Forgiveness

Forgiveness

Forgiveness is choosing to love. It is the first skill of self-giving love. --Mahatma Gandhi
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What were you thinking? Were you even thinking? You are beyond dirt, not worthy of forgiveness. Yet, here you are before me, kneeling and crying. Your face is blotchy and heated, a wet mess that leaves me disgusted; I thought I couldn’t be any more sickened.

What in the hell…? Why in…? Fuck you. I can’t be here right now. I can’t look at you, can’t stand the sight of you, your pathetic sniveling. You have placed trust in me that, though you are no longer deserving, I can’t break. I have to leave before I flay you alive, before I show you the true meaning of “I’m sorry.” Stay here, or fucking leave, I don’t care anymore. Just don’t come near me. For your own damn sake, shut the fuck up, your cries and pleas aren’t helping you. I’m trying to stay calm, trying to tuck the rage behind that mask of impassiveness you’ve always hated. Right now it is the only thing saving you; but I can feel it slipping. I spare you one last glance, and then leave you begging cold stones to take you back.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Three days. You waited three days to try again. Did you think a dozen red roses would make me forget? They only make me angrier. It is not your place to send flowers; it was never your place. And to send me red roses- you are a fool, caught up in the cliché of romance. I will not love you; will not forgive you, for a dozen red roses.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+

A letter sits on my desk. It’s been a week. Seven days and you think I care now what you have to say. What words do you think could explain what you did, what you were willing to chance? You bet it all on me not finding out, but I did- you fucking lose. I found out and now I’m trying to figure out what to do now, now that you have ruined everything. I hope you spent hours finding the magic words you thought could make everything okay. Now they are nothing more than ashes no one will ever read.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+

Two weeks and I have received more flowers, more letters, and now you are standing before me. Two weeks. I don’t care anymore. I’m tired of hating you.

“Get out.”

+~+~+~+~+~+~+

I have been watching you. I hate myself for it, hate that I always know when you enter the room, where you are, what you are wearing. I can’t seem to break the damned habit but slowly I am learning. Telling myself that soon I won’t notice you- won’t notice that you are so skinny, your skin so pale. You aren’t eating. You no longer sit outside by the lake with your friends. I can tell just looking at the heavy bags under your eyes that you haven’t slept properly in a month.

Your friends have sought me out. That’s an irony; before they have always avoided me. They worry about you: I worry about you. They say you won’t talk to them. They don’t know how to fix it and they are expecting me to have some magical cure. I turned them away, didn’t say anything. They are you’re friends. For their sake, I won’t ruin the illusions they’ve built up about you. You don’t deserve it but I’ll keep your secret- yet another laughable irony.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+

You are a fool! So fucking stupid! How could you do this? How could you have reduced us to some cliché in this manner? Why are you lying there, pale and lifeless? Gods may damn you. You are so dramatic, so reckless.

This is your fault yet here I sit beside you, trapped into heavy guilt. None of this is on me, but maybe I shouldn’t have been so harsh. On some part I knew this was going to happen, but watching you suffer was my vindication. It was only fair that you should hurt just as much as I. I hurt you because I hated you. You hurt yourself because I hated you. I’m sitting beside you, holding your hand and listening to your reassuring heartbeat because I still love you.

Maybe, if you come through this, I’ll forgive you.

+~+~POV~+~+

The stone bites into you, your knees past aching and numb. You wouldn’t be able to stand now if you tried. But you don’t want to. You would kneel for hours more; you have your orders.

‘Stay kneeling.’

The small slip of paper is in your pocket. You don’t take it out, don’t look at it. You stay still, kneeling, taking comfort from his deliberate scrawl on the torn piece of parchment, safely tucked away.

A tray appears before you, startling you, almost tipping you off your knees. You know your master has done so deliberately. From somewhere he is watching you, hoping you will fail. You deftly remain in position, nothing has ever been more important to you.

The tray holds a cup of juice and a half filled plate. There isn’t much there, but it is more than you have eaten since he left. And you know, just looking at the tray, what the next order will be. Nerves dance through you: you will never be able to finish all the food. He expects it of you though.

