

Special Thank You\'s go to Chantal Malfoy, Moi, and Sarryn for their reviews. ^_^ *sends them loads of virtual Chocolate Frogs* Also, I\'d like to thanks Anathedemalfoy, Quoth the Raven, and Mikochef 22 for their reviews of Don\'t Say a Word and Ravenclawgrrl, Morgeth, GMTH, Inge, PGB, WittchWay, and Anaischan for reviewing Hush. ALL of you have been wonderful--especially you repeat reviewers--and I\'m more grateful than I can say. Doumo arigatou.

Do not steal from me.

Don’t flame me. By fic number three this all gets a bit redundant,
don’t you think?

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Stanza Four
And If That Looking Glass Gets Broke

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“ ‘Now you’re free of illusions,’ Jack said, pointing to my wasted seed upon the air.
‘How does it feel to be free of one’s illusions?’
And I looked up through a pain so intense that the air seemed to roar with the clanging
of metal, hearing,
HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE FREE OF ILLUSION . . .
And now I answered, ‘Painful and empty,’ as I saw a glittering butterfly circle the air
three times over my blood red parts, up there beneath the bridge’s high arch.
‘But look,’ I said, pointing.
And they looked and laughed, and suddenly seeing their satisfied faces and,
understanding, I gave Bledsoe a laugh, startling them.
And Jack came forward, curious.
‘Why do you laugh,’ he said.
‘Because at a price I now see that which I couldn’t,’ I said.”

Invisible Man
Ralph Ellison


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The dream comes to me slowly, all darkness and vivid tastes and colors—knife sharp. I am not myself—I am free, outside of my body. The air is cold and sweet with sex. I can see myself, but I don’t know how I know it’s me. I don’t look like I think I do. My hair\'s wild and my expression is torn somewhere between bliss and pain. It’s as though I’m a stranger watching someone else inside me.

You’re on my lap, legs locked around me and leaning back every so slightly for the angle, rosy lips parted, head tossed back, hair standing wildly on end as you ride me hard. A delicate bead of sweat slips down the long curve of your arching spine. We’re both naked and blindfolded.

The clothe over our eyes is a dark, dark black—silk. It’s stretched tight and strains the skin over our cheekbones. Our chests meet and part in a frenzied rhythm as soft animalistic noises fall from our open mouth, but there’s no sound in my dreams. All is silent. Occasionally our lips mesh in frantic, inadequate kisses that seem to slowly drain more and more energy from me.

It’s hot and tight inside you and my movements have a clumsy, adolescent desperation to them that I’ve never before known. Your fingernails claw at my back, ripping great long gashes into my too-pale skin in your enthusiasm. Blood coats us, spreads around us and slicks down our already sweat-soakedies.ies. I try to say your name, to beg you to stop or demand what you’re doing, but you don’t listen. Blood rains down on black sheets and our panted breath is visible on the crisp, cool air.

Your nails rip at me, sinking deeper in every time as you push yourself harder down on me. Your fingers sink in up to the second joint. Then up to the knuckle. I can feel them slide inside me between my ribs even as I drive further into you helplessly. Your scar blazes brilliant Avada Kadavra green, burning me. Long, sharp fingers drive into my lungs from the back and curl under, gripping at the back of my rib cage. You arch your back, mouth open wide, and pull—tearing me inside out.

I cannot scream.

Blood pours out of me as you pull my spine out and discard it somewhere that I cannot see. Something trails out behind me from the inside. It feels like a string leading from the core of me to the cold outside to which I’m now exposed. Your vicious fingers grip it and tear out whatever is left inside, slim hips still maintaining their perfect, impossible rhythm. The pain is a strange release.

The chasm of my back closes seamlessly, like melted wax sealing together and solidifying. Tears stream down my face and you kiss me tenderly as I mouth your name. You hold me up with one hand and gently stroke my cheek with the other. Comfortingly. Lovingly.

You continue thrusting down on me and I want release so badly that my lips move in needy, humiliating pleas. The light from your scar seeps through the clothe over my eyes and blinds me.

And then you’re sinking into me. Literally. Your legs sink into me first, slowly merging with my body so gradually, so perfectly, that I can’t tell when you started. I try to fight, but your arms are around me and hold mine tight to my sides. Your body clenches tight around my arousal and then I can suddenly feel you merging with me—grinding pelvises sinking into one another, rising a bit less with every thrust. My skin feels hot and tight, dry and stretched too far over my bones where we’ve merged and I try to look down, but all I can see is the terribly smooth expanse of flesh where our torsos have become one. And then our chests. And then—

You kiss me—your tongue thrusting into my mouth like a rusted razor. I taste blood. And then your face sinks slowly into mine. I can feel my bones shifting and merging with yours, the joining devouring that terrible light from your scar. It’s as though a thousand hot needles are being shoved into me and filling up the soothing hollow you left only moments ago.

