Three Seconds
This is still rough and drafty, but ... yeah. Dark, angsty, not happy at all folks. You've been warned.
Three Seconds
by Snaples
Do you know how often I've imagined this in my waking moments? To see you humbled and despoiled? To feel your naked flesh sing with the lashes you've earned and burn under my hands? No, you don't, do you? I have never told you, even during our most hateful exchanges, how I yearned to rip your will between my teeth. That was my secret and mine alone, a thought I kept written in my mind and hidden from prying eyes and fingers. I was not so naïve as to inform my pensieve of these dark cravings, and to keep a journal was simply reckless and beyond the pale.
But here you are; naked and spread, your skin glowing with sweat and humiliation and your eyes frantically shifting to locate the source of your torment. I can see those gears turning in your mind, boy. Voldemort is screaming from your mouth, even though you are silent in your defiance. You are wondering where you went wrong, how you miscalculated and what choices led you to your unfortunate capture.
Nothing went wrong, boy.
Other than the fact you so gamely trusted me.
"Please," you whisper. A shift in your thighs distracts my attention from your plea. For a pretentious moment, I imagine there are memory orbs speckled around the room, their greedy light capturing every movement that invents your disgrace.
Reality returns, and my memory will have to serve.
I am tempted to answer him, to ask him what it is he is begging for. But my voice would betray me, and I am content with his ignorance -- blissful thing that it isn't. Later, when the other Death Eaters arrive, I will lend my words to the chaotic blend of questions and derision and triumph. I will explain in his ear how I will systematically break every tendril of spirit he has contained in his thin body. I will caress my hand down his sternum, feel the frenetic pulse of his heart as he realises where his mistake truly lies.
That goal tentalizes my mouth and groin, and I am forced to resist the temptation to moan. Soon. Soon, I will unravel the disastrous reality of his demise. He will choke on his remorse. The regret that will no doubt burn; how could he trust his hated Potions master? How could he let seven years of repeated acts of trust and protection blind him to his intuition? I did not mistaken the chill that crept into his bones when we stood together in the Astrology Tower. There was no breeze, no coolness of air to make him shiver as though the devil had tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned, and saw it was me. He said nothing, but relaxed. His first mistake.
His second was to allow me to kiss him.
A drop of Sopor. A simple drop, as the book instructed, though I had done it a thousand times. It was important that it work properly, and no margin for error was acceptable. I mixed the elixir all night. I disposed of three hours of meticulous work when the potion boiled for three seconds more than it should have done.
In the end, it was perfect. Perfect, even as a drop touched my lip and remained there unspoiled through my journey up the tower. Perfect, as it lulled him into a deep sleep in my arms, his mouth glistening with my spit and the potion I had carefully brewed for him. Perfect, as it kept him enchanted until the moment I needed him awake and frantic.
And now that the moment is here, a significant weight seems to have lifted from my shoulders; I no longer need to hide. With Potter in my hands, in *our* hands, that fool Dumbledore can sulk in his castle and regret ever thinking men could change at the drop of a second chance.
"Severus."
He knows, of course. Despite my whimsical desires to play this childish game of surprise, I am not disapointed by his knowledge. I smile, even, and nod unnecessarily. He is blind by the charm that glows in the center of his pupils. It makes the green of his irises stand out, as though he is possessed, or enthralled.
"What insolence," I inform him casually, "to use my proper name." I've just dismissed two years of intimacy. The blow visibly hurts him, and I smile. I feel the pain that blooms in my chest and decide it is an echo of my mark, flaring to announce the approach of my peers.
"Severus, why are you doing this?"
Because it feels good, you silly boy. Because despite your willingness to offer your body and your trust, it was never enough. You gave me cries and I wanted screams. You gave me pleas and I wanted tears. You gave me love and I wanted hate.
Damn you.
You were never supposed to fall so easily. You were never supposed to give me your heart. You were supposed to resist me, to hate me, to fight me. You gave in too easily, and you are here, now, living that regret. I have no pity. I can't have pity.
Damn you.
They are coming, now. I can hear them, and my mark feels cold on my arm. I have to ignore the pain that blossoms along my sternum, thickening in my throat and stabbing the back of my eyes.
Damn you.
You were supposed to fight.
"Severus. You're here."
"Of course."
"I admit, I expected you not to show."
"My Lord."
"Yes, yes. Your devotion was never in question. Though your methods leave much to be desired. How you could stand feeling that filth on your mouth, on your skin. How you must have abhorred this assignment, my child. Your sacrifice will be rewarded, of course. Lucius."
