Chapter 7

"The Day He Called"

Severus opened his eyes to pain.

Not unmanageable pain. Yet. The Dark Mark gave its wearers a warning, of course: ‘You’re being summoned. Come, or else.’ If one chose to ignore the warning, which some foolhardy Death Eaters did, the mark...grew a bit more insistent. If one liked to call mind numbing agony insistence, anyway. Eating, teaching, sex and sleep were all trivial things, after all; what was more important than Voldemort? More importantly than that–what really was more important than Voldemort, who had not summoned him in months?

He’d barely gotten two winks of sleep–his brats had kept him awake long after it was acceptable. As he’d known would happen, three fourth years had smuggled in Canary Creams from their day in Hogsmeade, tried to charm them, and set them in the girls dormitories. Of course the entire project went to hell when Severus had to stop eight young women from pecking out the eyes of the three idiot boys. Detentions were issued, the girls sent to Madame Pomfrey, and he’d gotten exactly an hour of sleep before being summoned.

As he rose, forcing his old body to wake without the habitual aid of his caffeinated drug of choice, he clutched his burning arm. The Dark Mark, skeletal like a cattle brand, pulsed blood red and black against his otherwise pale skin. He cradled his arm gently and soundlessly rose from his warm cocoon of blankets.

After making sure he’d tucked his wand into his sleeve, he locked the doors of his quarters behind him and did the same to his office. No one, save for himself or Albus, would be allowed back in.

He paused at the Common Room door, listening intently, and once he was sure all of the children had finally gone to bed, he swept up the steps to the top floor corridors.

Severus lifted his old broom, a Moon Beam 6, and swept out through the front entrance and onto the grounds. The castle stood silent as a tomb and his footfalls fell crunchy on the springy snow-covered grass that led him straight to the Whomping Willow.

Dumbledore was always hyper sensitive of Severus’ comings and goings, just as the school itself was, and Severus knew by the prickling along the nape of his neck that Dumbledore was watching him from his office. Severus raised a hand toward the turret where the Headmaster’s quarters were ensconced, and crossed out of the wards and barriers around the school.

He gave his robes a brief shake to loosen some of the packed snow along the hem, mounted his broom, and flew.

It felt like he flew for ages, with only the owls and the stars for company. The air was crisp and cold in his lungs, clearing his mind of all negative thoughts. Despite the beliefs of his students and his colleagues, he enjoyed flying quite a bit. The feeling of the air cushioning around him, like a fluffy cloud guiding his every movement, was incredibly pleasant. The air whipped through his hair, across his face, under his robe, and even though it was bitterly cold, he felt...alive. The pounding of his heart and the roaring of his blood made him feel more human than he had for some time and although he was going to go answer one of his master’s calls tonight, right now he could pretend he was free.

He landed at the rendezvous spot less than an hour later. His fingers, numb and aching because he despised flying with gloves, were positively frozen to the broom handle.

The rendezvous spot was a clearing on the very far side of the Forbidden Forest from the school and Hogsmeade. Lord Voldemort, in a stroke of paranoid genius, led his faithful little Death Eaters through a maze of portkeys, Floos and Apparations to get to him. Desperately annoying.

Beside him, with a thump of Italian boots, Draco Malfoy landed.

"Mr. Malfoy," Severus murmured, without taking his eyes off of the portkey sitting at on a small rock. A woman’s old shoe.

No one ever said the Dark Lord lacked a sense of humor.

"Professor. We’re awaiting Avery."

Draco’s broom, much more expensive and richly detailed, already sat beside a tree. The Firebolt KYN was the latest model that all of the professional Quidditch teams sported this year, and it was a broom to be envious of. Beside it his Moon Beam 6 looked pathetic, but Severus didn’t pay any mind to it. He afforded what he could–and what he could not he did without.

Of course Draco, being Draco, couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

"Its high time you bought a new broom, Professor. Honestly. You’ve been flying for nearly an hour. It won’t do to bring the Dark Lord’s favorite in pieces." Severus could hear the smirk from where he stood.

"Not all of us were born with silver spoons in our mouths, Mr. Malfoy," Severus murmured with more than just a little amusement. The light banter between them seemed to break some of the dread they were both feeling, because like Severus, Draco must have known tonight was a special night. Special in that they would either live or die, depending on their Master’s whim. "Though I’m sure yours was sullied and bent with your banging and demands before you were a year old."

