gmth & theo_fabula
Title: If I Bade You Leave
Author: gmth
Rating: NC-17ish
Pairing: Snape/Regulus Black
Theme: I was never loyal/Except to my own pleasure zone/I'm forever black-eyed/A product of a broken home - Placebo, Black Eyed
Word count: 198
"Step forward, Severus."
Snape's knees were weak as he stepped out of his place in the circle, but his mental shields were strong.
The Dark Lord's smile was cold. He lowered his wand, and the air grew still as Regulus's screams died.
"You have sworn your loyalty to me, Severus?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"What did Dumbledore say? Can he protect us?"
"You would do whatever it takes to prove that loyalty?"
"I will."
"Thank you, Severus. Thank you. You've saved my life."
Voldemort twirled his wand between his fingers. "This pitiful excuse for a Death Eater wishes to leave my service. What do you think we should do about that, Severus?"
Snape twisted his fingers in Regulus's hair and moaned, the tip of his cock slipping past the back of his lover's tongue.
"He needs to be made an example of, my Lord."
"Black. One last thing before you go." Snape gestured to the Pensieve, and Regulus sighed and pressed the tip of his wand to his temple.
Voldemort's smile finally reached his eyes. "Excellent, Severus. Excellent." He gestured toward the twitching lump before them. "Make him an example."
Snape's arm never trembled as he lifted his wand.
Author: Theodor (theo_fabula)
Title: Example
WC: 1059 (including the drabble)
Rating: PG-13 to R
Warnings: Namely the style of writing.
Wake up, Severus. This is the next day.
Dumbledore levitates the suitcases down the steps from the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s, the twin S at the forefront like a banner. Hospitalized for a few months with a case of near perfect amnesia, and the patient is ready for the world - his health iron and his memory a flawless blank.
Rather excitedly, most had expected the war to ravage the world; the expectation and romanticism of a flood or an apocalypse crept into bedrooms after the lights were put out. But the conflict had been over in barely a month, the Death Eaters like a pack of panicking dogs ready to auction off their despot.
Voldemort has disappeared again. Rumours, true to their nature, hint many things: betrayal among the nearest circle, bones rotting in sand pits or the silent perfection of Avada Kedavra. Dumbledore told me this, his hat sitting in his lap while he fed me the world, like a child with spoonfuls of porridge.
Who have you lost, Albus? I remember your beard a darker grey. Let me, at least, have this certainty. There were deaths, apparently, common cruelty as only practiced by schoolboys on stray animals, but the images of dark lords and dark times toppled over like the crippled tower of books I used to keep on my bedside table out of idleness.
Who bears the scars? St. Mungo’s quickly tripled its clientele, and the hospital’s quiet little life was almost completely untouched by the outside world. They are unfortunates who inhabit this place now, small victims of small vindictiveness.
Severus Snape leaves the hospital on the month of August, almost five months after he had been found wondering the streets of Muggle London in a state of hypothermia and his memory erased.
Dumbledore’s Sunday visits: the newspaper, a snatch of the past creeping into our idle conversations until the nurse calls or we slide to a dead end. Please indulge me, Albus - a dull crave for a cup of tea, perhaps a slice of lemon; for good old times, old times. These things I remember perfectly.
**
The boy certainly assumes himself old enough to know all the ways of the world, so he is unquestionably surprised when the man that picked him up at a street corner pushes his hands away and sits him at a dinner table.
“Eat; the food will get cold, eventually.” The boy gives Snape a rather amused look, picks up his fork but lets it fall noisily on the yet unoccupied plate.
“The fare stays as it is, so won’t we just get on with it.”
“I do not ask discounts. Eat, there’s too much for one.” Like an afterthought, after a mouthful of wine: “What is your name?”
“Call me anything you like.” The fork is up again, hesitating. “Your time and your money, then.”
There is a pause. The boy busies himself with the meat and potatoes, the knife gives a screech against the plate. Slowly, the older man says: “I’ll call you Regulus.”
The boy grins despite himself, wipes his mouth with a paper napkin and crumples it. “Hmmheh, sure. Whatever. I’m done, so want now?” He has nervous eyes, quick hands.
“Tell me, Regulus, what did I do to you? Dumbledore is discreet, so very discreet. I’ve lived in this room for months on end, among these Muggles, knowing nothing of what I am. Hogwarts? Well, Potions is not what you might call my bravura, not these days. I barely remember the use of a wand. How very unexpectedly it turned out, didn’t it? Tell me, Regulus, why is it I remembered your name?”
The boy gives him a blank stare. The silence is complete but his hands are clenching into fists. “Fuck,” he says, with deliberate pathos, “I always get the loonies, don’t I?” He grabs hold of a bread knife - a move unplanned, unconscious - and reflexively Severus sends it bolting away with an Expelliarmus.
They both back to the opposite sides of the room, gasping like two stranded fish. The clock on the wall continues its even pulsing.
When the boy gives a start for the door an Obliviate catches him in the chest.
Wait.
“Uh…thanks for dinner,” the boy says, intently staring at the table as the dull look of displacement leaves his eyes.
“Mr. Smith….yes, well, good to have met you. Goodbye.” Severus croaks, swallows and attempts something of a polite smile. After some hesitation, the door clicks shut.
You play dangerous games, Severus.
The last person not to have disappeared alongside Voldemort and present on that night Severus pointed his wand at the chest of Regulus Black, died in his bead out of matured cancer. The doctors of St. Mungo’s could not determine what could have caused such extensive damage to Severus’s memory.
If one were to believe speculation - which in cases like these is often the starting and the ending point - it was a curious version of Obliviate, or many such spells directed at one person all at once, and, certainly, one cannot exclude the fact that it could very well be psychosomatic or
The End.
