Happy Daft Day, cnary_crem_dght! Recipient:cnary_crem_dght Title: Dark Desires Author:fbowden Rating: NC-17 Warnings: Non con, violence, dark themes, character death (not Snape or Harry). Prompt/Summary: Harry Potter is a prisoner, kept at the mercy of the Dark Lord’s successor, Lucius Malfoy. When Severus Snape’s loyalty is questioned, there can be no happy ending... can there? A/N: This was by far the toughest fic I have ever had to write. cnary_crem_dght, I sincerely hope that you enjoy reading my first attempt at very dark Snarry.
Dark Desires
‘Please, Sir,’ he says.
‘Can I have some more?’ he does not say.
I had half-expected him to. After all, he is not so very different from the fictional adolescent my memory references unbidden; a scrawny, scruffy urchin of a boy, parentless and uncared for.
What could he possibly beg more of? Certainly not food; not here, in this place where congealed bouillabaisse and spore encrusted bread are freely provided. Lucius’ hospitality is legendary; his generosity, it would seem, knows no bounds.
Potter struggles terribly with those two simple words, his parched tongue lethargic in its exploration of cracked and bloodied lips. His breathing is laboured, yet his lungs function valiantly, exchanging the chamber’s precious oxygen for worthless carbon monoxide. Though perhaps not entirely worthless, since it cocoons his entreaty and carries it to me in a vapour of rancid breath.
“Be. Quiet.”
If the resonant timbre of my voice lacks its usual venom, he remains oblivious. A discoloured strip of cloth soaks greedily the single tear he cannot prevent betraying him, softening the tarnished hem where previously it held stiff with dried saline of earlier miseries.
His tears do not sway me, not while the makeshift blindfold obscures his eyes. Were it removed, or perhaps I should say, when it is removed; the bright, venomous green might be my – our – undoing.
If he suspects me as anything other than yet another tormentor, we will not make it out alive. It is no secret that since the Dark Lord’s demise and a year spent in Azkaban, Lucius’ mental faculties are questionable. The Dark Lord may be deceased, but Lucius has taken up the reins with much enthusiasm. Death Eaters have the resilience of cockroaches, and the Ministry has thus far failed dismally in its quest to exterminate.
My own loyalty during this turbulent period has been subjected to heavy suspicion, and so it is that I find myself in the bowels of Malfoy Mansion, charged with the task of breaking Harry Potter. If I perform well, Lucius will have no reason to distrust me, at least no more than his other subordinates. It is the only way in which I stand a chance of deposing Lucius and saving the boy wonder, though by the time I have coaxed unwilling pleasure from his body and inured his mind, it might be reasonable to question if what is left will be worth saving.
“Professor,” Potter rasps again, successfully interrupting my contemplation and disobeying me at the same time.
I manage to scrape together enough authentic annoyance to bark at him. “Did you not hear me the first time, Potter? Be quiet, or I shall pass your wellbeing along to someone with even less interest in its condition than I.”
His mouth sets into a hard line; still defiant I see, despite that he must recognize the volatility of his plight.
Steeling myself for the inevitable impossibility of my task, I take a purposeful step forward. I am fully aware of Lucius’ method of surveillance; denouncing first hand scrutiny in favour of Transparency spells, he sits merely feet away on the other side of the farthest stone wall from the prisoner, likely watching the proceedings with immense interest. I must maintain this facade of cold indifference no matter what.
The eyes though, Potter’s eyes. If anything, it will be these, and not his screams that might give me pause. It is no secret that I have desired the boy for as long as I have ridiculed his existence, though I never imagined I would actually get the opportunity to partake of his youthful, supple flesh. I prefer my partners willing, a rather novel thing among Death Eaters. An uneasy blend of arousal and disgust courses through my veins as I stop in front of the wretched boy and stare down at the thatch of black hair plastered to his skull.
My approach causes him to tuck his feet tighter beneath his body, wrap his arms more firmly around his chest, hugging himself as though no one else has ever thought to hold him in such a manner. Perhaps they haven’t. He may well never let another living soul this close to him again. As miserable as he feels now, it is nothing compared to how he will soon mourn the loss of his innocence.