And we are one.

My arms are wrapped around me now that you’re gone. My hips buck uselessly in the air in a futile attempt to maintain the pace you set, but you’re no longer on top of me. You’re inside of me. I can feel you twitching and writhing at my center—an enormous spider, eight hairy legs straining against the fragile walls of my belly, pincers clicking hungrily, the sound muffled by my body.

I reach down to stroke myself, to seek some sort of completion, but my hand finds nothing. I look down, knowing for a terrifying moment what I’ll see, and I See Nothing. Nothing. The flesh where my sex, my male center, shouise ise out of my body is utterly smooth and hairless. Gone. Just like you.

The hand falls and cups the smooth curve of flesh between my legs in a desperate attempt to drive myself to release, but I can’t. There is no release for me. There is no peace. You twitch and chitter inside me and I am alone.

I fall backwards on the black silk, rotting gore, and blood and I scream.

And then I wake.


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Monday evening. Dinner. I hate Mondays. Not as much as I hate your mutts, though.

Black and Lupin. My lip twitches towards its requisite sneer. They’re gone now, too. And though I cursed them when they were here, I curse them more now that they’re gone. All the light—that false light Albus and I forced down your throat—seems to have dimmed painfully. The loss makes my mood even darker than what passes as normal for me. I wish you’d smile.

I never knew how very much I needed that smile. If only to let me know that you’re okay.

I sigh and my eyes flicker from you to my stone-cold teacup, falsely fascinated by watching my fingers dance lightly over the ceramic rim. I haven’t been much in the mood for tea lately. My nails are dark and have what appear to be shavings of lugworm skin beneath them and the tips of my fingers are stained with something golden brown that smells faintly of nutmeg and thyme. It turns my skin an odd, sunburnt shade I’ve never seen before. One discolored fingertip slips into the teacup and I stare at it idly for a moment before muttering a Heating Charm. The temperature of the liquid slowly rises until steam begins to emerge from the once-cold cup. I don’t remove my finger until it begins to boil slightly, wanting—needing—to feel the pain. I know it should hurt, but it doesn’t. Not enough.

The latest in a long line of inept (if not outright dangerous) Defense Against the Dark Arts professors looks over at me curiously and I gaze back into his eyes expressionlessly. He looks away quickly.

On my other side Sprout is chattering with Minerva about Quidditch, or maybe just brooms in general (although the idea of the admittedly rotund Hufflepuff Head on a broom makes even me want to laugh) and my head aches horribly. My eyes are dry and scratchy and I keep feeling Albus casting furtive glances my way, blue eyes slightly dimmed in worry.

Stop looking at me, Albus.

My head hurts.

I want to go take a bath.

. . . Sink under the water, exhale, inhale, and not come back up. I did that once when I first started teaching. Albus found me first, though; he was quite put out with me at the time. Of course, liberal amounts of cognac and absinthe helped my state of mind at the time. I’ve never had the combination since.

Instead I run my finger along the rim of my teacup again, wishing that either the cup was you, or the tea was Port. Or you full of Port.

Mmmmm . . .

Even better.

My head hurts.

“Severus, are you alright?”

Yes, Minerva? “Yes, Minerva.”

Ever since I came to teach, she’s always been like a mother to me—taking me under her Gryffindor wing and keeping an eye on me. Sometimes I appreciate it more than I will ever be able to express. Other times it makes me want to kill her. Or myself. I sometimes have trouble distinguishing between myself and other people.

It’s so much easier to hurt everyone equally.

You see? I’m fairer than you think.

The Gryffindor table bursts into raucous laughter over something—most likely something I’d take points off for—and I wince, my finger slipping into the hot tea again. And then I hear that odd tone that emerges only from your mouth.

Your mouth.

Merlin.

My head snaps up and my eyes latch onto you. The rest of the room swims sickeningly, but you’re in perfect, crystal focus. Head ducked slightly, face buried in your little hands as you laugh mindlessly at something. You’re so immature. There’s an odd rushing sound in my ears and my hand slips, overturning the teacup. The white tablecloth turns an odd brown-ish red as the liquid spreads. The inept Defense teacher swears, but all I can focus on is you . . .

You.

It’s different this time, as though I’m seeing something new. Something I saw and didn’t see. It’s strange and confusing and makes me oddly agitated somewhere beneath the blinding pounding behind my eyes. I feel like there’s a House Elf symphony in my head.

You’ve stopped laughing.

My hands are shaking.

What is it I see . . .?

Pretty green eyes. Raven hair. Quirky little mouth barred behind soft, luscious pink lips. Delicate cheekbones that are slowly becoming striking. Little hands with blunt, overworked fingers and tiny cresset nails. Limbs that are too long for you, but still small. You’ll never be a big man. You’ll never clear 2 meters. You’re too small. Too . . .

. . .

Too . . .

(My head hurts.)

. . .

(And I don’t want to see this.)

