Ashes of Armageddon

After the dinner with Hermione and Ron, Severus and Harry traveled home early the following morning. Severus opened the suitcase and proceeded to show every single book, and article of clothing to Harry, who grew bored very quickly, and waved him off.



“I get it, I get it, your books are priceless, good for you, Severus.”



“There is another thing I brought with me,” Severus said evenly, placing the enormous nail on his palm. “It carries a small sentimental value, that is all. I wanted you to be aware of it, so that you can ban it, if you interpret it as a weapon.”



Harry looked at the nail with with a smirk on his lips. “A weapon? And just what would you do with it, use it to hang a really hideous picture in the living room?”



Severus found himself smirking a little as well. “I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Potter.”



“Keep it,” Harry said quietly. “God knows, you haven't much else to your name at this point.” Harry's hand took his and closed it around the nail, with a reassuring squeeze.



Severus nodded slightly, surprised at the touch that was clearly meant to be kind; as well as the sad, strained note in Harry's voice. Was it... sympathy? But Severus remembered the Cruciatus, the threats both preceding it, and accompanying it, and willed the thought away.



The next several days were uneventful. Almost.



Severus lined his bedroom shelf with books he had brought from Spinner's End, and placed the old, enormous nail in his night-stand.



For the first three days, Severus was left alone, and he did not know what to make of it. Harry spoke to him infrequently, in fact, only did it to call him to dinner, feed him, get him to perform a few household chores, and dismiss him.



“What happened to the plans to torture me endlessly?” Severus asked once, not bothering to sound even slightly respectful. Harry's behavior was grating on him, and he was almost ready to pick a fight, just so that Harry would do something horrific and get it over with already... Severus bit his tongue when he realized that he was tempted to begin acting just the way his mother used to, around his father.



As a child, Severus had been astounded at how his mother, who was a competent witch, and not a fragile, dainty woman by any means, could be so intimidated by his father, a mere Muggle. And yet, she had been. After a particularly vicious explosion of anger, there would be a short period of peace, after which the tension would mount again. Eventually, it would become unbearable, and she would snap, and push his buttons, goad him into screaming, yelling, or doing something – anything, just to relieve the terrible tension of anticipation. Settling into the glamorous role of an abused partner already, Severus thought with absolute self-disdain, and resolved not to act the script that had been taught to him in childhood. He knew better than that, he told himself, not entirely believing it.



Harry did not answer his question. He did not hurt Severus, either. Instead, Harry took to touching him. Which, Severus quickly found out, was almost worse; no, decidedly worse.



The touches were light, and not unkind. Harry stroked the nape of his neck, massaged his shoulders, and had his hand run down his back, half-soothing the tension, and half-probing Severus' body with his fingers. And then, the open palm would stroke Severus on the head, and trail the length of his hair, which, was now well below his shoulders.



Severus knew better than to interpret those touches as anything but what they were: the hand of the Master evaluating and subduing his property. He tensed instantaneously at every caress and touch, but endured them without uttering a sound, and giving no other reaction, despising the fingers that were running along his spine through the thin fabric of the cotton shirt he had been given, and most of all, despising the fact that on one occasion, for a split-second, he found himself tempted to relax and simply soak in the tenderness of the caress, without regard to who it was coming from.



“Just how long do you think you are going to resist me?” Harry asked him with amusement, resting his hand on Severus' waist.



For as long as I live was not a wise answer to give, and Severus grit his teeth, saying nothing.

Harry withdrew his hand, and issued a peaceful chuckle.



“Wait for me in the living room, Severus,” Harry said and went to the bedroom. Severus sat at the dining table, and waited, listening to the footsteps of Harry retreating, sounds of him searching for something, and finally finding it. Eventually, Harry returned, holding a large hairbrush in his hands.



Harry transfigured one of the chairs into an arm-chair and reclined in it comfortably.



“Come here,” Harry said. “Sit on the floor.”



Severus folded his arms on his chest, and glared at him. Sitting on the floor at Harry's feet had not entered his mind. Harry sighed slightly, and pulled out his wand.