Crouching down, I locate the knot of the blindfold and attempt to loosen it. Damn Carrows are nothing if not thorough, and it takes several seconds of effort to create enough space in which to ease my finger. The boy hisses in pain, and then I see why; small clumps of blood-matted hair cling to the cloth, stark evidence of the overzealous binding and the injury it has wrought.
As the filthy band’s removal restores his sight, he squints against the cell’s callous illumination, a handful of sconces and a single, narrow window, set high in the stone, admitting all but the feeblest shaft of gloomy firmament. One must suppose that preceding even the scant few days he has been incarcerated here, sudden exposure to luminosity would indeed cause the rapid shrinking of his pupils, displaying more of those burning green irises than I have ever had the misfortune to witness.
“Professor,” he whispers conspiratorially, searching my face as though he expects to discover salvation there. “You’ve come to save me, right?”
I stare at him, and wonder if I were to drop my Occlumency shields, whether he would have strength, or sense enough, to penetrate my mind and discover that what is about to happen is not what I wish to happen.
“Right?” he says again, less certain this time. How I wish I could tell him yes, but Lucius’ hard, grey intangible gaze is as effective as knives in my back.
Potter’s clothes are filthy. They will not make much of a bed on which to lie, and doubtless my new Master, as temporary as I expect his reign to be, will later mock me for such a simple act of perceived kindness. I already know I shall tell him that I was merely saving my own deplorable knees, not the prisoner’s.
I begin by unbuttoning his shirt, yet still the wretched youth does not seem to realise what such an act suggests. His eyes, crusted with sleep, red rimmed and watery, dart from my face to my fingers and back again. That he trusts me, that he still does not yell in anguish or plead with me to stop is an uneasy burden to bear.
Only when I reach the last button does he look up again, a soupcon of fear creeping into those damnable eyes.
“Sir?”
I ease the fabric from his shoulders and push it down his arms. It is prevented from proper disembarking by the ties that keep his wrists trussed together. With a muttered spell, the fabric splits at the seams. I avoid his confused gaze and concentrate on the smooth, shaped sculpt of his torso, a sparse trail of dark hair creating a distinct furry line from his navel, disappearing below the waistband of his trousers. He is tanned, and lightly muscled, and the scent of his unwashed body induces a rush of blood to my groin, further encouragement for the instrument required to commit such an act of terrorism.
Those are not my fingers, scratching at his trousers to seek out the zip. It is not my voice, tainted with inarticulate regret that hushes his sudden, fervent protests. They cannot be my hands, long, slender, stained hands that grasp his impeded wrists to prevent his struggles. Moaning aloud, he slams back against the granite and uses his pitiful energy reserves to curl into a protective ball.
It is incongruous that his trousers, slack around his midriff due to his recently imposed fasting, so effortlessly yield to my questing fingers. His frantic shuffle backwards actually aids me as I grip tighter and ease them down his legs.
He kicks; oh, how he kicks, thrashing about like an injured animal, wearing himself out in no time at all, though his eyes do not rest. They are as vehement as ever, branding my skin with their hatred, and it is in this moment that I realise my actions will change both of us irrevocably. Where before there was an infinitesimal possibility that I might woo the boy into my bed, admittedly little more than a fantastical notion I frequently take pleasure in entertaining, now there will be none.
His trousers catch at the knees, squeezed together like a vice. He glares brilliantly, torn between outrage and hysteria, no doubt considering if it is worth the humiliation he will suffer if he begs me to cease.
He does not beg, and I do not cease. I focus on wrenching his legs apart, tugging sharply until the garment becomes a rug across the flagstones, making a pile atop the discarded remains of his shirt.
I imagine Lucius, on the other side of the cell, uncrossing his legs to lean forward and observe the terror on Potter’s face. When the time arrives, and it will arrives far too quickly, I shall angle my body and block Lucius’ view, so that the boy is at least spared one component of this degradation, no matter how trivial it might seem.
When I reach for his underpants, he emits an ethereal howl and throws force behind his shouldering, momentarily unbalancing me. I curse and renew my efforts, mechanical, methodical so that I do not invite the unwelcome deliberation of what I am becoming with each passing moment of desecration.