"Yes, my Master?"
"See that Severus is bathed and robed properly. I wish to never see him in that disgusting robe again."
"And the boy?" A rasp, from Macnair in the corner. His axe shines in the light of the room.
Voldemort gives Potter a poisonous look. "Kill him, and don't dally. Bring the corpse in the atrium so we may burn the evidence before our coven." He nods curtly at Macnair and glides out the room as though he is deaf to the sound that shatters in my chest.
Lucius touches my shoulder, but I move it off. "I wish to see it." He smirks and touches my ear with his lips.
"Such a voyeur you are, Severus. I'm so glad you're back."
I want to be glad, too. But the feeling refuses to materialize, even as Lucius leaves and I have room to breathe. There is Macnair, his axe, and Potter on the bed soon to be soaked red. I want to be anticipating, but too many things battle for supremacy in my mind; I thought I would have more time, I want him for myself, they can't kill him now, why did I choose to follow this damned familiar path?
The thud of the falling axe is suprisingly soft, if one is to ignore the crunch of bones and the squelch of blood. Potter screams, but the sound is cut off abruptly. I am vomitting somewhere on the bed, and Macnair's wide eyes stare at me from across the room.
His body, behind me, falls limply to the ground.
Harry is trying to speak against my palm, but I am still being sick, laughing dementedly before choking on my own vom.
I asked to do it.
Macnair trusted me.
At least ...
... at least I didn't have to kiss him.
It's a ridiculous thought, but oddly bracing. I remove my hand from Harry's mouth, and he hysterically tries to ask five questions at the same time. I sit wearily next to him and slowly work his bonds loose. I ignore his feverish words, and think back on where my life steered wrong.
And what is the purpose of this insane little chapter in my life? I'm not sure there is a purpose. I'm not sure what I was trying to do when I so carefully planned Potter's capture. Perhaps I thought Voldemort would keep the boy around. Perhaps I thought, in my madness, that Voldemort would give him to me. Perhaps ...
... perhaps I simply desired accolades and love both.
In the end, I got none. I sit in Azkaban, and occasionally feel a part of me die whenever a Dementor glides past my cell. Harry is not so foolish anymore. He no longer trusts me, even when I voluntarily pleaded guilty. I try to feel pride, but they steal it away from me and leave resentment and bitterness.
I sit in my cell and think about how three seconds could have saved me.
END
Three Seconds
by Snaples
Do you know how often I've imagined this in my waking moments? To see you humbled and despoiled? To feel your naked flesh sing with the lashes you've earned and burn under my hands? No, you don't, do you? I have never told you, even during our most hateful exchanges, how I yearned to rip your will between my teeth. That was my secret and mine alone, a thought I kept written in my mind and hidden from prying eyes and fingers. I was not so naïve as to inform my pensieve of these dark cravings, and to keep a journal was simply reckless and beyond the pale.
But here you are; naked and spread, your skin glowing with sweat and humiliation and your eyes frantically shifting to locate the source of your torment. I can see those gears turning in your mind, boy. Voldemort is screaming from your mouth, even though you are silent in your defiance. You are wondering where you went wrong, how you miscalculated and what choices led you to your unfortunate capture.
Nothing went wrong, boy.
Other than the fact you so gamely trusted me.
"Please," you whisper. A shift in your thighs distracts my attention from your plea. For a pretentious moment, I imagine there are memory orbs speckled around the room, their greedy light capturing every movement that invents your disgrace.
Reality returns, and my memory will have to serve.
I am tempted to answer him, to ask him what it is he is begging for. But my voice would betray me, and I am content with his ignorance -- blissful thing that it isn't. Later, when the other Death Eaters arrive, I will lend my words to the chaotic blend of questions and derision and triumph. I will explain in his ear how I will systematically break every tendril of spirit he has contained in his thin body. I will caress my hand down his sternum, feel the frenetic pulse of his heart as he realises where his mistake truly lies.
That goal tentalizes my mouth and groin, and I am forced to resist the temptation to moan. Soon. Soon, I will unravel the disastrous reality of his demise. He will choke on his remorse. The regret that will no doubt burn; how could he trust his hated Potions master? How could he let seven years of repeated acts of trust and protection blind him to his intuition? I did not mistaken the chill that crept into his bones when we stood together in the Astrology Tower. There was no breeze, no coolness of air to make him shiver as though the devil had tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned, and saw it was me. He said nothing, but relaxed. His first mistake.
His second was to allow me to kiss him.