“Look... Severus. We can do this the hard way, or the really, really hard way,” Harry said, sounding slightly amused. “Believe me, the end result, however will be you sitting at my feet. You might be covered in your own blood and waste, but you will be sitting down at my feet, peacefully, and doing what I am telling you. All of it.”



For a moment, Severus considered goading Harry into doing just that – brutalizing him; but then he decided it was pointless. He got up, walked over to Harry, and sat on the floor, facing him.



“Turn your back to me,” Harry said softly. “Please.”



Severus did, and Harry's hand instantly sank into his hair, stroking it with unusual gentleness, parting the locks, fingers massaging his scalp, and then finally, beginning to brush his hair. Severus endured it without flinching.



“I want you to relax,” Harry said quietly. “Relax into my hands. Let yourself go.”



Severus did not move a muscle.



“I understand why,” Harry said seriously. “You don't want to relax, because the moment you do, you will feel that first seed of attachment forming... the attachment that the slave-bond is so adept at creating and nurturing. And then, next time I hurt you, it will be worse. Much worse, to have all that suffering inflicted on you by someone you care for.” Harry's hand gripped a fistful of his hair. “To put it bluntly, you don't want to have any unrequited feelings for me.”



“That's right,” Severus said unapologetically.



“I wouldn't worry about that if I were you,” Harry murmured softly. “The slave-bond obviously failed to make you love Dumbledore – even though he did love you, quite a bit. You've murdered him regardless. I don't think you are even capable of affection, or love. And even if you were - why guard your heart? It's not like it's worth guarding. You must realize that.” Harry stroked his hair with absent-minded tenderness. “And really... to feel a bit of unrequited affection for someone isn't that high a price to pay for treason, murder, and years of abuse you had inflicted on others... is it?”



The lifetime of regrets flashing before his eyes, Severus considered the question thoughtfully and dutifully, with his Master's hand resting on his head.



“I suppose not,” Severus said finally.



“I am glad we are in agreement,” Harry said seriously. “Here's is the plan. I am going to brush your hair and braid it. A single French braid. Don't worry, it won't make you seem ridiculous or effeminate – quite the contrary, I believe I can make it look good. You have just the hair for it, too: soft, both resilient and compliant, and now that the years of potions grease are finally washed away, quite attractive.” Harry paused slightly, seemingly enjoying the discomfort those words generated. “You will relax yourself, and submit yourself to this. I want to see submission in your body language, not just obedience. Understand?”



“Yes,” Severus said quietly. He understood the difference quite well. He also had enough life experience to understand the reason for the rapid shifts between the emotional abuse and the compliments – the intention behind them was to break down the victim's defenses, and make him yield more easily. Relaxation did not arrive readily with that thought in mind.



Harry's hands caressed the top of his head. “You are not relaxing,” Harry said with amusement. “You are not even trying.”



“I am trying,” Severus insisted softly, keeping his voice non-defensive, as a brief flash of inspiration graced him, finally. “It's ... difficult, that is all. Perhaps... you could make it easier for me...”



“How?” Harry asked with genuine curiosity.



“Talk to me while you are doing it,” Severus said. “Let me ask you some questions...”



“Alright,” Harry said, obviously amused. “You can play the spy, if it helps. Ask me questions while I am braiding your hair. I'll even answer truthfully, how's that?”



The brush rested on the crown of his head, and stroked it. Severus issued a deep breath, leaning backwards slightly. It could feel quite pleasant... if he could banish the thought of who it was brushing his hair, and why.



“How did you become a Dark Wizard?” Severus asked bluntly.



Harry chuckled a little. “Going straight for the jugular. On my. Where's all that famous Snape subtlety?” But he did not stop brushing the hair, and the strokes did not become harsher. “I don't know how, Severus. I don't know when, either. Perhaps it was when I first cast my successful Cruciatus on that wretched creep who spat in McGonagall's face. Or perhaps it was when I offered to Voldemort a chance to repent, but deep down, hoped he wouldn't take it... because I wanted him to die. All I know is that now, this is what I am.”



