A Man Cannot Control His Dreams
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Snape
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
32
Views:
59,070
Reviews:
275
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Snape
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
32
Views:
59,070
Reviews:
275
Recommended:
1
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.
A Matter of Will
30
A Matter of Will
*
*
Severus would like to say that he withstood at least the first phase of the interrogation on his feet. But Pettigrew, that grotesque, simpering maggot, had been positively chomping at the bit to participate from the very start, and, with a nod of assent from Voldemort, he had scampered forward, staff in hand. Severus fell obediently when the heavy wooden rod struck his kneecap; clenching his teeth so tightly that he thought they too might shatter, even as his bones gave way with a sick, wet snap.
Unfortunately for Severus’ hopes, this moment of humiliation took place not fifteen minutes into what would become, he later deduced with wavering consciousness, a two-hour ordeal.
Voldemort stalwartly refused to believe a word that Severus spoke, though no amount of damage to his body or mind would yield anything but utter devotion. In fact, the more “innocent” Severus showed himself to be, the longer he was held under the cruciatus, and the more of his bones were shattered, twisted, and then healed once more, leaving him gasping and shaking.
He’d hardly care to admit it, but by the end, Severus had screamed his throat raw – spit blood onto the dirty stones beneath his hands with vehement answers of,
“No, my Lord.”
Pettigrew, practically hopping about, seemed increasingly excited about that fact– probably enjoying his petty revenge while he could. It was not often, after all, that Severus could not slap Pettigrew down with the merest word of reprimand.
****
When it was all over, when he’d somehow, miraculously proven himself loyal yet again, Voldemort stood before him. The embroidered hem of his robes spread liquidly out over the blood-spattered ground, as if meant to be kissed. Severus’ vision swam for one nauseating moment, before The Dark Lord spoke.
The reptilian voice was suddenly calm; almost reasonable – the monster of the Dark Lord’s rage placated by its pound of flesh:
“On your feet, Severus.”
There, practically prostrate before Lord Voldemort, Severus thought that such a request (order) would be impossible to heed. But somehow, despite the shattered knee they’d neglected to mend (and – Oh, Merlin – what felt like a pair of broken ribs), he heaved himself upright. The grit from the floor stuck insistently to his sweaty, bloody hands, as he braced them on his knees and stood, nearly vomiting as the world spun sickeningly around him. Cruel way to go, after all that, Kedavra’d for soiling His Majesty’s robes.
Voldemort looked rather impressed as Severus steadied himself (if the demonic face was capable of complex emotion at all, that is). “Have you anything to say to me?”
Severus recognized the parting test at once – he was being lured, if bluntly, into a confession of anger against The Dark Lord. After such suffering, most men would be delirious enough to take the bait. Severus, however, was still alive for a reason.
Though his throat felt clogged, he resisted the urge to clear it, knowing it would do nothing but make a bloody pulp of his voice. So he simply went ahead – hoping words would materialize from his will alone. And they did, though his usual smooth diction was long gone.
“Yes… my Lord.” He took a steadying breath. “I will… readily… submit myself to… your scrutiny… as many ti- ” blood bubbled from the corner of his mouth, but he forced his words through without mercy, “as many times as you… wish it. I am yet… your humble servant.” Dipping his head again, he ignored the screaming protest in his neck and the treacherous spots that danced in his vision… though they looked rather pleasantly like snowflakes.
Right, he was getting delirious.
Voldemort laid his hand on top of Severus’ head.
“Mmmm…” God, but He did sound pleased. Severus’ increasingly tenuous hold on consciousness wavered. “And well you should be.”
The Potions Master lowered his eyes in supplication, and kissed the ring offered to him, even as his hatred frothed like a raging, boiling sea within the most guarded recesses of his mind. Protected as the internal organs are from the naked eye, no one (not even Severus himself, without the proper precautions) could reach such dangerous thoughts.
“You may go, Severus.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
He refused the “aid” when similar thugs to those he’d seen dragging Lucius off approached him, and simply nodded his polite regards to the onlookers, before gathering his wits and apparating back the way he’d come.
