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You Can Only Hope	By : emilywaters Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Snape/Lucius Views: 5186 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: JKR owns Harry Potter and Potterverse. I don't. I make no money from writing fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1-You Can Only Hope
- 1
Title: You Can Only Hope
Pairing: Lucius/Severus
Warnings: Noncon/dubcon, emotional abuse, M/M, stockholm syndrome.
Summary: “I'm his filthy, hideous secret.” Severus Snape describes his relationship with Lucius Malfoy.

You Can Only Hope

I lie on the grass. My face is turned away from him. There's a sticky fluid smeared across my backside. My stomach is slightly queasy. It always is, when this happens.

Though it's decidedly better than the public humiliation of dealing with Potter's gang. This... shields me from them. By taking up time. By giving me something else to feel sick about. And by association. He has friends too. Powerful friends, friends who know Dark Arts. There's a measure of protection in this.

His hand strokes my back possessively. Like I'm a pet or something. He's sort of soothing me. I think. It's hard to know.

“Severus? Do you think you're beginning to like it?” He asks. His voice is almost completely devoid of emotion.

I panic at the question. I have no idea how to answer. Does he want me to learn to like this? Or does he hope that I'll always suffer, and always yield to him regardless? I have no idea how I'm supposed to feel in order to please him.

I lean into his touch. He's relaxed in the afterglow of his orgasm. His mind isn't guarded. It's easy to to slip in.

Legilimens. In and out. He doesn't know.

Just as I thought. He's conflicted. He wants my body to yield to him. To become his, fully and completely. But there's a definite pride in making me suffer, and having me accept it. If I say I like it, he'll be rougher next time. I'm not especially fond of the idea of my backside covered in welts and bruises. If I say I don't like it, he might drop me. And then, Potter's little gang will swarm all around me again. It's hard to know how to answer. I'm just so tired of it all. Tired of pain. I just want to preserve the status quo. The situation with least pain.

“Does it matter if I like it?” I ask softly. “You know that I'm yours.”

My answer pleases him. He draws me to himself and strokes my abdomen. His other hand strays to my hair and parts my locks with surprising gentleness. It feels good.

“You know, your hair is filthy,” he says. “It's really quite repulsive.”

My breath catches in my throat. My eyes sting so much that all I can do to hold from crying is bite into my lip.

I hear him move. He's getting dressed.

“Tomorrow. Same place, same time,” he says.

Don't cry. Don't fucking cry.

I don't.

I turn around and stare at him. I need to bolster his ego. “How do I know you'll protect me from them?” I ask.

He smiles indulgently. “You don't. You can only hope.”

~ * ~

Months go by. My body learns the way of it.

It learns to adjusts itself to the pain in anticipation of mockery of kindness.

It derives pleasure from the encounters, doing so hungrily, greedily, guiltily, shamefully, but knowing that someone like me will not know pleasure any other way.

The hand resting on my back is much bigger and stronger than the hand that I need it to be.

Best not to think of Lily Evans, I decide.

She is unreachable. Forever unattainable. Best not to think of her. She's for someone else. She'd chosen the people who had nearly killed me as her friends. Our paths have diverged forever. I try not to dwell on how much that realization hurts.

I lean into his touch. My response pleases him. He looks at me, leering. He soothes me, compounding the tender touch with insults. I'm too scrawny. My skin is unhealthy. My hair is too oily.

Doesn't matter, I remind myself. He's pleased. Proud. Self-assured. The defenses of his mind are weak.

Legilimens. In and out. He never knows.

I'm on his good side. I'm safe. That's enough.

~ * ~

“And what can a Death Eater offer me?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. For some reason I had hoped that simply passing on the piece of relevant information to Dumbledore would be enough to protect her. He doesn't seem especially concerned about her. He wants something in exchange for protecting her. Slimly bastard. Really, I think, we sort too soon.

“Anything,” I say.

There's a twinkle in his eye. He knows he owns me. He'll take care of me. For as long as I'm useful to him, I presume.

A different kind of ownership. A different way to be fucked.

~ * ~

There's a kind of safety in being needed. Certainly, not safety from death, or torture, as I quickly find out, but the safety of knowing where you stand. That's a relief in itself. I want to keep it, for as long as I can. I want to be needed.

My liaison with Lucius becomes a matter of necessity more than ever. It's amazing how much I can extract form his unguarded, relaxed mind, when he's lying in bed, smiling in post-orgasmic bliss.

Legilimens. In and out. He never knows the difference.

~ * ~

“Dumbledore? You're making a mistake on Quirrell. No, I'm not just jealous of him teaching DADA.” Of course I'm nearly mad with jealously, but that's not the point.

~ * ~

“Malfoy is planning to sneak a Dark Object into Hogwarts. No, I don't know how exactly.” I remain standing. I don't want to groan when my bruised backside connects with the chair. “Yes, I'll try to find out.”