He nearly spoke again, but in that moment Avery Apparated in behind his back and the tone of the conversation, which had been gentle and friendly, shifted abruptly.

"Even those with wooden ones can afford a new thing now and again. You spend entirely too much of Dumbledore's money on potion ingredients and such. Learn to live a little, Severus, before you die a wrinkled old man surrounded in frog spawn and wolfsbane. Surely you get a little in your monthly salary to save for a Cleansweep, at least." All said with a smug, superior air. "However, I’m sure if you find yourself...lacking, you could always take out a loan from Gringotts."

"I would rather spend my earnings on things I enjoy than on frivolous possessions, because I, unlike others of my acquaintance, am a master in my field and I, unlike others, own things which mean more to me alone than if a dead king previously had it on parade in some corner of his equally frivolous home," Severus retorted coolly, noting the amusement, and the appreciation, in Draco’s eyes and matching it before he turned to Avery. "Is that all from this area?"

Avery’s cloak covered head nodded. "That’s it. The others are catching the portkey in Yorkshire."

"Isn’t that nice."

It was within the familiar presence of his fellow Death Eaters that they took the portkey in hand and left the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. Dragged through a magical vortex was just about the worst feeling imaginable, and no matter how deeply Severus understood the inner workings of portkeying he could never get over how wrong it felt. It was like a hook had been snagged behind his navel, right into his intestines, and he’d been dragged face first through the abyss.

When the portkey deactivated and they’d pulled themselves from the usual tangle of limbs, Severus had a chance to take in the surroundings and absently rub at his sore belly. They had portkeyed right into a forest clearing, much like the one they had left, with enormous trees littering the landscape and the strong smell of the ocean prickling Severus’ nose.

Severus wasn’t a Potions Master for nothing. He began to methodically catalogue what he was seeing and smelling, every herb and plant. Draco and Avery were gathering their bearings, and Severus looked over them, noting the Grey Sallow shrubs and pear lilies growing along the quiet bank of a large river they’d arrived next to.

No. Not a river...a lake, where several hundred Greenland White-fronted geese lazily swam in the moonlight. There was only one place he’d ever been to that had them in this great quantity, and that was Cork, Ireland.

As soon as he was comfortable with his assessment, Severus looked back at Draco, who had just finished dusting off his robes, and then Avery, who was growling under his breath at the grass stains on his knees. No. Better not to say anything, not with Avery, the most loyal of Death Eaters and eager for advancement, so close.

"Gentlemen."

Severus let his gaze slide over to the large lump covered with robes that had just arrived. If he was right... "Good evening, Vincent."

Vincent Crabbe had been one of his most difficult students. Plagued with a reading disability, he had stumbled through Hogwarts before taking the Mark the night Draco did, for many, if not all, of the same reasons.

"Professor Snape. Mr. Malfoy. You will come with me; the Dark Lord wants private council with you both before the meeting."

Oh, lovely.

Other Death Eaters began to arrive though they, unlike Draco and Severus, were being led to a clearing. Vincent led them away from the group, toward the lake itself, and for a startling instant, Severus was sure he was going to lead them wading into the water.

Strange, how close to the truth he was.

The lake itself was enormous. The banks grassy sand lay rough underfoot, trees thickly filling in any gaps around it. Owls hooted, deer hid, and the geese, thousands of them, glided on the mirror-smooth surface of the water.

There in the silvery shimmer of the lake, enormous steps lay bare, unglamoured. They led down into the very heart of the water, and the wings of the geese near the stairs flapped like a wind storm over the soft stillness of the lake.

At the foot of the staircase, Nagini was waiting.

Severus glanced toward Vincent and realized the young man was waiting for an answer. "Of course, Mr. Crabbe. Please, take us to our Lord."

After Draco’s firm nod assent, and a terrified glance at Severus that could have been mistaken as a sneer, they left their fellow Death Eaters and followed Crabbe down the long flight of stairs. The water, also glamoured, was such a vivid and clear illusion that Severus could almost feel the coldness of it as he and Draco walked down the steps. The illusion lapped around his legs, then his hips, belly, chest, and it was the strangest feeling he’d ever encountered, to be in the water and be dry as a bone. He didn’t hesitate when the water reached nose level, just passed his head down through it, still able to breathe, still able to think, and went down the final two steps.