. . .

But it’s right there.

You’re . . . young . . .

Young.

Not young in that way that seems to make me want to throw you on the floor lately, . . . just . . . small. And there’s something about that that disturbs me and I stare at you, knowing that you’re aware of it and uncomfortable, but I also know that this is too important. There’s something here, something that I have to see. But I can’t.

And then the thought hits me with such force that I almost cry out. Immature. Of course. You’re a child. A child. You’re a child.

I knew that. I know I did. But . . . somehow it never really occurred to me.

And I feel ill.

Merlin.

A child.

A child in my arms.

A child beneath me.

A student beneath me . . .

And that strange, mercilessly hitherto unknown connection between fucking Harry Potter and raping one of my students is suddenly made and my stomach heaves.

I don’t . . . I can’t . . . Oh, God . . .

What have I done?

And your terrible mouth quirks in a scowl as you glare at me defiantly and I almost retch.

Am I shaking?

What have I done? And why do I want to do it again and again and—

The room is spinning. Everything’s spinning.

I can’t. I can’t. I need to leave this place.

I can’t.

Oh . . . God. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. Hard to see. Hard to—

“Severus? Severus, are you all right?”

Oh . . . Oh . . . Shut up, Minerva.

“Severus? Do you want me to get Poppy?”

The room pitches. The floor tilts. When did I stand up? Am I standing up?

“Severus? Are you all right? You look very pale, my boy . . .”

Albus . . . “Albus . . . .” It’s so hard to breathe. Am I having a panic attack?

“Albus . . .” Albus . . . “I . . . need to go . . .”

I seem to be in the habit of fleeing his presence lately.

The castle spins in a kaleidoscope of color and I have the strangest impression that the floor is actually a wall and the walls are somewhere near the ceiling and theturn to my chambersshouldhave been here and it’snotand I can’t think beyond this damn poundinginmyhead and odd little laugh/sobs keep risinginmythroatandwherethehellamIwhycan’tIbreatheIIIIIII

I

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

I’m sorry.

So sorry.

And then there’s my door and then there’s my sitting room and then there’s my fireplace and then there I am.

There I am.

Alone.

The fire roars next me, blending into the pressure between my ears.

It’s hot.

I don’t feel it.

I don’t feel anything anymore.

But the heat is easy to inhale and the little flecks of light vanish the corner of my eyes as I press my forehead against the warm stone of the floor.

The floor.

Yes.

I’m sitting.

Alone.

How much time has passed? It seems like only moments—I don’t even recall getting here—yet here I am with my legs asleep. Sitting on the floor. It’s hot in here.
I’m cold, though.

So cold.

And dirty.

Of all the things I’ve ever done, this—you—has to be the worst. And the one I regret the least.

Sicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksicksick . . . .

How is it possible to want something so much and be simultaneously repulsed by it?

If I were a lesser or a greater man, I think I’d sob. I’d weep and tear at my hair and scream and dash my head against the uncaring damp stones of my dungeons. But I’m not a lesser man, nor a greater one, so I merely huddle on the floor and stare into the flames, longing for a drink, but too hurt to move.

Too . . . much. Everything.

And I suddenly wish that I was a lesser or a greater man, because I can’t stop wanting you. Vile, horrible creature that you are—that I am—I can’t stop. I don’t even think I truly want to. And what would you do if you saw me now, nauseous with self-loathing and hard for want of a little boy?

I loathe you, Harry Potter.

I loathe you for what I am and for what I have become.

I loathe you because your remembered taste is too much and never enough. I loathe you because I can’t dare touch you and I don’t dare leave you alone. I loathe you because I am alone.

I loathe you because, for all my sins, all my depravity, I HAD A LIMIT! I had that line in the sand, that Great Divide between my self and the truly damned. Between my acknowledged wants and the quiet whispers of my subconscious at night. Because . . . because . . . if I had never touched you . . . I would never have known how badly I wanted to—still want to—and I would never have given you, a student, a second thought. And the fault is all my own.

You didn’t want this. Didn’t deserve this. Don’t deserve the burden of my . . . affections.

My god. What have I done to you?

Yes, love. I loathe you . . . even though I can’t really loathe you at all.

And so I loathe myself for all those reasons and more.

So I sit, empty, ill, and dry-eyed in front of the fire, mourning myself. What would you say?

“It’s just Snape being Snape.”

Yes, Harry. Lover. Innocent. Child.

I’m just Snape—hook-nosed, unattractive, unfair, greasy, Slytherin-favoring, snarky bastard of a professor.

Severus Snape—monster, Death Eater, murderer, rapist, spy, child molester, liar, traitor, man. Not a great man, not a small one. Just a man—tragically arrogant and foolishly in love. Sickening, empty, impossible love. Just a man who was, until today, all these things and more.

Severus Snape—a man who was, until this moment, everything but a coward.



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~ Fin

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