Chapter Text
Chapter One
‘You do want this,’ Harry breathes out the words in a whisper, with an audible note of disbelief.
Down on his knees on a hard tiled floor, the discomfort of his position fades against the promise of a need fulfilled.
Finally.
Severus Snape has his eyes tightly closed, as though screwing them up will somehow rid him of the young man compelled to offer himself to him in every which way.
—————————————————————
Three days earlier
Harry Potter has long been able to throw off the imperius curse. From the age of fourteen he had somehow been able to summon all of his mental strength and resist the curse’s compulsion. This enchantment placed on him was something different, something far stronger.
Darker.
Even darker than an unforgivable. And if Harry had to give a name to something like that, he might call it… an unthinkable.
What he may be compelled to do is unthinkable.
The magic settles in him, heavy and leaden at the pit of his stomach. It doesn’t feel like any sort of out of body experience, or like a voice instructing him, nor like any sort of entity that he can somehow argue against.
It feels like a physical tug, a pull; the dark magic reeling him in. Trying to resist it in the slightest is instantly nauseating and his surroundings start to spin.
A high-pitched laugh from Voldemort came in the aftermath of the casting. It still rings in his ears.
Harry has been handed to a Death Eater. MacNair, he thinks.
‘Call him ‘Master,’ ‘ Voldemort had said, a sickly sweet tone making his implications quite clear.
Bellatrix Lestrange had cackled hysterically. Lucius Malfoy wore the ghost of a smirk. Most of the other faces blended together, leering disgustingly.
Both Draco Malfoy and his mother looked horrified, each turning back to gaze at him as the party left the dungeon of Malfoy Manor.
Still Harry Potter’s nerves remain steel, even as it slowly dawns on him that he has no choice in this situation.
‘You heard the Dark Lord, boy.’
He has been left alone with MacNair. The dark wizard smells of putrid sweat. The only thing that sickens Harry more than his stench is the dark magic inside him that compels him to obey.
The Death Eater swoops into Harry’s personal space and somehow his breath is even worse than his body odour. It’s as though something has died inside the man, Harry thinks.
‘What are you to call me?’ MacNair challenges him, testing the effect of the unthinkable curse.
‘Master,’ Harry chokes out the term wholly against his will, but still feels a huge sense of relief when the word escapes his throat.
MacNair grunts and reaches inside his robes with one hand, pushing Harry to the ground with the other.
‘Let’s put that pretty young mouth to good use.’
It is not a threat, Harry knows. It is an inevitability.
He winces but he ultimately has no power to fight against what is happening. His mouth opens automatically when an obtrusive - yet mercifully, short - cock presses against his lips.
He tries to let his mind wander, to take him anywhere but here as his mouth is rhythmically assaulted. He is flying a broom, enjoying an ice cream at Fortescue’s, fuck - even brewing a particularly tricky potion while Snape glowers at him.
Harry is used and abused like this for a few minutes, maybe five at most. Luckily MacNair doesn’t last long.
As the young man’s mouth is filled with bitter come, and the Death Eater shudders through his ejaculation, Harry feels the heavy weight inside him temporarily lift, only to be replaced immediately by fear and disgust at himself as a result.
He hadn’t enjoyed it, of course. But still the relief is palpable.
MacNair doesn’t engage with him further at all before leaving the dungeon, as though Harry weren’t even a human participant. He all but stumbles out the same way as the others.
Harry thinks of the Order, wonders who will possibly come to save him, if it’s even possible, or if Voldemort has as good as won.
He wonders how long Voldemort will keep him as a plaything for his followers. Humiliating him. Violating him.
He fights back his first tears since his capture. He realises it could be indefinitely.
—————————————————————————
In fact, neither side has won the wizarding war yet, although morale for the Order of the Phoenix has been hanging by a thread since the recent capture of Harry Potter.
It’s what Voldemort has been counting on. As for keeping their supposed saviour alive and enslaving him to a Death Eater… that is just for his own personal amusement.
And so he is not amused to be disturbed from his perverse thoughts by Lucius Malfoy with an unexpected update.
‘MacNair is dead,’ Voldemort hisses his displeasure as repeats the news. ‘What in the name of Salazar did the boy manage to do to him?’
Lucius Malfoy’s pinched face is full of fear in one of his own many drawing rooms.
‘Nothing, my lord. Or so it seems, at any rate. Diagnostic charms suggest a heart attack. Perhaps he… erm… used the boy too vigorously...’
His voice trails off as he awaits his lord’s reaction.
Voldemort’s eyes flash and his slit nostrils flare.
‘Then it seems that Potter needs a new master,’ he suggests coldly. ‘Awaken the boy.’
Lucius nods and makes towards the dungeon entrance.