Draco was nearly hyperventilating, though he was struggling like mad to appear cool and collected, and Severus made a sound of sympathy that was swallowed into the lake’s depths. He wasn’t blind–he understood Draco’s fear. He had two children with a third on the way, and a wonderful wife who loved him waiting at home. Dying now was not the best way to raise a family, to say the least.

An enormous, well lit cavern stretched out before them as long and deep as the treacherous walk through water they’d just taken. Severus wasn’t watching his feet, and he nearly stumbled as he took the last step down. Nearly. It gave him a lovely vantage point as Draco fell flat on his posterior, which Severus couldn’t help snickering quietly over. "Watch yourself, Mr. Malfoy. Wouldn’t want to deliver the Dark Lord’s favorite in pieces."

"Please, gentlemen." Before them, Crabbe was almost fidgeting. "It’s most rude to keep the Dark Lord waiting. He..he is very pleased with something, and...he needs to see you. So come along, now."

Pleased? What the devil could Voldemort be pleased with now? He’d been thwarted on advancing on Hogwarts at every turn, missed killing Dumbledore at every crossing, much to Severus’ own personal amusement of course, but said failures hadn’t given him the best disposition in the previous months before Voldemort had cut off all contact with his network of Death Eaters.

No matter. That was a topic best ignored when Severus was standing outside of Voldemort’s chambers.

With Draco still grumbling quietly at his side, Severus followed Crabbe up the long stone hall where enormous torches cast elongated shadows down another small flight of steps., around a corner and down three hallways, to the Dark Lord’s open chamber door.

Others outside of this most terrible dark circle did not fully comprehend the power of Lord Voldemort. His physical appearance, while stunning, was black with evil with dark magic. Albus had seen it in passing, Potter even more briefly than that, and neither could understand the horror that lay within this twisted man. His skin was sheet white, transparent, so clear it couldn’t even be called sallow, without depth or even circulating blood. His frame was as fragile and thin as brittle wood, though underneath the thin muscles lay inherent strength that came not from a body, but from pure, undiluted magic.

He was hideous.

Severus knew better than to even think so.

Voldemort’s voice, as rough as sandpaper over wood, spoke quietly. "Severus. Draco. My children, you are welcome, come in."

The room was filled with men and women, wizards and witches, working frantically at a dozen tables set up near the end of the grand hall. What the bloody blazes were they doing working here? Severus dropped to his knees and crawled, despite his protesting bones, toward Voldemort. He kissed the hem of his Lord’s robes, three times, then over the blue and red rings on thin, bony fingers. "My Lord. Please, forgive our tardiness in reaching you."

That horrible voice laughed. "Oh, my Severus, there is no need to apologize. You see, even if you were three hours late instead of one, I would not punish you."

Oh. Bloody hell.

Severus always admitted he was scared–in his line of work, not owning up to your emotions was as good as suicide.

He was terrified. Utterly. Totally. He also knew better than to look up into his master’s face until he gave them permission to rise. Voldemort gloried in the power he held over them–leaving them on the stone floor for hours at a time. Sometimes Severus could barely stand afterward without Draco’s assistance.

"We have felt your joy, your Excellency."

"Yes, my Lord, we have. We only wish to heighten your happiness by doing your bidding," Draco murmured beside him.

"You can, and you will. You may look up."

Dammit.

Severus lifted his eyes, and knew his stony exterior was perfectly intact. The disgust he felt deep in the pit of his belly at seeing that revolting face was enough to nearly make him gag, but instead of doing so he let the mask slip just a little just a bit and hoped his face conveyed enough adoration to lure Voldemort firmly into his trust tonight.

Dark red eyes with golden pupils looked down on him. The mottled cobra marks on Voldemort’s hairless flesh clashed roughly with the lipless, shapeless, blood red slit that was his mouth. It was paper thin, fragile as a waxy sheet of paper fluttering with every deep, dank breath.

Voldemort smiled at him, then turned the same smile at Draco who had mimicked Severus’ adoring expression, and though it was only a trace, it answered to the call in Voldemort’s cold, dead little heart. It was risky, more so than usual, because something was definitely...off here and Severus was absolutely sure he did not want to get on the wrong end of Voldemort’s wand tonight.

One stray thought, one hint of contempt, and it would all come crashing down.

"Please, my Lord. Anything you wish is ours to retrieve."

"Ahhh. I thought you might say that, Draco."