The smell drifts up, triggering taste buds. When was the last time you ate? You think hard but can’t recall. Poppy gave you a nutrient potion two days ago before you left the hospital wing. But what did it matter then? What did it matter after you woke up, alone and undead?

“Eat.”

He’s here! Somewhere behind you, but you know better than to turn and look. Instead, you reach out with shaking hands and pick at the dinner roll. Slowly you break off a piece and bring it to your lips, chewing thoughtfully. One piece of the single roll sits heavy on your empty stomach and you wonder if he will expect you to finish it; will he ask you to eat the other foods as well? You know he will.

With steady determination, you take bite after bite. Chewing until the tasteless bread is returned to a lump of heavy dough, then forcing it past your throat and repeating the process. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t issue more orders, or a reprieve. From behind you, you can feel his piercing stare, boring into you. You know what he is doing. You tortured yourself by refusing food. He is punishing you by making you eat.

Halfway through, you give up. Your stomach feels bloated and close to bursting, unused to the amount of food.
You feel nauseous, one more bite and all you have forced yourself to consume will come back. You risk a glance at the tray. You lied to yourself- you didn’t even make it halfway. All you managed was a roll and six green beans. You lower you head, hands at your side, awaiting his inspection of your failure.

“Eat.”

But you can’t, you don’t. Your stare stays focused on the hard grey stones, you refuse to meet his eyes.

“Are you refusing an order, Harry?” His voice comes out soft as steel and you brace yourself for the anger you hear just barely tinting his purr. He isn’t angry at you not finishing the food. You know that. You know what he is angry about- he has every right to that anger.

“I will punish you then, pet, for every bite left on your plate, as well as….” he pauses, trying to find a way to properly phrase what you have done to him.” …past sins.”

“Come here.” You crawl, your knees screaming and your stomach aching. He is sitting in a chair before an old teacher’s desk, his hands steepled before him and his expression impassive. Reaching him, you once more relax your body into a submissive kneeling position, your neck bared to him, your head no more than an inch from his knee.

“What should your punishment be? What would be appropriate after all that you have done?” You think quickly. The only time he asks you which punishment you would give yourself are when he feels he would flay you alive and still desire more. He’s asked you only once before. You stayed on your stomach for a week after the incident.

“The paddle, Master?”

The response is a deep bitter laugh. “The paddle, pet? I would paddle you for coming home late, or drinking in excess with your fool friends. You expect nothing more than the paddle after you betrayed me, after your body, my body pet, has lain in bed with another, has claimed another? Nothing more than a paddle after you have destroyed everything we have built, every ounce of trust I have instilled in you? You want to be paddled for your angstful attempt on your own life? Are you trying to anger me?”

You are not but you accept his anger, feel freed by it. His anger is more soothing than his hands, his long fingers which card through your hair, stroking the silky strands and setting you on edge.

“Once more, pet, last try.”

Frantically you search your mind, trying to find a punishment that will please him, that will absolve the weighty guilt that now eats at you. Seconds pass, drawing the tension taut, as you discard thought after thought as too lenient. Your crimes are too heavy- he would probably be justified in killing you.

“No answer?” He tilts your chin up with one finger, his eye catching yours and searching for long moments that stretch into an eternity. Trying to convey every emotion inside of you, you hold his stare. You want him to know how sorry you are, how much you still love him, how much you desire his forgiveness.

“No sir.”

He nods, not really having expected an answer. “Go to the bedroom. Be ready when I arrive.”

You stand too quickly, desperate to obey, to be forgiven. Fiery pain engulfs your knees, radiating outward through your legs. You whimper pathetically, almost dropping once more to the floor. Then gritting your teeth, leave the room without looking back, missing the expression on his face.

You don’t see the hard look of absolute hatred and fury, warring with the softness of loving devotion. You don’t see the tears that he hastily blinks away.

+~+~+~+~+~+

The blade is steady in his hand. You recognize it immediately, your eyes widening as your body trembles. He is holding the knife, your knife, with the gentleness of a lover. For a second you want to snatch it from him. He has no right to… You clamp down the desire to reclaim the steel. He has every right; it is you who holds no rights.