He launches himself against the wall again, rocking back on clenched fists and gaining enough leverage to plough his foot into my stomach. The stupid boy has no idea of the damage he is risking; if Lucius perceives the situation to be outside of my control, I am in no doubt at all that he will intervene. Drawing my hand back, I wallop Potter across the face, hearing the crick of his neck interspersed with a winded gasp.
While the tip of his tongue gingerly tastes the blood oozing from his split lip, I take several deep breaths, an impasse reached when our eyes meet; his accusing, mine pleading his compliance, if only he did but know it.
“Coward,” he spits, spraying my stark white shirt with flecks of red.
My temper rapidly approaches boiling point, mere simmering irritably eviscerated with the additional pressure of this heinous assignment. He is intent on angering me, and why shouldn’t he be, now that he has gained full understanding of what I am about to do and how he lacks the ability to prevent it. I could hardly expect anything else from this bright-eyed, lion-hearted Gryffindor. He was born fighting and continues until this very day to do so.
This time I leave no potential for retaliation; I seize his legs and yank him forward, offering wordless apology as his back lands heavily on the ground. He screams expletives as I drag him a short distance across frigid stone to the pile of clothes, barely adequate as cushioning, but infinitely better than the cold, unforgiving floor.
With one brutal rip, his underpants are in tatters, falling away from his hips, such slender, lightly-coloured hips with two perfect indents forming a v shape where the wiry, black hair lays. I despise myself for the desire that attacks my body, feeding my arousal as surely as his is committing suicide.
His cock looks pale and frightened, entirely flaccid in its nest of dark curls. His balls are crimson, and heavy, though they seem to be trying to crawl inside his body when my gaze falls upon them.
Of course, I have barely a second to admire him before he starts thrashing again, cursing my legitimacy and wounding me with wide, fearful eyes. I briefly consider a Body Bind, but then his gasp diverts my attention and I stare down to see my hand upon his cock, stroking with a gentleness he would likely not have thought me capable of. His expression wavers; merely a physical reaction to being touched and certainly nothing like permission; I am not foolish enough to think he would actually enjoy this. For seven years I was his most reviled Professor, the man he holds accountable for his parents’ death. He forgave me much following the war, but I am under no illusion that he had forgiven me that. And he will not forgive me this, either.
His mouth opens, perhaps to scream, or beg, yet no sound emerges. His lips, already cracked, split further until the crevices between sores are tinged red. I have always wondered what it would feel like to thrust my tongue between Potter’s lips, if they would be as soft and as pliable as they look. Ironically, now that I have the chance, I cannot bring myself to sample him. It is too intimate a gesture, one that he must in the future build positive memories from, not be haunted evermore by the sharp nip of my ravenous teeth, or the slimy hotness of my tongue seeking refuge behind his trembling lips.
I resolve to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, realising that I will not be able to maintain an erection while his eyes scream ‘traitor’ and ‘rapist’ with each and every thrust. Gripping his hips, I flip him over, a move he quite clearly wasn’t expecting. I wince as I hear his jaw hit the flagstones, unable to break his fall since his hands are tied behind his back.
I stare at those hands, callused and clenched into futile fists, capable of handling brooms at breakneck speed, the very epitome of gracefulness. I focus on the grime ingrained in the crevices of his fingernails, on the bruises forming on his wrists beneath the strangling flex. I grasp it tightly, dragging him up to his knees and use my own to force his legs apart, ignoring his dry whimpers and the fat, wet tears I am certain he is spilling. He continues to struggle, but his lethargy renders his attempts unsuccessful. He is no match for me without magic at his disposal. Freeing my prick takes only a second; the stretching and lubricating spell I perform wordlessly a fraction of that.
With my back to Lucius, he has no way of knowing that I bestowed on Potter this small act of mercy. Not that the boy will thank me for it; the very idea that he should is laughable. At least it would be if it did not make me sick to the very pit of my stomach.
I take my cock in hand and realise I am barely hard; not achingly stiff like those nights I lay awake, imagining a dark head at my groin, two impious green eyes observing my pleasure-contorted face as a wicked mouth swallows around me.
The image is enough. I position the head of my cock against his entrance, wishing with every fibre of my being that the situation could be drastically different.
