Bonds of Affection

For the next few days, Snape noticed that Harry kept his word the best he could. He avoided the meals together, fed himself unobtrusively, and retreated to his study. Snape did not know if he actually studied, or wallowed in misery – and it did not matter much to him, as long as the boy was out of his way. He caught sight of him reading something in the garden, sprawled in the grass, paging through an old, decrepit volume that Snape did not recognize as one of the texts he had bought for him.



Snape found a faint glimmer of hope then. Perhaps this wouldn\'t be so bad, he reasoned. The slave-bond did not seem to be turning Harry into a mindless drone, at least not just yet. Harry also didn\'t seem to be pining for Snape – and perhaps, that was still far off in the future. He could only hope.



Eventually, two days later, Harry found him in his study.



“I have some questions,” Harry said quietly.



“Have a seat,” Snape offered.



“I have been reading on the slave-bond,” Harry said, showing him the volume. Snape was surprised to see the book – he only knew one other person to own the text. It was rather.. odd, to see Harry in the possession of it.



“And?” Snape asked, finding himself oddly impatient.



“Are you planning to use corporal punishment?” Harry asked bluntly.



Snape shrugged. “What I am planning is rather irrelevant, don\'t you think?” he said sourly. “At some point, the bond will require it, and it will happen.”



“Have you ever done it before?” Harry asked. The young man\'s face was a picture of absolute calm.



Snape had done it before, of course. He was a Death Eater, for crying out loud – those like him thrived on power and cruelty. And naturally, he had a number of Master/slave relationships in the past. Not the loving ones, or the kind ones, either. But it had been quite a while since he last held a tool, or caused someone pain... and he had been hoping that this certain part of his life would remain in the past. He still had the dreams once in a while – dreams where wretched screams were mingled with whispers of surrender, dreams where his victims cried his name, and begged him for pity... and he had shown none. Not once.



“I have,” Snape said simply. “Why do you ask?”



“What will you use on me?” Harry demanded.



Snape leaned back in his chair and folded arms on his chest, staring at Harry with curiosity.



“The cane is my usual tool of discipline,” he said, and noticed, with satisfaction that Harry\'s face paled slightly. “I take it your Muggle relatives had never used it on you?”



“No,” Harry admitted.



“How did they discipline you then?” Snape asked with a sneer. “A belt? A paddle?”



“No, Sir. Just the hand.”



Snape shook his head disdainfully. He should have known. No wonder the brat was this unruly and insubordinate. “Well, Potter, if a hand spanking was the worst you ever experienced, you are in for a rather traumatic shock, when the time comes,” he said unsympathetically.



Harry nodded quietly, but did not move from his chair.



“Any more questions, Potter?” Snape asked coldly.



For a minute Harry seemed at a loss for words. He just sat silently in front of Snape, staring blankly, not saying anything. Eventually, when Snape\'s patience had reached its limit, and he was about to tell Harry to get out, Harry spoke, in a barely audible voice:



“Will you cane me?”



Snape glanced at him coldly. “I believe that\'s what I just said.”



“I mean,” Harry said quietly. “Will you cane me now?”



“Now?” Snape repeated, a little incredulously. “Why would you want that?”



“I don\'t,” Harry said sullenly. “But I don\'t want to spend the next weeks or months imagining, or dreading it either. I would rather just know what to expect in the future.”



“I see,” Snape said thoughtfully.



The request surprised him, but in retrospect, he supposed, it shouldn\'t have. It was an ancient rite in most Master/slave relationships – to have an introductory punishment, for no other reason than merely introduce the slave to the Master\'s control and expectations. It also relieved some of the tension and uncertainty when the slave joined the Master\'s household.



“The bond requests it, then?” Snape probed.



Harry shrugged. “I don\'t feel the slave-bond at all,” he said. “I don\'t feel anything foreign... you know? No voices in my head telling me what to do, no urges that seem extraneous. In fact, I don\'t feel anything inside me that\'s not a part of me.”



