Third Place - Darkfic

Author notes: WARNINGS: This story contains references to two 16-year-olds engaging in an explicit sexual relationship with an adult and with each other. It also contains strong elements of nonconsensual sex, slavery, and physical abuse. Caveat lector. If Snape/Harry slash isn't your cup of tea, please leave now.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Harry curled in on himself in a corner of his cell and tried desperately not to think about the fate that lay ahead of him.

There was no window in the cell to mark the passage of time, but some internal time sense told him he'd been confined here for several days already. Not that he was in any particular hurry for the waiting to come to an end, since that would only happen when Voldemort returned from his latest campaign in the field, and... well. That just didn't bear thinking about, now did it?

Feeling miserable, he pulled the edges of his robe tighter around him to ward off the chill. In true Death Eater fashion, the cell was a bare cubic space of bare grey stone, without adornments or furnishings of any kind. A single torch situated high on the wall above the door provided weak illumination, guttering faintly but never really burning down. After the first day or so, the lack of sensory stimulation had almost stopped bothering him, and now he kept himself occupied by thinking about the ways in which his life had changed since the war had begun.

Remembering those earlier days filled him with a bittersweet sort of longing. Things had changed so much this past year, ever since Voldemort had seized control of the Ministry and forced his enemies into hiding. Of course Hogwarts had resisted the takeover when it started, but even that great bastion of wizarding magic hadn't been able to hold out against the weight of the Dark Lord's power indefinitely.

Harry pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, feeling the echo of remembered loss. About nine months ago, they'd been forced to abandon the school to the Death Eaters or risk annihilation. That had been their darkest day, although a few of them had banded together to make an attempt at fighting back. Without the Ministry to support them, they were branded as outlaws, and many of the school's former students had gone over to Voldemort's side out of sheer despondency.

But Harry had never even entertained the notion of not fighting back. There were small pockets of resistance scattered all over the country, and while their numbers were small, he knew they were having at least some small influence. Even if their only success was in showing the wizarding world that they didn't have to resign themselves to Voldemort's rule, that there was another choice, then he'd count his sacrifices well spent.

For all the good it had done. For the first time, Harry felt the bitter knife of despair slide deep within him. They'd lost ground repeatedly, no matter what he tried to convince himself they were accomplishing, and each paltry victory seemed to bring with it an avalanche of defeats too numerous to name. Former classmates and teachers, now comrades in arms, fought beside him with all the fear and determination that he himself felt, devoted to winning back all that had been taken from them. He still saw their faces in his dreams when he slept, as if they held him personally accountable for the war that had torn their world apart.

Dumbledore was dead now, felled by a lucky Avada Kedavra. Harry had been there when he fell, and it was in the chaos of that particular devastation that he had been taken by the Death Eaters. Whisked away on the arms of a hastily cast Disapparition spell before his friends had even realized he was gone, he hadn't had a chance to raise a cry, much less do anything to save himself.

Of course, Harry refused to be disheartened by Dumbledore's demise. "Dead" didn't mean the same thing among wizards as it did in the Muggle world, and he was positive there were already members of the former Order of the Phoenix who were working to bring him back. It was likely only a matter of time.

After all, if Voldemort could do it, anyone could.

He was caught off-guard when the door to his cell began to grind open, and he scrambled back into the far corner defensively, pulling his knees up to his chest. He'd learned early on in his captivity not to approach the Death Eaters who brought him his food, and still had the bruises to remind him. He watched warily as a masked and hooded figure moved into the cell, stopping just inside the doorway.

"Get up." Instantly, Harry's heart started racing. If they weren't here to feed or water him, then that could mean only one thing:

Voldemort had returned.

He barely had time to process that information before the Death Eater stepped into the cell and grabbed hold of his arm, yanking him to his feet. Harry resisted the urge to fight back, knowing that his only hope of escape lay in conserving his strength. Getting himself beaten again wasn't going to do anything except win him a new set of bruises to go with the old.

Still, it was hard to allow himself to be pulled out of the cell and up the rough stone steps at the end of the hall, knowing full well what was waiting for him at the top. He was sweating now, even though the hallway was cold, and he wasn't too proud to admit to himself that every last drop of it was fear. As the infamous "Boy Who Lived", he'd become a bit of a rallying point for the rebels in their fight against Voldemort's tyranny, and he knew enough about the self-proclaimed Dark Lord to assume that his part in the rebellion would have been taken personally. But when it came right down to it, no matter how much bravery and fortitude the stories imbued him with -- no matter how many victories they attributed to his name -- he was just a half-trained wizarding boy named Harry Potter.

Proof positive that even a living legend's luck had to run out eventually.

The upstairs halls were lavishly decorated in sharp contrast to the starkness of the prison downstairs. Harry had been unconscious when he'd been brought in, and now he looked around attentively, nearly forgetting his plight for one blessed moment as he took in the sheer grand scale of the place.

Before he could get more than a cursory look around, he was led into a wide hall framed on one side by broad, floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside the glass, the sun was just rising, coating the surrounding hills in a warm, pinkish glow. After so many days of being confined below ground, even that shuttered glimpse of the outside world was almost more than he could bear. A dull ache started up deep within his chest, and he had to tear his eyes away.

A moment later, his attention was drawn toward the head of the room, where a conclave of Death Eaters gathered. At their fore stood a figure that Harry recognized only too well, and he found his steps faltering before he'd even ventured halfway through the room. The guard holding his arm pulled him roughly forward to keep him moving.

Voldemort watched them approach from underneath the edge of a draping cowl, and around him, his black-robed followers looked like Death incarnate come to attend him. The twinge of despair Harry had felt earlier returned in a surge that left him breathless, wiping out the last faint flicker of hope that burned within him.

He was going to die. And this time, there wasn't going to be anyone around to save him.

Then all other thoughts fled his mind when his eyes fell on the man standing to the Dark Lord's right, the sole figure aside from Voldemort who wasn't wearing a mask. The sight of him made the sick terror liquefying Harry's insides turn immediately to fire, as a rage such as he'd never known seared through him.

It was Severus Snape.

Harry had never truly hated anyone before, not even when he'd believed his godfather had been the one responsible for his parents' deaths. But looking at Snape now, standing so cool and collected at Voldemort's side, Harry felt a low, fizzing numbness spread through him that threatened to eclipse his reason altogether. In his mind's eye he could still see Dumbledore struggling to raise his wand on the battlefield, his pristine white whiskers flecked crimson with blood as he coughed out his final breath. A flash of nauseous green light, and then the world had been reduced to Sirius' furious bellow, Hermione's anguished tears, Ron's angry shouting, Professor Lupin's low voice hissing curses as he fought to defend them from the encroaching Dementors. Chaos and fury, bedlam and anarchy, and everywhere death, death, death.

And where had Snape been through all of it? By the looks of things, he'd been just where he was right now.

Standing at Voldemort's right hand.

Harry watched through slitted eyes as his former potions professor paused in his conversation with the Dark Lord to glance in his direction. Harry's hand twitched against his thigh, and he found himself wishing rather vehemently for his wand. The look in Snape's eyes was coolly assessing, which made Harry's insides clench that much tighter.

If he had to die, he wished he could take that bloody bastard with him when he went.

But that was little more than a fantasy, now wasn't it? There were at least eight Death Eaters in the room with them, not to mention Voldemort himself. No, Snape was as safe as a traitor in his blood-won haven could possibly be, and Harry....

Well, he just hoped they wouldn't torture him too long before they finally decided to let him die.

Harry tensed reflexively when Voldemort turned to face him, feeling his heartbeat quicken. Cold sweat pooled at the small of his back, making him itch, but he ignored it, concentrating instead on the painful rasp of the breaths he managed to force past his suddenly constricted throat. Truth be told, he wasn't all that brave, no matter what the legends might say. He was as terrified of dying as anyone else.

"Harry Potter. How good of you to grace us with your presence." Voldemort's voice was low and mocking, a muted sibilance in the stillness of the room. The cowl of his robe was pulled down low over his face, thankfully obscuring his features from Harry's view, but still Harry thought he caught a passing glimpse of what might have been light reflecting in the Dark Lord's eyes.

Harry said nothing, even as his gaze dropped to look at Voldemort's hand. There was no wand in sight, but he didn't believe it would be long before it made its appearance. It wouldn't be the first time he'd writhed at the end of a Cruciatus spell for the Death Eaters' amusement.

"Your former professor has been telling me some... interesting things about you," Voldemort continued, as if this were a perfectly normal conversation between friends. Now there was a note in his voice that Harry couldn't place, a kind of dark joy that sounded almost childishly gleeful. Whatever it portended, Harry couldn't believe it would be good news for him.

The Dark Lord took a slow step nearer and reached out to touch Harry's cheek, and Harry steeled himself not to shrink away, refusing to give Voldemort the satisfaction of watching him flinch. Voldemort's fingertips traced the edge of his cheekbone, pressing lightly against the shadow of the bruise there.

"I've thought so often of your death," Voldemort said, so softly that no one else in the room might have been able to hear him. His breath was warm and oddly sweet-smelling against Harry's face. "Hungered for it, until my dreams ran red with the thought of your blood. But now...." He trailed off, and his touch on Harry's face turned disturbingly intimate, making Harry shiver involuntarily. Voldemort's lips curled in subdued amusement at his reaction. "Now, I've allowed myself to entertain the possibility that there might be other ways to pay back the suffering you've given me."

Harry closed his eyes when Voldemort's fingers dipped down beneath the edge of his robe to trace the line of his collarbone, a feather-light touch that made him want to crawl out of his skin in horror. He clenched his fists at his sides, refusing to even think about what the detested intimacy of the touch might signify.

He was so busy struggling not to show how terrified he was that he almost missed Voldemort's next pronouncement. "I'm in the habit of rewarding loyalty among my followers." The Dark Lord had turned slightly now to face the rest of the Death Eaters, giving Harry the impression that this particular statement was more for their benefit than for his. "In exchange for the service he's done for me this past year, I present Harry Potter to my servant, Severus Snape."

There was a surprised muttering around the room at this.

Harry blinked, feeling quite uncertain that he'd heard correctly. He glanced at Snape, but his former teacher was standing unmoving in the shadows behind Voldemort, looking for all the world as if he wasn't aware of the sensation his master's words had just caused. Harry still couldn't believe just what it was he thought he'd heard, but the subdued furor still making its way through the room seemed to curtail any effort at wishful thinking.

He'd been given to Snape. The thought echoed numbly through his head, refusing to attach itself to any relevant meaning. He'd been given to Snape. As payment for services rendered.

Harry closed his eyes and thought of blood.

He reacted belatedly when the hand on his arm yanked him forward again, and he scarcely registered the fact that he was being led away from Voldemort. His feet stumbled under him but managed to find a pace that more or less moved him forward without pitching him flat on his face. His body felt like it was buzzing with electricity just underneath the surface of his skin, making his heart pound in a staccato rhythm inside his chest.

He'd been given to Snape.

His escort halted, and Harry peeled his eyes open again cautiously. Snape was standing in front of him now, watching him with an indecipherable expression that looked half-bored and half-contemptuous. The familiar sneering curl was visible on his upper lip, and for a moment Harry felt this could be a morning just like any other back at Hogwarts, with Snape about to give him a detention.

Then reason reasserted itself, and memory, and he let the defiance he felt shine through his eyes as he held Snape's gaze.

"Are you sure you want to take him alone?" the Death Eater holding Harry's arm asked. He sounded nervous, and Harry smiled grimly at the thought that they would be afraid of him, still. He didn't recognize the man's voice, but then there'd been so many new recruits joining the Death Eaters' ranks as Voldemort rose to power, it was impossible to keep track of them all.

Snape's sneer thinned slightly, and his eyes flicked disdainfully toward Harry's escort as he turned away. "I hardly think I need fear a single sixteen-year-old boy, however well-endowed the legends make him out to be."

And fuck you, too, Professor, Harry thought, bristling at the offhand dismissal. Snape had always found a way to make him feel about two centimeters tall, no matter what the situation. He rubbed the fingers of his right hand together, wishing once again for his wand.

Harry was transferred over to Snape's surprisingly strong grip, and he had to force himself not to flinch when he felt those long fingers curl around his upper arm. Without stopping to meet any of the envious glances being cast their way, Snape pulled him toward the open doorway, and Harry stumbled again before he collected his wits enough to follow. His cheeks burned with humiliation at the picture he must make, feeling excruciatingly aware of the eyes that watched him.

He was still coming to grips with the fact that he apparently wasn't going to be killed when it occurred to him that one, they were stepping outside where they would presumably be free of Voldemort's anti-Apparition wards, and two, there were no other Death Eaters in sight. Immediately, he dug in his heels and tensed to pull away from Snape's hold on his arm, fully intending to fight for all he was worth now that the illusion of freedom was in sight.

Before he could act, Snape surprised him by wrenching him around and glaring down at him with a vehemence that made Harry pause, swallowing uncomfortably.

"Do you want to live?"

Harry stared, not sure how to interpret the seemingly innocuous question. His entire body was still strung with the desire to fight his way free, even as he knew that any attempt to do so would be useless. All it would take would be one casually murmured Petrificus Totalis and he'd be pitching face-first into the mud.

Snape's eyes narrowed irritably, and his fingers tightened where they were clenched around Harry's arm. "For once in your life, Potter, just answer the question I ask of you. Do you want to live or not?"

Harry was trembling now, and he clenched his fists at his sides to stop it. He hated how vulnerable Snape made him feel, and how much joy the man seemed to take in rubbing his nose in it.

"Yes," he ground out finally, glaring.

Snape nodded, and the tension in his grip lessened slightly. "Then you will follow my instructions precisely, and you will not question me. This is not potions class where your usual antics will result in a detention spent polishing brass in the trophy room. You escaped death by a very narrow margin today."

"I hate you, Professor."

Snape's smile thinned, and his eyes took on a gleam that Harry couldn't decipher. "I have no doubt of that, Potter."

"I'd kill you if I could." The wild recklessness Harry'd felt since he first laid eyes on his former potions master was still there, singing underneath his skin. It drove him, warmed him, even as the parts deep inside of him seemed to be turning to ice.

"Then I hope for both our sakes that you do not succeed." Snape's tone was dry. He took a step closer, halving the distance between them so their bodies nearly touched. His grip tightened on Harry's arm when Harry would have pulled away. "Disapparating two is a delicate undertaking. I trust you're aware enough of the dangers involved that you won't attempt to run off just as I'm casting the spell."

