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“I- I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just – “
“Slipped out?” There’s no pity in Lily’s voice. “It’s too late. I’ve made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends -- ”
“No – listen – I didn’t mean – ”
“— to call me Mudblood? But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?”
Sev opens his mouth: tries to say something, anything to let her know that it’s not like that, that it’s not that simple, but Lily doesn’t let him find the words. She turns toward the portrait and doesn’t look back.
As the common room slams shut, it feels as though a part of his soul goes with her.
⭑
“Severus? Is that you? Mulciber told me you hadn’t come back yet, I thought I ought to-“
The astronomy tower is cold tonight. It always is, especially given the threadbare winter robes that Sev’s worn to death to save him from the dreaded write home. He can hear Lucius’s curled lip through his summons, but he won’t feel shame at his hiding place. Professor Tungsten likes to leave their classroom the minute it hits just gone one o’clock, and the new moon makes for a view of eeiry nothingness. It’s sort of cathartic: the barely-there sliver of lake, noted only by its reflection of the odd candlelit window, and the half-hearted swing of Sev’s scuffed trainers over the rail of the observation deck.
“Snape. What are you--”
Caught. He knows how it looks - Malfoy isn’t stupid - and in this moment he can’t bring himself to care.
“Severus. Fuck’s sake.”
He tries to pull himself together as Lucius scales up the rickety stepladder. The little clinks his neat oxfords make are useless at hiding the sniffles, the very poorly cast (in his haste) skin stitcking charms, the drop of Sev’s contraband down the side of the tower. The older man arranges his limbs neatly over the edge and pulls the bulky quidditch jumper off to arrange it on their laps.
“You know, one day I’ll get old Sluggy to come and sort you out. I doubt he’s as debonair as I am. Definitely not as good at playing find the halfblood.”
It’s impossible to stop the wet snigger from slipping out, alongside fresh tears.
“C’mon. show me. Aquamenti.”
Lucius wets his handkerchief whilst Sev gets to deal with the slow sticky sensation of peeling up soaked through shirt sleeves. He’s good, really. He doesn’t say anything, just dabs at it gently and pushes the strands that have fallen into Snape’s face back to check the leftovers of the hex over his temple. There’s a loud tut.
“You said you’d go to Matron if this didn’t start to clear up.” The pale eyes give him a sharp look.
“I didn’t want to have the same conversation.”
“So here we are, having the same conversation. It’s been like this for years, Sev. I swear, if I ever stoop low enough to become a healer, we can thank Black and Potter for my excellent nurse-maid skills.”
“I- I’m sorry you don’t have to – you’re head boy, you’ve got other stuff to--”
“Shut up, and stay still,” Malfoy digs in the pocket of his trousers, and there’s a familiar red vial thrust into his hand. “now drink.”
They’ve found that Pepper-Up works the best in these situations. Severus swears that he’s just given it so that the drafty classroom will warm up a bit with the steam, but the intense heat is the only thing that negates the consuming numbness in his fingers and toes.
“Better?”
His teeth are still chattering, but he can finally feel his face again. The episode is over.
“Better.”
Only it’s now that logic starts to flood back, and the shame settles in. Episkey is not a particularly difficult spell, but it takes a decent amount of energy to the point that neither of them is able to cover the whole damage at once and make it look neat. So they sit, taking it in turns to slowly stitch up the cuts. It also allows Lucius to do his little interrogation with the knowledge that Severus can’t just run away.
“Episkey. It’s not a difficult question Sev. What did he do this time?” He’s frowning again, the normally angular face even more so, with the little furrow between his brows.
“Where did he touch you?”
Severus sighs. “ Episkey. You know where he touched me. It must have done its way around the common room by now. It’s the same every time, Luc. It’s Perfect Potter and his sycophants. They’ll never get in trouble for it. It doesn’t matter how much “proof” you put in front of Dippet, Dumbledore will always say it’s fabricated. I’m still-” He gulps, but bucks up his courage. “I’m still pure. That’s all that matters.”
As per usual, it’s not an answer that’s going to satisfy.
“Severus Snape, you’re many things, but I would never have pinned you for a coward.”
“Lucius – Lucius that’s not fair and you know it-”
Malfoy cups his cheek.