“You know what this is, pet.” He hasn’t asked, just calmly stated. He’s been watching your reaction to its presence, enjoying your internal struggle. He knows exactly what you are thinking. You wish you could read his thoughts just as easily: you wish you could figure out what he plans to do with you—with your knife. You have always hated how he could become so blank, can empty himself of emotion and expression. You are startled and then terrified then when his anger bursts forth, overcoming his legendary control.

“I hate this!” He throws the knife to the bed, missing you by no more than a few scant inches. You watch as it quickly sinks in to the mattress with growing trepidation; he has sharpened the blade. “I hate you! Hate you for this, for needing this.”

His anger is sharp and tangible, slamming into you. You know how much he has damned this knife. And you want to protest, to explain. It was not the cold steel you needed, never the cold steel. You needed to feel something and he wasn’t there; you needed to punish yourself and he refused. You had hated him, almost as much as you hate the sharp blade.

“Down.”

You follow the order, lying on your stomach as flat as possible against the bed, carefully avoiding the handle that protrudes from the mattress. You shudder, detesting the feel of a spell stealing away your clothing. In a second you are nude, the cold air wrapping around your skin uncomfortably. Another spell and he has taken your vision, effectively blinding you and heightening your other senses.

Tiny sounds and quite movements seem to fill the room. You don’t know how to interpret them, which to focus on, and you flinch when he settles beside you, nearly jumping out of your own flesh when he places a cold, rough hand on your lower back. Instantly he scoops you up, holding you close to him. “It’s okay. Nothing more than you can handle, never more than you can handle. If you want it all stops.” He is pressing soft kisses into your hair, while he offers gentle reassures to you. You don’t need to see his eyes to know he is telling the truth. He will stop the second you fall beyond your limit, the second you speak the words. You trust your Master. “Okay, pet? Against his chest, you nod. He gently repositions you on the bed, this time on your back.

You lie there, listening to your own panted breathing. You may trust your Master but this is still punishment, you are still frightened.

The bed dips as he joins you, your hips following the motion and rolling toward him. He picks up your hand and seems to study it for a while, twisting and turning your wrist. “Why? Why would you do this?” The question is rhetorical, and you can feel the anger that makes his voice tense. You honestly don’t know if he will be able to ever put aside his anger, to forgive you.

You cry out, surprised when the knife bites into the familiar territory of your wrist. Again, and again he makes slices into your flesh until you feel the blood dripping down your arm. It must be staining the sheets.
He travels farther up, tracing perpendicular lines into your skin until just before your elbow. Each cut stings; each drag of the knife is a new torment. You are crying when he finally drops your limb back to the bed, whimpering as it bounces against the cool linen.

When he picks up your other arm, you scream in protest. He ignores your pleads, pressing slightly deeper with the blade, to punish your foolishness. He isn’t going to stop; you are hardly feeling a ounce of his pain. After you ripped his heart and trust to tatters, it seems only fair that he may in some way return the favor. Skin is nothing.

He spreads your thighs apart and panic seizes you. What is he doing? What has he planned? You feel his breath, gently teasing along your most sensitive skin. You are tense, not moving, just waiting on edge. When you feel the pain along your inner, most tender flesh you gasp out- in pain, and in sudden realization.
He is tracing your scars!

He is using your knife, and reopening every wound you have ever inflicted upon yourself. Your marks are now his. He is taking away from you the only measure of control you have every possessed and claiming it as his own. Now you are crying and screaming, yelling at him in anger and hurt. Those were yours, you have earned every one! You fight him, trying to clamp your legs closed, trying to dislodge the steel from his hand, wildly fighting until the blade is knocked to the mattress and your knees are locked around his neck. He cast out only two words and you are instantly forced into stillness.

His fingers harshly grip your ankles, fingernails raking your skin. He pries you from your hold on him and jerks your legs back into position, spreading your legs and pulling your arms toward the headboard. You try to move, to fight the vulnerability that overpowers you, but it is as though each limb is lead.

“I hate you.” You fling out the words as your last defense. His eyes darken and then he slaps you. Your head falls back. The blade is immediately pressed to the hollow of you neck. Everything in the room grows still, the silence pressing down heavily. The only sound disrupting the oppressive quite is his ragged breathing as he struggles to fight his desire to slice into your throat. You wait, long moments becoming eternities.