Voldemort clears his throat in an exaggerated fashion. The gesture seems almost too human and so somehow even more sinister.
‘Awaken your boy, Lucius.’ He clarifies.
Malfoy senior opens his mouth to protest, then quickly thinks better of it.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
It’s all he can say and yet his expression is terror-stricken.
—————————————————————————
‘Please, I don’t want him.’
Draco’s eyes are panicked as he stares at his former classmate, imprisoned down in the family dungeon, and Harry almost feels sorry for him, even from his position down on the stone floor.
Harry wonders what's happened to MacNair. He can still taste the vile man in the back of his throat.
Young Malfoy’s pale skin has taken on a greenish hue. The blonde wizard’s gaze darts around the room, looking everywhere but at Voldemort himself.
‘Perhaps this experience will toughen up your weakling son,’ the dark wizard suggests to Lucius Malfoy coolly. ‘He is the lowest ranked of us, after all. He can take his turn at being in charge with this one.’
At least Draco’s good looking, in a pretty-boy sort of a way, Harry’s treacherous mind supplies, reminding him of his own homosexuality.
‘Please...’ Draco’s bottom lip quivers as he looks at his father.
‘Draco,’ Lucius says, his own lips tight in a serious warning. ‘Say thank you to the Dark Lord. It would not do to appear ungrateful -‘
Harry becomes aware of another shadowy figure joining the group from behind.
‘My lord,’ a deep voice lowly intones. ‘If you truly want to break the boy, then young Mr Malfoy leaves something to be desired, given his lack of… experience.’
Draco looks visibly relieved at the interruption.
The voice continues smoothly.
‘If what you really want is to destroy him completely, my Lord, to mentally torture his young mind until it is twisted beyond recognition, then I believe I am in a position to ensure that Potter really, truly suffers.’
It’s Snape.
Of course it is.
Harry’s heart skips a beat in recognition and his mind starts racing.
Is there any chance Snape could still be on the side of the light? It's true, yes, that the man was currently bargaining for the right to rape him, which didn’t look promising.
But with Snape, he never could be absolutely sure.
The only sound now audible is Voldemort’s hissing breaths.
‘Potter really hates him,’ Malfoy finally interjects, his voice wavering as he speaks up to support Snape’s case.
Voldemort finally answers.
‘Very well,’ he answers slowly. ‘Severus, you may have the honour of desecrating our guest.’
Harry squints at the dark figures and tries to make out Snape’s facial expression. It is impossible through the shadows.
‘Yes, my Lord.’ Harry hears his former teacher murmur his response. It’s like the idea is being treated as though it was Voldemort’s to begin with.
Harry does not yet know how to feel.
‘Did you hear that, young Harry?’ Voldemort reaches out a hand, but does not make direct contact with the boy. He seems to be magically checking the status of the curse.
Seemingly convinced that it remains intact, he speaks again.
’You exist to please your professor now.’ Voldemort’s voice is dangerously soft. ‘Severus, spend an hour with your new… charge. Then you’ll report back to me.’
All but Snape turn to leave the dungeons.
‘You don’t want to watch?’ Harry recklessly and bitterly calls out to the retreating forms.
Voldemort stops dead in his tracks.
‘Oh, I will watch, dear Harry,’ Voldemort tells him saccharinely. ‘I’ll watch it again, and again, and again.’
Then Harry is left alone with Snape.
The man steps out of the shadows and towards where Harry sits on the stone floor. He extends a hand, which Harry takes with no small modicum of suspicion. He is pulled to his feet.
‘I… don’t feel anything,’ he says aloud, confused to not be led by a compulsion.
‘Perhaps it’s because you’re as brain dead as ever.’ Snape says in response.
Harry doesn’t bother responding to the disparaging comment. He needs to find out what his current situation is. He might not enjoy what’s coming, but he is determined he won’t break too easily.
‘So how does this spell work?’ Harry asks, trying once again to feel for the compulsion. ‘I become a fuck toy for whoever Voldemort chooses?’
Snape winces, presumably at the use of the name.
‘Not exactly.’ Snape replies carefully. ‘As far as I can surmise, you are compelled to please the one deemed your master. However that may be.’
‘So, how can I please you then?’ Harry snipes.
Later, it will amaze him that even in this dire scenario, bickering with Snape feels like second nature.
‘Right now you can please me by shutting up, Potter.’ Snape says wearily.
Harry aims a retort but finds he can’t speak the words. The curse swells inside him and he panics.
Then comes a sudden realisation coupled with instant relief.
Snape is being quite literal. Harry's silence is what he currently desires above all else. And Harry is compelled to stay quiet.
Interesting.