****
Surprised enough that he hadn’t splinched himself into sixths, Severus couldn’t be bothered to care that he’d landed squarely on his back in damp grass. Once sure he’d apparated suitably close to the Hogwarts grounds, Severus found his earlier urge much more difficult to overcome. He vomited wretchedly into the grass, bile burning into his already raw throat like red-hot razors. As if he’d not yet suffered enough indignity – he couldn’t even vomit in the privacy of his own bathroom.
Having emptied himself of the little he’d eaten at the New Years Feast, Severus attempted a deep, steadying breath. But as his lungs pushed against his ribs – yes, definitely broken – it only managed to pull his face into a grimace of pain.
His knee. That’s what needed to be dealt with if he were to walk up to the castle. Staring down at it, he wondered how it dared to look normal hidden beneath his trouser leg when it felt more like a sack of broken glass than a joint. Wand in hand, he stared fiercely at it, but felt a debilitating lightheadedness wash over him before he could properly concentrate.
‘Severus,’ he said to himself, ‘Severus you will not faint. Now heal. Your. Knee.’ Easier said than done – his hand was shaking almost beyond aim. Such uncontrollable quaking was a lingering effect of the cruciatus, no doubt, and likely to get worse before it got better. ‘Severus, so help me, you made it through tonight you can make it out of a blasted sheep pasture!’
Though the healing spell he cast was not half potent enough, he managed not to vanish his bones or injure himself further, and found himself able to shakily stand. Dazed, he looked around. Over his shoulder he spotted a glimmer of reflected light: moonlight glinting off of the castle’s windows… a titanic distance from where he stood in the ankle-deep grass. He may as well have been headed to the moon itself, for all his legs would carry him.
‘You bleeding, melodramatic twat! WALK.’ Hobble was closer to what he managed – the going was slow – but he couldn’t prove the boy right by not making it back, could he?
****
When Harry came to, it was to a throbbing, if tolerable, headache. His glasses were snapped in two, but once repaired and replaced, he saw that Snape’s rooms were still as empty as ever. Panic squirmed to life in his belly as he wondered how long it had been. Just as he started to pace again, however, he heard a small sound that made his heart sink like a stone. The slow creak of the door was far too hesitant to be the Potions Master returning, but…
“Professor Snape?” Harry dashed out into the hall, just in time to skid to a complete halt, and watch, horrified, as Severus closed the door with a Herculean effort, and sank to his knees against it. “Professor!” Severus made a snarling noise in protest as Harry crouched beside him and took his arm, but stopped just short of pulling free. And Harry, with the terrible thought that Snape was too weak to do more than object, nevertheless helped the Potions Master across the room and into a chair.
Severus was very, very white except (as Harry noted with a nauseating surge of fear) his eyes, which were badly hemorrhaged and filled with blood.
“Sir, are you, what ha- ” Harry had hardly started when Severus cut him off with his first words, a gravely, “Silence!” that ended abruptly with a series of violent, retching coughs. The blood that bubbled forth, he wiped away onto his already filthy sleeve.
“God, what happened, did he- ” Harry couldn’t help it - the questions just started pouring out of him - but when Snape held up a hand to quiet him, and Harry saw how it shook, he closed his mouth at once.
“Excuse my interruption, Potter,” Severus’ voice was rough, wet, “but I’d appreciate your leaving at the moment. I rather need to inspect the damage.”
“Damage?” Harry repeated dumbly as Severus stood; his slow, careful movements making Harry think either of great age, or great pain. Making him think, too, that Snape should not be walking around. “Please,” he said, and laid a hand on Snape’s arm, feeling the dirt and sweat and blood in the cloth, “let me. Please.”
Severus’ gaze was totally inscrutable, and frighteningly dulled, and Harry almost retracted the offer with apology as the look went on and on. But he stood his ground. Snape was stubborn, Harry knew, but not stubborn enough to refuse help when it was so clearly needed. At last, Severus nodded, and lowered himself back into the chair.