The resultant image this painted in Harry's mind was enough to make him stand still despite the near-suffocating heat of Snape's body. "Where are we going?" he asked, feeling yet another twinge of despair echo through him.

"To my home." Snape sounded like he felt it was a place he'd been away from for far too long. After a moment, he added, "And your home now, too."

The despair pooled deeper. "For how long?"

A pause. "For as long as it takes."

Harry was about to question him about that statement when he felt the sudden constriction of the Disapparition spell take hold. He clung to Snape's robes reflexively, bowing his head as the magic swelled around them. The world brightened near unbearably for one endless second, sucking the air away from him as he tried to draw in a breath....

And then it was gone.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing with Snape in the courtyard of a tall, sprawling mansion set on the edge of a low plateau. Thickly wooded forest swept down the eastern side of the hill, catching the light of the newly risen dawn. Harry could tell by the feel of the air as he breathed that they'd come a significant distance northward, but other than that, he had no earthly idea where they were.

"Snape Manor," Snape said, as if reading his thoughts. "My family's ancestral home."

Harry looked around, trying to pick out any distinguishing features of the landscape, but the drive leading up to the courtyard was penned in by tall evergreens on either side, obscuring his view. "Are we still in England then?"

A corner of Snape's mouth quirked at the question. "It's too cold to stand around outside at this time of the morning. We should go in before we freeze to death."

And while Snape's refusal to answer his question made sense from a logistical point of view, it still rankled. Keeping Harry ignorant of their location would make an escape attempt that much more difficult, since he wouldn't have any idea where he was or where he might be able to go to find help.

Snape motioned for Harry to precede him, and Harry obeyed, shivering. At least Snape had let go of his arm.

The interior of the mansion looked every bit as grand as the outside indicated it would be, and Harry spent a few moments gaping in awe while Snape closed the heavy front door behind them. He wasn't surprised in the least when Snape spelled it locked before turning to lead him further into the hall. No matter what else might be buzzing through Harry's mind at the moment, his status here was perfectly clear.

The thought made him hesitate before following, feeling a lingering resentment at the assumption that he'd fall into line like this was just any other morning at Hogwarts. Snape noticed his absence after a few seconds and turned to regard him with impatience, crooking one eyebrow inquisitively.

"I don't know what you expect from me," Harry said, wishing his voice didn't sound quite so lost when he said it.

Snape's eyes glittered in the light, and Harry had to consciously steel himself not to step back when the former potions master moved toward him.

"It's really quite simple, Mr. Potter," Snape said, in a voice that was all oily smoothness. He stopped a short distance away, forcing Harry to tip his head up if he wanted to maintain eye contact. "You have been handed over into my care in lieu of a rather messy demise at Voldemort's hands. I should think you would be grateful, but I hold no hope that any gratitude from you is actually forthcoming. For the time being, you may consider yourself my property. That means that you will be doing what I say, when I say, and you will Not. Ask. Questions. Do I make myself clear?"

A hot retort hovered at the tip of Harry's tongue, but he bit it back with an effort. There was something different about Snape now, an edge that hadn't been there when Harry had known him at Hogwarts. Or at least that hadn't been so blatantly visible back then. Whatever parts of himself Snape had felt he needed to conceal under Dumbledore's watchful eye, he apparently felt free to reveal them now. For the first time, Harry felt honestly afraid of him.

Harry didn't say anything, but the submission in his eyes seemed to be enough to appease Snape. With a final menacing glower, Snape turned and moved further into the house. This time, Harry followed without comment.

A house elf joined them by the time they reached the end of the hall, accepting the cloak Snape handed him and nearly buckling under the weight of the heavy material. Underneath, Snape was dressed in dark slacks and a white turtleneck sweater. It made him look oddly casual to Harry, who was used to seeing him in much more formal attire.

Snape barely glanced at the house elf as he said, "This is Harry Potter, and he's going to be staying with us for a while. I want rooms prepared for him in the east wing, and suitable attire provided. He is not to be allowed out onto the grounds without my express permission."

"Yes, Master Snape, sir," the house elf said, voice muffled from underneath the layer of robes he was carrying. "I'll see to it right away, sir."

Snape nodded approval, and the house elf scurried off through one of the many open doorways that stretched along the hall. Motioning crossly for Harry to follow him, Snape led the way into an adjoining study.

"I expect you to wait here until an escort arrives to show you to your rooms, where you will remain until I send for you." Apparently seeing the flicker of resentment that Harry couldn't quite suppress, he pressed his lips into a thin line and added, "Let me make myself perfectly clear, Mr. Potter. You are here on my sufferance alone. If you prove to be intractable, if you attempt to harm my staff in any way, I will have no qualms about handing you back over to Voldemort. And I dare say that whatever indignities you feel you're suffering at my hands here, it does not compare to what you'd be going through if Voldemort were to decide to take his revenge on you personally."

That much was true. Harry felt some of the blood drain from his face at the thought of what might be happening to him right now if Snape hadn't stepped in to claim him. Cruciatus, he was sure, was only the first of the tortures at the Dark Lord's disposal.

"Yes, sir," he said, hoping he sounded meek enough for Snape's liking. As much as he hated the idea of being a prisoner here, it really was the least of the evils he had to choose from.

Seemingly satisfied, Snape turned to leave. "I'll have breakfast sent in for you shortly. Until then, I'll expect you to remain inside this room. Do not try my patience in this. You'll find I can be a rather unpleasant host when my wishes are disregarded."

Fortunately for both of them, he left the room before Harry could respond to that.

The door closed with a hollow click, and Harry instantly moved toward it, listening carefully for several moments to make sure Snape had gone before he tried the handle. It was locked, of course. Not that it really mattered. Assuming he was able to get back out into the hall, what then? The front door was locked, and he had no doubt that the house elves would turn him in immediately if they found him wandering about.

That left the windows if he had any chance of escape. Not feeling particularly hopeful, he stepped up to the broad panes overlooking the yard at the side of the estate. Much as he'd expected, the locks refused to give no matter how hard he tugged at them, and after a moment he gave up trying. Feeling a spark of anger move through him, he picked up a spherical marble ornament from a nearby table and hurled it with all his might at the window. The missile bounced off the glass without leaving so much as a scratch -- spelled against "accidental" breakage, no doubt -- and he turned from it with a scowl, reluctantly accepting the fact that he was well and truly confined for the time being.

He did have to admit that as prisons went, this one was far from unpleasant. The early morning sunlight looked brittle beyond the windows, coating the sloping green hills with a bronze-ish sheen. About a hundred meters off, the outline of thick forest hugged the base of the slopes and wrapped around the property to the southwest. It was all rather picturesque, and not at all what Harry would have imagined as the ancestral residence of his greasy old potions master. He was finding it hard to reconcile, seeing Snape seem so obviously at home in this place. It would have been fascinating under other circumstances, but as it was, he couldn't forget the role Snape had assumedly played in the war, and the disastrous consequences his betrayal had caused.

Feeling vaguely nauseous, Harry turned away from the windows and sat down on one of the ornate sofas in the room, curling up in one corner of it with his knees pulled up to his chest. There was a fire flickering merrily in the fireplace, and the warmth was a welcome comfort, even if it didn't manage to chase away all of the chill that clung to him.

A house elf arrived several minutes later bearing the promised platter of food, and while Harry was loath to accept Snape's hospitality, the near-painful hollowness in his stomach reminded him of just how long it had been since his last meal. Reluctantly, he helped himself to a cup of honeyed tea and began nibbling at some of the cracked wheat bread that had been provided.

He was just mustering his appetite enough to move on to the plate of sliced fruit on the tray when the door to the study opened. Expecting to see another house elf, he was stunned to see the slim white form of Draco Malfoy coming into the room.

Instantly, Harry tensed, leaning back against the arm of the sofa defensively. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Draco blinked, looking honestly put out by the question. A moment later, he regained his composure enough to smirk insolently as he perched on the far arm of the sofa. "Let me guess," he said, sounding droll. "Severus didn't tell you anything about me."

Harry was more upset than he wanted to admit by his old rival's presence here. Sure, they'd been rivals in the art of schoolboy pranks, but he couldn't forget that Draco's father was a Death Eater. Putting up with Snape's supposed ownership was bad enough; he couldn't bear it if he was expected to be paraded around in front of witnesses.

"Not a word," Harry said coolly, dipping his head to take a determinedly unconcerned sip of his tea. He'd be damned if he'd show Draco an ounce of how frightened he was.

Draco smiled unpleasantly. "I'll wager he didn't tell you a thing about what you're going to be doing here, either."

Harry just looked at him, arching one eyebrow inquiringly.

"You're a slave, Potter. His slave." Seeing that Harry wasn't going to rise to the bait, Draco slid down the arm to the seat cushion and added, "But we're in pretty much the same boat, if it makes you feel any better."

Harry stared at him, caught off-guard by the casual statement. "You're a slave here, too?"

Something in Draco's eyes flickered darkly at that. "It seems my father was bettered by your precious Order of the Phoenix one too many times, and Voldemort decided to punish him by having me taken away." His lips pressed together bitterly, and he turned away to look out the window. "Severus intervened and convinced Voldemort to put me into service here, rather than turn me over to all the senior Death Eaters like he'd planned."

"Seems like Snape's just been raking in the favors lately," Harry said sullenly, wondering just what Draco meant by "turning him over to all the senior Death Eaters."

"He's the golden boy of the new world order," Draco agreed, without a trace of cynicism. When he turned to look at Harry again, there was a curl to his thin lips that Harry didn't like at all. "You honestly have no idea what you're doing here, do you?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Harry wasn't in any mood to put up with Draco's usual mind games.

Draco's eyes gleamed with a predatory shine as he said, "You're Severus' catamite now." He seemed to take an obscene amount of pleasure in informing Harry of this.

Harry stared at him blankly. "I'm what?"

"His sex slave." Draco's smirk grew more pronounced.

It took a few moments for the words to register. When they did, Harry's jaw dropped, and he felt his face flush with mingled anger and embarrassment. "That's not bloody funny, Malfoy...."

"It's true." Draco looked disturbingly fey in the light falling in through the window behind him, silver hair and pale eyes and slim, waif-like beauty. He looked all of fourteen years old, even though Harry knew they were the same age. "All of the Death Eaters have them, as long as Voldemort favors them. I guess it's considered a perk of the job." Draco stretched lazily, linking his fingers together over his head. The movement made his thin white shirt cling to the muscles of his chest and sides, and Harry had to wonder how much of the sensuality of the gesture was accidental.

"So that means you're a... a...." Harry moistened his lips awkwardly, unable to echo the words aloud.

Draco flashed a grin at him, showing even white teeth. "Sure am." He sounded completely unconcerned.

Harry dropped his gaze, not knowing how to deal with this new information. How could Draco just sit there and casually admit to being a sex slave? Snape's sex slave. The entire idea was ludicrous, but at the same time, Harry couldn't help thinking of that subtle edge of danger he'd felt around his former potions teacher that morning, the air of subdued menace that hung around him like a cloud, promising unspeakable punishments if his wishes weren't obeyed. The memory was chilling, and Harry tried not to think about how the "golden boy" of Voldemort's empire might choose to exercise his new-won power.

And suddenly Draco's story didn't seem quite so implausible. Because Snape had always loved to dominate, loved to lord his dominion over others. The thought of Snape having such personal control over anyone was a frightening prospect, no matter how much the image clashed with the stern and forbidding potions master Harry had once known.

"I don't want to be here," Harry admitted quietly, staring down at his hands where they clenched tightly together in his lap.

The look Draco gave him was pitying. "It doesn't matter what you want, Potter. You're a slave now." His tone was matter-of-fact. Softening slightly, he added, "I guess I've had more time to get used to it than you have. Severus really

isn't such a bad sort, once you get used to him. And being here's certainly better than being whored to the entire workforce of Death Eaters, Incorporated." The corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

Harry choked back a surge of near-hysterical laughter. Now Draco was cracking jokes about the whole thing. He glanced down at his half-eaten breakfast and pushed the tray away. He honestly didn't think he'd ever feel the urge to eat again.

"If you're done with breakfast, I can show you to the rooms where you'll be staying." Draco stood abruptly, looking grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. "The house elves have got it all set up for you."

That sounded depressingly like a permanent arrangement, but Harry was also eager to see this conversation put behind them. "Okay." He stood up and allowed Draco to lead him out into the hall. Casting a longing glance in the direction of the front door, he asked, "Do you ever think about leaving?"

Draco gave him an incredulous look. "Why in hell would I want to do that?" Lowering his voice slightly, he said, "Listen, Potter, I know it seems like this is the end of the world for you, but you really don't have any idea how lucky you are that Severus decided to take you in. Do what he wants, and he'll treat you right. I don't know any other Death Eaters who treat their toys with an ounce of decency, much less give them the freedoms we have here."

Toys. Harry felt his face heat again, and he ducked his head as he followed Draco upstairs. He was still having problems wrapping his brain around the idea that he was now apparently a sex slave. His own experience in the area of sex consisted of some hastily snatched kisses with Cho Chang behind Hagrid's hut during the spring of his fifth year, and a handful of mutual groping sessions with a boy from Hufflepuff a few months before the war had started in earnest. He'd never even touched another boy's cock, much less done any of the more intimate things he'd read about in the library's sex education manuals.

His rooms were on the second floor and consisted of a three-room suite, including bedroom, sitting room, and a small foyer area complete with a miniature dinette set. Harry's eyes widened as he took it all in, and he turned slowly, feeling oddly as if this was the most surreal thing that had happened to him yet.

"Is all this mine?" he asked, hearing the note of awe in his voice.

Draco stepped up to the window and pushed open the sheers that covered it, looking outside. "Yeah. The house elves come in once a day to clean, so if there's anything you don't want them messing with, you're going to have to make sure they know about it."

Harry could hardly believe it. He trailed his fingers lightly over the ornately carved wooden post at one corner of the bed, glancing up at the thick silver-mesh canopy overhead. He'd spent the first eleven years of his life inside a cupboard in his aunt and uncle's home, and his assigned corner of the dormitory at Hogwarts had seemed like unspeakable luxury to him. But this.... He didn't think he'd know what to do with all this space, sleeping in these rooms alone.

The thought cut through the cloud of awe that surrounded him and made him smile bitterly. A padded cage was still a cage, after all. Snape might be trying to win his subservience through material extravagance, but when it came right down to it, Harry was still nothing more than a prisoner and a slave.