“Not ... not like this,” he chokes out, twisting his head to glare over his shoulder. My fingers tighten on his hips. “Please, sir ... I wanted ... but ... not like this, please, not like this.”
I force down my hesitation as I force the head of my cock through the slicked-up muscle. He shouts out, head dropping to the floor as I sheathe myself fully within impossibly latent heat. His insides feel tight enough to cut circulation, and I grit my teeth against an overwhelming sense of shame that I should even be considering how perfect he feels around me.
I instigate motion. He howls his mantra, ‘not like this, not like this’; left cheek pressed into the stone so that the side of his face is visible, as is the silvery scar etched into his forehead. There is absolutely no conscious attempt on my part to provide him any pleasure, though the deep slide of my prick inadvertently brushes his prostate anyway, and he jerks wildly, hissing like an alley cat. His hands unfurl, palms meeting briefly as though in prayer, before gnarling up into livid fists again. Knotted muscles along his spine stand taut and tense, while an angry flush paints his skin, all the way from his trembling shoulders to the clenching cheeks of his arse.
Sweat mars my brow, trickling into my eyes with the dynamism of each thrust. I blink it away and renew my effort, not so brutal that it will be agonizing for Potter, but fierce enough that it should appease Lucius’ bloodthirsty greed. Potter’s moans are deeply anguished, most unlike the sounds of gratification I often dream of him producing. If Merlin is merciful, I will never have another insentient fantasy about Potter again.
I want this over with, but no matter how tight or, I shudder to think it, virginal, his arse is, no matter how swiftly I plough into him, tuning out his resentful body when I slide balls deep inside him and the profanities he utters as I withdraw again, I cannot find release. The idea that I should sully him in the most despicable way imaginable keeps me from drawing enough pleasure to orgasm.
Gritting my teeth, I drive forward sharply, ignoring his high-pitched yelp and my own unconscious observation that he looks like a broken marionette. I curse under my breath and close my eyes, concentrating only on the friction his body provides and the physical feelings it stimulates. Eventually, my testicles tighten in readiness, and I grip his hipbones harder, allowing the stunted sensation of my pitiable climax to wash over me.
*
He whimpers quietly when I separate from him barely a second later; not that you would know it for the sound of tears but that is surely what it is. In some perverse way it is almost worse a thing than the rape itself, turning him onto his back and seeing those huge green eyes, wide with horror and wet with distress. He doesn’t speak, seems too traumatized to, but simply sits there on his bare buttocks, knees drawn up to his chest and staring into space as I tuck myself away and wipe my perspired forehead on the sleeve of my robe. His clothes have scattered far and wide. With a few muttered words he is dressed again, a few layers of material hiding the slimy evidence of his ordeal. The gash on his cheek is worryingly deep, and the endless echo of self-hatred curses me for inflicting that too upon him. Another wandless spell and the worst of the cut is healed, though the crusted blood remains, decorating his lips and chin like a badge of honour.
I cannot look at him anymore, and spin on my heel to stalk the few paces to the door. I have almost closed it behind me when he speaks, no more than a hoarse, accusing whisper.
“Why?”
Why indeed. I have no answer. I cannot yet disclose the real reason, maybe not ever if I fall from this tightrope I walk. The very fact that he is asking suggests he does not believe this to have been for my own self-gratification. Perhaps. Perhaps I am delusional in thinking such a thing. Perhaps I have been standing in this doorway for several seconds too long, staring down at him as he stares back at me, angry eyes desperate for an explanation I cannot provide.
The clunk of the cell door as I pull it closed echoes around the corridor. Behind me, Lucius’ polished chuckle invokes a fresh wave of veiled fury.
“You were far too kind, Severus. One might almost believe you were fond of the boy.”
The heavy head of his cane digs into the small of my back, evidently not a friendly gesture.
“I did precisely as you requested, Lucius. You might observe for yourself the boy’s distress.”
The pressure of the snake’s head eases, only a fraction, but I press the advantage and turn around to face him.
“Quite so,” he says with conviction. “It is nothing less than the Dark Lord’s murderer deserves, after all. I would be most alarmed if you were to ... disagree.”
