3some_mod (3some_mod) wrote in pimp_my_3some, @ 2007-06-29 19:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | fic post, jocelind wadcock |
"Double Blind," by Jocelind Wadcock. HP/SS/TR (NC-17)
Original poster: jocelindwadcock
My dears, my sincerest apologies for the wait…
And now for a different flavor of smut.
Title: Double Blind
Author: Jocelind Wadcock
Pairing: HP/SS/TR
Kink/Prompt: Virgin/Lost
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 6943
Warnings: kinky and a bit dark. highlight to see *non-con, bondage, paddling, orgasm denial, gagging, bloodplay, kissing, sex magic, dirty talk*
Summary: Harry’s a virgin, Snape practices moral relativity, and lots of kinky sex ensues. Features capture by Death Eaters, deceit, sodomy, sacrifice, and sex magic.
Author's Notes and Disclaimer: JK Rowling & Co own all of Harry Potter. I am only borrowing the characters. No profit is being made from this.
*A double blind study is one in which both sides (patient and researcher) are kept blind as to truth of what is being done to the patient (like who is being given a placebo). This story is compliant with Half-Blood Prince.
Many, many thanks to my two nameless betas for the suggestions and encouragement!
Plans were made and broken in that long summer and the harvest months following the defeat of Voldemort’s greatest opponent. During that time the Dark Lord grew ever more bold. Let the world feel his presence at long last. Let the frightened, defeated souls gather to him as a flock, never knowing the numbers they will find at slaughter come next spring.
Elaborate plans were designed to capture Potter intact for the Dark Lord. Or to capture his friends and surrogate family—anyone whose loss might hurt him, might draw him out for easy plucking.
The Order proved surprisingly resourceful in keeping those close to Potter well-guarded.
But really, it was only a matter of time before they failed.
********
The most surprising part, Snape thinks, is not that Potter has been captured. That part was inevitable, a prophecy that slowly dragged the two resisting sides together for a final match.
No, what’s surprising is that it is the Dark Lord himself who brings in the boy.
The boy is oddly subdued, unresisting, defeated. Blood pours down from a cut on the side of his head. He might be concussed. The proof of Albus’ failure to locate all six Horcruxes before his death stares baldly at Snape in the form of a blood-smeared curse scar.
“Dumbledore’s pet,” the Dark Lord addresses his assembled followers, “dared to cast Avada Kedavra on me.” A few Death Eaters flinch at the words that have often signaled the end of one of their own during meetings. “He did not miss his mark, feeble though his attempt was. Contrary to murmurings I have heard,” his voice hardening in anger as he continues, “this mere boy is nothing more than a pathetic excuse of a wizard—much too weak for a successful Unforgivable. He is nothing more than the broken body I will lay before you, to remind you what defiance will win.
“I once told all of you, my faithful followers, that I had taken more than adequate precautions to bypass death itself. Heed my words: I will rise up to conquer the Wizarding World, and those who have defied me will tremble before me, begging for mercy. And I will show none. Just as I shall show none to this boy.
“You’ve lost, Harry Potter,” he hisses in the boy’s ear. “Your survival to this point has never been more than luck.” His face darkens as he moves close enough to touch Potter from groin to chest, now barely audible to Snape who had the foresight to place himself as near to the two of them as he dared.
“Now, you have my full attention. I intend to destroy you so utterly that in the days before their own deaths, your friends will be unable to bear the mere thought of your name. I will make you into nothing more than my pet, a lowly slave. I will break you so completely it will be days before you recognize what a pitiable creature you have become…but Harry, I promise you will be cognizant enough to beg for death.”
Potter’s face is priceless. In six years of teaching him, Snape has never quite touched upon such fathomless rage. Still, there is fear behind his wide-eyed defiance, in the way his breaths come a little too quickly, in the sweat making his unruly mop of hair paste itself to his forehead, obscuring his scar of such infamy, and now of such tiresome complications.
He has never before been such a delight.
The Dark Lord employs Cruciatus on the boy until he lies panting and curled on the floor, his shrieks still echoing off hard stone.
Snape waits.
The miserable lump on the floor does not move, except to rub a cheek against the stone and groan. The defiance has been bled out of him, but no one is deceived that it is more than temporary. Snape waits for the haze of bloodlust to loosen its grip from the Dark Lord. Then, and only then, does he say, “My lord, I have an idea for the boy.”