But at least he was alive, and for now that was all that counted. He looked up to find Draco looking at him with an unreadable expression.

"So what happens now?" Harry asked, curling his fingers around the bedpost.

Draco shrugged. "You can do whatever you want for the rest of the day. If he wants you tonight, he'll send for you." He paused, as if debating whether or not to continue. After a moment, he said, "Don't do anything to make him mad, okay, Potter? It's really not as bad as you're probably thinking. But he's got a hell of a temper, and he will ship your arse back to Voldemort if you do anything to upset him."

Harry blinked hard and stared down at his toes, feeling his face heat again. He didn't want to think about that just yet, didn't want to even pretend that the kind of service Draco was hinting at might honestly be expected of him.

"I can show you around the house if you'd like." Draco sounded like he was trying to lighten the mood. "It really is a brilliant old place, even if it's not as big as the house I grew up in."

He honestly seemed to be making an effort to be civil, which surprised Harry. But he supposed it made sense, in a way; the old House rivalries of Slytherin versus Gryffindor seemed beyond silly now, and he supposed Draco must be desperate for company after being sequestered here for God knew how long. How long had it been since he'd been "given" to Snape, anyway? The last time Harry remembered seeing Lucius Malfoy at the head of Voldemort's Death Eaters was more than eight months ago. Had Draco been here for all that time?

So Harry relented and allowed Draco to give him a tour of Snape Manor, which was every bit as impressive in its scale and opulence as Harry would have expected from what he'd seen of it thus far. After lunchtime, which they took in the atrium overlooking the back hills, Draco was called away by the house elves, leaving Harry to his own devices. He ended up wandering into the library on the first floor, where he amused himself for a while looking through Snape's vast collection of books. There were titles here that wouldn't have looked out of place in the Restricted Section of the library at Hogwarts, and Harry reveled in the unaccustomed freedom to browse at will, even if all of the books dealing with the actual casting of magic seemed to have been hidden elsewhere away from prying eyes.

When Draco returned later that afternoon, he was flushed slightly, and there was a bounce in his step that Harry was sure hadn't been there before. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, and Harry found himself staring at the bite mark on the side of his neck, shockingly red against the paleness of his skin. There was a strange sort of knowledge in the other boy's eyes, a wariness that sharpened once he noticed Harry's scrutiny, and Harry went cold instantly, trying not to think about what Draco must have been doing for the past couple of hours.

"I-I better go back upstairs," he stammered, wishing he didn't feel like so much of a coward when he said it. "I'm tired." And he was, even though his nerves were suddenly singing under his skin.

The look in Draco's eyes turned vaguely pitying again. "Sure," he said with a shrug, keeping his face expressionless. "I'll see you around, I guess."

Harry fled upstairs to his rooms without any further comment, not trusting himself to speak. Once there, he collapsed on his bed and curled up as tightly as he could, trying to blot out the images that were suddenly tumbling through his head.

It was real. All of it.

He'd been captured by the enemy and handed over to Severus Snape as some kind of bizarre sex toy, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He started to shake, feeling the numbness of despair start to crawl through him again. It didn't seem fair that his entire life could have gone through such a shattering transformation in such a short amount of time -- less than a year ago, he'd been happily pursuing his education in the wizarding arts, with nothing more pressing on his mind than winning the next Quidditch match and finding new ways to pester Draco Malfoy.

And now look at him -- Hogwarts closed, Dumbledore dead, Hermione and Ron left behind in the same skirmish that had resulted in his capture (and he still didn't know if either of them had survived), and his own future as a Death Eater slave looming before him in true nightmare fashion, without any end in sight. It was as if he'd somehow stepped through a looking glass into a world that bore a passing resemblance to the one he'd known, but... wasn't.

And he didn't see any way of getting back.

He was just beginning to doze off when a steaming tray of cooked meats and vegetables appeared on his bedside table, assumedly sent up by the house elves' magic. How considerate his jailers were. The platter's abrupt appearance made him think of the banquets at Hogwarts, and the good times he'd had there before Voldemort had made his return. He thought about Ron, and Hermione, and Hagrid, and Professor McGonagall and Madam Hooch and all his other friends and allies. He didn't know if any of them were still alive, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight to hold back the tears that wanted to flow, shuddering at the pang of bitter loss that moved through him.

Ignoring the tray of food sitting beside his bed, he rolled onto his side and wrapped his arms around his pillow, muffling the sound of his sobs as he cried.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because it surprised him when he felt a light hand touch his shoulder, shaking gently. Instantly, his eyes snapped open, and he blinked up at the outline of the diminutive house elf that stood silhouetted in front of the darkness of the window.

"Master Snape wants Harry Potter to come to his room, sir," the house elf said, eyes luminous in the moonlight. It sounded apologetic about waking him.

Harry's insides clenched at the softly voiced instruction, making him run cold all the way down to his fingers and toes. He sat up slowly and drew his knees up to his chest in a reflexively defensive gesture, raking his fingers back through his hair. "What happens if I don't go?" he asked, feeling suddenly very much awake.

The house elf's eyes grew wide at the question. "Harry Potter must go," it said, sounding frightened. "Master Snape commands it."

And that was about all he was going to get out of the little guy, most likely. For most house elves, willful disobedience against their acknowledged master wasn't something that would ever cross their minds, or be entertained with any degree of seriousness if it was suggested to them.

Harry hesitated a moment longer, warring inwardly with the desire to just roll over and go back to sleep. Depression felt like a leaden weight within him, urging him to close his eyes and refuse to acknowledge any of it. But Draco's warnings from that morning were still fresh in his mind, and that alone gave him the motivation to swing his legs over the side of the bed and stand up. If he did anything to displease Snape, he'd be sent back to Voldemort. Both Snape and Draco had made that abundantly clear.

Heart pounding with mingled fear and resentment, Harry followed the house elf out into the hall. He was still dressed in the rumpled robes he'd been wearing when he was captured, but he couldn't bring himself to care about that now. All of his attention was fixed on the thought of what Snape might want with him, and the memory of the bite mark on Draco's neck, obscenely garish against pristine skin.

Snape's rooms were in a part of the mansion that Harry hadn't been to yet, and he found his steps dragging when the house elf stopped outside a closed oak door. It bobbed its head at him and left, disappearing soundlessly into the shadows of the hall.

It took Harry several minutes to gather enough courage to knock. A part of him felt indignant over the fact that he was submitting to Snape's plans for him so docilely, even as the larger part of him recognized the fact that he truly had no choice. Snape was the only thing standing between him and Voldemort, and Harry truly didn't believe Snape's intentions toward him could be as bad as anything the Dark Lord had planned for him.

The instant his knuckles rapped against the smooth wood, the door opened of its own accord. Harry hesitantly pushed it open further and stepped inside, looking around cautiously as he entered. This, apparently, was the direct doorway into Snape's bedroom. Snape was sitting at a desk against the left-hand wall, writing meticulously while the lamp at his elbow guttered in the draft from the open door. He didn't look up when Harry entered, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Seeing Snape now brought back a renewed surge of helplessness and rage, and Harry hurriedly looked away. He plucked nervously at the sleeve of his robe while he waited for Snape to notice that he'd arrived.

For several uncomfortable minutes, the only sound in the room was the harsh scratching of Snape's quill over parchment and the rapid pounding of Harry's heart. Finally, Snape paused to rewet the tip of his quill in the inkwell in front of him and said, "I trust Mr. Malfoy has informed you of your purpose here?"

The question made Harry's mouth press together angrily, but he forced himself to answer, "Yes." His voice sounded very small.

Snape nodded approval and went back to writing, all without looking up from his parchment. "I assumed you would have foreseen the necessity of grooming yourself properly before coming into my presence, but perhaps I was a bit optimistic."

Harry flushed darkly and bit down hard on his lower lip, swallowing back the acerbic reply he wanted to make. Whatever reaction Snape was expecting to get out of him, he damn well wasn't going to get it. But the suggestion that he was somehow remiss in not preparing himself to Snape's satisfaction before coming to his bedchamber was at once terrifying and insulting.

Snape's eyes flickered up briefly to look at him, and he smiled slightly. The expression on his sallow face, framed by all that lanky black hair, was chilling. "Of course if you insist on being stubborn, there are alternatives to be had."

He reached into his sleeve and drew out his wand, and before Harry could even tense defensively at the sight of it, he felt the sharp tingling sensation of a cleaning charm as it worked its way across his body. He closed his eyes, feeling dizzy, and when it was done, his skin itched as if it had just lost its uppermost layer.

"Better." Snape tucked his wand away and bent back to his work, looking completely unconcerned about Harry's brief moment of panic. "Now strip."

Harry stared at him, feeling as if he'd just been plunged into some surreal parody of real life. He moistened his lips anxiously and clenched his fists at his sides several times, trying to think of something to say that didn't involve begging.

Snape sighed and set down his quill, looking up at Harry irritably. "Did you not hear me?"

Harry felt completely floored by the casual command. Finally, Snape's glare cut through his initial shock, and he raised shaking hands to the collar of his robes, unhooking the fastening there. Snape turned back to his writing, apparently satisfied, and Harry felt a renewed surge of hatred bubble through him, filling him with the urge to physically strike out at this man who had caused the people he loved so much pain and suffering.

But that would be a sure way to get himself killed, or worse. As preoccupied as Snape seemed to be, Harry knew him well enough to assume that his former professor's attention was focused squarely on him, watching his every move. Reluctantly, Harry shrugged out of his robes and draped them over the back of a nearby chair, then untucked his shirt and pulled it over his head.

The air felt cool on his bared chest, even as the heat from the fireplace prickled against the skin of his back. Shivering, he removed the rest of his clothes. It felt incredibly odd being naked in the room with Snape sitting there not even acknowledging his presence, and after an awkward moment, Harry moved to sit in the high-backed armchair in the corner of the room, pulling his legs up to shield himself as much as he could.

And just what was Snape working on that was so terribly important? Harry refused to admit how much it was bothering him that Snape wasn't even deigning to look at him. It made him feel... insignificant. Insignificant and lost and more vulnerable than he could ever remember feeling before in his life, and at that moment he hated Snape more than he'd thought it possible to hate anyone. Only the thought of Voldemort and the rest of his Death Eater minions kept Harry seated in that chair, when all he wanted to do was throw his clothes back on and bolt from the room, preferably never to return.

Finally, Snape put his quill down and capped the inkwell in front of him, leaning back in his chair to look in Harry's direction. He gestured for Harry to stand. "Let me look at you."

Harry obeyed reluctantly, feeling painfully embarrassed and more than a little scared. He shivered as Snape's eyes roamed over him, taking in the details of his naked form.

"Not bad," Snape murmured, making Harry's cheeks burn even hotter. He motioned for Harry to come closer, which Harry grudgingly did. With one hand, Snape traced the curve of Harry's hip and thigh, as if mapping the contours of his muscles. His touch felt cold and uncomfortably alien, but it wasn't overly uncomfortable for all that. "I'm choosing to ignore the fact that you skipped dinner this evening, but from now on I expect you to take decent care of yourself. Is that understood?"

Harry trembled at the proprietary tone. "Yes, sir," he whispered, not trusting himself to speak at a louder volume. It was all he could do to hold himself still as Snape's fingers moved over him, light as butterfly wings as they fluttered across his skin.

Finally, Snape nodded his approval. "Lie down on the bed," he said, and while the words were softly spoken, they held the implicit weight of command.

Harry stood frozen for an interminable moment before he was able to force himself to obey. Because he knew what was coming; he knew what Snape had called him here for. His skin crawled with the knowledge of it, burning like fire wherever Snape's hand had touched him, but somehow he managed to climb up onto the tall bed and lie flat in the middle of the duvet, staring up at the vaulted ceiling.

He couldn't quite shake the sense of surreality that enveloped him, as if a part of him believed none of this could possibly be real no matter what his senses might be telling him. There was a dull roaring in his ears that wouldn't go away, and any hatred or anger he'd felt previously was consumed now by a tide of raw, gnawing terror. Despite himself, he couldn't help thinking what would happen if Snape decided he didn't like him, if he wasn't good enough, wasn't obedient enough. Death, at the very least, most probably at Voldemort's hands. It was that thought that held him rooted to the spot when every instinct he had was urging him to flee.

"Relax." And that was the Command Voice again, however softly the word was spoken. Harry clenched his fists and concentrated on his breathing.

Snape removed his clothes casually and set them aside, folding them carefully on the top of the bureau nearby. He paused a moment at the side of the bed, and Harry's eyes started to burn under the scrutiny as he stared up at the ceiling, refusing to look at the pale body he could just barely see at the corner of his vision.

He flinched when Snape sat down on the bed beside him. "It's not really as bad as you're making it out to be," Snape said. The gentleness in his tone made Harry blink in surprise, and he bit his lower lip hard when he felt the salty wetness of a tear silde down the side of his temple, dampening his hair.

Snape settled his hand on the center of Harry's chest, over the wild pounding of his heart. After a contemplative pause, he asked, "Have you ever had sex before?"

Harry shook his head numbly, unable to make himself speak. He felt like he was about to fly apart into a million pieces, and only the feel of Snape's hand on his chest was holding him together. It was a near-suffocating weight, even though Snape wasn't applying any pressure at all.

Snape closed his eyes briefly at that, and a muscle jumped in the side of his jaw. The silence grew to the point where Harry began to twitch self-consciously, and Snape's eyes snapped open again, spearing into Harry with the weight of their focus.

"You're going to have to trust me, Harry." Snape's hand slid downward from the center of Harry's chest, brushing across Harry's stomach and abdomen to trace his nails through the fine thatch of hairs there. The touch was disturbingly intimate, and Harry had to fight against the urge to buck that hand away, lashing out with fist and nail until he'd freed himself from this untenable situation. But there was no freedom to be had, at least not for him, and he closed his eyes, forcing himself to just lie still and breathe.

He sucked in his breath in a sharp gasp that barely made it past the constriction in his throat when Snape's fingers curled around his penis. He tensed reflexively, trembling, but Snape's fingers only coiled tighter around him, sliding up and then down the soft length of his shaft.

"Don't fight me, Harry," Snape murmured, and the sound of his given name being purred in that familiar, hated voice was unexpectedly appealing, making Harry feel lightheaded. He felt numb as his body struggled to come to terms with far too many conflicting impulses. He couldn't decide which was more bizarre -- the discovery of his own apparently unlimited capacity to submit or the unexpected awareness of Snape as a sexual being.