Voldemort rose, and Severus slid back on his knees to allow the Dark Lord room. Not because he was more repulsive than half the things in Severus’ work room, of course. "In fact, I think you are going to do just fine. You see..." And then those blood red eyes flickered to Severus and something in them had the bile rising up his throat. "I have put together a most ingenious plan."

"Plan, my Lord?" Severus asked.

"Indeed," Voldemort slid his hands behind his back as he began to roam his throne room. "Little shackled birds, when under torture, will speak great amounts of truth. This little bird has told me something invaluable. Surely you both remember what happened thirteen years ago, or do you not?" Voldemort’s muscles bunched as if he were lifting his eyebrows, but there weren’t eyebrows to lift.

Thirteen years ago. Harry was twenty four..he was eleven y–

"The Sorcerer’s Stone incident, my Lord?"

"You are most correct," Voldemort smiled and Severus wished to Merlin he hadn’t. His entire body struggled against the shudder that nearly undid everything. "I saw that when you came in you were interested in...my people," he glanced over his shoulder at the men and women working diligently over the tables. "This little bird, Severus, has told me quite a few interesting things. Please come with me."

Severus lifted himself up and swept the hood off of his head as the mask went into his pocket. Shackled bird. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Inner Order member, could have told Voldemort everything about Severus being a spy, could have undone all the work they’d done in the last ten years. Merlin.

Despite himself, Severus’ defenses rose a little higher than before, keeping an iron grip on the mask of loyal and intelligent Death Eater. He had a terrible feeling about this.

"Tell me, Severus. Who are these people?" Voldemort asked, as if questioning a pupil, and Severus kept a few steps behind him, allowing the crazy sod a bit of breathing room. The tables were heaped with things he found on his own work tables–orbs, flasks, burners and beakers, ingredients for mixing and several cauldrons. There were earthen chemicals–gold, silver, lead, moonstone, and an assortment of minerals that Severus couldn’t identify with only the cursory glance he was allowed.

There was a man-sized cauldron on the floor in the center, protected by a deactivation charm which glowed a strange unearthly blue, and the alchemists working studiously around it had the glazed, unconnected look of people under the Imperious Curse.

Including Algie Longbottom, Earnest Pumpernickle, and Prometheus Canterbut.

All of the people in this room had been snatched from their lives within the last few weeks, right under everyone’s noses. Alchemists were rare unto themselves–in his twenty year career at Hogwarts he’d only seen three of his former students go into the field. "Alchemists, my Lord."

"Indeed. And what are they doing?"

"I would say they are attempting to turn lead into gold, my Lord," Severus said.

Voldemort laughed again and several of the people at the tables jumped. "Yes, my delightful little potions master, and no. Come with me. Draco, run along to my private chambers. The professor will join you shortly."

Severus didn’t look at the young man as something like lead hit the pit of his belly. He followed Voldemort out of the expansive room through one of the many doors, and found this one lead straight into a massive library.

No. Not in Ireland. They’d gone through a portal when they’d passed through the water–this had to be one of Voldemort’s many mansions on the English countryside. Severus recognized the library–he had poured through it when he’d been young and fatally stupid. Voldemort lead him into one of the side chambers and upon entering, a shiver ran down Severus’ spine.

The shelves were covered, every inch of them, with boxes stamped "Ludicrous Patents Office". They filled the small space, jammed in where they didn’t fit. Only a small walkway remained open.

There, on a small desk crammed in the corner of the room, was a stack of scrolls with the same seal, the magical bonds that kept it shut lying in tatters beside it.

On the parchment, written in a familiar, flowing script, was Nicholas Flamel’s name.

Something heavy and sick fell in the pit of Severus’ belly, nearly making him gag at the greasy weight of it. It rolled, like a thing alive at the corners of his chest, begging for attention.

Voldemort smiled at him. In his smile, Severus saw a shadow of the man he’d once come to with hope and lust, and saw instead the madman he’d become. "Sometimes I really am too clever for my own good." He tipped his head. "This little bird," he snorted with laughter, "led me in the right direction. He was killed for his stupidity by my network in the Ministry, though he did provide me with an excellent new addition to my team." He paused a moment.