“Why are you here, pet? Do you want forgiveness?” His voice is empty but you imagine you hear anger and disappointment. You want more then anything for him to forgive you, for him to take back the guilt that is tearing you apart.

“Forgive me, sir, please,” You plea on shaking, tear damp breaths, wincing as the knife just nips at your flesh. With a disgusted sigh from your master, the knife is pulled away. You would have jumped at the sharp clatter of steel on stone, but you can only lay there- the passive victim of his spell.

You hear the distinctive whir through the air, are thankful that you cannot tense when the thin lash of leather, rips into your tender stomach. Crack after crack, he delivers the blows with an almost studied precision. And when he flips you, exposing your back, the agony racing through you body, is almost enough to destroy you.

He begins shredding your skin, but this time there is less exactness. The whipping becomes furious, slipping from a punishment into an unskilled beating. His silence is broken, and with every stroke he throws out an angry torrent: “I hate you.” “Why?” “I hate him.” “Why?” “Gods, why?” He releases all his anger, months of hurt into your flesh, until you feel you will be nothing but ribbons and blood. You are crying. You are screaming. He seems deaf to it all, cursed by his own rage.

“Stop, sir.”

“Please.”

“Oh gods.”

“Stop.”

“Dead phoenix.” You quietly slip the words into the chaos. You do so without even realizing it, not aware that the words have been voiced. You are not even certain that he will be able to hear them.

Master stills.

+~+~+~+~+~+

The spells are lifted, instantly- your limbs lighten, and light suddenly floods your vision. He is murmuring, and shushing. Spells are being spoken, a cool salve is applied. It stings, burning your open cuts.

“It’s okay, pet, it will get better.” He offers gentle comfort and you can feel the skin being mended, pulled back together. His words do more to heal, though, than his magic. He presses kisses along your back, then to your front. He cradles you in his arms, holding you close to his chest as he runs his lips up your forearms. Soothing lips fall on your cheeks, his tongue making little laps at the salty track left by your tears. When your hiccupping breathing returns to normal, he pulls you into a soft, tender, claiming exchange.

He mumbles apologies into your hair, presses regrets into you skin, then he begins to move your body, lifting you out of his lap and settling you against the pillows, on top of the blankets. You protest, the hushed objections fading to whimpers when he lovingly pulls apart your legs and slips between them. He repeats his previous process to the gashes on your thighs, licking and healing, and arousing.

You feel yourself begin to harden at his attentions. Master’s silky hair falls forward, caressing your cock until you are fully erect. His tongue shifts higher, noticing your state. He presses kisses, then tiny nibbles along sensitive, abused flesh. When he envelopes you in his wet mouth, you are shocked.

You have missed this, the warm suction of his mouth. Even before you made that mistake he had denied you this. Selfish pleasure was not something you were ever good enough to earn. For so long it was your mouth on Him, and then your mouth on him and his on you; now, though, it is Master pleasuring you.

In no time, you are moaning, screaming in pleasure, hoarsely; your throat still raw from screaming in pain. Long, sucking pulls, interspersed between persistent strokes of his tongue. He takes you completely then, to the base and you gasp at the feeling of being wholly consumed.

“Master…”

“Oh, gods,”

“Please?”

“I’m…”

You reach the high of ecstasy, your cum spilling forth in sharp shots. Semen splashes onto his hands instead of his teeth, your chest instead of his throat. He wipes his mouth against his forearm, taking away the saliva, and then presses a kiss to your lips tiredly. You are both exhausted, physically and emotionally, and you begin to drift off to sleep as he curls his body around yours.

“Do you forgive me, pet?” He asks, his eyes closing and mouth falling apart. You mutely press yourself closer to his heartbeat and settle.

“Forgive me, Master?”

+~+~+~+~+~+

“Wake up, Harry” His dark voice calls you from sleep, but even half dreaming you can hear his smirk, know he is planning a torment. Reluctantly you leave your pleasurable drowse, opening your eyes slowly in preparation for the worst. After all, you safe-worded out of your punishment.