The Dark Lord had spoken to his trusted confidante of his concerns regarding the loss of the prophecy. There is simply too much risk in either killing the boy or in allowing him to live, and yet, no options have so far presented themselves as a compromise between the two. At least, not that Snape has mentioned. It is this Snape keeps in mind as he steels his features into a look that says this must be discussed in private.
From the moment Harry Potter, the infant, defeated the Dark Lord he had been marked for death. The night of the Triwizard Tournament was perhaps his last chance to escape with an easy one. But the Dark Lord, humiliated once again, would never allow that now.
“Little boy, I will let you rest, undisturbed but for the discomforts now inherent to your captivity. Tomorrow, however,” he whispers, the words sibilant and barely audible over Potter’s harsh panting breaths, “you shall grace my bed and be glad for it. If you are to live. I think you shall find you are not quite as ready to die as you imagine, not nearly yet, anyway.
“Severus, take him to the dungeons for the evening and then join me in my chambers to discuss matters.”
Lucius looks livid from jealousy. Smirking, Snape takes the boy and drags the limp, unresisting form down several flights of stairs.
********
Snape deposits Harry on a scratchy bed of straw in his new accommodations.
“Potter,” he says simply and when the boy looks up, eyes flashing, Snape casts Legilimens.
“Did Miss Weasley spread her legs for you?” he asks, and turns to the memories those words invoke. “No…perhaps someone else at Grimmauld Place, then? One of her brothers? Professor Lupin?” He withdraws once he is satisfied that the boy’s fumbling attempts at copulation have left him very much a virgin.
“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!” Potter fairly explodes with venom. “You murderer! Traitor! You murdered Dumbledore and he trusted you!” His voice breaks on the last. He actually seems quite revived from his earlier bout of torture. He radiates tension, nostrils flaring in self-righteousness, fingernails digging furrows into his palms.
Snape waits for the boy to burn himself out. Really, sometimes it feels like he spends half of his time waiting for vitriolic imbeciles to calm themselves. And he has never been particularly well-known for his own temper. The next line of questioning is crucial, however. He is taking a risk even saying the words out loud, and he pauses to cast an Imperturbable.
“How many Horcruxes have you destroyed?”
There are no words for the look on Potter’s face. His face twists through permutations of surprise, horror, and settles on a poor facsimile of neutrality. He would have made an even worse spy than Lupin. With this prompt in place, Snape casts Legilimens again.
There is a torrent of information. Nights spent poring over books, that Granger girl directing every step of the research. There are hunts through crypts, the estate sales of convicted Death Eaters, the back room at Borgin and Burkes, that wretched house-elf Kreacher. He sees them destroy a locket, then a cup. Finally he withdraws. He can account for the destruction of four Horcruxes between the boy and Albus. The curse scar would make five. Damn and blast! There is no partial credit to be had in this case, no hope for almost destroyed.
“I don’t know what that is,” Potter yells in denial, panic so obvious it is disheartening. He is already perspiring and this is hardly an interrogation by the Dark Lord’s standards. Damn Albus and damn the boy! Their cause would be forfeit if Snape had allowed the Dark Lord even a faint stirring of suspicion about his Horcruxes.
“You idiotic boy. Do you really believe I would bring up Horcruxes if I did not know exactly what they were, and exactly how much you knew about them? What do you think, that I guessed about Horcruxes, that your dissembling will sway me from pursuit of this topic? I know all about your ‘secret’ mission, about what Albus asked you to unearth and destroy, and why.”
Loathe as he is to bring up the headmaster lest it remind the boy exactly why he shouldn’t trust Snape, he nevertheless sneers, “Albus and I discussed the Horcruxes at length during the past year. Your denials are fairly ridiculous.
“Now, tell me you at least have a lead on the fifth Horcrux?”
There is something in the boy’s eyes, he has managed to conceal some bit of knowledge.
“Harry, you have to trust me—”
“You mean like Professor Dumbledore did?” he asks, the contempt heavy and shrill enough to choke.
“Potter, listen to me. Tell me where the fifth Horcrux is and I will give you a fighting chance.”
But of course, it is too much to ask the boy that he trust Snape. Too long an argument, too much disbelief to wade through to convince him of Albus’ insane plan to “leave behind a double spy of such coveted esteem he is beyond all paranoia and suspicion.” There is no proof of his allegiance except in his own mind, no buried pensieve, no Last Will and Testament of Albus Dumbledore containing shocking revelations of his ‘mercy killing.’ He and Albus agreed that the risk of exposure was too high to leave behind a shred of proof as to his true role. There was never meant to be another mission after this one.