I snort at that. “Hardly. Potter has had it coming for years.”
Lucius smiles thinly and tilts his head, examining me. “Indeed. You are to be commended for your loyalty, Severus. Will you join Draco and I for dinner this evening?”
I’d rather devour live rats to dispel my hunger, but the potential advantage of such a situation cannot be overlooked.
“I’d be honoured.”
“Excellent.” He rubs the snake’s head beneath his approving palm. “Eight o’clock sharp, Severus. Unless you would prefer to join me for a spot of pre-dinner entertainment?”
His smirk turns the bile in my stomach to ice. “Pardon?”
“Now that you have broken him in so gallantly, I believe the boy is ready to experience someone a little less ... enamoured with him.” Lucius affects a stance of indecisiveness. “Though I cannot decide whether to allow Draco his fun, or leave the evenings’ festivities to Greyback. Draco is desperate to be given five minutes with him. Yet, I find myself leaning towards Greyback; he does make such a pretty mess of young flesh.”
He is watching me with every word he utters, his eyes narrowing imperceptibly, as though trying to catch me out. He does not succeed; despite the nausea roiling within me and the overwhelming urge to crush his windpipe with my bare hands, I let not a single emotion so much as cause a twitch or droplet of sweat.
“Greyback, then,” I say, arms folded across my chest. “I shall look forward to it immensely.”
His smile widens, becomes genuine. Stone grey eyes sparkle with the pleasure of someone who has been flattered. This is the moment I know for certain he trusts me as much as he ever will, the moment I begin to sift through the numerous half-formed plans pertaining to his murder and mentally search for ways to solidify them. One remains stubborn, urging me to consider its merits.
“I shall even,” I say conspiratorially, “brew a Potion that when administered to Potter, will heighten his awareness and enforce the reality of his ordeal. If you should so wish it.”
Lucius’ eyebrow shoots into his hairline. “Well, well, Severus. That is a most generous offer. See that you meet us in the drawing room for drinks at six o’clock.”
Long after the echo of his clipped footsteps have faded, I bend down to retrieve the single, long blond hair left behind in his wake.
*
I had neglected to reaffix Potter’s blindfold, something that becomes all too obvious the moment I enter the cell, still thick with the stench of violation and bodily fluids, and observe him shrink against the wall, folding in on himself. Perhaps he fears I will hurt him again. Perhaps he has noticed the blood staining my robes. Regardless, he no longer trusts me. But he must, if he wishes to live.
“Get up.”
“Fuck you.”
His voice is gritty, unrefined and, as I advance, I see how red and inflamed his eyes are, how his cheeks are smeared with wetness and dirt.
“You are hurt, but you will live. Get up, Potter, it is time to leave.”
He blinks then, looks up but refuses to meet my gaze. “What?”
I do not have time for this; soon enough someone will discover the remains of both Lucius and Greyback, and I do not wish to be present in the Manor when they do.
“Leave,” I hiss, “Go, depart, evacuate.” I bend down and seize his arm. He shrieks as though it is broken, as though my touch burns him. “For the love of Merlin, boy, get up!”
“No! Get off! I’d rather die than go anywhere with you!”
And the ironic likelihood is that you will, I think to myself as I draw my wand and cast Petrificus Totalus on him. For the purposes of navigating the doors and narrow corridors, it would have been better to Petrify him whilst standing, but the defiant child has been frozen, knees tucked under his chin, scowl in place.
His eyes are green and glassy, promising me untold pain the moment I release the spell and his binds. It hardly matters. What does matter is that we leave immediately.
Levitating him in front of me, I guide him through the cell door and along the dim passageway. It is not so very far a walk to the first floor, but it is fraught with anticipation as each step I take I strain to hear the sounds of Draco discovering his father mutilated and violated, limp and broken beneath the carcass of the most vicious werewolf ever to prowl the earth.
Only when the sharp pull of Apparition spirits us away to Spinners End do I remember how to breathe again.
*
Two murders and one rape in a single day. Quite a tally. The thought makes my skin crawl, and I am desperate for a hot, cleansing bath. But there is still the matter of the wild-eyed boy sitting on my couch to deal with.
