Of Masters and Lovers
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Snape
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
10,423
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Snape
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
10,423
Reviews:
1
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.
Of Masters and Lovers
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Severus Snape and all associated characters from the Harry Potter universe are the property of J.K. Rowling. No money is being made.
--
Upon the death of the Dark Lord, Harry promptly found himself with nothing more to do. He watched the body at his feet for a while, burned it to ciders for good measure and within a span of seven seconds, the time it took him to turn around, he had decided he was going to die. He didn’t really care how, only that it happened soon because there was no other reason for him to be here. Harry Potter was old news. He didn’t have any power to fight against, nothing to work toward controlling and in those seven seconds it took for him to turn around, he had convinced himself that he was a terrible leader. He was not good at directing men around the world. He couldn’t be diplomatic to save his life. He was Gryffindor. He acted first and asked questions later. But he was also Slytherin in some way and his actions were hardly ever noble after his sixth year of instruction. He had become a warlord, much as Voldemort, and that was why he could defeat the snake. One man taking over the roll of another. He was made for it, shaped for it, and because he had no one to control, he had decided that his own time had come. Seven seconds.
He turned around and met the black, shuttered eyes of Severus Snape. Potions master at Hogwarts. Spy for the side of Light. Right hand man for the side of Dark. Prideful and diplomatic, honest to a fault when it suited him. He could lie like the best of them, he was the best of them. Perhaps death by this man’s hand wouldn’t be such a trial after all. The two had a conversation without words. Harry pleading for his life to be taken, Severus wondering what the man was going to do now that everything was said and done. Perhaps they read each other wrong, maybe Severus thought he saw something else in those suddenly dull green eyes. But whatever the reason, be it personal or a misinterpretation, the man knelt smoothly before his new master; eyes downcast not in fear or pain, but in respect. In honor. In trust. In need.
Those dull green eyes snapped into focus. They brightened, lit by an inner fire that had been slowly going out. Harry put a gentle hand on his servant’s head and with a snap the both of them were gone from the nameless field.
They appeared in a nondescript room built of stone and decorated with various devices of torture and pleasure. Severus knew this room, his former Lord had used it often although without the power the potions professor knew it could wield. He was guided without words to the center of the room where, with the flick of a wand, he was bound and spread eagle, hovering upright a few inches from the ground. Another flick of a wand and the torches gutted, sputtered, and died. Severus took a deep breath in the pitch black, ears straining for any sound, any brush of air or fabric that would tell him where his Lord was. He felt nothing. Heard nothing.
In a flash of cold magic, Severus felt his clothes torn from his body but there was no other indication that he was not alone. He hung suspended, complete sensory deprivation for a timeless moment. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, it could have been days, years, or an age; but it didn’t matter.
He cried out at the first lash, a startling pain when he could feel nothing for an eternity before. His voice was rough, his back tingled and strained. He wanted more, needed more, but nothing else was offered him. He twisted in frustration needing to feel, to see, to smell, to taste something other than this strange temperate darkness. This time he heard the whip whistle through the air and arched back to meet it, hissing in delight as the leather caressed his skin and again he was left wanting.
For days Harry played, lashing once, waiting, twice, waiting, once more and waiting again. Little by little teaching his partner the way of things without the benefit of verbal speech. When something was done correctly he was rewarded and when something was incorrect Harry withheld the lashings his pet so desperately begged for. He went an entire day without once striking the man when a particularly harsh lesson was taught. By the end of it he was begging, pleading, crying for something, anything at all. Harry didn’t so much as offer him a whisper of sensation.
The whip was only the beginning. They moved on to clamps, rings, chains, beads, everything the room could provide until one day the only thing it offered was a knife.
Harry lit the room, the first time since he had brought his partner from the field and away from humanity. The light dim, barely enough to even notice; but to Severus it was a though looking at the sun. He closed his eyes against it and turned his head. He received no lashes that day. The light was increased. Severus had still to open his eyes but he did not turn away. He was rewarded heartily. It continued like that until there was enough light to see by and both could withstand it. Harry fingered the knife and walked behind the still bound man. His back was marred by only one scar, a long white line when Harry’s thoughts had gotten away from him. He had whipped the man too deeply though he was instantly forgiven for it. Harry had healed the cut with gentle motions, leaving the scar to remind him of his own mistake. One he would not make again.
Harry lay the knife blade flat against Severus’ back, warming the silver blade with his body heat before lifting it to the top of the man’s shoulders. His first cut was hesitant, a shallow thing that hardly bleed, a testing of sorts. Severus made no sound, he new better now than to interrupt when his Lord was working. Harry dove into the time with a passion, tracing lines and dots, writing or just marking in various circular angular patterns down ribs, over the spine, around the neck, across the chest, between legs and ever so carefully. No skin was left untouched. The cuts bleed, a sharp red against so pale a body. It ran in small trails down his legs and toes to drip silently onto the floor. From top to bottom, Severus was in perpetual shreds.
Harry drew his wand and made to heal, to rebuild that which he had destroyed when a hoarse voice stopped him. “No” it said. Severus winced at the sound of his own, previously velvet tones.
“No?” Harry asked; intrigued. It was the first conversation they had ever had, a code of silence had been written between them.
