...And Dagger

            Harry is chained to the bed so that not a limb can move, nor a muscle twitch. He has been this way for nearly three hours, since Lucius had left him with low laughter and the parody of a goodbye kiss placed upon his brow. If he could, at this point, Harry would have shuddered at the memory of the man’s aristocratic fingertips sliding over and into him.

            Nearly the worst thing about it is the fact that Harry can no longer bring himself to be anything but…grateful, at least where Lucius is concerned. If nothing else, Lucius keeps him clean, and generally heals any exceptionally bad wounds the others may have left behind. Harry knows, though, that the man does not do this out of the kindness of his heart, because Lucius has none. No, he does it only because he thinks the other Death Eaters are less than he is, or maybe diseased. Whatever the reason, Harry understands that it is purely selfish, and only benefits him by happenstance.

            Not all of the Death Eaters are allowed to touch Harry, only the most trusted, and only those of the highest rank. Pettigrew is dead, and therefore absent, but others have taken his turn and their own: Nott, Avery, MacNair, Lucius, Draco…even Bellatrix has used Harry, and that had been almost more excruciating and humiliating than he could bear. But bear it he did, somehow, and lived on, though weak and broken and nearly useless. Harry’s sobs hitch in his throat.

            Whenever Harry is left alone in the dark like this, he grasps with frightened tendrils of his mind at what little organization he has managed to put to his memories. How long as he been a prisoner? He is sure it’s been at least a month, though his mind could be playing tricks on him. It does that sometimes. He’ll wake with Dumbledore’s voice in his ear, sure that the man has been encouraging him to hold on, and firmly believing it—until he remembers that Dumbledore is dead. Or he’ll imagine hands brushing his hair away from his feverish face, cool hands, gentle hands, but then, when he becomes more lucid, Harry will realize that no one has been there at all. So Harry knows he cannot always trust his mind, trust his senses.

            At other times, Harry remembers things so vividly that it brings screams to his throat, and raucous mirth from whatever Death Eaters happen to be nearby. In the dim, still room, suspended as he is from the cold steel at wrist and foot, Harry remembers seeing Ron topple to the ground, blood leaking from his nose and mouth. He remembers Hermione’s rape, so public and brutal, and the way her shrieks echoing through the dungeons were just like that of a bird. Harry wonders if she is still alive somewhere, or if they’d just cast her lifeless body aside once it had stopped being fun. He wonders if any of the Order is still alive.

            Harry wants to shudder again, but cannot, so he settles for closing his eyes tightly, trying to force the freight train of his thought onto a different path. It veers perhaps a little, but still doesn’t take Harry anywhere he wishes to go. His soul is blowing in wispy tatters, twisted on a breeze of agony. Death Eaters. You cannot trust a Death Eater. Nor a former Death Eater, as if the modification former had somehow wrung out all the oozing betrayal, all the bloodstains on his clothing, all the stinking sweat he’d shed when he was amongst them, wheeling and soaring and glorying in the pain and fear of others.

            The door opens, and Harry blinks a few times at the dark and looming shape in the doorframe. He has not had his glasses in so very long, but Harry has learned to make guesses, fill in the missing details of the world around him, and live with the nausea and headaches—which, after all, could have stemmed from just about anything, here. The figure steps forward, and Harry’s stomach contracts in fear.

            Him. Harry has tried desperately not to think of him at all, not since the world fell apart and he found himself held here. It is both difficult and effortless; he has never taken his turn, though Harry knows without a doubt that it was offered him, so he hadn’t seen the man—not once—since that night he was captured, and watched the headmaster die. On the other hand, he is never very far from Harry’s thoughts, because…well, it’s true that Harry never trusted him, but the depth and the magnitude of Snape’s betrayal… Every time Harry thinks of it, it rises like a beast in his chest, choking him, leaving him gasping for breath. He never could have conceived that the man would condemn them all, that even he could be such a pitiless monster underneath.

            Snape approaches the bed, and Harry’s breath becomes ragged, rattling in his throat. To Harry, the former Potions Master is more terrifying than Voldemort, because with Voldemort, at least Harry had some idea of what to expect all along. This man is nearly a stranger, an empty and ill-defined horror with no clear motivations or character. Harry grimaces in defiance, turning his eyes away from this not-at-all-human being.

