Saturday, December 6, 2008

More Harry Potter Fan Fiction

Well I guess that wasn't the end.
I've written another installment of this story. I don't know how many chapters it will contain. I'm just following my muse -- and my love of Snape! I still haven't figured out where this story would fit in the canon time scale. But it assumes the information regarding the relationship between the potions master and Lily Evans is true.
Hope you like it. (Heck, hope you find it.) And if you're feeling so generous please leave a review.


Well Done, My Good and Faithful Servant
By Librasmile

Summary: In reward for service, Voldemort gives Snape something he’s desired seemingly forever.

Disclaimer: Original characters are mine, all else is the glorious property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my use of her characters.

Rating: R -- Includes implied violence and sexual situation. Not suitable for readers under 17. You have been warned. Please do not read if this type of material offends you. Thank you.

Chapter 2

It was an art, this.

In the Dark Lord’s world, the giving and receiving of pain was a high art, and Severus knew its most adept practitioner was measuring his every step as he advanced on his “gift.”

With a whisper of sound the black fabric of his cloak slid from his shoulders as he walked. He left it discarded on the ground. He moved deliberately with the prowling gait he used to intimidate his students. Years of espionage had made it almost soundless but no less menacing. His mind began the automatic ritual of dividing itself. With no conscious effort, he mentally hived off the battered, bruised but still human part of himself that shouted, pleaded, begged him to stop. Then he brought forward the detached, coldly clinical observer to which he retreated in order to perform his most heinous tasks. Of course, an assignment from Voldemort was never just a task. It was usually an atrocity, an ordained sin. He began to unbutton his collar.

His hands shook.

That physical fact almost stopped him. He faltered for a moment, the briefest moment, then continued, but he was sure Voldemort noticed the lapse. There was no cure for it but to keep moving. So he did.

As he approached the altar he stopped. Slowly, like a jeweler considering the precise point at which to start cutting the diamond, he circled the stone. Behind and around him, he heard the murmurs of his fellow Death Eaters as their level of anticipation rose. Aside from his status as one of the Dark Lord’s most loyal servants, Severus knew he had a reputation among them for having a certain macabre flair. He had earned it thanks to the exacting and bloody work he’d made of Voldemort’s victims in those damning years before he’d found his way back to the light. He had not always needed to kill, but when he did it had been shamefully easy for him. He was thorough. He’d made an art of it. A clean art.

While some of Voldemort’s followers made a habit of toying sexually with their prey before killing them, he had always abstained. Unable to leave until an assignment was completed, he had stood aside and watched, unable to mask his distaste. He had never had the courage to really examine why they had let him get away with this. No matter. The tables had turned. Now Severus would be the one to play while they watched. He knew his fellow Death Eaters were practically salivating at the prospect of watching him take her. If he did well, then they would at least see their smug colleague brought down to their level. If not, Voldemort would kill him and open up a space for someone else to advance. Either way, they were certain to be thoroughly entertained. There was a rustling as some of the Death Eaters moved closer, unwilling to miss a second of the performance.

As he completed his circuit, Severus’ eyes skimmed over Ophelia’s body. He noted the blood. There was a cut. Several. Just enough to give pain but not to kill. His gaze followed the seeping trails back to their original wounds. Ah. They had made the Feratu Cuts. Of course. And she was a pureblood. The temptation would have been too much to resist. Mesmerized, he extended his hand. He trailed a finger though her blood then brought it to his mouth. Inside himself, his shackled humanity howled. Outside, he shivered and closed his eyes, savoring the taste. The magic imbued in the salty fluid jolted his tongue. How many of his audience had already tasted her, he wondered. Only the select few would be allowed, he knew. But the full meal would be his.

Opening his eyes, he studied her face. Her profile was still. Long tendrils of her hair obscured it. He moved closer. He needed to see her eyes. He climbed atop the altar. She was either too dazed or too tightly bound to resist. Straddling her on his hands and knees, he brought his face level to hers. The panels of the dark high-collared coat he’d unbuttoned hung on either side of him, brushing against her. He could see the pulse fluttering in her throat. He brushed her hair away. She flinched. So. She was still awake in there. She turned her face from him. He grabbed her chin and forced her back. Her eyes, only half open, closed.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She squeezed her lids tighter.

