The Black Unicorn

After the young people had scurried off, Severus went back into the room, and sat down on the bed. He was exhausted, crusted with mud; his legs ached and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before. Yesterday had been a blur, a nightmare. Esmeralda was still asleep. His worry for her clouded everything, all other concerns, all tasks, obligations vanished. If he lost her, after she had been through so much, after all that he had endured….he couldn’t thdowndown those lines. He had to protect her, he had to stay awake. His eyes went over to her. Her face was slack and wan; she looked so close to leaving this earth, and to leaving him. He realized how delicate, how precious she was and what a gift he had been given. He had never prized something so carefully before in his life, and now, with this gentle thing entrusted to him, the will of his resolve hardened.

He laid back down on the infirmary bed. He knew he should get something to eat, he should talk to Dumbledore, but he just needed to rest for a moment. His worry stretched him and the tension left his insides roiling with anxiety. Her breathing was shallow, and too quiet. Too slow. He gently put one hand on her left hand where it lay outside the covers. His neck and head ached from tension. He would wait and watch. McGonagall or Albus would be by soon, he hoped. He would just rest his eyes for a moment.

He dreamed; the blackness was all around him, he was quivering on cold, weeping-damp stone. His skin bled from Voldemort’s nails. He couldn’t move; the potions inside of him were paralyzing him and the creature was torturing him, giving him a reprise of the ritual’s agonizing event on the sofa. Voldemort was behind him, seated and leaning against the tapestry-draped wall. The monster had already raped him once this evening; afterwards he had been fed the potion for the mads ams amusement. Severus’ erection was throbbing in the creature’s hand but Voldemort was barely moving. It was pitch black in the room and Voldemort’s hot breath was on his neck; with his left hand, the madman moved his hair away from Severus’ neck, exposing the nape there, and his teeth slowly clamped down on the thin ridge of muscle until Severus whimpered from the pain. His other hand squeezed around his swollen penis too slowly and too hard. The potion, almost as much as the animal behind him, was torturing him thoroughly. His body was screaming for relief, his hips would have been bucking up into Voldemort’s lazy hand had it not have been for the over-use of the poison. His arms, legs, nothing worked. He was sweating profusely from the heat that the concoction generated and his heartbeat was far too rapid. Voldemort had pulled Severus back hard into his own pulsing erection and was rubbing himself against him; he slowly let go of Severus wite toe torturing hand, and then, horribly, he began stroking him lightly with fin finger. He was trying so hard not to cry out, not to scream or beg. His eyes were wild. His face was dripping with sweat and his neck was corded and swollen from trying to clamp down on the ragged sounds that were trying to break free. Voldemort laughed deep in his throat and the fear started to spiral up from Severus’ belly along with mounting arousal….he tried to move around the fear, to sidestep it, and he concentrated with everything he had on gaining release. He focused hard on that one evil finger but Voldemort moved the hair again from the right side of his shoulder, and it wasn’t Voldemort any longer, but something behind him, huge, talons on his erection and then the jaws ripped through his right shoulder, tearing and shredding. He heard the cracking of his clavicle and he woke up screaming softly, face down on the infirmary bed.

He sat up quickly. His face was covered with sweat. He was shaking and his upper lip was beaded with perspiration. His hand went to his brow; he tried to stop the trembling but he couldn’t. He was weak from not eating. He looked over at Esmeralda. Oh god, what if he had woken her up? He glanced over, hoping beyond hope that she was still deeply asleep, but no. She was watching him, her eyes intense on him with worry.

“Severus. You were dreaming. It was a nightmare; I couldn’t wake you.” Her voice was quiet; her face too pale, the rosiness of her beauty drained by her wound. This was the last thing he needed, the last thing with which he wanted to burden her. He sat up quickly, pulling himself together.

“It’s all right. I’m fine. You should be asleep.” He smiled as well as he could, and squeezed her left hand in his.

“You’re a bad liar. Your hand is shaking.” Her eyes regarded him sadly.

“Well. It was just a bad dream. Esmeralda, you should be asleep.” His voice was steadier now. She was persistent even when ill.

“Have you gone to see Dumbledore? Severus, I asked you to see him. Please. For me?” Her voice had gotten thinner and quieter. He pressed her to sleep.

“Esmeralda, I will see to it. Just…..rest. I am so sorry for waking you.” She watched him closely. He could see that she was growing very tired.

“All right. I trust you. Just….don’t forget. You strange man.” She closed her eyes, and squeezed his hand once more. There was a rap on the door, and Pomphrey in in briskly. She was carrying a mound of dark clothing and bandages. She regarded him impassively.