Tears slip down your cheeks when you see Draco. You cry because he is seeing you as you really are, he is seeing you below someone else’s control. You cry because though you have sought out a Master, sought the strength and power of another man, you have never found the strength of your own vulnerability, never seen the power of your submission. You cry because Draco was suppose to only ever know you when you were your strongest, your most powerful- now he has seen you crying.

Draco rushes to your side, sending a glare over to Master, and for the first time he is the one to wipe your tears. You want to tell him not to be angry at Master, this is what you wanted, what you asked for, what you deserve. But wrapped in the simple strength of Draco’s arms you feel comfortable- maybe it is time to let Draco fight a battle for you.

“What have you done to him, Snape?”

“Nothing more than what he wants, Mr. Malfoy. Seeing as how you have intimately claimed my pet on your own, you should know this.” Draco is confused; you can tell in the way he falters, his arms slackening their hold, his eyes dashing back and forth.

“Your pet?”

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, that sniveling rag in your arms, is mine. My pet.” Draco, lets go of you, and you slip back onto the mattress. Your crying intensifies but he ignores you. Draco was raised in the customs of the wizarding world. He knows the significance of having a pet, of taking a pet. Master would be justified in imprisoning Draco for trespassing on his property. You made it so with your signature to the contract- you knowingly risked your lover’s freedom. When Draco’s betrayed expression turns toward you, you close your eyes- not willing to see his hurt.

“Are you going to arrest me?” Draco asks resigned, accepting of his fate.

“No.”

You and Draco turn shocked stares at Master. If he is within his rights….? “Instead I invite you, Mr. Malfoy to join us.” Master holds up a hand when Draco opens his mouth, stilling the protest or acceptance. “You make my pet happy for some reason. The offer applies only to this night, though. You will share my bed and my pet only this one time. Are we clear?”

Draco looks at you, studying you, curled up in the sheets. Master and Draco- at the same time. Master is taking away your choice, a choice you would never have made for yourself. Tomorrow you will deal with the fall out- for tonight you have been granted a most magical gift.

+~+~+~+~+~+

Tension grows, filling the room; the atmosphere almost stifling. Green eyes meet blue. Blue eyes lower in dereference to brown. Brown and green hold each other, assessing, weighing trust and acceptance.

“On the bed.” Master’s voice is low and dangerous. You shiver in reaction, sneaking a glance at Draco. He shows no outward response except for his pale eyes growing more wary. You link your fingers with his, offering reassurance. Hesitantly, his eyes on Master he presses a fluttering kiss to your knuckles. His mouth continues the butterfly touches up your forearm, playing on the soft inner skin- all under Master’s watchful eye. You can’t tell whether his expression is disgusted or passionate.

You squirm when Draco makes his way toward your chest, tongue creating slippery slides against the smooth skin. You would normally have lost yourself in the sensations that bombard you as he plays with hardened pink buds, but your focus is split- your concentration scattered. Though Draco is alighting every nerve with sensual touches, Master’s heavy stare is another sensation added to the onslaught- the heady knowledge that this is happening only because he is allowing it.

Warm heat dips in and out of your navel. Draco plays there for long moments that just drag on, until you are restlessly on edge.

“Continue, Mr. Malfoy.” You realize then why Draco was hesitating- he was respecting Master. You have lost your mind in the passionate haze he created with his lips and tongue on your heated skin but the other two men in the room are following ceremony and tradition.

Draco moves lower, beginning a familiar game with your cock. You gasp when Master moves over you, claiming your mouth with a force that is bruising. His brutality starkly contrasts against the gentle taking of Draco’s mouth but both are setting you closer and closer to that pleasurable precipice. You are moaning into Master, pressing your hips closer to Draco, trying to find magic within the two of them.

Master pulls away, just as harshly as he took your lips. “If you let him come, Mr. Malfoy, the night is over.” And Draco is gone. Your body, which only moments ago, was over-sensitized, is suddenly bereft. You want to beg and plead but Master’s expression stops you, keeps you quiet and still. Master and Draco are above you, their eyes meeting and conveying a conversation you remain oblivious to.