“So fight back! We both know you can. You’re more powerful than Black by far, and Potter’s so arrogant that you could catch him off guard. This Mudblood can’t be so special that you let yourself get kicked like a crup everyday for the last--”
“I- I don’t think she’s going to be a problem anymore. She got sick of me. I wasn’t worth the trouble.”
The older boy stops in his tracks. He has the good graces to not look gleeful at this development, but Severus knows that a part of him must be. Lucius must be constructing his triumphant “I-told-you-so.” He’s thrown back to four years ago, stuck in the Slytherin common room, with no names or titles to trail on the end of his name – his filthy, common, muggle name. Tagging along with the redheaded Gryffindor Mudblood. Malfoy had gone out on a limb for him, and though he’d like to think he’d proven his worth, it must surely remain a contested subject. At what point would he, Severus Snape, lose his position as an asset? When Lucius finally see him as too costly to take care of; too broken to fix?
As quickly as he spirals, he’s snapped out of it.
“Then fuck her.”
Oh.
Oh.
Lucius traces around the small hollow of his cheek. “You’re very special, Sev. I’ve told the Dark Lord of your bravery, and he wishes to meet you. But only if you’d like.”
Only if you’d like. You’re very special. The words vibrate around his brain, like there’s a hummingbird that’s trapped in there, with special, fizzy, excited energy. Severus nods numbly, and the older boy wraps him into an embrace. It’s a sensation that’s so old it feels foreign. And Sev feels like he’s home.
“That’s my good boy. Come on.”
⭑
The next hour is a blur. Lucius takes him to bathe, except it isn’t in Sev’s dorm room, and it isn’t in the dungeons. He barely lets go of his hand, tracing swirling patterns around his slim wrists. The dim overhead candles cast weird shadows over his scrawny limbs, limbs that Lucius so diligently scrubs and shaves and towels dry. His hair is braided with tiny sprigs of baby’s breath, and he’s laced into white muslin robes that just barely hit his mid shin. Lucius doesn’t offer him any shoes, but grins and does one of his little pecking kisses on Severus’s forehead. He casts his wand over himself to swap from the familiar school robes to dark, opulent, velveteen fabrics, the very definition of Malfoy. And then he takes Sev’s hand and leads him out into the November night.
⭑
If Severus wasn’t feeling ditsy before the portkey, he most certainly is after. At least, he assumes it was a portkey. But the usually razor-sharp logic is currently fumbling around, trying to string together his suspicions. Because how could Lucius plan in advance that he’d be trailing behind? And Sev had seen no portkey, no physical anchor. And he could make neither head nor tail of the place that they had landed in, other than it was snowing, and it felt biting against the soft soles of his feet. The confusion must show in his features, for he gets a chuckle and a firm hand to the small of his back from Lucius. “Come on you. It’ll be fine. Just remember your manners, and you’ll do both of us credit, alright?”
He’d like to stop, to plan, to strategize in a way he trusts himself alone to do correctly. Analyse the land, and this opulent (even in the inky dark, Sev can feel himself the outsider) estate, and predict who he is to meet. Is this Lucius’s father’s house? Is it the famed Malfoy Manor? It had been terribly stupid to assume that He-who-must-not-be-named would meet Severus alone, but then would it be presumptuous to assume that Sev may need multiple fully grown wizards to be tamed? Again and again, there are thoughts moving so swiftly through his mind he can’t follow but cling to the hem of Lucius’s cuff and pray that he can be trusted-
They stop. They’re waiting in front of a set of ornately carved doors that pause for a moment and then swing forward to let them through. It’s a dining hall, with dozens of witches and wizards lining the immense table, each stiff and important and with an overpoweringly putrid aura of dark magic. As they’re beckoned down towards the end of the hall he can feel the radial energy of each one, and it makes him so very nauseous, and at the very end, slightly raised in his seat, the largest seat of all –
What’s scary is that he’s gorgeous. The dark lord is beautiful. Ethereal, maybe, is the word for it. He sits on his high-backed chair in the sleek robes: at first glance they look muggle due to the clean cuts and straight lines that Sev’s only ever seen in those magazines… The ones that mother and father would never let his gaze linger on too long; with men who looked both toned and lanky, hair gelled back and decked with high cheekbones. Lucius’s master looks like one of those men – he’s snow-white pale, but he doesn’t have that sallow undertone that’s distinctly Prince. Instead, he looks carved out of marble, with a sculptor who would indeed well those passions read, for the man’s red-brown eyes have a playful sheen. It feels they’re the only things that tether Sev to the knowledge that this man is real, and he’s in front of him, surveying his form-
“Hello darling. Have you come to see me?”