A drop of Sopor. A simple drop, as the book instructed, though I had done it a thousand times. It was important that it work properly, and no margin for error was acceptable. I mixed the elixir all night. I disposed of three hours of meticulous work when the potion boiled for three seconds more than it should have done.
In the end, it was perfect. Perfect, even as a drop touched my lip and remained there unspoiled through my journey up the tower. Perfect, as it lulled him into a deep sleep in my arms, his mouth glistening with my spit and the potion I had carefully brewed for him. Perfect, as it kept him enchanted until the moment I needed him awake and frantic.
And now that the moment is here, a significant weight seems to have lifted from my shoulders; I no longer need to hide. With Potter in my hands, in *our* hands, that fool Dumbledore can sulk in his castle and regret ever thinking men could change at the drop of a second chance.
"Severus."
He knows, of course. Despite my whimsical desires to play this childish game of surprise, I am not disapointed by his knowledge. I smile, even, and nod unnecessarily. He is blind by the charm that glows in the center of his pupils. It makes the green of his irises stand out, as though he is possessed, or enthralled.
"What insolence," I inform him casually, "to use my proper name." I've just dismissed two years of intimacy. The blow visibly hurts him, and I smile. I feel the pain that blooms in my chest and decide it is an echo of my mark, flaring to announce the approach of my peers.
"Severus, why are you doing this?"
Because it feels good, you silly boy. Because despite your willingness to offer your body and your trust, it was never enough. You gave me cries and I wanted screams. You gave me pleas and I wanted tears. You gave me love and I wanted hate.
Damn you.
You were never supposed to fall so easily. You were never supposed to give me your heart. You were supposed to resist me, to hate me, to fight me. You gave in too easily, and you are here, now, living that regret. I have no pity. I can't have pity.
Damn you.
They are coming, now. I can hear them, and my mark feels cold on my arm. I have to ignore the pain that blossoms along my sternum, thickening in my throat and stabbing the back of my eyes.
Damn you.
You were supposed to fight.
"Severus. You're here."
"Of course."
"I admit, I expected you not to show."
"My Lord."
"Yes, yes. Your devotion was never in question. Though your methods leave much to be desired. How you could stand feeling that filth on your mouth, on your skin. How you must have abhorred this assignment, my child. Your sacrifice will be rewarded, of course. Lucius."
"Yes, my Master?"
"See that Severus is bathed and robed properly. I wish to never see him in that disgusting robe again."
"And the boy?" A rasp, from Macnair in the corner. His axe shines in the light of the room.
Voldemort gives Potter a poisonous look. "Kill him, and don't dally. Bring the corpse in the atrium so we may burn the evidence before our coven." He nods curtly at Macnair and glides out the room as though he is deaf to the sound that shatters in my chest.
Lucius touches my shoulder, but I move it off. "I wish to see it." He smirks and touches my ear with his lips.
"Such a voyeur you are, Severus. I'm so glad you're back."
I want to be glad, too. But the feeling refuses to materialize, even as Lucius leaves and I have room to breathe. There is Macnair, his axe, and Potter on the bed soon to be soaked red. I want to be anticipating, but too many things battle for supremacy in my mind; I thought I would have more time, I want him for myself, they can't kill him now, why did I choose to follow this damned familiar path?
The thud of the falling axe is suprisingly soft, if one is to ignore the crunch of bones and the squelch of blood. Potter screams, but the sound is cut off abruptly. I am vomitting somewhere on the bed, and Macnair's wide eyes stare at me from across the room.
His body, behind me, falls limply to the ground.
Harry is trying to speak against my palm, but I am still being sick, laughing dementedly before choking on my own vom.
I asked to do it.
Macnair trusted me.
At least ...
... at least I didn't have to kiss him.
It's a ridiculous thought, but oddly bracing. I remove my hand from Harry's mouth, and he hysterically tries to ask five questions at the same time. I sit wearily next to him and slowly work his bonds loose. I ignore his feverish words, and think back on where my life steered wrong.
And what is the purpose of this insane little chapter in my life? I'm not sure there is a purpose. I'm not sure what I was trying to do when I so carefully planned Potter's capture. Perhaps I thought Voldemort would keep the boy around. Perhaps I thought, in my madness, that Voldemort would give him to me. Perhaps ...
... perhaps I simply desired accolades and love both.
In the end, I got none. I sit in Azkaban, and occasionally feel a part of me die whenever a Dementor glides past my cell. Harry is not so foolish anymore. He no longer trusts me, even when I voluntarily pleaded guilty. I try to feel pride, but they steal it away from me and leave resentment and bitterness.
I sit in my cell and think about how three seconds could have saved me.
END