I collapse into my armchair with a well-emphasized sigh and raise my wand, bracing myself for the barrage of verbal abuse I am certain Potter will initiate the moment the spell is ended.
“Lucius Malfoy is dead. Fenrir Greyback is dead. Although the immediate danger has been dispelled, there are others, Potter, many others who will soon discover my betrayal and they will make plans to kill me.”
“Good,” he spits, rubbing his chafed wrists where the spell removed not just his incapacitation but also the binds.
“Potter, you imbecile, you were to be this evenings’ entertainment. Lucius had planned to give you to Greyback, to observe whilst that rabid werewolf tore you to shreds.”
“Like you did?” The rasping accusation is surprisingly painful. “You raped me.”
“Yes.” I can hardly deny the accusation. “As Greyback was also mere moments from doing, and believe me when I tell you it would have been far worse an ordeal had I allowed it to happen.”
He laughs then; so quietly I almost do not hear it. “I trusted you.”
Pain lances my chest. “And you must continue to do so, even though, no doubt, given a wand, you would see me dead in a heartbeat.”
He makes no reply to that, but his eyes narrow. “You killed Malfoy?”
“Yes.”
“And Greyback?”
“Yes. They killed each other, in a manner of speaking, with my assistance. A potion, in the wolf’s drink this evening, imbued in him a crazed attraction to Lucius, desperate to assert his dominance as Alpha Male. Lucius fought as best he was able, but Greyback overpowered him easily. He died beneath the beast, pinned to the floor with his throat slit mid-coitus. As soon as Lucius was dead, I cast the Killing Curse. It is only a matter of time before Draco or one of the house-elves discovers them.”
“Why did you – “
“I had no choice!” I shout, knowing it can never be taken back, never changed or atoned for, Dumbledore all over again. Is it not untenable that I should be required to add rapist to my list of transgressions, vying with ‘Murderer’ for headline?
“Had I not done as he requested of me, he would have decreed me a traitor and had me killed. Then he would have inflicted the same atrocity on you himself, and I can assure you he would not have committed such an act with any mercy whatsoever.”
Potter considers this; my knees crack as I cross my legs, the sound strangely loud in the silent gloom.
“I vowed to protect you,” I say, lowering my voice. “That vow did not end with the death of the Dark Lord. And though you may feel I did not succeed in keeping my promise, you are still alive, and free. It was not my wish to hurt you, but I shall not apologise for the fact that it saved your life.”
I expect tears, and a plethora of angry, bitter words spat accusingly. “You didn’t hurt me,” he says, rubbing his arms as though he is cold. “Not really. I mean, I know it could have been worse. It didn’t hurt.”
“Potter,” I say, somewhat amazed that my body-numbing weariness allows me to speak at all. “You are entitled to your anger, I raped you.”
“But you didn’t want to.” He doesn’t pose this last statement as a question but lurking behind the words I sense a shadowy sliver of hope that his assumptions about me before the loss of his innocence were still something he could cling to.
“No,” I admit quietly. After all that I have taken from Potter, the very least I can offer him in return is the truth. I want to turn my back on this conversation that unsettles me to the very marrow of my bones, hide myself beneath the cloak of secrecy that has concealed me for so long that I feel naked and exposed without it. Exposed to Potter as I forced his exposure earlier. And, for that, I must meet his searching gaze that threatens to undo me and allow him to find what he seeks.
He nods, then. “I – it wasn’t – it shouldn’t have been like that, it could have been different.”
I have no idea what he means, nor do I particularly care. As is usual, Potter is babbling and I am too fatigued to deduce his meaning. I ache only for the purification of scalding water. At least I will feel unsoiled on the outside, for there can never be enough soap and water to wash away the stains that mark me within.
Lifting tired eyes, I wonder briefly if my exhaustion is inducing hallucinations as I witness Potter slowly rising to take one faltering step towards me, his emotions, as usual, on display. The anger tinged with misery still tightens his jaw, but it now seems to be doing battle with a raw need for something I am certain I cannot provide. Nor will he want me to. I have given him enough already.