“I- Um-”
Even the man’s deep chuckle makes Severus weak at the knees. The man gives him a little pat on the head, scratching his nails against the sensitive cap of his scalp.
“It’s alright poppet. I know, it’s a lot, especially the first time. Now, Lucius says you’ve got something for me, is that right?”
Shit. He knew he’d missed something important.
“Sev, sweetheart. Your wand.”
Ah. Yeah. He’s kneeling at the man's feet now. He fumbles in between the folds of the thin robe he’s been given, realising how ineffectual it is against the drafts that carry through the impossibly large room, until a shaky hand pulls out the black wand and offers it upwards, barely taking his eyes from the lush rug.
A white hand brushes his knuckles as it’s pulled from his grip. The skeletal fingers caress the length, making him shiver, and then the man uses the tip of Sev’s wand to tip his chin up. He pins his brown eyes into the boy’s black ones.
“This is a big moment Severus. You should really look into your future master’s eyes. Do you know what this means?”
There’s a jerky shake of head.
“This shows that I’m the one who takes care of you now. Your magic belongs to me. You only have to put your trust in me. I’ll make sure that you’re safe, and that you’re healthy, but most importantly,”
Sev finally pushes past his usual inhibitions and looks directly into the man’s eyes.
“I’ll make sure that you’re loved. How does that sound?”
“It – It sounds good, sir.”
Riddle grins his boyish grin again, as he helps him up to his feet. “Oh, there’s no need to call me sir, little one. Just Master will do. Or dark lord, if you’re feeling fancy, but we’ll leave that for another day. Now,” He pockets the ebony wand and brackets Sev’s slim hips with his strong knees. “This is the fun bit. I’ll need your wand arm.”
Severus hesitates. It’s not a pretty sight down there. He knows, and Lucius knows. And he doesn’t want, as his breath starts to hitch with realisation, he really doesn’t want this beautiful man to know and be disappointed – to realise that actually he’s not worthy of –
“Hey! Hey, darling. Don’t panic.” He clasps one of his large, impossibly large hands over Sev’s wrist and brings it up to the light. He caresses the pale skin and under his fingers it becomes pristine again. Severus is clean again.
“There we go.” The Dark Lord looks up and smiles. “Just like magic.”
“It might sting, but I’ll be as quick as I can, alright? ” He bends over the offered arm and doesn’t break eye contact as he brushes his lips against the soft skin. There’s a murmured incantation that Severus doesn’t recognise, and then his body explodes in ecstasy. It should be pain, but all he can compare it to is a million miniature fireworks extending from his core. They course through his veins, hitting his fingers, his toes, and he can feel himself harden instantaneously.
When he comes to, he finds himself steadied by a hand clutched around The Dark Lord’s forearm. The rest of his limbs are still convulsing slightly, and it’s not helped by the rumbling laugh that seems to hit against every surface and reverberate.
“Did that feel good little one?”
Maybe it’s the fact that he speaks as though Severus is precious, as though he is delicate and the slightest raised tone might do him grievous harm. He can only nod, shell-shocked, as his master lifts him up again and deposits him without decorum onto a strong thigh. The hundred or so guests seem to fade out of view as the weight of Riddle’s hand comes creeping up again, this time between the silky folds of the dress and on to Sev’s bare prick.
“Lucius tells me you’ve been such a good boy and kept yourself pure. All this time, you must be absolutely aching. No wonder you got all excited when I gave you my mark.”
A single finger is working its way around the base of his cock, every so often letting the nail catch on the bare skin. He’s so sensitive that each hint of pressure makes him bent double again.
“Y- yes master, They haven’t – He hasn’t – I wouldn’t let him”
“Excellent. You must know how strong that makes your magic, how potent you must be? What were you keeping it for, hmm? Who were you saving your precious release for Severus?” It goes faster now – around and around with a little more pressure, and he tries to keen upward into the touch. There’s another set of hands now, maybe Lucius’s, that hold firmly to his waist and keep him rooted.