"Don't," he whispered, closing his eyes to hold back the tears that welled behind them, but there was no real vehemence behind the plea. He knew perfectly well that what he wanted or didn't want had absolutely nothing to do with what was happening here. He had been given to Snape, was Snape's property, and it was obvious that Snape had every intention of getting full enjoyment out of his new toy.

Soft hair brushed across Harry's shoulder as Snape stretched out beside him, long body arranging itself parallel to Harry's as his hand continued to work at Harry's quiescent flesh. Harry couldn't stop his mouth from hanging open now as he pulled in breaths, and he had to swallow repeatedly against the dryness in his throat.

"That's it," Snape murmured, without letting up on his steady stroking of Harry's shaft. He reached to remove Harry's glasses, setting them on a nearby night table. The resultant fuzziness in Harry's vision made the torchlight at the corners of the room bleed together, coating the room in a warm, orange glow.

The first light brush of lips across his own startled him, and Harry pulled back reflexively, heart pounding. Snape paused a moment to give him time to settle, then moved in to kiss him again. This time, Harry managed to hold himself still, and he heard the faintest of sighs when the tip of Snape's tongue dipped into his mouth, tracing across the front of his teeth. Snape's breath tasted oddly spicy, and Harry wondered distractedly if he'd sampled a potion of some kind before sending for him.

Harry was nearly hard now. The feel of another man's hand on him was unfamiliar, frightening, but Snape seemed to have a fair amount of expertise at this, and his patient ministrations were having their intended effect. Harry twitched against the low warmth pooling deep in his belly, warring between the need to resist and the desire to just give in and feel what was happening to him.

Snape was shifting now, rolling them onto their sides with his chest pressed against Harry's back, the arm draped over Harry's hip still moving as he stroked Harry's newly firmed erection. "That's good," he said approvingly, biting lightly at the curve of Harry's shoulder, and Harry flushed, feeling both humiliated and warmed by his former teacher's approval. His hand twisted in the sheet in front of him, and Snape soothed him with softly murmured words of encouragement, sliding his other hand in a lingering caress down the middle of his back.

The hand disappeared for a moment and then returned, probing gently at the sweaty crevice between Harry's legs. Snape nudged Harry's knee with his own, urging his legs to open, and after a tense moment, Harry gave in and spread his thighs. Snape's fingers immediately slid into his cleft, smearing a cool, oily substance there, and Harry pulled in a startled breath before it warmed against his skin.

"Shh." Snape's voice was the barest of whispers against Harry's ear, and Harry shivered at the feel of warm breath tickling over his skin. He was achingly hard now, and Snape wasn't relenting, wasn't easing up in his steady stroking, so that he barely noticed when an oiled fingertip slipped inside his body's opening.

"Oh!" he breathed, twitching away from the small invader, but it was already gone, and the hand on his cock squeezed him encouragingly, forcing a low moan out of his throat. He relaxed again in stages, heart pounding, and the finger came back, more boldly this time. It felt odd, but he steeled himself to accept it, knowing full well the alternative that awaited him should he refuse.

The finger was almost fully inside him now, sliding in and out with a slow, near hypnotic rhythm. A second finger joined it, and Harry closed his eyes with a low grunt, trying hard to obey Snape's whispered orders to relax, to yield, to just let it happen. He felt disconnected from everything around him, loose and weightless, as if he were floating somewhere far above the bed, looking down and watching his body writhe and twist as Snape mercilessly took his virginity away.

Three fingers now, and the stretch of it was frightening, making him curl inward and mewl softly into the pillow under his head. Snape stroked his erection more firmly, encouraging the slow swell of arousal in Harry's groin to a sharper intensity. Fear and arousal mixed like wildfire in the air around them, and Harry could smell himself now, his need as Snape stroked him, and he couldn't decide if he wanted this to end or to go on forever. Surely no one had ever touched him with this degree of gentleness before, or whispered so tenderly to him, cradling him in their arms. It was an entirely unfamiliar experience, and it confused him, until he didn't know what he was supposed to feel anymore.

Which made it all the easier to lie there motionless when Snape removed his fingers and shifted into place behind him, spreading Harry's legs to make room for the blunt hardness that pressed between his thighs. Harry closed his eyes and moaned aloud at the first tentative thrust that pushed inside of him, concentrating on the sound of Snape's low hiss of pleasure behind his ear.

"So good," Snape gasped out, molding his chest against the line of Harry's back as he pressed in further. His fingers curled over the side of Harry's hip, holding him steady as he eased his way inside.

It hurt, but not overbearingly so, and Harry was able to ride the wave of it fairly easily. The strangeness of it was the worst part, the feel of the unfamiliar hardness within him, and he stared hard at the blur of the wall across from him, trying hard to remember how to breathe. Snape's hand smoothed down his side, encouraging him to relax, to accept the intrusion, and after a few moments he did, giving himself up to whatever Snape decided to do to him.

Snape coiled an arm around Harry's belly, holding him tightly as he began to pull slowly out and then push in again. He groaned, burying the sound against the side of Harry's neck, and Harry closed his eyes, forcing himself to remain still while Snape took what he wanted.

He didn't honestly expect to enjoy it, but on the fourth or fifth stroke, Snape's cock hit up against something inside him that set off sparks of pleasure through his body, wringing a startled gasp from him. The arm around Harry's waist tightened, and Snape thrust in hard to touch that spot again, nipping at the curve of Harry's shoulder when Harry whimpered at the unexpected stimulation. The arousal Snape had so patiently nurtured in him was still there, and it flared to new intensity now, making him pant as Snape continued to fuck him.

All things considered, it wasn't anything like what Harry had been expecting. Snape's thrusts grew harder, more urgent, and his hand found its way to Harry's erection, encouraging him to full hardness once again. Harry clawed at the sheets underneath him, gasping for breath as Snape plowed relentlessly into him, hitting that pleasure spot over and over and over until he could barely think beyond the sudden sharp need for release that thrummed through him. He cried out sharply, beyond the capacity for self-consciousness now, and writhed when Snape's thumb flicked over the end of his cock, tracing slick patterns across the sensitive skin there.

When Harry's orgasm came, there was no awareness in it of anything beyond relief that he'd finally been granted release. He floated in a haze for several blissful moments, feeling cut off from just about everything, before he felt Snape's arm tighten around him again, and after a few more sharp thrusts, Snape gasped against the back of his neck as a wet warmth coated Harry's insides.

The weight of him, lax with satiation, was near-suffocating against Harry's back. Harry shifted awkwardly, feeling uncomfortably aware suddenly of what he'd just done, of what had been done to him, and his cheeks flamed with the knowledge of his own complicity in it. After several moments, Snape steadied himself with one hand on Harry's hip and pulled out slowly. It wasn't exactly the most comfortable of sensations, and Harry held himself very still, feeling as if his insides were about to follow. But then everything seemed to settle itself more or less comfortably again, and he relaxed.

"Are you hurt?" Snape asked. His voice sounded rough, like fine grade sandpaper where it rasped across Harry's skin.

Harry buried his face in the sweat-soaked pillow under his head, unwilling to meet Snape's gaze. "No," he said, feeling a renewed surge of shame wash through him.

Snape sighed audibly. "You didn't have a choice, Harry," he said, sounding as if he were trying to offer some kind of absolution. The sound of Harry's first name still sounded alien coming from him.

When a few moments passed and Harry didn't say anything, he sighed again and rolled away, making Harry shiver at the sudden brush of cooler air against the sweat-warmed skin of his back. "I know you must have questions," he said brusquely, wiping at the stickiness on his stomach with the edge of the sheet. "So you might as well ask them."

It was a moment before Harry could gather the courage to reply.

"How could you?" he asked finally, closing his eyes. He knew Snape wouldn't misinterpret the question as referring to the rape.

Snape hesitated before answering. "You're just going to have to trust me when I say that you don't understand everything," he said at last.

The answer was predictably vague. Getting angry now, Harry rolled over to meet Snape's gaze. "Then why don't you explain it to me?" he demanded, as the rage he felt began to overwhelm his caution. Because there was just so he didn't understand, namely how Snape could betray the man who had taken him in and protected him, the faculty he'd worked with, the students he'd once been responsible for teaching. So much death, and it couldn't all have been worth it, now could it?

A warning flickered deep in Snape's eyes, but his voice was even as he replied, "You've always been so quick to judge things you know nothing about. Has it never occurred to you that there might be larger issues at stake beyond what you see with your own two eyes?"

Harry glared at him. "What I see," he said, letting his voice drop accusingly, "is a man who's been directly responsible for the deaths of people I care about. You might as well have cast the curse against Professor Dumbledore yourself."

Honest fury flashed through Snape's eyes at that, and he reached out to grab Harry's hair, pushing him back down to the mattress before he could react. The grip on his hair hurt, and Snape was a heavy, dark weight looming over him, reminding Harry suddenly of where he was and just how helpless he was here. He stared up at Snape with wide eyes, feeling sick with sudden fear and wondering if Crucio would be the next word he heard.

The anger-fueled tension left Snape's shoulders an instant before he rolled off of Harry's body, turning his back to him once again. "Go back to your own bed, Potter. I'm done with you for tonight."

The casual dismissal made Harry feel sick with resentment, but he was quick enough to accept the escape it offered. He slid out of the bed without looking back and dressed hastily, scooping his shoes and his robes up in his arms as he turned to go. He half-expected Snape to call him back for some further torment, but he made it out into the hall without incident and closed the door securely behind him.

Once he was back in his own room, he went immediately into the adjoining lavatory and started the shower running, turning the water up as hot as he could stand it. He could still feel the imprint of Snape's hands on his skin, the echo of a whispered voice murmuring in his ear, and even as he tried to scrub the memory away, he knew in his heart that it would never truly fade. This wasn't how he would ever have chosen to lose his virginity -- even if Snape had been unexpectedly gentle with him. The dichotomy of that bewildered him, and he vowed not to think about it anymore, even as he acknowledged that it was something he'd never forget. Snape's image had been irrevocably changed in his mind now, for good or for ill.

After he was done with his shower, he shrugged into the pale nightshirt that had been laid out for him on the nightstand and collapsed into bed, feeling exhausted and numbed. His mind buzzed as sleep beckoned from just at the edge of his consciousness, teasing him with its proximity but not quite allowing him to give in to the peace it offered.

The bed was luxurious, cradling the parts of him that still ached, and he realized suddenly why Draco might actually have come to enjoy it here, especially considering what the alternative was. The thought was disturbing. He couldn't help but recognize the cruel psychological pressures at work around him -- chained by comfort, won over by gentleness. All his physical needs and desires provided for, granted conveniently by one Severus Snape. And only by Snape.

No. He would never give in so completely like Draco seemed to have done. As long as he rebelled, as long as he fought against the strictures that were being imposed on him -- at least inwardly -- then he was still him in a way they couldn't touch. No matter what Snape did to him.

Curling tightly around his pillow, Harry closed his eyes and waited wearily for sleep to come.

It surprised him that he didn't feel any different when he woke up the next morning.

That just seemed wrong somehow, like the involuntary loss of his virginity should have left some kind of visible mark on him. He lay for a long while just staring up at the ceiling, blinking in the late morning light that suffused the room. He never had closed the curtains over his windows last night, and he supposed it was a sign of how very exhausted he'd been that he hadn't been woken by the shaft of bright sunlight that spilled across his bed.

As much as he wanted to just lie there and feel sorry for himself, the lack of activity would ensure that he had nothing to do but think. And that was the last thing he wanted to do. So he dragged himself out of bed and made use of the lavatory, then went to the thick paneled wardrobe against the far wall to see what had been provided in the way of clothes. To his immense relief, he found a variety of comfortable trousers, along with several warm-looking sweaters and T-shirts. It didn't escape his notice that every single item of clothing was in his exact size.

Feeling marginally better once he was dressed, he began to notice how empty his stomach was. He'd had very little to eat while he was in Voldemort's prison, and his luncheon with Draco yesterday couldn't make up for the fact that he'd deliberately missed dinner the following evening. There was no sign of his neglected tray from last night, which he assumed had been cleared away while he slept.

Not knowing what else to do, he went out in search of breakfast. He honestly dreaded running into Snape, but he had no intention of hiding out in his room until he was "summoned" again. If nothing else, he could keep looking for a way to escape.

He glanced longingly at the windows overlooking the back yard when he passed them in the hall, pausing again to test the locks. They didn't budge, and a discreet test with one of the busts that lined the hall proved they were as impervious to breakage as the ones in the study had been. He glanced around nervously as he continued in the direction of the kitchen -- nothing terrified him quite so much as the thought of being caught in the act of trying to escape, even after last night. Snape had made it perfectly clear that any such attempt would be met with a one-way ticket back to Voldemort.

The house elves in the kitchen were only too eager to offer him food when he asked for it, and he found himself laden with a platter piled high with a breakfast that three of him couldn't possibly have had a hope of finishing. Nevertheless, he was reluctant to offend their hospitality, and he sat in an out-of-the-way corner while he did his best to eat what he could.

He truly didn't have any kind of plan in mind when he engaged the house elves in conversation, although it did occur to him in passing that it would be a good idea to get a feel for what Snape was like as a master. Apparently Snape was well-respected by his staff, even if they found him a bit intimidating. A number of them had been acquired through trade of one kind or another, having been liberated from extremely abusive situations in other Death Eater homes.

And that was just par for the course with Snape, now wasn't it? The man seemed to be in the habit of taking in strays. Rescuing house elves from abusive masters, taking on Draco to save him from being whored to the Death Eater army, saving Harry. The more Harry learned about him, the more confused he became.

After breakfast, he found Draco watching TV in the north lounge. The other boy was sitting sprawled against one corner of the plush sofa, sipping from a bottle of Diet Coke. The image looked surprisingly homey to Harry, and again he had an uncomfortable moment where he found his present situation impossible to reconcile.

"'Morning," Draco said when he saw Harry standing in the doorway, glancing up briefly from under silver-pale lashes. His tone was casual, but Harry had no doubt Draco knew exactly what he'd been doing with Snape last night. The thought made Harry's face heat in reflexive embarrassment, even as he allowed himself a twinge of gratitude that Draco apparently wasn't going to mention it.

"Good morning." Harry moved into the room and curled up on the opposite end of the sofa, glancing out the window at the hills outside. Seeing Draco was bringing back all of the things he'd been trying not to think about, and despite the fire roaring pleasantly in the hearth, he felt uncomfortably cold inside. A part of him was convinced he wouldn't ever feel warm again.