Albus, the old softie, had wept and begged his forgiveness, quite unnecessarily. Such scenes have always made him uncomfortable and he had quickly assured Albus that there was no cause for distress—he had been given undeserved forgiveness two decades prior; this was merely old sins come to collect.
He is running out of time. The Dark Lord did not give him leave to interrogate the boy. He did not ask him to his rooms in an hour or whenever suited Snape. He is expected now. And he needs this information.
He draws his wand. He can think of dozens of appropriate spells to lower the boy’s mental defenses. It takes only two.
One minute later he has his answer, a location.
“Obliviate.”
“You fucking murdering Death Eater!” Potter yells, adding “I always knew you were evil.”
Weary already, and expecting his meeting with the Dark Lord to tap his remaining reserves, Snape turns his back on Potter. He doesn’t wait for the sound of tears to reach him before he is well out of earshot.
********
Over a snifter of vintage cognac, he outlines his idea for the boy to the Dark Lord. The chief concern of the Dark Lord has always been the unknown portion of the prophecy. In what way are his and Potter’s lives intertwined? Does it speak of his certain victory over the boy, or reveal that his life’s blood is inextricably linked and he will breathe not a moment longer than Potter draws breath? Clearly, the answers to these questions lead to a very different fate for Potter.
Complicating matters further is the Horcrux on the boy’s forehead.
If the Dark Lord kills the boy, he risks the prophecy, and in the absolute best case scenario he still wastes a Horcrux. Snape offers him a solution to at least one problem, one he has been working on since his lord confided the location of his last mislaid piece of soul: a way to remove the Horcrux, transferring it to a temporary object. At a later date he can do whatever he wants with it. A later date Snape never intends to allow, if he has anything to say about it.
“Severus, I have long attempted to undo such potent magic.”
Snape cannot help looking somewhat smug as he replies, “Sex magic is one such potent force. Potter is virgin, my lord. I’ve been working on a ritual. I collected this from my lab,” he says, handing over a scroll. Actually he had summoned the scroll. But it accounts for his long absence.
If only Albus had known the location of the sixth Horcrux before his death. He would have come up with a better plan than this.
“This is most impressive Severus,” he says thumbing through the parchment. “We shall perform it tomorrow night.”
And now, he has the fifth Horcrux to destroy. It is going to be a long night.
********
The dragon guarding the Horcrux was unnecessary. He is still fuming about the loss of both his favorite robes and an ounce of extra-strength burn cream. But the deed is done, and he should be thankful. He is thankful.
He now has the dubious honor of retrieving Potter for tonight’s festivities. By the Dark Lord’s order, Potter is to remain untouched until this evening when he will be used for an ‘ancient ritual.’ What the other Death Eaters make of this, Snape does not know or care. But what it does mean for him is that he will not have to beat back a crowd of licentious fiends simply to reach Potter in his cell.
He expects to find Potter listlessly inclined on his mound of straw, and the boy does not disappoint. He can tell the boy has been crying and his hands shake with the aftermath of the Cruciatus curse.
“Come on, Potter. You can walk there or I can levitate your frozen form. The choice is yours.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Walk? Fine, Petrificus—.”
“No! I won’t go willingly to his bed.” He blushes. It is alluring, really. He says “bed” the way another more seasoned individual might say “cock.”
“You will.” Like a lamb in the hands of wolves, the boy is. He nearly shudders in delight. Invading Potter’s personal space, he hisses, “You will do whatever it takes to get close to the Dark Lord, won’t you boy? Because if you show yourself to be too much trouble to bother with and he kills you, it’s all of your little friends who are next. Isn’t it? You aren’t ready to die and abandon them to their fate, are you? Because I know you think you have an important part to play, and you can’t do it from the grave.”
Potter, to his credit, does not even wipe off the spittle that must have landed on his face. And while he does so flinchingly, he walks to the Dark Lord’s chambers of his own volition.
********
Oh my. He cannot mask his surprise upon entering his lord’s chamber.
The Dark Lord is…not himself. Or perhaps is more himself than usual. The distinction is confusing to say the least. Suffice to say that the pasty, red-eyed example of dark-magic-gone-wrong has transformed into a demure Tom Riddle.