“S- someone special. ” He forces the sentence out with certainty. The finger’s moved now, and it tiptoes its way onto the soft head, already slightly weeping.
“Oh pet. Were you waiting for a big special day? Were you waiting for marriage? How quaint. Who told you to do that? Someone must have told you no to whore yourself out. Tell master. Tell master who you followed so diligently.”
“Shit – Master –“
Riddle flicks one of his balls, so quick he can do nothing but squeal.
“Language, Severus. Now tell me who’s words you were obeying so well. You would do best not to make Master upset.”
“It was—ngh – It was Daddy who told me, master.”
The long fingers grip his cheeks, forcing the two men face to face.
“Listen baby. I’m your Daddy now.”
At that, Sev honest to goodness squirts.
⭑
Consciousness is back. Or was it ever really gone? Except he can’t remember when his body go so tired. Or when Lucius had gently unlaced him from the white dress. He has a faint memory of his Daddy conjuring the dainty chains that string together his wrists and ankles; and of the flash of red when he’d been paraded around the table and someone had tried to touch his hole. He can’t see Daddy and Lucius, but he can sense that their magic is there. The two exceptions to the room of sickening grey: Daddy’s magic feels cold and clean, like the first gulp of air after a rainstorm. And Luc’s magic feels like home.
“Hey pup. You back with us?” Severus lets out a very dignified moan.
“Good boy. I was a little worried you’d be terribly sleepy, but I think we did alright with the dosage.”
Maybe that’s what it is. Daddy’s just so emphatic with his praises. They make Sev feel so warm inside, even with the cold intrusion of a long something probing at his arse. It’s not too wide, and for some reason Sev finds he can’t clench even if he wanted to, so he returns to his repose and allows the curious length to gently stroke his insides. The fuzzy feeling seems to have spread to his brain too, because his mouth won’t stop doing things, whether it be wailing when the specially good feeling comes back, or suckling on another length when it comes near. His eyes spin in and out of focus, but he reckons that that’s Lucius’s face, smiling softly down at him and stroking the intricate crown of plaits.
“That’s it Sevvy. You’re being such a good boy for the Dark Lord, and for me. You’re such a special boy.”
The words sink in just as the pressure in his arse gets a bit stronger. The stretch feels ok, but it’s not enough for him to truly enjoy it. He rocks back and forth as much as the bindings allow, hoping that this will illustrate his desperation to continue; his willingness to please –
“Poppet, if we’re going to be impatient then Daddy can’t make any promises that it isn’t going to be a stretch.”
He nods again, thrashes, because that’s ok – Daddy needs to know that its ok that it’ll hurt, because all he cares is that the weird empty feeling goes: the empty feeling he’s felt for years now, ever since he’d first understood what it meant to be wanted, and the knowledge that no one would ever feel that about him –
He shivers in anticipation because the big hand is back, and it covers the span of his back. Its nails scramble for purchase slightly as finally, finally the stretch means something. Riddle bottoms out with a soft exhale, and he can feel the boy’s pert ass clench as it arranges itself around his dick. There’s no need to be particularly soft – the boy will take whatever Tom will give him. He fishes out the sweet little ebony wand from the inner layer of his robes and traces it in gentle circles around Severus’s back, relishing in the deep crimson trail it leaves. The sweet boy is panting now, more ragged with desire each time the trail deepens slightly and more redness pools.
This is the love he’s been used to, and so it only makes sense that this is the love that Tom will give him.
As Tom finally lets go and breeds his little darling, he wonders if he’s more aroused by Severus’s fear or his desperation.
The timid little breaths as Tom milks his cock on the tight ring muscle answer his question pretty quickly.
⭑
“He’s good, Lucius. He’s excellent.” Sev’s draped over the wood of the table, his arse still slick with the occasional drizzle of come. They both affix their eyes on his form, even through the deep thrusts. Riddle barely slows his tempo as he reaches two fingers and shoves the stream more securely into the boy’s still-tight anus.
“I’m g-glad you approve my lord,” Lucius braces against the table as his master drags the tip of his cock against his prostate. It’s so deeply stimulating it’s cruel.
“I was serious when I said he could brew. Father’ll ensure he gets his mastery. And it helps that he’s, well…”
The hand around his neck tightens as Tom reaches his finish, panting.
“It helps that he’s a little fucked up.”