Snape says nothing further, just looks at him disdainfully, so Harry busies himself staring at a damp ceiling.
Eventually the young man finds he can speak again. He’s not quite sure of what to say, so he selects the familiar art of goading the potions Professor.
‘Bet you’re desperate for me to call you Master,’ Harry says provocatively. ‘You always did insist on ‘Sir.’ ‘
‘You can call me bloody ‘Babbity Rabbity’, for all I give a fuck right now.’ Snape says dismissively, all the while looking intently at Harry.
‘What are you doing?’ Harry asked, feeling almost more freaked out by this staring than if he’d been forced into fellatio again.
‘Trying to save your arse Potter, quite literally.’ Snape responds.
He takes his wand and touches it against the young man’s skin in several places. The colour changes to that of freshly marked flesh, sure to badly bruise.
‘Voldemort said he would watch what happens here, after you…’ Harry’s voice trails off, leaving the expectation unspoken.
Snape winces again, all but imperceptibly this time.
‘The Dark Lord will see what I show him.’ He says through gritted teeth.
‘So you won’t actually…?’ Harry checks.
A hollow laugh from his former teacher.
‘Potter, does it look like it would please me to bugger you, or do anything else with you, right now?’
The implication of the last few words is lost on Harry in his current predicament.
‘So you are still with The Order?’ He checks. ‘You can get me out of here?’
Snape shakes his head.
‘I’m with myself, Potter. I cannot rescue you.’
He continues studying Harry in detail.
‘But you’re helping me just now, right? You’re making it look like you roughed me up, and now you’re forming a false memory to show him, aren’t you?’
‘Ten points to Gryffindor’ Snape growls facetiously.
‘Well, why?’ Harry asks.
‘My own self-interest.’ Snape snaps back. Then he removes his gaze from Harry’s features. ‘It is done.’
A heavy silence.
‘What do we do for the rest of the hour then?’ Harry asks morosely.
Snape does not respond, just turns away from the boy and stands stiffly.
Harry has a sudden uncontrollable urge to reach out and touch Snape’s shoulders, and so he does.
Snape was already still, but now he instantly freezes in position.
‘What the blazes do you think you are doing, Potter?’ He asks this as though he is at the very end of his limited patience in a classroom situation.
Harry isn’t actually sure, until he begins gently massaging Snape’s muscles and he feels the compulsion to squeeze them tighter still.
‘Your back is killing you,’ he correctly guesses as he firmly kneads the knots.
Snape is now very, very still and completely silent, until Harry moves to a particular spot which elicits a groan of relief. Harry feels his own relief then, the compulsion of the charm partly sated.
He wants - no, needs - to touch more, but Snape turns back and glowers spectacularly at him.
Harry can’t help a small smile, even in these dire straits.
‘It’s you that it pleases,’ he says with a shrug.
Severus Snape’s black eyes narrow but he doesn’t bother denying it.
‘There’s… easily most of the hour left,’ Harry correctly guesses, gesturing to the floor with a tilt of his head.
Snape looks like he is internally seething, then he gives in and conjures a cushion to settle on. Then, as an afterthought, one for Harry.
Harry’s arse is grateful for the cushioning, having spent quite some time on the solid stone floor. Severus Snape settles in front of him.
‘Get on with it then,’ he instructs throatily.
This time, the compulsion is as intense as when the curse was first cast, and Harry’s hands are eagerly seeking contact with Snape’s muscles through his robes.
He puts all of his strength into squeezing the afflicted areas, sensing through the feeling in his stomach where he is objectively causing the most pleasure.
With each sharp intake of breath, each murmured moan of relief, Harry feels the feeling in his stomach lessen, finds this harsh reality entirely more bearable.
Harry’s hands are getting tired when Snape finally puts a stop to proceedings.
‘Enough,’ he says quietly.
Harry acquiesces.
Snape stands and banishes the cushion. He hesitates, then puts his wand away without removing Harry’s.
‘What happened to MacNair?’ Harry asks curiously.
Snape stares at him intently with those coal-black eyes, as though evaluating what the young man may have already surmised.
‘He’s dead.’ The older wizard says finally.
Harry doesn’t feel that this fully answers the question, but he doesn’t push it. He still has so much that needs to ask. But he has a cushion now, and he wasn’t forcibly buggered up the arse.
Small mercies.
‘I’ll need to return here regularly,’ Snape says reluctantly.
Harry nods his understanding.
‘Thanks, I suppose,’ he proffers the words.
Snape snorts derisively and stalks away, presumably to show Voldemort a fabrication of Harry being brutally bent over and furiously fucked.
The man’s motivations are as opaque as ever then, Harry reflects. Still, Snape is helping him, for whatever his reasons may be.