"I am trusting you with this, my renegade potions master. You strayed once–that old man put thoughts in your head that should have never been there. You are, and have always been, my favorite, but I will not accept mistakes. And that is why..." He rolled the scroll up. "I would like for you to take these with you. I have had copies made for the Alchemists I have... commissioned and the originals put away for safe keeping. I was hoping you would consider joining the project."

Don’t vomit, Severus.

"My Lord," he whispered, with as much reverence as he could possibly muster. "Thank you for this opportunity. I hope I will not disappoint you."

"I know you will not, my Severus. You have served me well and I always reward such... unshakable devotion. I have always valued your insatiable curiosity," Voldemort murmured. "I would like you to stay for my entertainment tonight before I meet with your brethren. You will find Draco in my chamber. Don’t make him wait. I will be there shortly."

"Yes, my Lord," Severus whispered and with a deep bow, he turned and walked out of the room.

He fought to keep his knees from trembling, his back ramrod straight, his heart from pattering too wildly as he walked through the alchemists’ workstations, cataloguing as many names as he possibly could. Several of the men were muttering, and Severus peered at them sharply as he walked past.

The occult charm expert, Flannery Higgins, sat beside one of the small tables. Shacklebolt. Voldemort had used Shacklebolt to get to Higgins.

His stomach roiled.

Entertaining the Dark Lord wouldn’t be a problem–Severus had performed many unspeakable acts here in these very rooms, in punishment and pleasure both. He was obsessed with death, after all.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite seem to get that thought out of his mind as he opened the door to Voldemort’s personal bed chamber and saw Draco waiting for him.

"Professor Snape."

"Mr. Malfoy," Severus murmured.

He stopped by the wide bed and slowly, feeling the young man’s eyes on him, began to undress. The robes came off easy enough, folded over the back of a lovely ornate chair beside the bed. Bile rose up high in his throat as he peeled his shirt from his sweat-damp skin, and unbuttoned his trousers. Severus could see Draco watching him from the corner of his eye. "Staring isn’t polite, you know."

It was such a startling contrast, the two of them, when Draco was nothing but silver lined beauty, long limbs and tumbling blond hair as shiny as glass. He was a work of art, lying there like a Greek God awaiting his nymphs. And Severus? Quite plainly, he had let himself go. Where once there had been a well toned, strong man, now stood a body so thin one could count his ribs under a range of scars, belly and hips, thighs and crotch. Even his penis was heavily scarred from all the times it had been cut by both Voldemort and Severus himself.

No one would find him attractive, he who wore his life on his skin–not even ideological Gryffindors–and though he never let on, Severus knew how Draco felt when the Dark Lord demanded they be intimate. Severus had plainly seen the disgust and horror in his eyes, then and every time afterward, as if Draco couldn’t quite remember how disfigured his old school master truly was and seeing it anew brought back the wave of revulsion. Lucius had never let those emotions cloud his face and Severus had kept some semblance of dignity when he’d been forced into encounters with him. With Draco, that was a lost cause.

"Professor, we’ve long passed the time when we had to be polite with one another," Draco sneered back. He lounged back, legs splayed without a hint of embarrassment. His long penis lay on his thigh, uninterested. "Professor? Why do you never heal them?"

"Heal what?"

"Your scars."

Something in his eyes must have frightened the boy, because Draco recoiled the smallest bit, as if terrified both of what he’d said and to who. "Scars are the marks of the life you have led, Mr. Malfoy. It is better to see them, and stay grounded in who you are and who you are not, than to live a lie."

With a final tug at the laces of his boots Severus pushed the pants off of his hips and down to stand naked and about as inglorious as it was possible to be before the boy. Didn’t think about him. His face. His eyes. Disregarded it, put it out of his thoughts, and crawled up onto the soft mattress to position himself for Draco, hands and knees, hips thrust out.

Where once intimacy had been a pleasure, now it lay in darkness. Severus could remember as if from another lifetime that he’d once been particularly good at it–after all, his skill had often left one Remus Lupin in a puddle of bliss. But it felt like so long ago, years, eons ago when making love was for pleasure, not pain. Sex had become a punishment for deeds yet to do, for penance left unpaid. Sex had become a trial of remembering who he was and who he was not, what he had become and what he would never be. Sex had become something to live through, to go through the motions of. There was no pleasure here but for the dark ecstasy of punishing himself for all the wrong things he’d had done in his life.

Voldemort’s bed chamber–Severus’ own Chamber of Secrets.