This is…an unexpected boon. Reverting to his natural form is hardly a swish of a wand. What was he doing last night, slaughtering unicorns and drinking their blood? This form leaves him even more vulnerable and mortal, lowering yet other unknown protections he had woven around his inhuman form.
This also answers Snape’s curiosity as to the Dark Lord’s well-documented voyeurism. Perhaps he is unable to participate more fully in his usual form? The thought is enough to send him into a fit of malicious glee, but he refrains. Could immortality be worth that cost?
The boy is fastened arms above head to the ceiling, pulling him into a taut line but mercifully allowing his feet to stand fully on a flat surface. A spell strips him of his days-old clothing, leaving him bare and blushing.
The Dark Lord passes Snape another snifter. How often does he drink this stuff? If Snape’s plan fails tonight but he survives, he will try poisoning the entire liquor cabinet. Something slow-acting to give himself time to get to an antidote; no, he will dose himself with antidote beforehand. A slow death gives the Dark Lord time to commit horrendous mischief in his final moments.
He is torn from his ruminations by Tom’s voice. “Severus, I have rather expanded upon your plan. Virgin rites…the darkest of the dark.” Riddle smiles, and it is actually charming. Studying sex magic is generally quite entertaining after all, so it is no wonder that he is in bright spirits today. Also, a little unicorn blood or other rare creature extract never hurts either. Black Magic is known to be addictive for a reason.
“The boy’s virginity is a powerful tool. But why stop at removing,” he surreptitiously glances at the boy who is watching them guardedly, “this curse scar when similar rites will also use up the boy and drain him of magic? In particular, this rite.” Riddle slides an open book across the table. Snape reads.
He tries and thinks he succeeds at masking the horror he is feeling. The Dark Lord means to drain Potter into nothing more than a squib. Really, it’s an ingenious way to minimize the risk that the boy’s continued presence represents.
But for Snape, for Potter, for the Order…this is not good.
********
Surely this is salvageable. Potter does have a power that the “Dark Lord knows not” that is, as of yet, undiscovered. Even as a squib, he must still have some ability that is underestimated. The poison route is still open to him, although it is entirely possible that Potter truly is the only one who can kill the Dark Lord. And isn’t that just inconvenient. He simply must play his cards close to his chest, giving away nothing until he decides upon a proper course of action.
Of course, he is the one who brought up virgin rites. He brought this on himself.
For all of their alleged power, the rites are actually not that difficult to perform. The one to relocate the Horcrux involves the removal of the victim’s virginity via penetration to harness potent magic, a potion taken by Riddle to restore his control over that piece of his soul, and an object to temporarily house the soul. No doubt he is too paranoid to want the boy to have even a glimpse of the object that is to be his sixth Horcrux. This suits Snape as well. The Horcrux will be unguarded in this state.
The second ritual specifically relies on creating a power imbalance by taking the victim’s virginity without giving anything in return, namely semen. Riddle must refrain from coming inside Potter. The power is transferred to the Dark Lord when the spell is sealed by Potter’s release of his essence, followed by an incantation. There are a few runes to carve on the victim’s chest as well, but Snape has his NEWT in Ancient Runes. He cannot feign an accident to ruin the spell either, as Riddle will be watching him closely.
Of course, as long as these prerequisites are taken care of, the Dark Lord can do whatever else he wants to do.
He starts by conjuring a magnificent whip, several feet long and quite possibly a reproduction of the one in the dungeon’s torture chamber. A cruder bedroom toy does not exist.
“Ah, Harry…bound before me yet again. I think I like you best this way. I’m going to play with you before I fuck you,” Riddle purrs and Harry responds with a look of horror and revulsion.
“Do you think your stoicism and silence will sate my desire to see you suffering? Will spare you? Because I think you like to play the martyr for the sake of all Good…but I will have your screams, and before the night is out, you will beg me for mercy.”
Potter is pale but defiant. The Dark Lord loves when they start out that way, but a challenge always incurs harsher treatment. “Do you think the Mudblood or the redhead will scream when I slit their parents’ throats and torture them into submission?”
“You fucking bastard! Leave them alone.”
“My, my, such vehemence, my dear boy.” Of course he has been goading the boy, waiting for cause to inflict punishment, not that he needs an excuse—he simply prefers to have one.
“I don’t think you quite understand your rather unique predicament,” he says before casting “Crucio.”