“Hmm,” Severus murmured. The brush ran all the way down from the top of his head to the ends of his hair, and he had to admit to himself, it felt good. Sickeningly good. “Did you kill anyone since the war?” Severus asked.



“Sure,” Harry said, but added nothing to his answer, simply continued to brush the length of Severus' hair, apparently absorbed by the experience.



“Under what circumstances?” Severus asked.



“Well, I joined the Auror Office... after the war, we used to track down Death Eaters who had escaped. Bring them back to justice. Some resisted, and we used deadly force on more than one occasion.” Harry paused slightly, and slid his fingers into the cascading hair, trailing along the strands. “I also sentenced a few to the Dementor's Kiss,” Harry said. “So I guess you could say I killed them, too.” Harry spoke very matter-of-factly, without remorse or triumph, sounding older, much older than his twenty-three years of age.



“That's all?” Severus asked calmly.



“That's all,” Harry said.



Harry's hands began to gather Severus' hair right on top of his crown, parting it into three strands. The sensation was pleasurable, Severus realized. He issued a deep sigh of relaxation and leaned back slightly, presenting his head to his Master.



“Good,” Harry whispered with approval in his voice. His fingers pulled the strands of hair close, tugging on it firmly, but not cruelly, weaving them together into a plait.



“Does your scar still hurt?” Severus asked. “Ever?”



“No,” Harry said absently. “It hasn't bothered me since the war. Not once.”



“Any other physical symptoms? Headaches, seizures, hallucinations?”



“No. Nothing. I'm doing very well, thank you for asking.”



More hair was joined into the plait, and it began to thicken, as Harry continued to braid, completely egrossed by the activity.



“Why don't you believe me?” Severus asked. He asked the question without accusation, or self-pity. He already knew the answer to that, of course, but still, he wondered, if maybe he asked this question enough time, something new would emerge.



Harry laughed softly. “How can I believe you? You Pensieve tried to convince me that the man whom I loved almost like my own father simply raised me and nurtured me so that I would die at the right time. It also told me that he supposedly had told you that I needed to die in order for the war to be over, and Voldemort to be defeated. Well... I did what you said I should have done. And yet... Oddly enough, I'm not dead. The war, however, is won, and Voldemort is gone. Which leaves you to be a liar. The worst kind, Severus – the kind that got caught.” His voice was harsh, but his hands never ceased being gentle, moving lower and lower.



Severus sensed the braid was reaching its completion, and decided to ask one final question:



“You have the Resurrection Stone. Why don't you summon Dumbledore, and ask him yourself? He'll confirm that what I have told you is the truth.”



Harry finished the braid and placed a hair tie on the end of it, tightening it, so that the braid was held in place. Then, abruptly, Harry stood up, and towered over Severus, who was still seated on the floor, his newly woven braid, held firmly in Harry's fist. Without any warning, Harry released the braid, and struck Severus twice across the face with the back of his hand. Severus issued an involuntary gasp at the brutality of the blows: a metal ring - Harry's wedding ring that he was still wearing – had split his lip.



“You had him convinced you were on his side. And then, you killed him. Don not let your filthy treacherous lips ever say his name again,” Harry growled dangerously. “Ever.”



Severus stared at Harry incredulously. Harry's gaze locked with his.



“My Vow ensures I protect your life,” Harry reminded him pointedly. “Guess what? Neither your tongue, nor your vocal cords are necessary for your physical survival. So... don't push your luck.” Harry's wand pointed at him, aiming at his mouth, and Harry smiled slightly, clearly expecting an answer. Still, Severus would not give a verbal response to the taunts and threats. The best he could do was offer a small nod to his owner. Fortunately, it turned out to be sufficient. Harry's expression softened, and he reached for Severus, lifting him off the floor.



“Leave now,” Harry said. “The braid looks good on you. Keep it for the time being.”



...To Be Continued...


Author's Note:
Going to put responses to some of the questions in the Reviews sections.... oh, and next chapter coming soon...