“I would… keep them…” Severus met the lantern green stare of his Lord with the quiet dignity Harry had remembered from so long ago. He nodded eventually and spelled the cuts closed so they would no longer bleed, healed enough to be comfortable but not enough to be forgotten.
--
Upon the death of the Dark Lord, Harry promptly found himself with nothing more to do. He watched the body at his feet for a while, burned it to ciders for good measure and within a span of seven seconds, the time it took him to turn around, he had decided he was going to die. He didn’t really care how, only that it happened soon because there was no other reason for him to be here. Harry Potter was old news. He didn’t have any power to fight against, nothing to work toward controlling and in those seven seconds it took for him to turn around, he had convinced himself that he was a terrible leader. He was not good at directing men around the world. He couldn’t be diplomatic to save his life. He was Gryffindor. He acted first and asked questions later. But he was also Slytherin in some way and his actions were hardly ever noble after his sixth year of instruction. He had become a warlord, much as Voldemort, and that was why he could defeat the snake. One man taking over the roll of another. He was made for it, shaped for it, and because he had no one to control, he had decided that his own time had come. Seven seconds.
He turned around and met the black, shuttered eyes of Severus Snape. Potions master at Hogwarts. Spy for the side of Light. Right hand man for the side of Dark. Prideful and diplomatic, honest to a fault when it suited him. He could lie like the best of them, he was the best of them. Perhaps death by this man’s hand wouldn’t be such a trial after all. The two had a conversation without words. Harry pleading for his life to be taken, Severus wondering what the man was going to do now that everything was said and done. Perhaps they read each other wrong, maybe Severus thought he saw something else in those suddenly dull green eyes. But whatever the reason, be it personal or a misinterpretation, the man knelt smoothly before his new master; eyes downcast not in fear or pain, but in respect. In honor. In trust. In need.
Those dull green eyes snapped into focus. They brightened, lit by an inner fire that had been slowly going out. Harry put a gentle hand on his servant’s head and with a snap the both of them were gone from the nameless field.
They appeared in a nondescript room built of stone and decorated with various devices of torture and pleasure. Severus knew this room, his former Lord had used it often although without the power the potions professor knew it could wield. He was guided without words to the center of the room where, with the flick of a wand, he was bound and spread eagle, hovering upright a few inches from the ground. Another flick of a wand and the torches gutted, sputtered, and died. Severus took a deep breath in the pitch black, ears straining for any sound, any brush of air or fabric that would tell him where his Lord was. He felt nothing. Heard nothing.
In a flash of cold magic, Severus felt his clothes torn from his body but there was no other indication that he was not alone. He hung suspended, complete sensory deprivation for a timeless moment. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, it could have been days, years, or an age; but it didn’t matter.
He cried out at the first lash, a startling pain when he could feel nothing for an eternity before. His voice was rough, his back tingled and strained. He wanted more, needed more, but nothing else was offered him. He twisted in frustration needing to feel, to see, to smell, to taste something other than this strange temperate darkness. This time he heard the whip whistle through the air and arched back to meet it, hissing in delight as the leather caressed his skin and again he was left wanting.
For days Harry played, lashing once, waiting, twice, waiting, once more and waiting again. Little by little teaching his partner the way of things without the benefit of verbal speech. When something was done correctly he was rewarded and when something was incorrect Harry withheld the lashings his pet so desperately begged for. He went an entire day without once striking the man when a particularly harsh lesson was taught. By the end of it he was begging, pleading, crying for something, anything at all. Harry didn’t so much as offer him a whisper of sensation.
The whip was only the beginning. They moved on to clamps, rings, chains, beads, everything the room could provide until one day the only thing it offered was a knife.
Harry lit the room, the first time since he had brought his partner from the field and away from humanity. The light dim, barely enough to even notice; but to Severus it was a though looking at the sun. He closed his eyes against it and turned his head. He received no lashes that day. The light was increased. Severus had still to open his eyes but he did not turn away. He was rewarded heartily. It continued like that until there was enough light to see by and both could withstand it. Harry fingered the knife and walked behind the still bound man. His back was marred by only one scar, a long white line when Harry’s thoughts had gotten away from him. He had whipped the man too deeply though he was instantly forgiven for it. Harry had healed the cut with gentle motions, leaving the scar to remind him of his own mistake. One he would not make again.
Harry lay the knife blade flat against Severus’ back, warming the silver blade with his body heat before lifting it to the top of the man’s shoulders. His first cut was hesitant, a shallow thing that hardly bleed, a testing of sorts. Severus made no sound, he new better now than to interrupt when his Lord was working. Harry dove into the time with a passion, tracing lines and dots, writing or just marking in various circular angular patterns down ribs, over the spine, around the neck, across the chest, between legs and ever so carefully. No skin was left untouched. The cuts bleed, a sharp red against so pale a body. It ran in small trails down his legs and toes to drip silently onto the floor. From top to bottom, Severus was in perpetual shreds.
Harry drew his wand and made to heal, to rebuild that which he had destroyed when a hoarse voice stopped him. “No” it said. Severus winced at the sound of his own, previously velvet tones.
“No?” Harry asked; intrigued. It was the first conversation they had ever had, a code of silence had been written between them.
“I would… keep them…” Severus met the lantern green stare of his Lord with the quiet dignity Harry had remembered from so long ago. He nodded eventually and spelled the cuts closed so they would no longer bleed, healed enough to be comfortable but not enough to be forgotten.