“Please, Sir,” he says, and it is all I can do to stifle the hysterical snort of laughter that is caught in my throat and threatening to destroy what is left of my mind. Those two words force a rush of images racing through my brain that, at once, disgust and arouse me. There is something very wrong with this picture as Potter continues to shuffle closer and I press backwards against the cushion behind me that only allows for so much escape. I raise one hand and am horrified to detect a slight tremble in the fingers splayed widely, as if to stop his forward procession.
Potter’s feet cease their maddening motion but his mouth continues to move. “I – I just need to know one thing before I ... go,” he murmurs, his voice hitching slightly on the last word.
Alarm bells begin to toll wildly inside my head as I cringe inwardly, desperate to ward off his entreaty that may very well unravel me completely before this final act in our twisted, little play is over and the curtain comes down. On me. I am unable to rip my gaze from his pleading eyes, not pleading the way they were earlier but in a less subtle, infinitely more dangerous manner. Eyes that break through every shield, every reserve, laying bare my heart which hasn’t been touched by such naked honesty in many lifetimes. Perhaps, never.
“Did you ... did you w-want me?”
Ah, there it is. The hammer that destroys me with one crushing blow. I had promised no less than the truth and, while I may be a rapist and a murderer, I also like to consider myself a man of his word. The answer I will give holds power over both of us even as I draw in a sharp breath, my lips struggling to form the words. I am struck, belatedly, by a moment of clarity as I realise the similarities in two souls deprived of touch, simple caresses ... warmth during childhoods filled with fear and neglect. Deprived to the point that an act of rape is capable of meeting some of those desperately desired needs. I will not lie; I know my reply could be construed as selfish if it delivers the results I’ve longed for, dreamt of during endless nights.
The silence is broken only by Potter’s ragged breathing, and the cold, hard truth. “I have always wanted you, Potter. All of my yesterdays are filled with wanting you and, I am certain, my tomorrows will follow in much the same manner.”
The tiny thread of bravery still left within me snaps, and I drop my eyes to stare at a small stain on the floor that I had never noticed before and now captivates me. My ears tell me that the impudent brat is moving closer again, closing the distance between us. My scrutiny of the stain is now blocked by two trouser clad legs that slowly bend until Potter’s face comes into view and he is kneeling before me. One hesitant, still filthy hand creeps nearer, resting finally on my knee. That hand now becomes the object of my fascination as I dare not look into Potter’s eyes.
“I’ve always known there was something,” he says quietly, a modicum of strength seeping back into his words. “I just ... I wasn’t sure if it was hate or...something else. Something else I made up because ... I wanted it, too.”
My head snaps up with a ferocity that threatens to cause critical damage to my neck. Potter falls under my inspection as I explore his face in my own quest for the truth. It is calm; his eyes, however, are a stormy sea of desire, anger, need, and ... sorrow. It is the sorrow that pierces my emotions. He leans in closer until his breath catches a few stray hairs hanging limply around my face, causing them to flutter and brush against my fevered skin. My breathing seems to have ceased even as my heart beats hard and fast beneath my ribs. That earlier moment of restraint, the only gift I was able to give him, is now shattered in a crush of lips and tongues. My lips, Potter’s tongue. Beneath the fragile dominance, I sense his need to regain control; I give him that, and he snatches it triumphantly. After several breathless moments we separate, and I wait for the second swing of the hammer. It comes, as I knew it must, wrapped in soft cotton.
“I need to go.”
“Of course, Potter.” Of course, he needs to go. Why he hasn’t run screaming into the night before now, I have no idea. My nomadic mind is suddenly caught by him once more.
“ ... and I have some things I need to see to. And some time to think about ... everything.” The anger still keeps its grip on his gaze but the edges hold something new. Hope. “Will I be ... will I be welcome back if ... when I’m ready?”
The blow of losing him is cushioned by the possibility that letting him go will bring him back to me. I know he needs time, as do I. There is healing to be done, tears to be shed, reprisals. We both have work to complete in which our paths will continue to cross. When enough of the broken pieces have been put back into place, I trust that he will find his way to me. I asked him, earlier, to trust me and now I must do the same.
As I stare from the open doorway, into the blackness that envelops his retreating figure, I allow my own hope to reside in him, and retain a shard of faith that one day he might return.