"How do you stand it?" he asked, after several minutes had passed.

Draco took a long sip of his soda before answering, apparently collecting his thoughts. "If you keep thinking of it that way, Potter," he said slowly, "you'll drive yourself crazy. You just have to learn to accept that there are some things you can't change."

"I don't want to accept it," Harry said hotly, feeling a sudden flash of anger. Softening his voice slightly, he said, "I just want to go home."

"Well, you can't." Draco's tone was blunt. His eyes gleamed pale blue in the light of the window as he held Harry's gaze. "And you can either sit around whinging about it, or you can accept that fact that Severus bloody well saved your life yesterday."

"Fuck you, Malfoy." Harry swiped the back of his hand across his eyes, feeling miserable.

Draco shrugged, turning back to the TV. "Suit yourself. I'm afraid that's the best advice I have to offer."

The rest of the day passed by in a haze of contradictions for Harry. He didn't really want to spend time in Draco's company, but he didn't want to be alone, either. He wanted to devote all his energy to trying to escape, but he was deathly afraid of what he'd run into if he actually managed to leave. He finally decided on hanging around in the same room with Draco but without engaging him in any further conversation, and Draco seemed content to let him have his space.

Of Snape there was no sign, for which Harry was grateful. He parted company with Draco after dinner and went upstairs to his rooms, which had been cleaned and straightened in his absence. It was his hope that after summoning him the previous night, Snape would be satisfied with Draco's company tonight and would leave him the hell alone.

It didn't surprise him, however, when a house elf appeared in his bedroom doorway later that evening to tell him his presence was requested in Master Snape's chambers. Feeling as if the bottom of his stomach had dropped out from inside of him, he fumbled for his glasses on his nightstand and reluctantly went to answer his master's call.

He knew the way to Snape's rooms this time, but the house elf escorted him anyway, leaving him once again directly outside the door. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he reminded himself again of the reasons why he was doing this and pushed open the door to step inside.

He was unsettled to see Draco lying supine on the bed, pale clothes and hair contrasting appealingly with the dark smoke color of the coverlet. Harry froze just inside the door, hand resting on the doorknob in the act of closing it, and stared. Draco looked perfectly at ease lying there, and he stretched lazily as Harry watched, looking uncannily like a large cat sprawled indulgently across its master's bed. He smiled slightly when he caught Harry's gaze, eyes glinting as they caught the light from the torches.

"Do close the door behind you when you decide to come in." Snape's voice came from somewhere off the right, and Harry turned to see his new master rummaging through some jars on a shelf against the wall. He looked utterly absorbed in the task, and his preoccupation gave Harry the time he needed to regain his composure. Taking a deep breath, he shut the door.

Not knowing what to do with himself, he hovered where he stood, feeling abruptly jealous of Draco's easy complacency. He was sweating now, not knowing why Draco was here, and feeling damn sure that he'd never be able to allow Snape to touch him the way he had last night if there was an audience.

Snape turned away from the shelf finally and moved to sit in a plush burgundy armchair, holding a ceramic jar in one hand. He was dressed much the same as he'd been the previous day, with dark trousers and a pale grey turtleneck sweater. Again, the image conflicted with Harry's memory of him from Hogwarts, and he turned his eyes away hastily, remembering all too clearly the things that had been done to him last night.

"Disrobe," Snape ordered, drawing Harry's attention back sharply. Snape met his gaze coolly and added, "Both of you."

Cheeks flaming, Harry glanced at Draco, but the other boy was already unbuttoning the front of his loose white shirt, apparently unconcerned with the casual command. Harry hesitated only a moment before following suit, even though he felt like his face was so hot it was about to set his hair alight.

Unable to resist looking, Harry indulged his curiosity by sneaking glances at Draco as he undressed. The other boy's skin was smooth and pale, his body leanly muscled without being overly thin. He had tapered hips and long legs, which seemed to fit with the obscenely graceful hands that Harry'd always guessed had never seen an honest day's work in their life. He looked... elegant. Pale and willowy and truly heartbreakingly beautiful, if Harry was being perfectly honest.

Certainly Harry was nothing to look at in comparison, and he wasn't sure why that thought should bother him so deeply. It wasn't as if they were in competition with one another. They were allies in this, no matter how strange that seemed, both of them victims of the same misfortune.

Naked now, Draco rolled over onto his stomach, resting his chin on the backs of his folded arms with a lack of self-consciousness that Harry envied. His silver-blond hair fell half over his eyes, giving him a rakish look, and he smirked when he caught Harry's gaze, as if he knew full well the picture he made lying there.

Harry felt awkward in comparison, but he managed to finish undressing without tripping over his feet or doing anything to embarrass himself too intolerably. He could feel Snape's eyes on him, and Draco's as well, examining him with the same cool assessment he'd used while looking at the other boy's naked body.

Snape hummed softly in what might have been appreciation, and Harry kept his eyes on the floor, trying not to make his discomfort too obvious. Draco's admonitions aside, exposing himself in this way was truly one of the most difficult things he'd ever done.

"Draco." Snape's voice was pure sensuality, deep and smoky as it twined through the air between them. He leaned back in his chair and hooked one hand over his bent knee, looking completely at ease despite the desire that sharpened his eyes. "Harry looks nervous. Do what you can to help him relax, would you?"

Immediately, Draco rolled off the bed and onto his feet in a single smooth motion, proving that he was as graceful in the bedroom as he was on the Quidditch pitch. He reached for Harry's hand and tugged gently, urging him toward the bed.

"Come on, Harry," he murmured, as if he were trying to soothe a wild beast. "It's going to be okay."

Reluctantly, Harry allowed himself to be led to the bed, where he lay facedown when Draco urged him to do so. He was beginning to get an idea of where this evening was heading, and only the sheer absurdity of it made it possible to keep himself detached enough not to run screaming from the room.

Draco smoothed a hand lightly over the curve of his arm, still murmuring softly to calm him. Harry's heart was pounding despite the other boy's best efforts, but he forced himself to lie still while Draco reached for the squat jar Snape handed him, settling down over the backs of his thighs. The warm weight of him shot straight through into Harry's groin, and he shifted restlessly, burying his face between his folded arms.

Submit, his brain screamed at him, reminding him again of why he was allowing this.

"Just relax." Draco's voice was low and soothing. He poured a small amount of something slick and scented into the hollow between Harry's shoulder blades, and Harry jumped at the unexpected contact. A moment later, Draco's hands were massaging the oil into his back, long fingers pressing deep into the muscles of his shoulders.

This was something that Draco had obviously had practice doing before. Within moments, Harry found himself melting bonelessly into the bed, every muscle turning liquid within him under the other boy's talented touch. This was something else that Harry had never experienced before -- this kind of intimate skin-on-skin massage -- and the pleasure of it spiraled through him, making him feel like he was floating somewhere far outside his body. It made him harden slightly where his hips pressed into the mattress beneath him, and he could tell by the way Draco's body pressed against his upper thighs that he wasn't the only one having that particular reaction.

He was still floating in a sea of bliss when Draco slid down to lie beside him, and Harry turned his head to look at him, feeling dazed. Draco's eyes were wide and dilated, dark against the paleness of his face, and his cheeks were flushed pink with arousal.

Harry couldn't find it in him to resist when Draco kissed him. The oil-slick hand on his back slid up to fist in the back of his hair, holding him steady while Draco leaned in to deepen the kiss, pressing his tongue into Harry's mouth. He tasted like apples and wine, and his tongue was hot and wet and fiendishly clever as it flickered across Harry's, inviting him to respond in kind. Harry groaned softly and acquiesced, lifting his head slightly from where it rested on his arms.

"That's it, Harry," Draco breathed, pulling back to nuzzle the side of Harry's nose. He shimmied forward until their bodies pressed together from shoulder to hipbone, half-draping himself across Harry's back. His body felt sinuous, sensual, and Harry shook with the sudden desire that sparked through him, feeling cornered by his own need, his own vulnerability when it came to these sexual encounters. As pleasurable as it was, being forced into intimacy with people he despised was the ultimate humiliation, especially when his traitorous body responded so eagerly to their touch.

He could feel Snape's eyes on them when Draco moved in to kiss him again. Harry closed his eyes and just stopped thinking, rolling into Draco's embrace as he gave himself up to the moment. His mind was consumed with the picture they must make, lying twined together here on Snape's bed, one tow-headed and the other dark, two slim forms passing kisses back and forth as if it were the breath of life between them. It was actually quite pleasurable, if he was being honest with himself, and he was almost able to forget why he was here, and the reasons he was doing this.

The feel of Draco's fingers sliding over the cleft of his arse made him tense abruptly, but Draco just murmured to him, carding soothing fingers through his hair. Harry closed his eyes even more tightly, wishing he had the courage to say no, that he didn't want this, even as he knew in his heart that he wouldn't. Because he knew full well what they'd do to him if he resisted... and did that make him a coward? The hero of the wizarding rebellion, reduced to spreading his thighs for whomever his Death Eater master gave him to, getting fucked up the arse like a common whore. Allowing this kind of intimacy seemed like the ultimate in submission, and the thought that he was being expected to give this to Malfoy made him burn with resentment.

"I hate you," he whispered, and Draco rubbed their cheeks together lightly, sliding one oiled fingertip in slow circles over the opening of his anus.

"Shh, I know." Draco tightened the arm he had looped around Harry's shoulders while he worked his finger inside, twining his leg around one of Harry's own to restrain him when he reflexively pulled away. He flexed his hips slowly against Harry's abdomen while he did so, making Harry excruciatingly aware of how ready he was for what was coming next. Harry's own interest in the proceedings could hardly go unnoticed in this position, but thankfully, Draco didn't draw attention to it.

Harry closed his eyes and pressed his face against the side of the other boy's neck, wishing his body wasn't working at such odds with his mind. Draco had two fingers in him now, fucking him slowly in and out, and Harry couldn't help but move his hips in slow rhythm with their steady thrusting, feeling the electricity of want crackling under his skin. He knew Snape was still watching them, watching Harry make an utter slut of himself on Draco Malfoy's hands, but even that wasn't enough to cool the rampant arousal that was exploding through him. He rather suspected that the oil Draco used on him earlier had been charmed to ensure that his body would be a willing participant in the evening's activities.

It was almost a relief when Draco rolled him over onto his stomach and draped across his back, urging him to spread his legs. Harry twisted his fists into the sheets and obeyed, feeling the sweat stand out on his skin as he waited for the first thrust. Draco licked at the back of his shoulder and drew in a shuddering breath, sinking his teeth lightly into the skin there.

"You are so fucking beautiful," he whispered, nuzzling into the thick hair behind Harry's ear. "I wish you could see yourself."

The statement made Harry feel inexplicably angry, because he wasn't beautiful, wasn't pretty, wasn't anything special to look at, especially next to Draco's silver-lined beauty. But before he could respond, Draco slid into him in one smoothly oiled thrust, and it was all Harry could do to remember how to breathe.

Draco wasn't as gentle as Snape had been, but he was thorough. Harry's hands clenched white-knuckled in the sheets as Draco rode him, and he couldn't stop himself from feeling it, from reacting to it, as whatever charm had been in the massage oil forced his nerves into super-sensitivity, denying him even the satisfaction of suppressing his own arousal. It wasn't long before he was muffling his cries in the pillow under his face, bucking up into the body that covered him as he spurted his release into the sheets. Draco's hand on his cock eased him through the aftershocks of it, wringing out every last drop of pleasure, and then he howled into the back of Harry's neck as his own orgasm hit, crushing their bodies together.

Still panting, Harry turned his head to see Snape still sitting in the shadows at the corner of the room, one hand stroking slowly between his legs as he watched them. Even through the haze of afterglow, it was perfectly obvious that seeing them together had excited him. Snape beckoned languidly with one hand, and Draco gave the back of Harry's shoulder a final kiss before he pulled out. He slid off the bed without any visible hesitation, crawling cat-like on his hands and knees toward the chair where his master waited.

Numb and aching both inside and out, Harry couldn't help but stare, cheek pressed against the mattress where he lay. From this angle, he could see a patchwork of thin silver scars decorating Draco's back, shining dully in the torchlight as he moved. The sight terrified Harry more than anything he'd yet experienced. He wondered what Snape might have done to inflict them, if maybe the scars had been punishment for some past infraction.

There was no noticeable reluctance in Draco's movements, however, as he drew up onto his knees in front of Snape's chair. Sweaty and disheveled and truly quite beautiful to look at, he rested his hands on Snape's knees as Snape leaned down to kiss him, threading the fingers of one hand into the fine fall of hair at the back of his head.

The way they touched was so tender that they looked more like lovers than master and slave. Hardly daring to breathe, Harry watched while Draco's hands deftly moved at the fastenings of Snape's trousers. His heartbeat quickened when he saw Draco nuzzle up against Snape's face in a curiously affectionate gesture, licking lightly at the edge of his jaw before bending his head down over the older man's lap. His head obscured Harry's view, but there was no doubt in Harry's mind what he was doing.

Flushing warmly with something that was only half shame, Harry wrestled with the conflicting urges the sight sparked inside him. Snape's head tipped backward with a low sigh, exposing the long white arch of his throat as his fingers twined deep into Draco's hair. Draco's head moved in a sinuous rise and fall that forced a series of breathy moans past Snape's lips, as Harry watched, unable to tear his eyes away.

Snape's hands clenched hard in Draco's hair a moment before he climaxed, eyes squeezing tightly shut with the visible pleasure of his release. Harry found himself holding his breath for the duration of it, feeling something sharp and bright explode deep inside of him. He felt suddenly that he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be watching this, but neither could he bring himself to move. He didn't want to see this side of Snape, this part that was human, and vulnerable, and wasn't afraid to take what it wanted.

Afterward, Draco slithered up into Snape's lap to nuzzle at the side of his face, all but begging for more kisses, and Snape obliged him, wrapping his arms possessively around that pale, slim body. He bent to devour the half-opened mouth Draco offered him as Draco leaned against him, relaxing with visible gratitude into his embrace.

That was too much for Harry, and he finally had to turn away. His heart was pounding with emotions he couldn't even identify, and he slipped out of the bed, wiping himself off with the edge of the sheet before he discreetly gathered up his clothes. Snape hadn't given him any specific orders to stay, and he seemed to be occupied enough with Draco at the moment that Harry's presence might no longer be required.