"Professor, you don't have to–"

"No," Severus grit out. For all the boy claimed bisexuality, his wife and children spoke to the contrary. Severus had enough on his conscience without challenging that, and nearly always took the bottom.

The only way to do this was to remain clinical–Severus didn’t think he could handle it any other way. Facts and assurances and cold hard truth was the way to go about this, and keep himself from running away screaming. "Go on then."

The bed dipped behind him, a soft kiss dropped on his hip, and he closed his eyes as the humiliation reached up to claw at the base of his throat. Degrading, to be lying here with his arse in the air, face in his crossed arms, prostrating himself to the young man who’d been in nappies but yesterday. Wrong and terrible and wrong, even as his slender, soft, child’s fingers wrapped around Severus’ limp penis.

The first and only time Severus couldn’t get an erection, Voldemort cursed him so badly that he had vomited blood for two days and had been unable to move on his own for a week after.

"Something good, Severus," was murmured from behind him, and the humiliation burned his cheeks, his chest, the backs of his eyes. "Think of something good."

Not too good, because he didn’t want to sully them. But something good. Something...

Harry.

It was dirty, and oh-so wrong. Severus rocked his hips lightly into Draco’s firm hand. No. Harry’s hand. Harry’s hand on Severus’ penis, trembling and unsure, stroking him to hardness.

Yes.

Severus let his eyes close as he drifted into his fantasy. His bedroom. Both of them naked, Severus’ own sallow skin unmarked and smooth as it had been in his youth. The tight, hot ascension to lust, slow and sure, a flower unfurling between them.

The thought, the very fantasy had Severus grunting as his erection filled and lifted, proud against his belly. It had been so very, very long since he’d been inside of anyone, since he’d been made love to and loved in return, but he couldn’t think too closely on that or he’d lose his erection.

Draco let go–no. Harry let go, still fumbling, so sweet. He knew what he was supposed to do, of course, because in Severus’ fantasies he hadn’t taken Harry’s virginity. He’d come back to Severus already experienced, because no one in their right mind would give Severus such a gift.

But it didn’t matter. Harry would look on him and find only beauty–he would beg Severus to take him. Yes. Beg, those beautiful lips speaking words of longing and delicious aching.

Severus replaced his hand when Draco let go and gently pulled on his erection as he spread his thighs. He heard Draco fumbling beside him, looking for the bottle of lubrication in Severus’ robe–he’d learned twenty years ago that attending a Death Eater meeting without some sort of protection would lead to spit fucks, where blood lubricated the way.

Severus felt a finger coaxing into him.

Harry’s finger. Sweet and gentle, not knowing how far or how close...rubbing all over inside without knowing how impossibly good it felt. Stroking in and out, his soft breaths mingling with Severus’ own, trembling beautifully with all the innocence of youth. But strong..he knows what he’s doing after all, and Severus groaned quietly as he rubbed back.

Another finger added. Yes. That felt so good, so stretched, Harry was doing so well but he couldn’t voice it. He’d only make a smart aleck remark, after all, and that mouth was so better suited for other, more pleasurable, things. Another grunt...yes, oh yes, Severus felt the hard evidence of arousal rubbing against his thigh and he rubbed back, panting quietly and pulling lightly on his erection. Didn’t want to end this too soon.

Draco slid a third finger home, making sure that they wouldn’t rip him, wouldn’t hurt him–the one time the poor boy had been too hasty and Severus had bled, Voldemort had made Draco–

Don’t think of that now, Severus.

He spread his hips further as the fingers worked inside of him, stretching him, and listened to the pants and shudders from the young man. Severus grasped his withering erection tightly.

Harry. Gasping. Panting in his ear in his happiness. That talented mouth kissing all over his back, tracing the scars with his tongue, licking the shoulder blades and nibbling the bones of the spine. Severus could almost feel how wonderful his mouth would be traveling down the length of his back to lick at the split of his arse–to nip and lick and play happily, without knowing how terribly exciting it would be for him.

The fingers slid out and the blunt end of something much bigger and harder pressed against Severus’ entrance. He relaxed reflexively as he was breached, impassively listening as Draco grunted with every breath. The boy slid into him like steel, opening up what he couldn’t reach with his fingers. Severus remembered a time when this had hurt.

Draco panted and rocked his slender hips, slow and sure, until Severus felt the heavy heat of bollocks resting against his own. Draco gasped, pressing kisses to his flesh and Severus didn’t bother shaking him off–the boy craved affection like a plant craved sunlight, so he let him take what he wanted.