The boy shrieks and thrashes until the curse is ended; he hangs limply from his bonds in exhaustion but not yet defeat.
“Entertain me, Harry. And perhaps I shall spare your friends unnecessary harm.”
With a flourish, he strikes Potter across his exposed back. Snape expects a scream. Instead, Potter is making gasping, wheezing noises that suggest he would be screaming if only his lungs would cooperate. Within minutes Potter will be nothing more than a screaming, bloody mess. It is a vulgar act to watch, one Snape has seen too many times.
“You are displeased, Severus?” an unusually perceptive Dark Lord asks.
It seems an honest question, however, as Snape can sense no malice or anger behind it. Riddle can afford to be magnanimous, Snape supposes, since his erection strains the confines of even his loose outer robe although Snape suspects that like himself, the Dark Lord is wearing nothing underneath. And unlike Snape, Riddle probably hasn’t had an erection in years.
“My lord, forgive me. It is only that I prefer more delicate methods in the bedroom to arouse and torment. I believe there would be no greater distress pressing on the boy’s mind than the blurring of pain and pleasure.”
Certainly this is selfish. If Snape is going to enjoy what may possibly be his last night alive, then he would much rather see bedroom toys used. But he also spares Potter unbearable pain, and keeps him stronger for what may come.
“Severus.” The Dark Lord trails off and Snape watches him grapple between conflicting impulses: to see the boy shriek in mindless agony or beg in fevered misery? “Why don’t you show me what you have in mind. I know you’ve been imagining him on his knees in your classroom for years.”
As Snape approaches Potter, the boy seems to become more feral, twisting in his bonds and screaming, “Stay away from me, you greasy piece of shit. I always knew you were a perverted sonofabitch.” No doubt the reality of his situation is finally penetrating that dense head.
“I think we can funnel these passionate feelings into other channels, don’t you agree, Potter?” he asks, taking hold of Potter’s limp cock. Potter makes a delightful whimpering sound and squeezes his eyes shut, but he can’t help thrusting a bit into the hand cupped around him. Snape takes his time, working his thumb around the head, drawing back the foreskin and teasing the slit, coaxing the reluctant flesh to fill out. It does so, nicely. Taking him in hand and squeezing, Snape works down his length with forceful strokes.
Potter is not nearly as gracious as his beautiful cock. Eyes clenched shut, he wears an expression of pain, his groans sounding like they are pulled through glass. But he responds, and when at last it seems that he cannot hold out for a moment more, Snape whispers the spell to draw a tight band around the base of his cock and balls. That forces the boy to open his eyes, and when he accidentally makes eye contact, Snape carefully does not smirk. He considers teasing Potter over being an exhibitionist but doesn’t want to overdo it. The poor boy must be mortified by now—few know that the Cruciatus curse will sensitize a man in such a sexual manner. “That should do it,” he says instead.
“Bravo Severus.” Riddle’s hand has disappeared beneath his robes as he strokes himself leisurely. Snape had quite forgotten his presence. Dangerous, that. “I would like to see you continue the show, for now.”
Glancing around the bedroom, Snape sees a sturdy mahogany desk. It reminds him of the one he spent countless hours using to grade papers. It is perfect. In Potter’s haze of unfulfilled agony, Snape transfers him to the desk and bends him over it, securely spread-eagling him facedown to the desk legs. He summons the whip and transfigures it into a paddle. It takes all of his will power not to say this is for your unbearable insolence. Your little late night adventures. Your inability to respect other’s privacy.
Instead he says, almost conversationally, “The trick is in the angle and the aim. Watch the color race back into the flesh as the blanch recedes post-swing.” And he demonstrates on Potter’s pert little bottom. The first strike hits across the fleshy part of his arse, startling a loud cry from the boy. Certainly his determination will spare him from crying out for the next handful, but Snape can and will continue until his resolve breaks.
In between rounds with the paddle, Snape amuses himself by grabbing handfuls of his arse and pinching hard, watching Potter try to squirm away. The pale skin of his arse has bloomed into a flaming mottled red by the time Snape moves to his thighs. The shameless boy is frotting against the desk, his cock hard and weeping, although he is doubtless telling himself he is trying to escape the blows.
The thighs are what do it. Whether it is in fear for the safety of his balls, which despite their binding are hanging quite freely in the path of the blows, or due to the sensitivity of the inner thighs, Potter finally starts babbling no and please and stop.