“On your knees, Harry.” Draco breaks the silence and then the stillness, helping you to turn over. He slips under you so that you are straddling his hips, your forehead resting against his, fast breathing mingles, your heartbeat thumping a staccato rhythm in time to his own. The position has your knees spread wide and the only thing you can see are Draco’s blue eyes swirling with emotion. Behind you, you can feel the heavy stare of your Master as he inspects your body, draped over Draco’s pale creamy flesh.

“Such a beautiful contrast.” You feel him running his hands over your back as though examining a work of art, feel Draco’s shiver as Master’s cool skin traces his ribs. Then Master’s hands are at your butt, kneading soft, supple cheeks. He spreads you apart, his fingers exploring your body, as though trying to map out every last detail, to commit every touch to memory. He dips and teases, never fully breaching your body as you cry out, your body bucking against Draco’s. Draco pushes back- his hardness creating a delicious hardness against your own.

Master plays with you, with your body, never giving you more than that precious teasing touch until you feel insanity slipping into your head. You keen when his hands leave you, rooting fruitlessly on Draco as you try to compensate for your loss. You cling to the sound of a drawer opening, then closing. The pop of the vial’s cork reverberates over every nerve. You jump when he drizzles oil over his fingers, the excess pooling on your heated flesh at the small of your back.

Two slicked fingers slowly circle your entrance and you still completely, waiting with bated breath for some movement, anything from your master. He plunges both fingers past the damp rim and you are rocked by the sudden sensation barreling into you, the sting of the stretch unfamiliar after the time without him in your life. He gives you scant moments to adjust, before he begins playing with you. Slipping his fingers in and out, mimicking the act you are growing desperate for. You slide your cock against Draco. He slides his fingers inside you. Your balls draw up when he crooks his fingers, finding that spot within you he had chosen in the past to ignore. His free hand pinches your sac, holding back your release.

“You will not come until I say you may. I will not stop you again.” You nod, pressing your sweaty flesh closer to Draco, seeking his comfort when Master adds a third finger, another degree to the burn. He works them within you and as soon as you establish the rhythm, picking it up and copying it with the rocking of your own body, he slips in a forth finger. Your moaning takes on a pained edge that snags Draco’s attention. He catches your eyes, trying to judge the situation. You just close your eye, shaking your head at his silent question, trying to relax your body, to ease the pain. Master knows you, knows how far to push you. Draco doesn’t understand your trust in Master but he stays silent, running his hands soothingly over your sides.

Master pulls his hand free, adding his thumb and pressing them close together. He pushes into you with all five fingers, not slowly. Tears finally slip free as he roughly works his entire hand into you. You are crying when the widest span of his fist almost tears you apart. Draco is shushing you, wiping your tears, promising to make it better. You furiously shake your head, growing more and more upset.

“Stop, Snape! You’re hurting him.” Master ignores Draco’s orders, punching up into you with more force than necessary in retaliation. You grab Draco’s lips in a tight, wet kiss, quieting his protest as your body closes around Master’s wrist. Draco swallows your scream.

Master is pressing into you, going up higher until you feel as though there is no more room in your body. You know what is coming next, he is toying with you by drawing out the moment. Breaking the kiss, you look into Draco’s blue stare. “Don’t…”

You don’t finish. Before you can warn off Draco, Master is curling his fingers within your tight passage. “Oh, gods, Master!” You don’t know the aim of your pleas. Do you want him to stop or to continue? He keeps going, until his fingers are fisted and begins fucking you with strong pounding strokes of his arm. You push back against his arm, then forward into Draco’s erection. You can feel the glow of euphoria crowding in, helpless to stop yourself, despite Master’s warning.

Draco reaches behind you, pulling on your balls and though you curse the loss, you reward him with a chaste kiss. Master’s hand is slowly, then, worked free and you try to stifle the mewls of discomfort and pain for Draco’s sake. Your body is lifted and Master positions you above Draco.

“You will enter my pet first, Mr. Malfoy.” You don’t fully comprehend the sentence, your mind going fuzzy at the though of finally, finally taking a hard cock inside your body. Master lifts your hips, and with his other hand holds Draco’s cock steady. “Mount him.”

And you do, desperate to follow orders, to swallow Draco up within you. You allow yourself to sink onto him, letting gravity do most of the work until you are fully impaled. “Oh, my gods, Harry, just like that, so tight, so good, love this, love…” You close your lips once more over his, catching his words before they can spill out.