“If you insist on playing nursemaid…” he murmured, and closed his eyes.
*
*
*
TBC
A Matter of Will
*
*
Severus would like to say that he withstood at least the first phase of the interrogation on his feet. But Pettigrew, that grotesque, simpering maggot, had been positively chomping at the bit to participate from the very start, and, with a nod of assent from Voldemort, he had scampered forward, staff in hand. Severus fell obediently when the heavy wooden rod struck his kneecap; clenching his teeth so tightly that he thought they too might shatter, even as his bones gave way with a sick, wet snap.
Unfortunately for Severus’ hopes, this moment of humiliation took place not fifteen minutes into what would become, he later deduced with wavering consciousness, a two-hour ordeal.
Voldemort stalwartly refused to believe a word that Severus spoke, though no amount of damage to his body or mind would yield anything but utter devotion. In fact, the more “innocent” Severus showed himself to be, the longer he was held under the cruciatus, and the more of his bones were shattered, twisted, and then healed once more, leaving him gasping and shaking.
He’d hardly care to admit it, but by the end, Severus had screamed his throat raw – spit blood onto the dirty stones beneath his hands with vehement answers of,
“No, my Lord.”
Pettigrew, practically hopping about, seemed increasingly excited about that fact– probably enjoying his petty revenge while he could. It was not often, after all, that Severus could not slap Pettigrew down with the merest word of reprimand.
****
When it was all over, when he’d somehow, miraculously proven himself loyal yet again, Voldemort stood before him. The embroidered hem of his robes spread liquidly out over the blood-spattered ground, as if meant to be kissed. Severus’ vision swam for one nauseating moment, before The Dark Lord spoke.
The reptilian voice was suddenly calm; almost reasonable – the monster of the Dark Lord’s rage placated by its pound of flesh:
“On your feet, Severus.”
There, practically prostrate before Lord Voldemort, Severus thought that such a request (order) would be impossible to heed. But somehow, despite the shattered knee they’d neglected to mend (and – Oh, Merlin – what felt like a pair of broken ribs), he heaved himself upright. The grit from the floor stuck insistently to his sweaty, bloody hands, as he braced them on his knees and stood, nearly vomiting as the world spun sickeningly around him. Cruel way to go, after all that, Kedavra’d for soiling His Majesty’s robes.
Voldemort looked rather impressed as Severus steadied himself (if the demonic face was capable of complex emotion at all, that is). “Have you anything to say to me?”
Severus recognized the parting test at once – he was being lured, if bluntly, into a confession of anger against The Dark Lord. After such suffering, most men would be delirious enough to take the bait. Severus, however, was still alive for a reason.
Though his throat felt clogged, he resisted the urge to clear it, knowing it would do nothing but make a bloody pulp of his voice. So he simply went ahead – hoping words would materialize from his will alone. And they did, though his usual smooth diction was long gone.
“Yes… my Lord.” He took a steadying breath. “I will… readily… submit myself to… your scrutiny… as many ti- ” blood bubbled from the corner of his mouth, but he forced his words through without mercy, “as many times as you… wish it. I am yet… your humble servant.” Dipping his head again, he ignored the screaming protest in his neck and the treacherous spots that danced in his vision… though they looked rather pleasantly like snowflakes.
Right, he was getting delirious.
Voldemort laid his hand on top of Severus’ head.
“Mmmm…” God, but He did sound pleased. Severus’ increasingly tenuous hold on consciousness wavered. “And well you should be.”
The Potions Master lowered his eyes in supplication, and kissed the ring offered to him, even as his hatred frothed like a raging, boiling sea within the most guarded recesses of his mind. Protected as the internal organs are from the naked eye, no one (not even Severus himself, without the proper precautions) could reach such dangerous thoughts.
“You may go, Severus.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
He refused the “aid” when similar thugs to those he’d seen dragging Lucius off approached him, and simply nodded his polite regards to the onlookers, before gathering his wits and apparating back the way he’d come.