Drawn inextricably to human suffering, the Dark Lord stalks over from his corner of the room and joins in pinching the abused flesh.
“Enough, Severus. I want to see his mouth on your cock and then I want you to prepare him for me.”
Snape lowers Potter to his knees, with his hands tied securely behind his back. Grabbing a fistful of hair, he forces eye contact. “If you bite, I know a spell that will sever your teeth and attach them to your scrotum. So don’t even think about it.” And it’s true. He tried it once on Wilkes, the poor bastard.
Snape hates himself for the inability to suppress the thought, however brief, of James Potter knowing what he is about to do to his son. Oh, how he would turn in his grave.
He thinks he may never escape Potter’s influence.
He uses one hand in Potter’s hair and one hand wrapped around his cock to guide the painfully throbbing erection toward his mouth. When Potter doesn’t open up immediately, he pinches his nostrils shut until the boy has to gasp for air. Then he pushes in. Potter’s mouth stretches around the wide head of his cock, Potter’s face frozen in displeasure. Snape shoves the thick length down his throat, past his gag reflex, and groans as he hits the back of Potter’s throat, which convulses around him. In and out he thrusts, pulling Potter down onto his cock even as his hips jerk him forward into the boy’s mouth, until an embarrassingly short time later he spends himself deep inside. With a sigh, he withdraws his softening cock. Potter licks at his bruised, reddened lips.
“The bed, my lord?” Receiving a confirmatory nod, he drags a staggering Potter over to the large four poster bed, unfastens his hands and pulls him face down and spread eagled on top of green bed linens. A few more ropes twist around his torso to hold him firmly to the bed.
“Don’t move,” he teases Potter, because the boy is so trussed up he can barely draw a breath if it moves his ribcage, and because Potter would hardly obey if he had a choice.
On the bedside table next to the potion for the sex rite is a bottle of oil that Snape uses liberally to coat his fingers. Riddle sits on the bed near the boy’s hip so that he can watch and participate if he so desires. He drags a slick finger over the crease of his arse, letting his nail catch on the tender folds of his hole, savoring the boy’s sharply drawn breath, his bitten lip. Then he teases the pucker with light swipes before plunging it fully inside, noting how snugly the flesh encases his finger down to the knuckle. He works him open quickly, twisting fingers deep inside, listening to the gasps that are not quite sobs, wishing to somehow prolong this. Caressing the displayed thighs and bound bullocks in soothing circles, Snape rewards each incremental relaxation by slipping deeper, harder, hurting soothing hurting.
“Such a brave boy,” he murmurs as the third finger seeks entrance, ignoring both the significant resistance and the sounds Potter muffles in his throat.
“The Dark Lord is going to tear you apart. You’re so tight--”
“Severus, prepare me.” The Dark Lord has clearly grown impatient and he closes his eyes in fevered bliss as his cock is fisted with the heated oil, head leaned back in a throaty “Ahhhh.”
An extremely useful spell flips the boy over onto his back, having the dual effect of exposing his chest for application of the runes and allowing the boy to watch his own rape occur. And, of course, permitting Snape to watch him as it happens. Snape climbs onto the bed behind Potter, drawing the boy up against his lap and chest in a mockery of a lover’s embrace as Snape props himself against the headboard. The spell has adorned Potter’s ankles with soft green bindings that pull his legs apart and stretch them, straining, as they hook around the lower bedposts. One arm pins the boy’s arms behind his back while his other arm goes around the boy’s front to brace him in place. He can feel the rapid, non-sustaining breaths heaving the trapped body.
Potter’s body is so tightly molded to his own that the boy’s every reaction reverberates through Snape.
“Yesss,” Riddle hisses. “Watch who takes you boy, I’ll watch your face as I tear your innocence away.”
The boys legs are lewdly splayed open, with Riddle folding him in half as he crushes his full weight against the boy. Riddle lines up his cock with the too small opening, the flesh parting reluctantly as he forces himself inside.
Potter arches in pain at the sudden penetration, but the movement only impales him farther onto the cock, causing him to freeze. Snape feels the muscles tense under him in shock and shudders in appreciation, his cock twitching in jealousy.
“Yes, don’t let me in. Fight me, fight me, damn you. Before I’m done with you you’ll be begging me for it like the little whore you are.” Riddle pauses, halfway inside, breathing with exertion and clearly intending to savor the moment.