Author: gmth
Rating: NC-17ish
Pairing: Snape/Regulus Black
Theme: I was never loyal/Except to my own pleasure zone/I'm forever black-eyed/A product of a broken home - Placebo, Black Eyed
Word count: 198
"Step forward, Severus."
Snape's knees were weak as he stepped out of his place in the circle, but his mental shields were strong.
The Dark Lord's smile was cold. He lowered his wand, and the air grew still as Regulus's screams died.
"You have sworn your loyalty to me, Severus?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"What did Dumbledore say? Can he protect us?"
"You would do whatever it takes to prove that loyalty?"
"I will."
"Thank you, Severus. Thank you. You've saved my life."
Voldemort twirled his wand between his fingers. "This pitiful excuse for a Death Eater wishes to leave my service. What do you think we should do about that, Severus?"
Snape twisted his fingers in Regulus's hair and moaned, the tip of his cock slipping past the back of his lover's tongue.
"He needs to be made an example of, my Lord."
"Black. One last thing before you go." Snape gestured to the Pensieve, and Regulus sighed and pressed the tip of his wand to his temple.
Voldemort's smile finally reached his eyes. "Excellent, Severus. Excellent." He gestured toward the twitching lump before them. "Make him an example."
Snape's arm never trembled as he lifted his wand.
Author: Theodor (theo_fabula)
Title: Example
WC: 1059 (including the drabble)
Rating: PG-13 to R
Warnings: Namely the style of writing.
Wake up, Severus. This is the next day.
Dumbledore levitates the suitcases down the steps from the fourth floor of St. Mungo’s, the twin S at the forefront like a banner. Hospitalized for a few months with a case of near perfect amnesia, and the patient is ready for the world - his health iron and his memory a flawless blank.
Rather excitedly, most had expected the war to ravage the world; the expectation and romanticism of a flood or an apocalypse crept into bedrooms after the lights were put out. But the conflict had been over in barely a month, the Death Eaters like a pack of panicking dogs ready to auction off their despot.
Voldemort has disappeared again. Rumours, true to their nature, hint many things: betrayal among the nearest circle, bones rotting in sand pits or the silent perfection of Avada Kedavra. Dumbledore told me this, his hat sitting in his lap while he fed me the world, like a child with spoonfuls of porridge.
Who have you lost, Albus? I remember your beard a darker grey. Let me, at least, have this certainty. There were deaths, apparently, common cruelty as only practiced by schoolboys on stray animals, but the images of dark lords and dark times toppled over like the crippled tower of books I used to keep on my bedside table out of idleness.
Who bears the scars? St. Mungo’s quickly tripled its clientele, and the hospital’s quiet little life was almost completely untouched by the outside world. They are unfortunates who inhabit this place now, small victims of small vindictiveness.
Severus Snape leaves the hospital on the month of August, almost five months after he had been found wondering the streets of Muggle London in a state of hypothermia and his memory erased.
Dumbledore’s Sunday visits: the newspaper, a snatch of the past creeping into our idle conversations until the nurse calls or we slide to a dead end. Please indulge me, Albus - a dull crave for a cup of tea, perhaps a slice of lemon; for good old times, old times. These things I remember perfectly.
**
The boy certainly assumes himself old enough to know all the ways of the world, so he is unquestionably surprised when the man that picked him up at a street corner pushes his hands away and sits him at a dinner table.
“Eat; the food will get cold, eventually.” The boy gives Snape a rather amused look, picks up his fork but lets it fall noisily on the yet unoccupied plate.
“The fare stays as it is, so won’t we just get on with it.”
“I do not ask discounts. Eat, there’s too much for one.” Like an afterthought, after a mouthful of wine: “What is your name?”
“Call me anything you like.” The fork is up again, hesitating. “Your time and your money, then.”
There is a pause. The boy busies himself with the meat and potatoes, the knife gives a screech against the plate. Slowly, the older man says: “I’ll call you Regulus.”
The boy grins despite himself, wipes his mouth with a paper napkin and crumples it. “Hmmheh, sure. Whatever. I’m done, so want now?” He has nervous eyes, quick hands.
“Tell me, Regulus, what did I do to you? Dumbledore is discreet, so very discreet. I’ve lived in this room for months on end, among these Muggles, knowing nothing of what I am. Hogwarts? Well, Potions is not what you might call my bravura, not these days. I barely remember the use of a wand. How very unexpectedly it turned out, didn’t it? Tell me, Regulus, why is it I remembered your name?”
The boy gives him a blank stare. The silence is complete but his hands are clenching into fists. “Fuck,” he says, with deliberate pathos, “I always get the loonies, don’t I?” He grabs hold of a bread knife - a move unplanned, unconscious - and reflexively Severus sends it bolting away with an Expelliarmus.
They both back to the opposite sides of the room, gasping like two stranded fish. The clock on the wall continues its even pulsing.
When the boy gives a start for the door an Obliviate catches him in the chest.
Wait.
“Uh…thanks for dinner,” the boy says, intently staring at the table as the dull look of displacement leaves his eyes.
“Mr. Smith….yes, well, good to have met you. Goodbye.” Severus croaks, swallows and attempts something of a polite smile. After some hesitation, the door clicks shut.
You play dangerous games, Severus.
The last person not to have disappeared alongside Voldemort and present on that night Severus pointed his wand at the chest of Regulus Black, died in his bead out of matured cancer. The doctors of St. Mungo’s could not determine what could have caused such extensive damage to Severus’s memory.
If one were to believe speculation - which in cases like these is often the starting and the ending point - it was a curious version of Obliviate, or many such spells directed at one person all at once, and, certainly, one cannot exclude the fact that it could very well be psychosomatic or
The End.