“I am happy to remove myself if you need to attend to Esmeralda.” Pomphrey watched Snape, not moving. She had something else on her mind, and was obviously ignoring his words.

“Professor Snape. When was the last time you ate, or changed your clothing? Shaved, or bathed?” Pomphrey set the bundle down, and he could see now that it was a set of his robes, his other greatcoat, and trousers. Her voice was matter-of-fact, and a little accusatory. “I don’t want this patient exposed to unsanitary conditions. If I were you, I’d get cleaned up. And I had one of the house elves go to get you lunch. She’ll be here in a few minutes. Meanwhile, you should take a hot bath. You can use the bathroom in my adjacent offices. The bathroom here I need to use with Esmeralda. And I’m going to need you in a few minutes so hop to it!” Her expression had started to change to one of impatience. He was so fatigued that he obeyed her wordlessly, stopping only to scoop up the clothing. He surveyed her, his face still, then he swept out of the room, wisely saying nothing.


He peeled off his clothing. Merlin, the woman was right. He hadn’t realized what a filthy mess he was. His trousers were heavy with lake mud and matter and his robes were clotted with the stuff. He threw the clothing in a ball into a corner and ran himself a bath. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eye sockets looked like a makeup job gone bad, and his cheekbones even more pronounced. He knew he wasn’t an attractian, an, but right now he looked downright vampirish. If not for his own sake, then, but for her, the least he could do was clean himself up and keep tidy. He could try and eat. Not a good sign, old boy, if you aren’t interested in eating, he thought to himself. Esmeralda was right. He needed to talk to Dumbledore, and soon. He had all the signs; loss of appetite, black mood, he hadn’t even been that interested in haranguing the children. Was it worry? Was there more to Voldemort’s binding spell that had left his spirit more damaged than he thought? Esmeralda was his quiet miracle, and now, in his insane jealousy, the madman had found and tried to destroy the one person who had opened her heart to him.

He used an exfoliation spell on his beard and found some kind of decent-smelling gel to use on his face, but his hands were shaking and the gel blobbed and ran. His belly was clenching. The glass had started to steam up from the bath. He felt his throat close off and he clutched the sides of the sink .

Once, not long after his parents had died, he had had a small brown bat he had named Dickens. He had rescued the bat when it had fallen from a tree after a storm one night. He had cared for the bat and brought it bits of fruit and vegetables from the kitchen. But his Aunt had declared the bat unsavory and had snapped its neck in front of his eyes. Even at that age, he had known how to hide his feelings. He had kept his expression still, but along with the spiraling plummet of anguish came the massive spring tide of rage, and he rememd fed feeling the slow rise of fury climbing over his skin like a cold fever. Now the blue flame of rage was welling in him again; his heart was pounding heavily and the urge to watch Voldemort writhe before him in poisoned agony was stronger than the pull of passion, deeper than any lust or desire. He had accepted his punishment at the fiend’s hands; it served a dual purpose, allowing him to atone for his murders and provide information to Dumbledore. But the attack on Esmeralda had provoked a primal, murderous hunger that was now overwhelming even the clever slytherin part of him. He knew he had to remain rational; he had to use the force of his anger to fuel a plan to thoroughly destroy Voldemort. He ran his hands over his ribcage and felt along his own clavicle. The dream had beo reo real, this is what she had endured at the monster’s bidding. He could still feel the bones snap under the heavy power of the jaws clamping on him. He tried to slow his breathing, and stepped into the bath, but black fury still drowned him.

He let the water soothe the cold out of his muscles. The heat felt good. He leaned into the water and tried to relax enough to clear his mind and to decide what to do next; Hagrid’s knowledge of the Enchanted Forest was extensive; Lucius Malfoy could also be of possible help. McGonagall would only report anything out of the ordinary in Severus’ behavior to Albus. And that was another thing. He closed his eyes and tried to relax further into the soothing water. If he spoke to Albus, the older wizard would insist that Severus refrain from acting by himself and instead would want Snape to align his resources with Albus’ and the council to strike in a more organized fashion. And that, in itself, was the calm, intelligent thing to do.

But the rage circled ferociously, hungry, tearing at him like some kind of writhing beast and he began to shake again. He clenched the sides of the bathtub and tried to contain the seething anger. Tonight then, he would go see Hagrid at his bonfire. He would pry the secrets of the forest out of him. He knew the stories, the legendsnd Hnd Hagrid would help him. He knew the giant would.