Your master pushes you so that your body is pressed flat against Draco’s, the angle is uncomfortable but not enough that you protest. One oiled fingers, slides along Draco’s penis. As it pushes insistently at your entrance, you freeze, panic seizing you. Surely he doesn’t intend… The finger is worked in. “No. Master, Severus, no, please, no.”

Two fingers, then slowly three. The entire time, you are crying out, yelling pleas for your Master to stop, to not do what he is about to do. Draco, below you, hesitates, wanting to join in on your outrage but knowing that he has no place. All he can do is run his hands over your body, whispering words of comfort into your ear. It does no good. Still you howl out, though your Master has done nothing more than stretched you with those three fingers.

“Hush, pet. You are fine.” Master’s words are like a balm, you hiccup but your tears slow, one remaining droplet rolling slowly over your cheek and landing softly on Draco. “You can do this. You will do this.” The comfort and understanding is strong in his voice but you can hear the distinct bitterness. You had almost forgotten that this night is punishment, that it is not about your pleasure. You bring yourself under control then, laying passively against Draco’s chest, as Master line his dick along the one already within you.

You whimper, and sniffle as the intense burning stretch begins, trying to stay as quiet and still as possible.
The pain is indescribable. It is as though you are being pulled apart and you are screaming by the time that Master has seated himself in you. They stay unmoving until you have once more relaxed yourself. Finally you lean your head back against your Master’s shoulder, and sigh.

They move in tandem. Once the pain dissipates, settling into a steady but ignorable sting, you begin to enjoy the different strokes. Draco pushes in and pulls out quickly, his rhythm consistent and gentle. Master, though, is unpredictable, surging forward in strong powerful motions, then waiting and slowly drawing back. You are lost in the sensations, the onslaught rolling over you in waves.

“You are so beautiful, Harry.”

“My gods, pet, you should see yourself stretched obscenely over two cocks, so beautiful.”

“… like an angel…”

“…my own depraved whore…”

Their words fly around you, adding to the pleasurable buzz that is filtering out reality. You don’t know who is saying what, or what is being said, and you don’t care. You feel Draco’s release, the hot splash of cum before he stills. Master keeps his pace steady as Draco softens within you. You are waiting, hanging there seeking…

“Come, pet.”

In the same instant, you find your release as your Master’s ejaculate joins the semen already within you. Your orgasm goes on forever. Your pleasure is pricked but not disrupted when you feel the uncomfortable slide of Draco pulling out. Your Master follows suit and you just sigh, drifting off, as spells are cast to clean up the remnants of your exploits. You fall asleep wrapped in your Master’s arms, your head pillowed on Draco’s chest.

+~+~+~+~+~+

Severus Snape awakens sated, exhausted, and cold. His body is bare, the sheets having disappeared in sleep. He glances around, and his gaze catches and holds onto the couple lying in his bed.

Harry and Draco are curled together, limbs entangled and poking from beneath the covers. Harry’s head is pillowed on Draco, whose arms wrap around the smaller boy. His leg has slipped over the pale boy, pinning him, intimately, in place. They have sought each other even in sleep. Lying there, they are two opposites bathed in moonlight, two equals vulnerable in sleep. And then he knows.

He rises from the bed, carefully making up his half. Not caring, he dresses in his old clothing- no one else will see him anyway. Finding a quill and a slip of parchment, he studies the couple for several long moments, regret in his eyes, then he pens a short note. Severus folds the paper deliberately, placing it on his pillow.

He makes his way around the bed and tucks in the two sleeping boys. Neither stirs. Gently, he bends and places a feather light kiss on Harry’s cheek.

“I love you, Harry. I forgive you.”

The words fall on deaf ears. Severus softly turns and leaves the room.

In the morning, Harry will find the note. In the morning, Draco will hold him, comfort him as he cries. In the morning, he will find the release he has been searching for all along. In the morning, he will know.

‘You are not forgiven, Harry.’
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Forgiveness breaks the chain of causality because he who forgives you -- out of love -- takes upon himself the consequences of what you have done. Forgiveness, therefore, always entails a sacrifice. – Johann Wolfgang von Goeth