“Just as we had thought,” Snape mused. “Well. Whatever drives you to experience this, I believe I can accommodate.”



He leaned and opened the desk drawer. Buried underneath scraps of parchments, old letters and notes, was a cane – a tool he had not used in about eight years. He pulled it out and set it on the desk. Harry\'s eyes opened in shock as he stared at it – the long, slender, inflexible piece, made of mahogany wood, sturdy handle crafted into a serpentine design.



“You will receive six,” Snape said impassively. “And just so that you know, there will be no spells or ointments to ease your discomfort afterwards. I believe that will offer you the opportunity to have a fully authentic experience.”



Harry stood up and looked to Snape for direction. His face was slightly pale, but it betrayed no emotion – no fear, no misery, no embarrassment.



“Drop your trousers. Lift your shirt. Keep your shorts on,” Snape commanded. His eyes narrowed, as he watched his victim comply, and the familiar surge of pleasure at having power over another washed over him. So much for being reformed, Snape thought with self-disdain, picking up the cane.



“Lean over the desk. Hold your hands out. Don\'t move,” he instructed. Harry complied instantly, bending over the desk, with his rear presented for punishment. His fists were clenched, and his knuckles were absolutely white. Snape circled around the desk, and stood behind him, surveying the young man thoughtfully. The trousers were pooled around his ankles on the floor, and his shirt was gathered up, exposing an incredibly slender waistline, defined by the band of the young man\'s shorts.



“Just look at you,” Snape taunted half-heartedly. “Facing your fears with such bravery. Godric Gryffindor would be so proud.”



Harry gave no response. His fists just clenched tighter, and he pressed his face to the wooden surface of the desk. His breathing was measured and even.



Without further deliberation, Snape delivered the first stroke of the cane across the boy\'s buttocks. He struck hard, harder than he normally would have, taking the fabric of the shorts into consideration. The boy\'s body shuddered slightly, but he issued no sound. Snape struck twice more, each blow eliciting an involuntary convulsion of silent agony.



Snape paused for a bit, and took a step back, watching Harry with gleeful satisfaction, as he struggled in complete silence to regain composure and still himself. And then, as Snape caught himself enjoying this, enjoying inflicting pain, reveling in cruelty – yet again, after all these years, the self-loathing returned. Snape collected and focused all of his anger, anger towards James, anger towards Dumbledore, anger towards Harry, and most of all, anger towards himself, and allowed it to gather in his fist, the fist that was holding the cane. Without any warning, but very eager to get it all over with, he delivered three brutal blows to the vulnerable backside. He watched pitilessly, as Harry\'s knees nearly buckled from the impacts, and his fists opened, fingers scraping desperately against the surface of the desk. Still, Harry made no sound, even as his entire body shook violently, even after the punishment was over.



Snape sat back at the desk, and placed the cane in the drawer. When he lifted his eyes, he saw that Harry still hadn\'t moved – his flushed face was pressed against the desk, tears streaming from his eyes, falling on the wooden surface.



“Enough,” Snape snapped. “Make yourself decent, and leave. And clean your snot and tears off my desk.”



Moving painfully and slowly, Harry lifted himself from the desk. His arms were trembling slightly. He bent down to put his trousers on, and it took him several minutes of struggling against the pain to manage to dress himself again. He reached to the desk silently, and wiped the surface with the sleeve of his shirt, the fabric gathering the dampness of his tears and traces of blood – Snape looked at Harry\'s face and saw that he had bit through his lower lip in the struggle to keep himself silent. Snape felt a faint, unwelcome twinge of sympathy, but shook it off.



“A simple cleansing spell would have been sufficient,” Snape said coldly. “No need to wreck your clothing.”



Harry nodded. “I\'ll remember for next time,” he said. His voice was strained and barely audible.



“Get out,” Snape told him.



Harry left promptly, but as far as Snape was concerned, it wasn\'t soon enough.