            Severus Snape leans over the boy, glancing at the door as he whispers, “Did you miss me, Potter?” He smiles when the tiniest tremor runs throughout Potter’s frame as the dark voice and its dark implications wash over him. Tonight, Snape intends to get some small amount of enjoyment out of this, however quickly it is stolen from him.

            His lips curve in a mocking smile as he ghosts a finger down Harry’s cheek. “Do you know why we keep you restrained so often, yet loosen your chains when we take you?” Ah, the ubiquitous ‘we.’ So useful, subtle, misdirecting…Snape muses, inwardly smiling sardonically. “It’s so that we can feel it when you fight us,” he continues, snapping free the latch on Harry’s collar. “It’s so that we may take enjoyment from your resistance.” He does not free Harry’s arms, but unhooks them from the corners, latching them together and clipping their single chain to a ring at the head of the bed. Harry will not be able to struggle at all; his limbs are frozen in sleep, nearly dead, and bloodless. Snape continues hooking and unhooking clasps, switching one leg for the other, so that Harry is now on his stomach.

            “Please,” Harry grunts in a hoarse voice, sounding damaged and near despairing. Snape ignores him, choosing instead to spend his time caressing the young form before him almost lovingly. His hands are everywhere, demeaning, violating. They slide and squeeze and rub, all with a quick efficiency that leaves Harry queasy and shaken. All the same, those hands are working life back into the youth’s tired muscles, and Harry cannot help but squirm, try to get away, attempt desperately to fight back.

            Snape gives a long, thundering chuckle, and it reverberates around the chamber, crashing into Harry’s ears again and again. “I can see Lucius has done his job well,” the Death Eater observes. “He was charged with taming you enough that the Dark Lord himself could take you, yet leaving you strong and spirited enough to make amusing sport for our master.” The man kneels on the bed beside Harry, then leans forward and traces the youth’s shoulder with the tip of his tongue, tasting fear and sweat and wounds that will never be washed away. He undoes the hitch of his cloak, letting it slide from his body. “Do you know why I am here?” A soft moan from Potter indicates that he has some idea, and doesn’t wish to know the full extent. “Because our Lord is still weak,” he murmurs, digging his hand into the hair of the Boy Who Should Surely Be Dead, wrenching his head back. “He is so recently fully human that he is vulnerable still to true death. I am to make you even more…pliable, to his needs. Once he has taken you, he shall be restored to his full glory, but until that moment, we must be sure your young, vibrant body is fully sapped of its enthusiasm, lest you manage to injure him, perhaps fatally.”

            Harry tries to jerk his head away. “I have no enthusiasm for this,” he grates, hating Snape with a sharpness that stabs and penetrates the very deepest parts of him.

            Snape merely laughs. “All the sweeter for me, no doubt. Though that is not what Lucius has told me.” He revels in the blush that infuses the boy’s frame. “Oh yes, he told me all about that. It amused him to turn you against yourself to such a degree, no doubt. Of course,” he adds in a throaty voice, now behind Harry, and covering him with his taller, leaner shape, “he also told me how it was achieved.” This time, Harry does shudder, and Snape laughs again, licking the tears from the boy’s cheek.

            Another glance at the door, and Snape produces a small vial from his pocket, pouring its liquid into his hand. Harry’s eyes are shut, and he does not even see the dark red fluid that drips from Snape’s fingertips like blood. The substance is not blood, however, and even Snape is uncertain why he is bothering with lubricant for the boy. He imagines that perhaps a few small shreds of humanity are yet caught sticking between his teeth. He knows, moreover, that the youth will seem to have lost a great quantity of blood, which will work to his favor when the Dark Lord espies it. With not-gentle, but not-overly-rough fingers he prepares the boy, taking care to work the prostate, forcing unwilling moans and short gasps from those trembling lips.

            When Snape is satisfied, he mounts Potter quickly, driving his cock in deeply, gripping Harry’s shoulders. The boy is used to this, he knows, and has no worry that it will have any effect on him. With his lips beside his victim’s ear, Snape growls only halfway intelligible words, words like, ‘filthy,’ and ‘sweet,’ and ‘slut,’ and ‘yes.’ He takes a moment to move his hand, still slick with lubricant, over Potter’s limp cock. After a few careful strokes, and words designed to ensnare the boy yet further falling from Snape’s lips, ‘love,’ and ‘safe,’ and ‘soon,’ and ‘freedom,’ the teenager’s prick becomes responsive. Which is all the more appalling to Potter, Snape doesn’t doubt.