~ * ~

It should be impossible for me to still be tasting his come on my lips. Just impossible. But I can still feel it. On the roof of my mouth, on my tongue. I try not to cringe.

“Make sure the Weasleys keep an eye on Potter during Quidditch World Cup. That's all.”

~ * ~

“And I am telling you, there's a link between the Dark Lord's mind and Potter's, and the Dark Lord is going to exploit it! What needs to happen until you take this seriously, huh, Dumbledore?”

I'm angry. Always angry. I think everyone is used to it by now.

~ * ~

I lift myself on the elbow and stare at his body, while he's sleeping. Lucius really does look... angelic when he's asleep. His face is completely devoid of cruelty and scorn. His features look so soft... so soft. His skin is flawless, alabaster-white, untainted, like a field of freshly-fallen snow.

What does someone like him want with someone like me, after all these years? I wonder.

Legilimens. In and out. He doesn't notice.

I ponder the stupid, simple, unflattering truth of it. Nothing has changed. I'm his filthy, hideous secret. Someone he gets to humiliate, and fuck, and own. He likes the contrast of my ugliness to his flawless looks. He knows he's my better. He likes the way it feels.

His eyelashes flutter slightly and he opens his eyes.

“Severus?”

“Yes.”

“You seem troubled.”

You don't know the half of it.

“I am,” I say quietly. “I... need you so much. How do I know you won't leave me?”

Beautiful. My vulnerability pleases him. Just like I knew it would.

He looks smug again.

“You don't,” he says coolly. “You can only hope.”

~ * ~

I do.

I do hope, with all my heart, that this lasts. If this liaison should end, my usefulness to Dumbledore will be a thing of the past. Or will it? I just don't know.

~ * ~

“Severus?” Dumbledore's blue eyes look at me with something that I'm startled to recognize as compassion.

“What?”

“You realize, don't you, that you don't have to be needed, to be valued?”

I snort under my breath. “You're the one to talk. You wanted something from me, you're getting it.”

His eyes scrutinize me. There's concern in his gaze.

“I wonder, though, at what cost?”

“Don't.”

“Severus, I don't know how you manage to find out the things that you do, but you need to know, you're more than an ally. You're a friend. I feel very fortunate to have you with me.”

He seems sincere. I almost believe him.

But even if it were true, it's not enough. Friendship isn't enough. I got used to being needed.

~ * ~

Lucius goes to Azkaban. I should be relieved for the reprieve, but far from it, I find myself anticipating and dreading his return. I try not to think of the fury and denied desire he'll unleash on me when he's finally out. I try and fail. The anxiety continues to mount. I wish he were out already.

I take out my frustrations on Potter-junior.

It's his fault anyway. Or his father's. I don't know the difference. I don't care.

Five years spent as Malfoy's personal whore, trying to keep the wretched child of Potter-senior safe. I loathe him. He's so – fucking blasé, so unconcerned about his own safety, I want to shake him. Fifty points from Gryffindor. Be thankful it's not more.

I fall asleep, and dream of Lucius, stroking my hair. When I wake up, my pillow is damp. I go to the bathroom expecting to throw up again. For some reason, I don't. This time.

~ * ~

Dumbledore is dead. Dead by my hand.

I don't know how I feel about it. I should grieve for the man who had tried to be my friend. But I grieve for myself, I think. In a way he stood between me and Lucius. I never realized how much, until he was gone. Now... now it'll be just me and him.

I privately wonder if there's a way to blow up Azkaban and kill everyone inside.

~ * ~
He's out. Fuck. Just... fuck.

~ * ~

His hand clenches around my throat, constricting my breathing. His lips press against my ear, as he whispers, “I've missed you, Severus. I've missed you so much.”

I feel dizzy. I press myself into his palm. With any luck, he'll just choke me to death, and be done with it.

His grip relaxes slightly, and he kisses my neck. I respond to him, my erection grinding against his hip. There's no surprise there.

“You're so ugly,” he whispers angrily, as he proceeds to disrobe me. Robe falls down. Overshirt, undershirt. “Hideous. Nasty. Barely human.”

His words don't have the usual sting. It almost seems as if he's simply repeating the old familiar lines without meaning them. My eyes are wide open. I stare at him without blinking. He's changed. His face is almost as sallow as mine. There are tiny scars here and there, undoubtedly tokens of Azkaban's not-so- tender mercies. His hands are twitchy, nervous.

Something stirs inside, and relief floods me. I don't need him, I think. As far as the Dark Lord's confidence goes, he's fallen from grace. I can still use him, but I don't exactly need him anymore. .

“I suppose it's important for you to believe that,” I quip. “You aren't exactly an image of classic beauty right now. Azkaban hadn't been kind to you, Lucius.”

He ends the argument by backhanding me. It stings. I taste my own blood, and fall silent.

He cups my face and brings my bloodied lips to his. He begins to kiss me, and his kiss is surprisingly gentle. He drinks away the ache, mingled with blood, and his thumbs stroke my cheekbones.