The palm of his open hand cracked against her skin. She gasped as the force of the blow whipped her head in the opposite direction. Malicious laughter rippled among the crowd around them. He heard Bellatrix’ manic, high-pitched peal among them. Again, he forced Ophelia to face him.

“Look at me.”

She opened her eyes.

And then he felt it. The power in the stone. He’d felt it humming with energy from the second he’d touched it. He’d assumed the dark magic of the Feratu Cuts was doing its work, draining her energy for others to consume. But nothing wizard-invoked could be this powerful. Gods, what more was his master planning? His eyes flicked up and away from Ophelia’s face to find Voldemort’s. The Dark Lord’s smile widened. Severus suppressed a shudder and returned his gaze to the woman beneath him.

Ophelia was watching him.

For a moment he was impaled by the intensity in her eyes.

In the last year he had become afraid to look directly into her eyes for too long. It was embarrassing really. He was an expert Occlumens. He had no excuse for his weakness. But it was hard to erect mental walls against the very thing you most wanted to touch. And he had too many secrets he feared he could not hide. The fire with which he’d incinerate Marius Bentlow if his conscience would let him. The raw, still bleeding wound that held his grief over Lily. The hollow knowledge that he was – and most likely would end his life, sooner rather than later – alone.

Worst of all there was his unfilled hunger for her. The shameful acceptance that this craving would have made the man he used to be abandon his self-imposed restrictions and pounce before Voldemort could even think to issue a command. And the bitter comprehension that no amount of repentance or longing could ever make him the kind of man to whom a woman could safely pledge her life. Ultimately, Lily knew this, he realized, although they had never gone this far. No matter. Here lay the proof before the argument could even have been made. He had hid from Ophelia because he was afraid she would see too much of his charred soul.

But he could not hide now…even as her eyes still speared him.

Lily had looked at him like that. For each step he’d taken when he’d gone down the dark path, he could recall the anguish in Lily’s eyes. He could recall perfectly the times and the places he’d seen it, feel the invisible burns it had left on him. How many times had he seen that look before she had finally given up on him? He swallowed audibly, the sound thankfully lost beneath the clamor of the mob. Voldemort had served him up another feast of loss.

Belatedly he realized he had settled his body on Ophelia’s. She was pinned, although the bonds on her wrists made that a redundancy. His hands had begun undoing her clothing. It was Muggle style. So they had snatched her outside of Hogwarts then. He saw the goose flesh rise on her skin as he exposed her to the cool night air. Her breath quickened and terror etched itself across her face but she didn’t look away. He no longer needed to force her. She didn’t want to risk him hitting her again. Ever the quick student.

He slid his hands across her bare flesh. She shivered. So did he. Somewhere inside himself, something dark he’d failed to subdue crawled forward to savor the sensation, heedless of whatever evil brought it. He leaned down to kiss her and, despite her fear, she closed her eyes. He saw her muscles tense as she braced herself for another hit. Instead he whispered against her mouth. “Keep them open.” She obeyed.

Without warning he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. She winced but he couldn’t spare her even a hint of reassurance. These ghouls wanted pain. They wanted blood. Beneath him, he could feel Ophelia’s breathing escalate; she was hyperventilating. He fastened his teeth onto her throat. At that she cried out. The crowd around them roared their approval. That’s why he almost didn’t hear her when she spoke, gasping and choking out the words.

“Please,” she begged. “I’m not Lily. I’m not Lily!”

He stared at her in horror. Gods, could she hear his thoughts? And why would she think…That dark thing in his mind, that repellent, starving thing that was enjoying this, spoke quietly, malevolently. You know why. The words reverberated through his mind, bouncing off the confines of his own skull, crashing into each other until they hit their mark. He did know. He didn’t want to. But he did.

He started to shake. Then, with a ruthless effort he made himself stop.

It didn’t matter, he realized coldly, huddling inside himself.

Crudely, he placed his hand over her face, gripping her jaw, covering her mouth. He could stop her words, he noted dully. And other things as well. Her eyes widened. His gaze drilled into hers. He drew a breath to say the spell.

Legilimens,” he whispered.

To Be Continued?

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