Low Man Is Due
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Snape
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
30
Views:
21,745
Reviews:
98
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Snape
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
30
Views:
21,745
Reviews:
98
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Nowhere Safe From The Storm
WARNING: When I say this is a dark fic, I mean it is a dark fic. Please don’t expect happiness at the end and resolution, as it isn’t going to happen. Bad things are going to happen to good people for no obvious reason – I know the reasons, but it might take a while before you do.
If you find the subject matter disturbing and don’t wish to continue reading, I totally understand, but please don’t review and complain about it – you HAVE been warned. SickPuppy
A note about chapter titles (and indeed, story title): Chapter titles are taken from one of three songs – all by Metallica – Low Man’s Lyric (where the title comes from and the name of chapter one); Fixxxer; and The Unforgiven Too. They’re not chosen in any kind of rotation, but whichever one seems most appropriate. I truly would recommend listening to them – they’re all off ‘Reload’ – as they’re all corking songs.
PART ONE
Chapter One: Nowhere safe from the storm…
“Ron?” Harry whispered the word urgently, all too aware of the pounding in his skull where he must have cracked it; and the burn about his wrists from the ropes that cut into the flesh so deeply blood was showing and still trickling sluggishly over his cold mottled arms. His teeth chattered in the frigid air, and he gasped, his breath hurting as it was pulled into his bruised lungs. He bit back a gasp of pain as he breathed, sure his ribs were cracked, if not broken.
The red head lay still upon the worn flag stones, unmoving.
“Ron?” Harry tried again, forcing his sore body into a half sitting position, then determinedly closed his mouth to hold back the vomit rising in his throat. He scanned the hallway they were slumped in. It was typical dungeon-fare: Lots of slimy black stone walls, flickering sconces, and icy air. The door at the end of the passageway was almost in shadow.
Harry’s torn clothing didn’t help him retain his body heat. In fact, he rubbed his feet together and shuddered at the stiff cold feel of his toes. He nudged his friend with one frozen toe.
The red head groaned and started to shift, drawing in his breath sharply as the rope about his own wrists cut in and drew fresh blood. He coughed; the air was so cold it almost contained ice crystals. His eyes opened and stared glassily past Harry to the stonework behind his friend. Slowly, he focused on the other boy.
“Wha happened?” he slurred, trying to rub his throbbing forehead with his bound hands. He failed, too tired to try any more.
Harry was prevented from expressing his ignorance by the approach of cloaked and masked figures. Even with faces hidden, he could tell they were gloating at his demise. One leant down and closed sharp nailed fingers tightly around his frozen flesh. He was pulled roughly to his knees and dragged over the sharp stones. The group around him ignored the blood that soon began to flow from his ripped knees after his torn trousers were no longer able to protect his goosepimpled skin.
Harry struggled to get his feet underneath him, but the bindings about his body stole his ability to balance, and the numbness spreading through his limbs made it equally impossible. He focused instead on surviving whatever was happening: he fought to draw breath into his cracked ribs, forcing himself to stare at the cold slabs beneath him to keep him conscious.
After what felt like miles to Harry’s pain wracked body, he was thrown so that he slumped against a cold wooden door. He gasped, head spinning, vision blacking; gorge rising again. He bit back a cry when his support vanished.
The door had opened, and another black robed figure stood there, undoubtedly staring down at him.
Harry couldn’t hold it back anymore. He threw up over the black material, and his green eyes rolled back into his head.
When he came back to, he was sitting in a crudely made wooden chair, not bound in place. He was hardly able to hold his body upright, let alone attempt escape. His captor was clearly not threatened by him, as he had his back to the untied boy, and the man seemed engrossed in some intense activity.
He turned, and Harry felt the wind knocked out of him. The figure no longer had his mask on, and even in profile, Harry recognised the beak-like nose, and lank bangs.
If you find the subject matter disturbing and don’t wish to continue reading, I totally understand, but please don’t review and complain about it – you HAVE been warned. SickPuppy
A note about chapter titles (and indeed, story title): Chapter titles are taken from one of three songs – all by Metallica – Low Man’s Lyric (where the title comes from and the name of chapter one); Fixxxer; and The Unforgiven Too. They’re not chosen in any kind of rotation, but whichever one seems most appropriate. I truly would recommend listening to them – they’re all off ‘Reload’ – as they’re all corking songs.
PART ONE
Chapter One: Nowhere safe from the storm…
“Ron?” Harry whispered the word urgently, all too aware of the pounding in his skull where he must have cracked it; and the burn about his wrists from the ropes that cut into the flesh so deeply blood was showing and still trickling sluggishly over his cold mottled arms. His teeth chattered in the frigid air, and he gasped, his breath hurting as it was pulled into his bruised lungs. He bit back a gasp of pain as he breathed, sure his ribs were cracked, if not broken.
The red head lay still upon the worn flag stones, unmoving.
“Ron?” Harry tried again, forcing his sore body into a half sitting position, then determinedly closed his mouth to hold back the vomit rising in his throat. He scanned the hallway they were slumped in. It was typical dungeon-fare: Lots of slimy black stone walls, flickering sconces, and icy air. The door at the end of the passageway was almost in shadow.
Harry’s torn clothing didn’t help him retain his body heat. In fact, he rubbed his feet together and shuddered at the stiff cold feel of his toes. He nudged his friend with one frozen toe.
The red head groaned and started to shift, drawing in his breath sharply as the rope about his own wrists cut in and drew fresh blood. He coughed; the air was so cold it almost contained ice crystals. His eyes opened and stared glassily past Harry to the stonework behind his friend. Slowly, he focused on the other boy.
“Wha happened?” he slurred, trying to rub his throbbing forehead with his bound hands. He failed, too tired to try any more.
Harry was prevented from expressing his ignorance by the approach of cloaked and masked figures. Even with faces hidden, he could tell they were gloating at his demise. One leant down and closed sharp nailed fingers tightly around his frozen flesh. He was pulled roughly to his knees and dragged over the sharp stones. The group around him ignored the blood that soon began to flow from his ripped knees after his torn trousers were no longer able to protect his goosepimpled skin.
Harry struggled to get his feet underneath him, but the bindings about his body stole his ability to balance, and the numbness spreading through his limbs made it equally impossible. He focused instead on surviving whatever was happening: he fought to draw breath into his cracked ribs, forcing himself to stare at the cold slabs beneath him to keep him conscious.
After what felt like miles to Harry’s pain wracked body, he was thrown so that he slumped against a cold wooden door. He gasped, head spinning, vision blacking; gorge rising again. He bit back a cry when his support vanished.
The door had opened, and another black robed figure stood there, undoubtedly staring down at him.
Harry couldn’t hold it back anymore. He threw up over the black material, and his green eyes rolled back into his head.
When he came back to, he was sitting in a crudely made wooden chair, not bound in place. He was hardly able to hold his body upright, let alone attempt escape. His captor was clearly not threatened by him, as he had his back to the untied boy, and the man seemed engrossed in some intense activity.
He turned, and Harry felt the wind knocked out of him. The figure no longer had his mask on, and even in profile, Harry recognised the beak-like nose, and lank bangs.