I shut my eyes as I relax into the kiss. It feels good to believe for one fleeting moment, that the kiss is real, and not a matter of pretense, like everything else in my life.

When I finally open my eyes, he looks at me with an expression I don't recognize.

“You took an Unbreakable Vow to protect my son,” he says hesitantly.

I nod.

“Narcissa thinks she managed to sway you with her feminine wiles,” Lucius says with just a note of mockery in his voice. “But... I know you. You did it for me, didn't you?”

Arrogant prick. He still thinks everything revolves around him. It hadn't. Not for a long time.

I kiss his hand, and nuzzle his palm, my bloodied lips leaving a faint trace on his pale skin.

“Yes,” I whisper. “For you.”

Maybe I should end this now, I think. I don't need him, and he... he seems grateful enough to just let me go.

He sees the hesitation on my face.

“Do you want to leave?” he asks.

And just as I realize that, I realize that I don't have the resolve to let him go. Now that I'm declared a traitor to the Light, with all the real attachments gone, disintegrated, this is the only thing I've got left. It's not real, I know that. But it's here.

Would it be so wrong to indulge in the few minutes of blissful fantasy, and allow myself the pleasure of human touch, even if the reasons for it aren't what I need them to be?

I shake my head. “I don't want to leave.”

He guides me to the bed, and I fall face down. His hands stroke my back. I lift my body up to stand on my knees and elbows and part my legs in silent invitation. He takes his time with me, making me feel good, ensuring that I'm ready for him, that I'm wanting him. I don't mind. It's a nice change of pace.

When he's about to come, he strokes my cock firmly, collecting my release in his hand. When he is done, he gives his weight to me and I fold.

Together, we fall.

~ * ~

He's relaxed now. His mind is unguarded. He's so unguarded around me, I could laugh.

I don't laugh, of course. I slip into his mind.

Legilimens. In and out. He doesn't notice.

This time, I don't need information. He isn't exactly in the Dark Lord's good books, so he likely doesn't know much. I don't bloody care what he thinks of me, and I don't look for anything. Instead, I simply leave a suggestion.

You're growing weary with the Dark Lord mistreatment of your family. You deserve better. Your family is the most important thing there is. Not the Dark Lord's agenda. Would it hurt to make an innocent mistake at a critical time?

It will only work if he's already thinking along those lines on some level. Which he does. I know him well enough.

He opens his eyes and stares at me. His face is stunningly open.

“I love you,” he says.

I shudder slightly. What the fuck? I didn't expect that.

I realize that he's waiting for some sort of response. It'd be very satisfying to get up, get dressed, and walk away, leaving him naked and shivering. But just as much as a part of me wants to – I realize that I don't have it in me. I don't think I could ever do that to someone after they had said that to me. Even if the words are a blatant lie.

He's waiting. Waiting for me to reply.

“How do I know that?” I ask quietly. “How do I know it's not just another game?”

His expression becomes slightly more guarded. “You don't,” he says coolly. “You can only hope.”

~ * ~

The war is over and done with. My body bears more scars now. My hair has a few streaks of grey. I look at myself in the mirror with satisfaction. It's the body of someone who had lived, and fought.

I know what I am. And I know what I want.

I invite myself over. He's alone. The arrogant fool that he is.

He stares at me warily.

“You used me,” he says with a small frown. “For how long?”

You're the one to talk, I think.

I smile without saying a word.

I remove my robe, and fold it neatly. He continues to stare. There's something like panic in his eyes.

Slowly, I unbutton my overshirt. His breath catches in his throat. Good.

When my torso is completely bare, he licks his lips. I reach the belt of my trousers.

He bites his lip.

I strip down completely and kneel before him. He stares at me in disbelief.

“Why?” he asks.

I don't know how to answer that.

Maybe because I'm used to this.

Maybe because this is better than nothing.

Maybe because this will remind me of being needed again.

I say nothing. I look at him, and wonder what he's thinking. He's confused. Troubled. More than slightly frightened by this development. It's easy to slip into his mind.

Legilimens. In and out. He doesn't notice.

But I can see everything. There's uncertainty. There's loneliness, there's anger, there's a horrible emptiness of someone who's given his entire life to a cause to have it crumble before his eyes. There's something that looks suspiciously like guilt. And there's fear. Genuine terror as he stares at my naked, kneeling form.

He's got a reason to be afraid. I could kill him with a nonverbal spell in one of his unguarded moments, before he could even think of reaching for his wand.

Potter-junior might have pitied him, and saved him from his due punishment after the war was over, but I am certain that nobody in a position of power will be unduly troubled if Lucius Malfoy simply disappears one day.

“How do I know you won't kill me?” he asks.

I look up at him. My lips twitch into a slight smirk.

“You don't,” I say softly. “You can only hope.”

He relaxes a little. He knows he's safe.

Why, coming from me, it's practically a declaration of love.

~ Fin

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You Can Only Hope