            Allowing himself a few minutes of indescribable pleasure, Snape pumps the boy skillfully, his own gasps and cries repeating Potter’s own. In just a short time, Potter is spurting over his hand, and Snape lifts it to the boy’s lips with instruction, “Clean it off.” Harry bares his teeth, but the Death Eater grabs hold of his hair again, viciously this time, and holds Harry back. “I really wouldn’t do that, were I you,” he warns. “You would die for it, and that would be such a pity—to leave your anguished, stalwart supporters alone and unaided.”

            Harry’s breath is stolen from his lungs, and he glances over his shoulder at Snape, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “You lie,” he whispers. “They’re dead. They’re all dead—there’s nothing left. I saw.”

            “No,” Snape corrects him, almost purring with satisfaction. “Some are dead, it’s true. But Lupin, and Shacklebolt, and McGonagall all await your triumphant return. It would be terrible to disappoint them, would it not? To steal away their faith, to let their plans die away, wasted?” He raises his hand before Harry’s face once more, and the tears do fall, tumbling into the sheets. Lucius has had this from the boy, he knows, and he cannot abide the thought of a Malfoy possessing this boy in a way that he has not.

            But Harry cannot say no, now. He doesn’t know if Snape is lying, but he can’t take the risk. You cannot trust a Death Eater. He gives a shiver of revulsion before opening his mouth once more, licking himself from Snape’s hand.

            Snape thrills at this, and drives in ever harder, riding Harry with a savageness that leaves the boy whimpering, even as the youth cleans himself with careful gentleness from Snape’s fingers. The man is doing as he wishes, for once, and knows full well the consequences—knew them even as he made his final turn, when Albus died. He will get what gratification he can, with the full realization that there will be no possible redemption this time, and that Albus will not be there at the end to offer benediction and a new start. Snape knows beyond a doubt that he is going to hell, but he’ll be damned if he does so before he’s taken every drop of pleasure that he can from Potter’s fresh, wholesome flesh.

            With a cry of passion bit in half by teeth that snap shut, Snape feels the turbulence of his orgasm burn through him. He feels his seed spilling hot and intrusive in the confines of the boy’s body, and selfishly hopes no one shall ever reach that deeply within him again. It takes a long time for the ecstasy to wane, but even when it does, Snape knows it was worth every moment. Panting, he rests his head on Harry’s shoulder and asks, “Are you spent?”

            Potter jerks away, still glaring at him defiantly, and Snape has the answer that he hoped for. With a great effort, Snape hauls himself off the young body, still tightly wound and tense with rage. His hands working rapidly now, Snape unhooks and rehooks the chains attached to Potter’s limbs, until the youth is once again on his back. Then he slowly reaches for Harry’s right hand and methodically disengages the lock that binds his wrist.

            They stare at each other for a long moment, Harry’s eyes wide, green and lost, and Snape’s narrow, dark and inscrutable. Then Snape reaches into his robe again and pulls out a dull metal dagger, placing it very softly, deliberately, into Harry’s hand. “It can cut through almost any surface.” He pauses, running his finger along its edge, watching the blood drip freely. He looks back to Potter. “The cut it makes will never stop bleeding,” he tells the boy quietly, and steps away. Harry does not say a word, watching as the man clothes himself once more and walks away.

            Once Snape opens the door, Voldemort’s voice saunters in, asking, “Is Potter ready, Severus?” in smug, lazy tones.

            Severus Snape pauses a moment, his face hidden by shadow. He gives a last, fleeting, grim smile. “Oh yes. He is ready for you.” He departs quickly, leaving the Dark Lord completely alone to enjoy his triumph. He laughs quietly, shutting the door behind him. You cannot trust a Death Eater.

Fin.

            Er, so I hope the title was somewhat subtle, but still made sense. You know; cloak and dagger, because that’s what Snape does, and then…well. I trust you’re not stupid. I’m sure you all get it by now. Do hope you enjoyed it, though. Haven’t written truly nasty!Snape before, but I had an unquenchable urge to do so.