Severus grasped his erection tightly, rubbing the tip with his thumb and fought for his fantasy as Draco began to rut against him.

Harry. So excited, jabbing his thrusts with all the finesse of an inexperienced first year in his first Potions class and yet, somehow, Severus found he just couldn’t correct him. Harry’s happiness meant the world to him, even if it was just in this fantasy world, where he and Harry were alone in his bed only in his dreams. Severus let him move, enjoying himself through Harry’s pleasure, and stroked his erection firmly as he began to move back against him.

Draco always liked when Severus arched his hips to meet his thrusts–his thrusts got harder and faster, his tempo picking up. If Severus had a hard time keeping his erection, he was certain Draco had a hard time keeping his, and because Draco had far more to lose than he did, Severus encouraged him with groans and grunts. Fabricated lust was the finest art of acting, Severus was one to know.

Draco grasped his hips tightly in warning and gasped.

Severus turned his head and met Voldemort’s smoldering gaze.

"M..My Lord..." There went his Potter fantasy.

Draco slowed his thrusts as Voldemort locked the door behind him and he, like Severus, was frozen, waiting for reprimand or encouragement. This time, when the Dark Lord sat down on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers down the long arch of Severus’ spine, he knew what it was.

You just never knew with Voldemort.

"My Lord...it...we were excited...we wanted..." Draco stuttered.

"Yes," Voldemort interrupted, and that hideous smile full of sharp edged teeth filled his face. "Please, continue."

Severus grasped his erection, as hard as he could, willing it to life as he squeezed tightly around Draco. The boy had gone more than half-soft inside of him and Severus squeezed again and again, hardening him with patient ministrations as he pretended to rearrange himself. Harder, again, again, squeezing harder, harder, and Draco suddenly gasped and rocked against him.

With practiced motions they worked back up to their rhythm, minds now carefully blank. Severus kept his mind trained on images of Draco and his beautiful body, working his way to orgasm on sheer aesthetic beauty. Draco angled his thrusts until he struck Severus’ prostate, and it was all Severus could do to keep the cry in. Hard, humping movements and Voldemort was right fucking there but there was little either of them could do.

Severus let his hand fly over his erection as he lowered his head to his arms once more, opening himself further to Draco’s thrusts. Move, move, move, orgasm and it’s over, hurry Severus, orgasm and it’s over.

He rubbed, hard and fast at the head, then stroked down to squeeze the length, and erupted.

Slow, almost sluggish pulses shot out of him and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, body shaking. Climaxing held little pleasure, but at least with release it was over.

There was a murmur beside him and Severus felt the boy withdrawing from his body. He was sure Draco had come and almost got up, until he felt the hot, sticky splashes falling on the length of his spine and buttocks, something...

Draco had just come on him.

He closed his eyes, waves of humiliation coursing through him, at the submission he’d just been forced to give.

Severus kept as still as he possibly could, concentrating on keeping himself together. His heart was dead but his mind was not and it screamed at the injustice. Draco was smoothing the streaks of his emission down Severus’ spine, rubbing it into his skin as Voldemort instructed, and put all thoughts of it out of his mind as a free hand stroked almost tenderly down to his hip.

He flinched and both men laughed.

"Oh, come now, my Severus," Voldemort whispered, the cold snake-like sound of his breath sending a shudder run down Severus’ back. "I know how much you...enjoy this."

"Yes, My Lord," Severus murmured, throwing in a deep groan and a slight squirm of his hips. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome," Voldemort all but hissed with pleasure. "You are both free to go. I still have a few loose ends to tie up." At that he gave a throaty, raspy laugh. "Be careful on your trip home. I would not want my favorite children injured. I expect you to keep me abreast of the situation, Severus."

"Yes, My Lord," Severus answered, as Draco rolled away from him to sitting on the edge of the bed. Severus followed, unable to tug anything over his lap as he and Draco had fucked over the duvet. Voldemort wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. The Dark Lords gaze traveled the length of Severus’ body like a disgusting slug, taking in every marked injury, every scar, hungrily.

This time, unlike many times before, Voldemort did not press his advantage. He hungered for death, not flesh–it was evident in every lick of his papery lips and aroused sigh coming from him.