Potter doesn’t censor his writhing as he doesn’t seem able to sit still through the penetration, as the Dark Lord splits him open all the way to the hilt. Snape attempts to distract him by trailing soft licks and sharp bites along his neck and shoulder.
He is a dear thing, perspiring profusely, trying to keep his enemies in view at all times without letting them see his face, hiding his face and his shame by twisting away from eye contact.
He tries to muffle the sounds of his own rape and he is beautiful.
“Perhaps I shall keep you like the whore you are, two holes tied up against the wall. I’ll get you a collar and leash you to a cushion reserved specially for your use.” He thrusts over and over into Potter’s tethered body, grunting with the vigor of his movements.
“No!” Potter denies, gritting his teeth against the invasion, against the promise of further indignities.
Snape performs a wandless summoning spell on the potion; the Dark Lord eagerly receives the proffered potion and downs it immediately.
The scar on Potter’s forehead begins to glow as the boy starts screaming and thrashing. The Dark Lord stops moving to savor the writhing boy underneath him, his fingers digging into his hips as he holds himself as deeply joined as he can. Snape chants the spell to send the Horcrux into the urn laid out for that purpose. And then it is done.
Potter’s scar is wiped clean from his face, the skin smooth under Snape’s fingertips. The boy lies there panting harshly, eyelids fluttering, near unconsciousness.
When at last those green eyes open, it is to unchecked curiosity: “That was a hor—mmph!”
To shut up that foolish, hasty mouth, Snape yanks his body out from under Potter in a surge of violence, leans over and pushes dry lips against Harry’s spit-slicked ones, prying his mouth open with tongues and teeth and devouring him in punishment. “Yes, you are a whore, aren’t you?” Snape’s hands claim Harry’s wrists, pinning them against the bedding on both sides of his face.
“I think—yes, I think I’m going to gag that mouth of yours because you’re going to have to earn the privilege of begging for reprieve,” Snape says and casts the spell to stuff fabric in his mouth, muffling all further protests. For the first time this evening his heart is fluttering with nerves and not anticipation. One ill-bespoken word from the boy and the Dark Lord will be inside his thoughts, scouring every last secret from its depths. And then Snape will be next.
Severus wandlessly summons the ceremonial knife and traces its blade over the lightly haired chest, the boy’s breath hitching, then starts making shallow cuts in the rune symbols for sacrifice, pure, vessel and transfer. Potter screams through the gag in alarm, possibly in pain, although it cannot hurt very much. The symbols Snape chooses are small and the knife is sharp enough to cut cleanly. The blade is smeared with Potter’s blood and he lays it down on the sheets next to the boy without wiping it off.
“Shhh” he urges the moaning boy, kissing him lightly on his unblemished forehead.
A few more thrusts have Snape wondering if perhaps the Dark Lord will invalidate the spell himself by coming into the boy’s arse.
Apparently, Riddle has not lost that much self-control, for he next utters a wandless spell removing the magic binding Potter’s penis and testicles.
“Stroke him to completion, Severus.”
And when the boy is mere seconds away from an unstoppable orgasm, the Dark Lord says, “Only your release will seal the spells and drain your magic into my body.”
Potter arches and screams as he comes in pulses over his chest. Riddle gives a few more vicious thrusts, grabbing Potter’s hips and slamming him onto his cock so that the boy slides on the bed and the restraints dig into his flesh. Leaning over and resting his head on the quivering stomach, he inches closer to the boy’s face before whispering, “Your magic is mine, Harry Potter. Your pleasure will send your friends to their deaths and end your little war. I hope it was worth it.”
Potter takes a few gulping sobs, obviously trying to suppress hysterics, and starts choking on the gag—precipitating its early removal by Snape. He looks like he would like to do nothing more than curl in on himself but finds he is still bound fast to the bed.
“No,” he wheezes in denial. “No,” on every jagged exhalation. He turns his head to the side to mask that he is crying, though his chest heaves with the force of his grief.
This time, when the Dark Lord smiles in victory, it does not seem premature.
Snape releases his hold, clasping and squeezing limp fingers before moving to undo the next set of ties, gently and carefully positioning Potter’s hands on the bed. Potter rubs his soaked face against the sheets. The Dark Lord raises his wand and begins the incantation that will bind Potter’s power, bleeding it from his body and shifting it into Riddle’s form.