****
Surprised enough that he hadn’t splinched himself into sixths, Severus couldn’t be bothered to care that he’d landed squarely on his back in damp grass. Once sure he’d apparated suitably close to the Hogwarts grounds, Severus found his earlier urge much more difficult to overcome. He vomited wretchedly into the grass, bile burning into his already raw throat like red-hot razors. As if he’d not yet suffered enough indignity – he couldn’t even vomit in the privacy of his own bathroom.
Having emptied himself of the little he’d eaten at the New Years Feast, Severus attempted a deep, steadying breath. But as his lungs pushed against his ribs – yes, definitely broken – it only managed to pull his face into a grimace of pain.
His knee. That’s what needed to be dealt with if he were to walk up to the castle. Staring down at it, he wondered how it dared to look normal hidden beneath his trouser leg when it felt more like a sack of broken glass than a joint. Wand in hand, he stared fiercely at it, but felt a debilitating lightheadedness wash over him before he could properly concentrate.
‘Severus,’ he said to himself, ‘Severus you will not faint. Now heal. Your. Knee.’ Easier said than done – his hand was shaking almost beyond aim. Such uncontrollable quaking was a lingering effect of the cruciatus, no doubt, and likely to get worse before it got better. ‘Severus, so help me, you made it through tonight you can make it out of a blasted sheep pasture!’
Though the healing spell he cast was not half potent enough, he managed not to vanish his bones or injure himself further, and found himself able to shakily stand. Dazed, he looked around. Over his shoulder he spotted a glimmer of reflected light: moonlight glinting off of the castle’s windows… a titanic distance from where he stood in the ankle-deep grass. He may as well have been headed to the moon itself, for all his legs would carry him.
‘You bleeding, melodramatic twat! WALK.’ Hobble was closer to what he managed – the going was slow – but he couldn’t prove the boy right by not making it back, could he?
****
When Harry came to, it was to a throbbing, if tolerable, headache. His glasses were snapped in two, but once repaired and replaced, he saw that Snape’s rooms were still as empty as ever. Panic squirmed to life in his belly as he wondered how long it had been. Just as he started to pace again, however, he heard a small sound that made his heart sink like a stone. The slow creak of the door was far too hesitant to be the Potions Master returning, but…
“Professor Snape?” Harry dashed out into the hall, just in time to skid to a complete halt, and watch, horrified, as Severus closed the door with a Herculean effort, and sank to his knees against it. “Professor!” Severus made a snarling noise in protest as Harry crouched beside him and took his arm, but stopped just short of pulling free. And Harry, with the terrible thought that Snape was too weak to do more than object, nevertheless helped the Potions Master across the room and into a chair.
Severus was very, very white except (as Harry noted with a nauseating surge of fear) his eyes, which were badly hemorrhaged and filled with blood.
“Sir, are you, what ha- ” Harry had hardly started when Severus cut him off with his first words, a gravely, “Silence!” that ended abruptly with a series of violent, retching coughs. The blood that bubbled forth, he wiped away onto his already filthy sleeve.
“God, what happened, did he- ” Harry couldn’t help it - the questions just started pouring out of him - but when Snape held up a hand to quiet him, and Harry saw how it shook, he closed his mouth at once.
“Excuse my interruption, Potter,” Severus’ voice was rough, wet, “but I’d appreciate your leaving at the moment. I rather need to inspect the damage.”
“Damage?” Harry repeated dumbly as Severus stood; his slow, careful movements making Harry think either of great age, or great pain. Making him think, too, that Snape should not be walking around. “Please,” he said, and laid a hand on Snape’s arm, feeling the dirt and sweat and blood in the cloth, “let me. Please.”
Severus’ gaze was totally inscrutable, and frighteningly dulled, and Harry almost retracted the offer with apology as the look went on and on. But he stood his ground. Snape was stubborn, Harry knew, but not stubborn enough to refuse help when it was so clearly needed. At last, Severus nodded, and lowered himself back into the chair.
“If you insist on playing nursemaid…” he murmured, and closed his eyes.
*
*
*
TBC