As quietly as he’d come he was gone in a whirl of robes, leaving he and Draco alone once again.

"Did you come?"

The question was quietly asked from beside him and Severus arched a brow as he climbed up to his feet. He ignored the damp stickiness all over his body and grasped his trousers.

"Professor," Draco lay a hand on his arm. "Did you come?"

Ah. The sweet misconceptions of youth.

"Of course I did. With all the power of a thousand stallions frolicking across the wind and turf, I came, Mr. Malfoy. Happy?" Severus sneered it, hiding behind his well-built mask. His robes, a tangled mush in his hands, became worse as he fought to straighten them. After an eternity of fumbling he found the neck and sleeve, and yanked the robe on. Did he come. Oh, yes, he came. That was all that was important, after all, how hard he came and the apology behind the question

"No, of course I’m not happy," Draco hissed back, grasping the chest of Severus’ robes and yanking him forward. "Stupid fool. You have been and will always be the most ignorant person I know."

"That’s not exactly pillow talk, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps I could give you pointers some other time," Severus smirked back at him and shook himself free. "Get dressed."

"You can’t hide behind your sharp tongue. Not with me. You should know better."

"And you should know better than talking here, you imbecile. Get your clothes."

Severus turned and whisked out, the scrolls tight in his arms. Out of Voldemort’s chambers, down the long hall, and back out of the water-charmed entrance.

The night was black and bitterly cold, with none of the possibilities it had held only a few short hours ago. He slipped his mask on over his face, if only to warm his cheeks, and looked up at the stars.

Merlin, he needed a glass of scotch.

No...make that two.

"You can’t ignore me all night." Severus felt rather than heard Draco’s approach. "I won’t let you."

Severus didn’t bother answering, as a man’s hoarse scream echoed over the lake. The enormous sound of hundreds of geese taking flight filled the night. He turned to watch the beautiful white wings carrying the birds up into the sky, out into the freedom of the dark abyss. They were stark white against the black sky, unnaturally luminescent and lovely. Free and without a worry in the world. Bogged down for no one.

Severus owed Dumbledore everything and it was for that reason only that he came back to this hell hole again and again. Even if it left him a husk of a man, he owed him. He would spy until he lost his sanity if it meant he pleased Dumbledore, just as he knew without a doubt that he would die for him in this cause. If not during sex than during a normal summoning–if not for refusing to murder any more innocent people, than for any small transgression that rubbed the Dark Lord the wrong way.

The woman’s shoe was sitting there, waiting for them.

They both grasped the portkey and with a wrench were pulled back to Scotland, home and prison. Severus wondered idly, as he often did after these types of meetings, if Voldemort would find him in Chile.

Draco was talking but Severus didn’t hear much–Draco was an insistent buzzing in his ear that was easy to ignore. The wind was whistling through the trees, and his mind was full of tropical sand and surf. Maybe Maui. A nice, extended vacation where there was nothing but him, a bathing suit and tropical drinks. He had several colleagues who swore the Keys were a breeding ground for rare potions ingredients. Yes. The Keys. He’d pack a bathing suit, Sun Off Potion, and his work station.

"Professor. You aren’t listening to a word I’m saying, are you?"

"No." Truthfully answered, at least. Severus put his wand back into his robe and lifted both their brooms from the mossy, cold ground. He shook off the newly fallen snow and handed the gorgeous, expensive broom to his fly-mate, keeping the shabby one for himself. Severus mounted it and kicked off, not waiting to see if the boy would–he had his own agenda and his own problems. The last thing he needed was Draco’s guilt complex.

"You have to," Draco rose beside him, quickly, as they began back across the enormous expanse of the Forbidden Forest. "You know I didn’t want to."

"Oh, yes, I know." Bitterness left a metallic taste in Severus’ mouth. "Mrs. Malfoy still knows nothing?"

Severus could tell Draco didn’t like the change in conversation one bit, but as the topic was his wife, he allowed it. The boy was selfishly predictable that way. "No. I was hoping to wait until the holiday, but it might be sooner than that. I don’t want to jeopardize her life, if things really are going to hell. Susan won’t be happy, but I don’t care."

"Of course not. I’ll owl you should a window of opportunity present itself, and we’ll get her to the safe house."

"Professor..." A slow inhalation. "For what it’s worth, I apologize."

Severus looked up at him, then. "Draco, be quiet."

And he was.

Chapter 8    

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