Harry couldn't help casting one last glance over his shoulder before he left the room. Draco was curled up comfortably in Snape's lap, lashes casting dark charcoal shadows across his cheeks as he was kissed and nuzzled, smiling faintly at whatever Snape was murmuring in his ear. Harry surprised himself by feeling a sharp pang of envy -- for what, he didn't know -- but he ruthlessly squashed it as he pulled open the door and made his way out into the cold hallway heading back to his room.

Neither of them so much as looked up as he left.

The next morning, Harry slept in late once again and then made his way downstairs to see the house elves about getting some breakfast. He had absolutely no interest in seeing Draco at all, so of course Draco was the first person he laid eyes on when he came down the stairs into the front hall.

"It's about time you woke up." Draco's tone was wry. He peeled himself away from the low pillar he'd been leaning against and moved to walk at Harry's side. Glancing up from under his lashes, he asked, "Did you sleep well?"

Harry wondered just how often he could get away with telling Draco to fuck off. He wasn't in any mood for company this morning, and figured he was under no obligation to pretend otherwise. Not feeling particularly hungry anymore, he turned away from the kitchen and started in the direction of the atrium.

"Come on, Harry." Apparently their little tryst last night meant Draco thought it was acceptable to use his first name now. "You can't just bottle everything up inside or you'll go mad. Do you want to talk about anything? Ask me anything? Hit me? Hold me down and fuck me? Anything?"

Harry was rather proud of the fact that he didn't blush at all at that, regardless of the memories the comment invoked. For the first time, he began to suspect that Draco had been given the rather thankless task of ensuring that he adjusted properly to living the life of a slave. The thought made him smile humorlessly.

"Where did those scars on your back come from?" he asked, once it became clear that Draco wasn't going to leave him alone.

This was apparently the one question Draco hadn't been anticipating. He hesitated for a long moment before answering.

"I wouldn't worry about that," he said finally, scuffing at the floor with the toe of one shoe. "It's something I.... It's not something that'll ever happen to you."

And Draco always had put evasion down to a fine art. Harry sat down in front of one of the broad windows overlooking the back garden and pulled his knees up to his chest. "Did Snape do that to you?" he pressed, really wanting to know.

Draco sat down beside him, moving a bit more stiffly than his usual streamlined grace would warrant. Uncomfortably, Harry wondered if perhaps Draco had done something to instigate further punishment last night after he'd left.

"It's nothing," Draco said sharply, without meeting his gaze. "I asked for it." The subject was very clearly closed, and Harry sighed, wondering why he even bothered.

The rolling hills outside the windows looked like something out of a storybook, cool and beautiful and about as attainable as a dream. Harry began to wonder if he was ever going to breathe fresh air again, or feel sun on his face that didn't come through a window. The thought was depressing, and he deliberately tried to turn his mind away from it, but there wasn't much to distract him for long even in a house as grand as this one.

Draco disappeared again during the afternoon, leaving Harry to mull things over on his own. He couldn't help thinking that this must be yet another of the psychological weapons Snape was using against him to ensure his docility, keeping him in isolation so that his only contact with other human beings came at his master's whim. Even as he recognized that the idea was in all likelihood more a trifle paranoid, he couldn't completely bring himself to discount it.

Evening was just beginning to fall when Snape sent for Harry to come to his chambers. Harry tensed reflexively at the news, feeling a low ache begin to throb dully in his chest. Snape couldn't possibly want him every night, now could he? If that was the case, he didn't know how long he'd be able to keep himself sane.

The house elf that had come for him escorted him to a room upstairs that Harry hadn't seen before, and he couldn't help but look around curiously as he entered. Deep bookshelves lined all four walls, filled near to overflowing with books and jars filled with unidentifiable pieces of things that were presumably waiting their turn to be used in one of Snape's potions. Draco was perched on a low stool off to one side of the room, feeding a crust of bread to the dusky grey barn owl sitting hunched in a cage by the window.

Snape was seated at a low desk against the far wall, dressed in his black traveling robes. "I'm glad you're both here," he said, glancing up briefly from the papers he was shuffling through. "I've been called to attend an urgent meeting by the council. I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you two alone for a while."

Draco glanced up, looking stricken. "So soon?"

"It will only be for a couple of days." Snape sounded oddly compassionate, although his expression was fixed in its usual glower as he met Draco's gaze. "I'll expect both of you to stay out of trouble until I get back."

Harry dropped his gaze to the floor, swallowing back his elation over this news. A couple of days without Snape would be a well-needed reprieve, even if he still had Draco to contend with.

"Draco," Snape continued pointedly, either not noticing or else choosing not to acknowledge the reaction his announcement had caused, "I'll ask you to look after Harry until I return."

Draco gave Harry a long sideways look before glancing down again, picking at an invisible thread on the leg of his trousers. "Yes, sir," he said sullenly.

The instruction irritated Harry, although he had enough presence of mind to hold his tongue. He didn't need a babysitter! And he certainly didn't intend to take orders from Malfoy of all people. The fact that Draco seemed as unhappy about the arrangement as he was gave him little consolation.

That was the last Harry saw of Snape before his departure, and he spent his first uninterrupted night since coming to stay at Snape Manor. Oddly enough, knowing he wouldn't be summoned made it no easier to sleep than it had been the previous few nights. He spent an uncomfortable handful of hours tossing in his bed before he finally gave up and went to curl up in front of his window, gazing down at the grounds outside.

After nightfall, the distant forest drew a jagged black line against the edge of the sky, which loomed darker and deeper than any sky Harry could ever remember seeing before. Moonlight limned the grass on the hills, painting their surface with the illusion of the snow that would be falling any week now. Autumn was passing, winter was coming, and the world -- such as it was -- moved on.

Sleep was a long time in coming.

The following day, Draco surprised Harry by challenging him to a game of Muggle basketball. Apparently Snape had an indoor court sequestered in the far west wing of the house, and while Harry couldn't quite reconcile this discovery with the image he had of Snape, the physical outlet was a much appreciated diversion from his current troubles.

At first it had struck him as odd that Snape would have such mundane Muggle entertainments as televisions and DVD's -- and apparently basketball courts -- in his home, but over the past few days, he'd realized just how much sense it made. Without being allowed to roam freely outside at will, Draco would have gone stir crazy long ago without some form of recreation. And since neither he nor Harry were allowed to use magic, their options were severely limited.

Harry had wondered initially how a celebrated Death Eater such as Snape could get away with owning such obvious trappings of the Muggle world, but then it occurred to him that Snape's standing in Voldemort's army would very likely have entitled him to an eccentricity or two. To be honest, Harry had felt somewhat comforted at first by the subtle reminders of home, although his fondness for them had soured considerably once he realized that this was yet another manifestation of Snape's control over them -- yet another example of the master tolerantly indulging his slaves.

But as this was his first Snape-free day since he'd entered into this nightmare, he shoved his reflexive misgivings aside and made the decision to immerse himself in the illusion of freedom, for however long it lasted.

Basketball wasn't quite Quidditch, but the old competitive spirit between them was still there, and Harry found himself actually relaxing and enjoying the game as they played. To his surprise, Draco wasn't half bad, and Harry couldn't help but wonder how many times he'd come out to shoot hoops by himself during the months he'd been a slave here. The thought was unexpectedly upsetting, as Harry imagined what it must have been like to be confined here for all that time, alone.

Harry himself had put on about five inches since he'd last had the opportunity to play one-on-one with his friends at home over the summer. His aunt and uncle hadn't dared tell him he couldn't go out to play with the other kids on their street ever since they'd discovered he had a convicted murderer for a godfather (a misapprehension he'd never really seen the point in disabusing them of). The newly won height didn't seem to help him much, however, and the game ended with a score of six-ten, in Draco's favor.

"You're pretty good," Harry said, breathing heavily as he dropped onto a bench at one side of the court. A house elf appeared seemingly out of nowhere to hand him a towel, and he used it to wipe at his sweat-sheened face.

The self-defacing grin Draco favored him with couldn't quite hide the shine of pleasure in his eyes at the compliment. "I've been coming here to practice fairly regularly. It's really the only kind of exercise I get when Severus is away."

Which was something Harry was still having a hard time imagining. "I never would have pegged Snape for the basketball type."

Draco snorted. "He's not. He had an old ballroom converted into a court for me when I first came to live here. I don't believe he's ever actually stepped foot on it himself."

That bit of information made Harry pause. "He really does enjoy lavishing us with luxuries, doesn't he?" he mused, trying hard to keep the resentment out of his voice.

The look Draco cast at him was puzzled. "Well, why wouldn't he? It's not like it's his intention for us to suffer while we're here."

And he just didn't want to get into another fight this morning. Deciding to let the matter go for now, Harry asked, "So why basketball? I hate to say it, but you never struck me as much of the basketball type, either."

Draco's smile thinned in the first real sign of bitterness he'd shown since the morning Harry had first seen him here. "It's not exactly like I can play Quidditch anymore, is it?" Harry found it disturbing that he couldn't tell who the brief flash of anger was aimed at.

"So he doesn't let you outside at all?" The thought was vaguely horrifying, and Harry wondered again just how many months the other boy had been here. He wished he had the courage to ask, but wasn't quite sure he'd want to hear the answer, anyway.

"Of course he does, Potter." Now Draco sounded irritated with him, which at least brought the conversation back to something approximating normal. "He insists on going with me, but it's not like he's afraid I'm going to run off at the earliest opportunity."

"Why not?" Harry asked curiously.

The question brought Draco up short. "Why not what?"

"Why doesn't he believe you'd run away if the opportunity presented itself?" It was something Harry honestly couldn't imagine feeling himself.

"Because I wouldn't." He leaned back and hooked one heel on the edge of the bench in front of him, pulling his knee up to his chest. It was a remarkably defensive-looking posture. "Look, I'm not sure what kind of wine-and-roses background you come from, Potter, but what I've got here is a damn sight better than anything I ever had at home. And I'm not about to let you screw it up for me."

Draco's anger completely flummoxed Harry. "I don't know what you mean," he said, shaking his head and wondering just what the hell kind of home life Draco had had to make this seem preferable. "Screw things up for you how?"

"By getting Severus in trouble." The defensive rage in the other boy's eyes was very real, hard and sharp and dangerous. "Just what do you think would happen to him if Voldemort ever found out you'd escaped? You can believe that I'll kill you myself before I let you do anything to hurt him."

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers over his temples, wishing he had a map to lead him through the minefield that was conversation with Draco Malfoy. "Look, I'm sorry. I don't want to fight with you, okay?"

That seemed to deflate Draco's sudden anger, and he looked away with a sharp sigh, running his fingers through his hair. "Okay." He smirked, looking grimly amused. "God. Who'd've ever thought we'd be stuck together in anything like this, huh?"

The comment made Harry laugh despite himself.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and Draco dogged Harry's footsteps dutifully, fulfilling his obligation to make sure he stayed out of trouble. To his surprise, Harry found that he didn't mind as much as he'd thought he would. Something had changed in Draco since Harry had known him at Hogwarts -- a softening of the edges, a lessening of that annoying veil of superiority through which he'd always viewed the world. As much as Harry hated to admit it, being taken down a notch or two seemed to have done the other boy a world of good.

They had just finished watching one of Snape's vast collection of DVD's (Blade Runner, the director's cut version) when Harry announced that he was ready to call it a night. The sun had sunk below the horizon hours ago, and while he was reluctant to face another night of tossing and turning, his body was letting him know emphatically that it wanted a soft bed to lie on. He flicked off the TV and tossed the remote control onto the low coffee table in front of him, stretching languidly.

Draco's eyes gleamed softly where he sat curled against the opposite end of the couch. "Would you mind if I joined you tonight?"

The question caught Harry completely off-guard, freezing the reflexive refusal in his throat. He stared, wondering just when the universe had spun into complete and total madness. "What?"

Draco glanced down, looking uncommonly hesitant. "It's not like we have to... do anything. I just thought maybe you wouldn't mind having company tonight."

Several things flashed through Harry's mind in rapid succession at that moment. First, it occurred to him that Draco was worried about Snape. It had to be a dangerous world out there, even for the shining star of the Death Eater army, and while Harry himself couldn't give a rat's arse whether Snape lived or died at this point, Draco obviously cared about him a great deal. Secondly, he realized just how long it must have been since Draco had had someone his own age to talk to and confide in, if in fact anyone had ever filled that role in his life at all.

"You miss him, don't you?" he said at last.

Draco's sudden smile was sharp-edged, and the firelight caught on a sudden harsh glint in his eyes. "I don't need your pity, Potter." He moved to stand up abruptly, clearly intending to leave.

"Wait." Harry held out one hand in entreaty, inwardly cursing himself for not letting Draco walk off in a snit if that was what he wanted to do. But something in him just couldn't let Draco leave that way, not after the day they'd spent together. As weird as it sounded, he was beginning to consider Draco Malfoy a friend.

Draco paused, shoulders hunched defensively as he turned back to meet Harry's gaze. There was something extremely vulnerable about the posture, as if he was fully expecting Harry to lash out with something hurtful and degrading in response to his temerity in asking for companionship.

Harry tried to muster even a spark of the hatred he'd felt for this boy at some former point in his life and failed, utterly. If anything, he pitied him. Son of a Death Eater, subjected to a home life that was apparently even more abhorable than sexual slavery, imprisoned and isolated and cut off from everything he'd ever known, Draco Malfoy was as much a victim -- if not more so -- of Voldemort's machinations as Harry was.

"Look." Harry raked both hands back through his hair, glancing down at his crossed legs nervously. He thought about going back to his own empty suite, devoid of hope or the laughter of friends, and suffering through yet another sleepless night, pondering the tragedy his life had become. And suddenly it didn't seem like such a terrible thing at all, to allow Draco this one small intimacy. "I don't want to be alone tonight, either. Maybe you can... stay in my room, just for tonight. Okay?"

Draco hesitated for a long minute, looking torn. Clearly, a part of him resented being reduced to asking for anything, but just as clearly, he didn't want to go up to his rooms alone. Finally, he nodded. "Just for tonight," he agreed.

It was strange having Draco follow him into his suite with the intention of getting ready for bed, but Harry had to admit that it was a bit of a relief not to be facing another night in these cavernous rooms alone. Obvious discrepancies aside, it wasn't much different than sharing Ron's bedroom at the Burrow over the summers. Was it?

After all, his bed was certainly more than big enough for two. Shoving his uncertainties aside, he mechanically went about the process of preparing himself for bed. He lent Draco one of his own pair of pajamas, and tried not to think about much of anything at all as he crawled into his usual half of the bed, feeling the mattress dip under Draco's weight behind him a few minutes later.