The next part happens very quickly. Potter, fumbling in the sheets, comes upon the knife Snape carefully did not pick up. He lunges with it and gouges a hole into Tom Riddle’s throat. Just as quickly Snape dashes the urn to the floor and leaves it a smoldering ruin with a spell.
“That was the sixth Horcrux destroyed, my lord.” Triumphantly.
After all these years of service, he wants to look the bastard in the eye as he lies there dying, knowing this is the end.
A wordless Crucio slams into Snape, knocking him to the floor in a wash of agony he is unable to throw off. An interminable time later, the spell is ended, leaving spots dancing before his eyes. He can’t quite catch his breath.
A faint “Seh—” emerges from Riddle and he glances over to see the twitching fingers still and release the yew wand onto the lush carpeting stained red with blood.
“Is that it? Oh god, oh my god, is he dead?”
The boy is hysterical, pale, shaking, staring at his red-streaked hands. Don’t you slap hysterical people? Snape wonders, feeling a bit hysterical himself because he is not sure he can get up and the Dark Lord is dead, and not least of all because the creeping edges of darkness in his vision are not improving.
“Sir? Professor? Are you alright?” Potter asks. “Were you…were you really planning all of that this whole time?”
“Potter, you really are an imbecile.” Snape figures this is as good a time as any to close his eyes, but he needs to get himself and the feckless boy out of here. The other Death Eaters are still alive, no doubt Lucius is nearby—that man can scent virgins, whether recently debauched or intact, at a hundred yards. Then again, he is usually the one defiling them, so he would know.
This boy—man really—is not nearly so beautiful now that his body is no longer a taut, arching, spread canvas on which to inflict countless torments.
Inexplicably, Potter begins to laugh. “I did it. I killed him. I killed him with a…knife,” he laughs.
Then he falls to the floor.
“Oh,” he says, before he starts moaning.
“What?” Snape asks, crawling toward him, which is undignified but he is not quite ready to trust standing.
He can feel the change in the room, like electricity—his hair is standing on end, his skin prickling all over.
The magic coalesces as a vortex of need, roaring in his ears, seeking power to drain. Apparently, it is not so great an idea to kill someone in the middle of a sex magic ritual, especially one using runes and with half of the incantation finished. Fuck.
“Finite Incantatem,” he tries weakly, finding his wand has fallen only a few inches away. It seems foolishly insufficient but many a wizard has succumbed to a spell that could have been easily reversed, had he known to try.
However, this is not one of those times.
Potter is gasping on his side, losing color as the spell leeches off him, an open connection between him and the fallen Dark Lord.
Snape has been hard almost since he came down the boy’s throat, but he feels fresh need coiling in his stomach, artificial in its source. The spell demands completion—if he comes in that greedy arse will that be enough to end this?
Of course he is not certain it will work. But he has been craving that delectable backside all evening and it might help, and that is more than enough to fulfill his requirement of ‘for the greater good.’
He slicks himself with a lubricating spell. Positioning the boy is the work of a few moments; he is already on his side. It is a small matter to push one leg forward until his anus is exposed and to use a hand to separate the buttocks. Bracing himself on an elbow, he aligns his cock with the tiny aperture of the hole and pushes into its grasping heat.
He tries not to think of Riddle having him first, of spoiling this tight channel. Because he still is very, very tight, clinging to him as he sheathes himself fully.
Potter cries out, and Snape molds himself to the boy’s back, kissing the back of his neck and whispering endearments as he slowly fucks him. Hushing this mewling creature with soothing words and a firm hand pinning him in place for the thrusts, he is gentle at first but rapidly picks up speed. He withdraws almost completely, shifting his angle despite Potter’s unhappy protest in order to brush against his prostate and startling a new pitch from the boy as he pounds into him.
He is fully within the thrall of the spell until he comes in spasms so intense he might have ruptured a testicle and understandably takes a moment before pulling out.
“Can you cast?” he asks, and at the boy’s angry gesture summons the holly wand. With a flick of his own wand Potter is re-clothed.
For some reason the boy chooses to Wingardium Leviosa a piece of the shattered urn. When he has done so to his satisfaction, he marches over to the door.
He winces at the movement, and then glares at Snape. But his shame is greater than his grudge because shortly thereafter he blushes and lowers his gaze.
It will take some time before the boy confronts him. Innocence lost, yes. But he is like a schoolboy in the ways that count.
“How the hell do we get outta here?” he asks plaintively.
And Snape leads the way.
--END--