"Good night, Potter."

Harry turned at the soft words, squinting in the muted firelight that flickered with deceptive gaiety from the hearth. Draco was lying curled on his side at the far end of the bed, eyes gleaming softly in the light. Belatedly, the thought crossed Harry's mind that maybe Draco was intending to force some kind of intimacy from him, but he just as quickly discarded the notion, seeing absolutely no evidence of hostile intention in the other boy. Forcing himself to relax, he settled down against his pillow and closed his eyes. "G'night, Draco."

And it was better, somehow, lying there in the darkness and knowing he wasn't alone. Even if it was Malfoy. Or perhaps, if he was being honest with himself, because it was Malfoy. Because no one else would have understood even an ounce of the fears and doubts tumbling through his head at that moment, and there was a strange sort of comfort in knowing that he didn't have to suffer through it all on his own. No matter what he would personally have chosen in the matter, a bond had been formed between the two of them -- a bond of shared experiences and common destiny, whatever that destiny might be.

Lulled by the oddly reassuring sound of breathing that wasn't his own, he fell asleep.

He woke some indeterminate time later to find Draco pressed up tightly against his side and snoring softly. Shifting uncomfortably, Harry tried to slide himself away. He didn't have anywhere close to Draco's ease in sharing his personal space, and the memories of the recent attacks on his person were still too recent to make any kind of full-body contact at all comfortable.

Despite the carefulness of his movements, Draco's eyes slitted open while Harry was still in the act of disentangling himself. Draco blinked rapidly for a moment before edging back toward his own end of the bed.

"Sorry," he mumbled, still sounding half-asleep.

Harry sighed and dropped his head back down onto his pillow. "Don't worry about it."

Draco smiled at him, looking as unguarded as Harry could ever remember seeing him. "You really are beautiful, you know."

Startled by the unexpected pronouncement, Harry lifted his head again, his heart rate spiking sharply. "What?"

"You didn't seem to believe me when I said it the other night." Draco's eyes were bright slits of color in the darkness, caught by the light from the fire. He looked sleepy, and vulnerable, and about a million miles away from anything he'd been before the war had started.

But that was a memory that Harry did not want to be reminded of, especially under these circumstances. "Just don't, Draco. All right?" he pleaded.

Even dulled by drowsiness, Draco seemed to realize that he'd said something wrong. His open expression seemed to fold in on itself, and he buried himself deeper into his pillow. "Sorry," he said again. "Forget I said anything."

Harry stared at him for a long moment, waiting for his heartbeat to settle. When it became obvious that Draco wasn't going to make any moves against him, he pressed his own face into his pillow and sighed.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Harry." Draco's voice sounded very small in the vastness of the shadows that surrounded them.

Harry peeled open one eye and glanced at him, seeing the other boy looking back at him with an expression of resolute seriousness. He wet his lips slightly and nodded, rolling back onto his side. "I know," he whispered.

He held out one hand without really thinking about it, and Draco reached out to clasp their fingers together. Harry squeezed gently and felt the remaining tension drain out of him when Draco smiled.

Fingers still curled around each other on the mattress between them, they both drifted back to sleep.

Snape returned to the manor two days later, in the company of Walden Macnair. Abandoned by the house elf that had summoned him, Harry hovered in the doorway of the study where the two men sat together, not sure how to react to the other senior Death Eater's unexpected appearance.

Snape looked up and gestured impatiently. "Come in, Potter." His tone made it clear that there would be absolutely no allowances made for disobedience.

Legs moving woodenly, Harry forced himself to walk into the room. The blaze in the fireplace at his left side made a layer of sweat spring up over his skin, and he kept his gaze rooted firmly on the carpet as he moved to stand in front of Snape.

He could feel Macnair's eyes on him.

"Kneel." Again, Snape's tone was curt, impersonal, as if he fully expected Harry to obey him without a second's thought. After the barest of hesitations, Harry did.

"He's willful." Macnair's voice was disapproving. He reached out to run his fingers through Harry's hair, much like a purveyor examining a new head of cattle. Harry had to clench his fists hard on top of his thighs to keep from pulling away.

"But obedient." Snape leaned back in his chair and fixed Harry with a measuring gaze. The glitter in his eyes flashed an unmistakable warning: Prove me wrong and you'll find out just how unpleasant life can be. "I've had him less than a handful of days; these kinds of projects take time."

Swallowing hard, Harry dropped his gaze to the carpet again. He steeled himself not to react when Macnair's hand moved from his hair to cup underneath his chin, tipping his face upward.

"I'll admit you've got him well-trained, considering." Macnair rubbed his thumb over Harry's jaw in a disturbingly intimate caress, making him shudder. An amused smile curled thinly over the older man's lips. "I would very much like to sample him, Severus. If you don't mind, of course."

Harry's heart seemed to explode out of his ribs at that, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, feeling as if he'd just been prodded with a near-fatal jolt of electricity. God. God. Snape couldn't possibly plan on whoring him out to the other Death Eaters -- he'd go mad completely if that were the case.

Snape's low drawl caught Harry before he could spin into a total panic. "I think not." He sounded bemused. "You know how jealous I am of my possessions."

"Indeed." Macnair gave Harry's jaw a final rough squeeze before releasing him and leaning back in his chair. "You've had the Malfoy brat for almost a year now, and you've yet to let me in the same room with him. I do hope you won't be as chary with our young hero here."

"We'll have to see how his training progresses. For now, he's far too unpredictable. And I much prefer to handle his conditioning on my own."

Harry cast a resentful glare up at Snape from underneath his lashes, but if Snape noticed, he didn't comment on it.

"I have perfect faith you'll give him exactly what he deserves." Macnair's tone was wry, yet there was a sadistically eager undertone to the words, buried beneath his usual dry aplomb. The sound of it made the hairs stand up along the back of Harry's neck, and he decided abruptly that he would sooner die than be alone in a room with this man.

The corner of Snape's mouth twisted down in a frown, as if he found his fellow Death Eater's particular tastes distasteful. "Potter." His voice was sharp. "Go upstairs and prepare yourself, then wait for me in my bedchamber. I'll be up shortly."

Despite the sick dread that coiled in his stomach at the command, Harry was eager to grasp at the slightest suggestion of escape. He could still feel the imprint of Macnair's hand throbbing against his skin as he rose, and he glanced at Snape briefly through the thin layer of tears in his eyes before fleeing the room. He could hear Macnair's coarse laughter following him as he left.

And that was just too much to speculate about, too much to even think might be true. Unwilling whore to the Death Eater army, hapless plaything for dozens of Voldemort's finest. Harry shook as he made his way upstairs to his room, wishing suddenly that Draco were there so he'd have someone to talk to, cry to, scream to. But Draco was most likely tucked away in his own bed by now, and Snape never let Macnair in the same room with him, now did he? Harry burned with resentment and fear and an envy he wouldn't admit he felt as he started his shower running.

He found his way to Snape's bedroom without benefit of a guide this time, and the door opened easily for him, granting him entrance. It was somewhat more difficult to bring himself to actually cross the threshold, but the thought of who was waiting for him downstairs -- held off only by Snape's mercy -- was enough to propel him forward.

The room was empty, but there was already a fire lit in the large hearth. The torches situated at odd intervals along the walls never seemed to actually burn down, although the pitch-smoke scent of their smoldering was heavy in the air. Harry took a deep breath and sat on the edge of the tall bed, rubbing his palms over his knees.

He was dressed only in a loose winter robe, which Draco had mentioned Snape liked sometime over the past couple of days. Harry was reluctant to capitulate to any of his new master's whims, but tonight he was especially wary of incurring Snape's disfavor, considering that he was the only thing standing between Harry and God knew what torment at Macnair's hands. Again, the thought sent a frisson of fear slithering through him, and he shivered, wondering that even the immense blaze in the fireplace wasn't enough to make him feel warm.

Snape didn't appear for more than half an hour, and by that time, Harry had worked himself into a state of near panic again, thinking that perhaps Snape had changed his mind and was going to give him to Macnair anyway. Even as logic suggested that if that were the case, Snape certainly wouldn't have arranged for the encounter to take place in his own bedroom, the inherent helplessness of Harry's position began to wear at him. It occurred to him that even if he wasn't going to be "sampled" by Macnair tonight, it was only because of Snape's rather dubious protection, which could be withdrawn at any time.

He was sure he already knew what the price of that protection would turn out to be.

Snape paused when he caught Harry's gaze upon entering the room. Something of the wild terror Harry felt must have bled through into his expression, because Snape actually seemed to look sympathetic, for a passing moment.

"Relax," he said dryly, shrugging out of his robe and moving to hang it up against the wall. "He's gone."

"Gone?" Harry echoed, feeling reluctant to give in to hope so easily.

"Back to Voldemort," Snape affirmed. Tugging open the top button of the shirt he wore, he sat down on the edge of the bed. "Of course you had to expect that they would send someone to check on you at the earliest opportunity, to see for themselves how low the Boy Who Lived has fallen." His tone was sardonic, although the usual dry bite of scorn in his voice seemed directed more against his fellow Death Eaters than against Harry.

"Of course," Harry said dully, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He stared into the fire beside him, feeling its heady heat flicker across his skin. He felt strangely hollow inside, like he'd finally managed to find someplace to hide where they couldn't touch him.

But of course that was a short-lived fantasy. Snape reached out to slide coarse fingers along his jaw, turning his face away from the light. "He bruised you." Snape's brows were drawn together in what looked like honest anger at this discovery. "Bloody bastard."

Harry almost laughed at the incongruity of the pronouncement. But that was the way things worked now, wasn't it? No one was allowed to touch him without Snape's permission.

He refused to admit that there was a strange sort of comfort in that.

Snape's eyes were very dark as they looked into his, and Harry found himself unable to look away. Snape trailed a thumb up over his cheek, tracing the path that Macnair's thumb had taken, but there was more gentleness than possessiveness in the gesture.

"Are you beginning to understand?" Snape asked quietly, and the low intensity of the words made Harry shiver, deep inside. "Are you beginning to see what's waiting for you outside these walls? If you ever do anything to make Voldemort take you away from me...." He tightened his grip slightly on Harry's chin, but it wasn't painful, even over the bruises. "To be a Death Eater plaything, slave to all of them, tortured, abused, and used to satisfy their thirst for vengeance against the figurehead of the wizarding rebellion. Do you understand? I'm doing what I can to protect you, but even that won't be enough to save you if they think you haven't been broken."

Harry stared up at him with wide eyes. "Why are you helping me?" he whispered.

Something harsh flickered across Snape's expression, there and then gone. "I know you've seen fit to assign me the role of the monster in this fairy tale, but I assure you, there are those who would fill that capacity far better than I, given half the chance." His hand drifted down to Harry's shoulder, where it settled warmly over the thin fabric of his robe.

And that, while true, didn't do much to solve Harry's immediate problems. Closing his eyes, he asked, "Where did Draco get those scars?"

Several seconds passed before Snape answered. "It's something he needs, Harry." His voice had turned unexpectedly gentle now, as if he were explaining something to a child. "I don't expect you to understand."

This time, Harry couldn't hold back the low retort of laughter that burst from him, and he rocked back slightly, rubbing his eyes. Even to his own ears, there was more despair than humor in the sound of it. "You whipped him."

"It's not something you need to concern yourself with." Snape's tone was grim. His fingers slid up along the back of Harry's neck, then traced the line of his robe around toward the front of his throat. After the briefest hesitation, he deftly unclasped the upper button there.

Harry tensed, forgetting Draco entirely as his attention was diverted to more immediate matters. His heart was thudding painfully inside his chest, but aside from that, all he seemed to feel was a sort of desolate resignation. And while that was certainly an improvement over the mind-numbing panic of his previous encounters, it seemed... wrong, somehow.

"So warm," Snape murmured, brushing his fingertips over the exposed skin at the hollow of Harry's throat. He settled his palm against Harry's chest and pressed gently, urging him to lie back on the bed. Feeling a familiar spike of dread at the inherent purpose behind the gesture, Harry swallowed his fear and obeyed.

He closed his eyes when Snape continued to unbutton the robe, laying its folds carefully to either side of his body. He was naked underneath, and he shivered with more than just cold as his skin was exposed to the air.

"You truly are remarkable," Snape said, trailing fingers down the line of Harry's chest, pausing just above his navel. He pulled lightly at the small hairs there and bent down to murmur against the underside of Harry's jaw, just below his ear. The soft brush of his hair sparked small frissons of sensation across Harry's skin. "You have no idea, do you?"

You really are beautiful, you know, Draco had told him. Harry forced the thought away, not wanting to think about it. The new truce that had formed between the two of them was too new, too fragile to be dirtied by the memory of the things Snape had made them do together. Even considering the possibility that what they said might be true -- that he truly was desirable in some way that had nothing to do with his status as a wizarding figurehead -- filled him with emotions he didn't want to contemplate given his current circumstances.

Snape gave Harry's cheek a last brief caress before pulling back to shed his clothes, and then he was back again, the mattress shifting under his weight as he settled over Harry's supine form. Snape's body was a warm weight as it wrapped around him, covering him from shoulder to ankle. So warm, and where had Harry heard those words before? He couldn't remember ever feeling as exposed as this, as defenseless as this, like a part of him inside had been split open and scrubbed raw.

"Don't think about it," Snape murmured, leaning in to nuzzle the curve of his jaw. Again, there was that scent of unfamiliar spice about him, sharp and pungent. He slid a hand down Harry's side, tracing the contour of his ribs.

His touch was surprisingly soothing, and Harry found himself relaxing despite himself, giving in to the slow sensations that spiraled through his body. Snape felt so warm above him, so solid, immutable, like a buttressed wall that kept him penned in but also kept all other evils away. It was almost reassuring to know that all he was being expected to do was lie here, and allow Snape to use his body to bring himself pleasure. Just submit, surrender, and survive.

He had a feeling this was going to become his new mantra.

Snape was breathing hard now, and his hand tightened where it was wrapped around Harry's cock, stroking him slowly to hardness. Harry closed his eyes, feeling the arousal uncurl inside him like an unfurling flower, swirling warmly in the pit of his belly. The slow-building intensity of it made him bite hard into his lower lip, feeling torn by the pleasure and the confusion both that shivered through him. But of course even that was becoming familiar now.

Snape's arm slid underneath the backs of Harry's shoulders, holding him close as he settled more firmly into the cradle of his hips. "Harry," he whispered, and his voice sounded broken, strained, as he buried his face against the side of Harry's neck. Harry shuddered as Snape's erection dragged hard against his own, pulling a moan from his throat.

It occurred to him suddenly that Snape wasn't going to penetrate him tonight, wasn't going to demand that most humiliating of submissions. Snape continued to rock against him, slow and soothing, and Harry felt himself melting into the rhythm of it, his knees lifting without his conscious volition to cradle Snape's body more firmly against his own. Snape groaned and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, breath hot against Harry's skin, and Harry whimpered when he felt the sharp sting of teeth there.

When he came, he felt as if he'd been completely undone. He wrapped his arms around Snape's neck, clinging to him through the shock of it as the pleasure exploded through his body. The physical release was a poignant relief in light of the pressures building in his mind, and Snape held him through it, gentling him with soft touches and murmured encouragement.

Harry lay limp as a rag doll as Snape finished the race toward his own climax. The hot spurt of wetness against his stomach pulled another moan from him, and Harry tipped his head back against the pillow, smelling the sharp scents of both of them on the air. Snape gave a shuddering sigh and bit at the exposed curve of his throat, hard enough to bruise.

"Dear God," Snape breathed, rolling half onto his side so his full weight wouldn't fall on Harry's body. When Harry glanced over at him, he saw that Snape's eyes were closed.

For a long moment, Harry just watched him, still enjoying the emotional disconnectedness that came from a truly wrenching orgasm. The outline of Snape's face was painted starkly by the light of the fireplace behind him, emphasizing the sharp hook of his nose and the sallow protrusion of his cheekbones. The sight of him was familiar to Harry, imprinted upon his memories over years of classes and nightmares and vengeful fantasies. There was nothing lovely about him, nothing benevolent, but Harry had to admit to an odd feeling of comfort around him, as if the sheer familiarity of his presence was a talisman to ward off the chaos screaming just outside their door.

The thought troubled him, because he wanted to hate Snape, needed to hate him, for the sake of his own mental stability. He felt so confused, cut adrift from anything that had ever made sense to him, and the feelings Snape invoked in him were as complex as they were contradictory. Harry didn't know what to feel anymore, what to believe. Snape was both cruel and gentle, jailer and rescuer, tormentor and protector, and the contradiction was eating him up inside. He desperately wanted there to be easy answers, but there were none, and the only truth he came away with was the fact that his life was balanced on the head of a pin, and the slightest movement was going to send him spinning off into the abyss. And the only weapon he had to ensure his survival was his submission.

Submit, surrender, and survive.

"May I go now?" he asked. The sound of his voice was very small.

Snape tensed at that, but then he nodded without opening his eyes. "Go, then."

Feeling awkward, Harry rolled off the bed and reached for his robe, not quite daring to wipe himself off on Snape's sheets with Snape lying there no matter how sticky and uncomfortable he felt. He shrugged into the robe hurriedly, pulling it closed around him without stopping to button it, and padded barefoot out into the hall.

The aching hollowness within him didn't diminish as he made his way back to his room, and he contented himself with wiping down with a wet washcloth instead of showering before he climbed into bed. The heaviness of the blankets felt comforting around him, and he curled up into a ball in the very middle of the mattress, trying to pretend he wasn't missing Draco's presence.

Submit, surrender, and survive.

Closing his eyes with a sigh, he fell into an uneasy sleep.

The following days passed more or less uneventfully. Harry woke up in the morning, went about the motions of finding the house elves to get some breakfast (more because Snape had told him it was expected of him than out of any real hunger), and then curled up in front of the windows in the atrium, staring out over the sloping hills of the backyard. Draco joined him there the first couple of days, but when it became apparent that Harry didn't want to talk, he eventually left him alone.

Harry wasn't summoned the next two nights, and he found himself sleeping soundly, falling into bed almost before the sun had finished clearing the horizon and sleeping in long into the morning. He also took to napping in the afternoons, and when Snape summoned him the following night, he went without protest.

Macnair wasn't the last Death Eater to drop by the manor with the intention of checking up on the status of the infamous Boy Who Lived, and while Snape insisted on letting them inspect and paw him to their heart's content, he never allowed a single one of them to use him intimately, no matter how insistently they asked. Harry suffered through these inquisitions stoically, saving his terror and his revulsion for when he was lying alone in his bed at night. This was a taste of what awaited him, after all, if he ever incurred his master's disfavor.

In light of that truth, even sex with Snape ceased to seem a desecration, and instead became simply a trial to endure in much the way he had endured his final exams at Hogwarts -- as a necessary evil intended to help him achieve a desired goal. In this case, that goal was survival, it was not being turned over to Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and Harry was prepared to pursue that objective with every fiber of determination at his disposal.

And if he caught a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror at times, and barely recognized himself in his reflection, well... it wasn't like it was that much of a hardship to avoid mirrors altogether. The boy who looked back at him from them wasn't anyone he particularly wanted to lay eyes on, anyway, all things considered.

It would have made everything a hell of a lot easier if Snape had seemed even remotely pleased with the changes in him. It didn't make any sense; after all, Harry didn't talk back now, didn't insult him, didn't let on that he found his time with him at all objectionable. What Snape wanted, Harry did, with the full intention that there would be no fault found in him at all. But the harder Harry tried to please him, the more surly and critical Snape became.

Which of course only meant that Harry had to try to become even more submissive, more docile. Because that was what Snape wanted, wasn't it? That was what was going to keep him safely tucked away here at the manor, instead of being traded away to sadists like Macnair. Fear had become more familiar to him than the air he breathed, until even that small spark of emotion faded from him, leaving him to go through the motions of living without any real motivation at all.

It was a sunny winter afternoon when Draco came into the atrium where Harry was sitting. Harry was curled up in his usual place front of the window, staring out at the snow-covered grounds outside. He didn't look up when Draco sat down beside him.

"Want to go shoot some hoops?" Draco said by way of greeting.

"No." Harry didn't turn away from the window.

Draco sighed, running the fingers of one hand back through his hair. "You're really starting to piss him off, you know. I just thought I should mention that."

Harry glanced at him in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"This." The skin between Draco's brows was taut with irritation, narrowing his eyes. He gestured vaguely in Harry's direction, as if his meaning should be perfectly obvious. "This feeling sorry for yourself business."

Harry blinked, honestly not understanding what he was talking about. "Have I done something wrong?"

"Honestly, Harry." And now Draco was beginning to look a bit worried. "All you do is sleep and sit here looking out the window. Does that seem healthy to you?"

Harry shrugged, not really caring one way or the other. He knew he was doing what he was supposed to be doing, he was submitting, and that was all that mattered. "I don't know." He turned back toward the window.

"You're depressed, aren't you?" Draco's gaze was suddenly piercing, the intensity of his stare making Harry shiver. Seemingly irritated by the lack of response, he snapped, "You can't just give up like that. It's not the end of the world that you have to be here."

"And what do you care?" Harry rubbed his fingers over his eyes, feeling a stirring of honest anger tremble through him. It felt uncomfortable, and he hastily quashed it.

"Because it's annoying Severus, you shithead." Harry didn't seem to be the only one getting frustrated by this conversation. "So snap out of it, all right?"

"What do you want me to do?" This time Harry couldn't keep the aggravation he felt out of his voice. "I'm doing everything he asks of me!"

"If all he wanted was a body to fuck, he could find that anywhere." Draco's tone was scathing. "Don't you get that yet? It's not just your body he wants; he wants you."

The thought was unexpectedly disturbing. "He's not going to get me," Harry whispered, closing his eyes. He wrapped his arms around his chest and shivered.

"Fuck you, Potter. It's not your decision. He'll get what he wants or he'll send you back to Voldemort." Pushing off from the window seat abruptly, Draco stalked out of the room.

And that was what it all boiled down to, wasn't it? Be obedient, be pleasing, or it's back to Voldemort you go. But he'd done what they asked of him; he'd been obedient! What else did they want him to do?

When Snape sent for him that night, Harry went with a fair amount of trepidation. He'd begun to think he'd gotten a handle on this new life he was being expected to live, but now it seemed things weren't as clear-cut as he'd allowed himself to believe. He kept his eyes focused unwaveringly on the carpet when he stepped up to Snape's bed and undressed perfunctorily when Snape told him to.

"Look at me." Snape's hand under his chin felt cold, tipping Harry's face up to force him to meet his gaze. Harry did so reluctantly, but without any visible hesitation.

Snape's expression did not look happy. But then he never looked happy, now did he? How was Harry supposed to judge what was expected of him if he wasn't given some kind of direction? Did Snape expect him to just divine it on the wind?

Snape tightened his grip abruptly before letting go. "Get on the bed." His voice was sharp.

Scurrying to obey, Harry arranged himself face-up in the middle of the bed. Snape immediately rolled him over onto his stomach, fingers digging into the unprotected flesh of his upper arm, and Harry winced as his face pressed down into the pillow. Draco had been right; Snape was angry with him, although he didn't have a clue what he might have done. The thought terrified him, and he spread his legs invitingly, hoping to assuage some of Snape's displeasure through a visible display of his submission.

The feel of an iron-strong hand clamping down over the back of his neck made him freeze in mid-motion. "Stop it," Snape hissed over his ear, fingers pressing painfully into the sides of his neck. "Stop this right now."

Harry froze, heart pounding, and tightened his arms hard around the pillow under his head. What had he done?

Snape's grip didn't loosen as he moved in to kneel over the backs of Harry's thighs, still fully clothed. There was something threatening about the gesture, making Harry feel smothered. He felt excruciatingly aware of his own nakedness suddenly, not embarrassed as he'd once been but vulnerable, so very vulnerable to whatever Snape might choose to do to him.

"Whatever happened to that vaunted Gryffindor courage of yours?" Snape sneered, still speaking directly into his ear. His breath was a moist heat against Harry's skin. "Where's your impudence now? Your fire? Is this how you deal with adversity without that blasted school there to guide you? You just give up?"

The words stung, and Harry blinked back tears both from their deliberate cruelty and from the pain of the fingers pressing into the sides of his neck. "I don't know what you want from me," he whispered, clenching his hands underneath the pillow.

If anything, the grip on his neck tightened. "Do you think I enjoy raping children?" Snape said thickly, almost shaking with anger now. Despite his obvious rage, he kept his voice low, menacing. "Do you think any of us are in a situation we want to be in here? But of course it all has to be about Harry Potter, beleaguered victim of evil and whore to the devil himself."

The words made no sense to Harry. He was terrified by Snape's anger, by the thought that he'd apparently made some grave error that might make Snape decide to send him away. Crying now, he held himself as still as possible and said, "I'm sorry. Please don't send me back to Voldemort."

"Oh, shut up, Potter." Snape finally let go of his neck and straightened, raking his nails roughly across the center of his back. Harry shivered under the brief sting of almost-pain. "I'm not going to send you anywhere."

The promise wasn't comforting in the least, since Harry knew full well how easily it could be withdrawn. Closing his eyes, he tried to force his body to relax. The sense of helplessness he felt was a leaden weight within him, cold and cumbersome, like an insidious whisper buzzing at the back of his mind. But even that was familiar by now, and he didn't fight it.

Submit, surrender, and survive.

After a weighing moment, Snape said, "You'll submit to anything I ask of you, then?"

Harry lay trembling under him and, not knowing what else to do, offered up his submission as his only means of defense. "Yes," he said, the word sounding muffled where his face pressed against the pillow.

"Anything," Snape repeated, and there was the familiar sneer in his voice again, cold and calculating. His fingers traced an intricate pattern over the skin of Harry's back, making him shiver. "Even to the treatment that gave Draco those scars you were so interested in earlier?"

Harry froze, feeling as if the bed had just dropped out from underneath him. He stared hard at the headboard in front of his face, his vision shimmering. This could not be happening.

But what choice did he have? "Yes," he said after a long pause, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.

Snape abruptly stood and stalked to the polished mahogany wardrobe against the wall. He wrenched the left-hand door open and withdrew a slender black whip, lovingly wrapped in soft tanned leather. Harry watched with wide eyes, hardly daring to breathe, as he came back toward the bed.

"You'll submit to this?" Snape asked, his eyes blacker than Harry had ever seen them. His brows were furrowed in an expression that looked almost pained, as if he was half-hoping Harry would refuse. But that didn't make any sense, now did it? Feeling numb, Harry nodded, dreading the thought of what his disobedience might entail.

Snape smiled grimly. "Then lie still." After a brief pause, he added, "You may want to hold on to something." His tone was mocking.

Woodenly, Harry wrapped his arms around the pillow under his head. Snape took his glasses off and set them on the nearby nightstand, and the sudden lack of sight was both a blessing and an added reminder of his helplessness. The heat from the fire seemed suddenly suffocating, and he concentrated on his breathing, in and out, unable to relax no matter how much he told himself he had to. This was just another form of submission, after all. Wasn't it? Just another way to show his master that he was a good slave, that he didn't need to be sent away.

The first stripe the whip laid across his back felt like a lick of liquid fire. Harry sucked in his breath so hard he felt he was going to pass out, too startled even to scream. God. His hands ached where they clenched around the pillow, and he buried his face in it, feeling consumed by a tide of pure, unadulterated panic. He hadn't had any idea it would hurt this much, like his back had just been split open and all of his insides laid bare.

Before the thought finished forming, the second stripe was laid. This time he did scream, the sound bursting out of him before he could even think to bite it back. The panic that had been pulsing inside his chest exploded up into his throat, scrabbling madly to get out, as sweat sprang up over every inch of his skin, saturating him with the stink of his fear.

Oh, God. He couldn't do this. Couldn't do it couldn't do it and why oh why had he ever thought he could? It hurt, like a thousand screaming knives burrowing underneath his skin, and he could feel the sticky warmth of blood pooling around the wounds the whip had left behind. He thought suddenly of Draco, and the sight of that smooth pale back under the light of the torches, ornamented with a scattering of silver scars.

Then the whip fell again, burning all thought away from him, and again, harder now, and someone somewhere was screaming, on and on and on as if he would never stop. Harry rolled in a futile effort to get away from it, but the whip only hit him across the ribs next time, the tip licking up across his upper arm.

Sobbing openly now, he curled around his pillow, shaking with pain and terror and the desperate, earth-shattering realization that he was completely and utterly at Snape's mercy. No amount of submission could shield him from the reality of what was happening to him, and without making the conscious decision to do so, he heard himself begging aloud for Snape to stop, you fucking bastard, please, just stop.

It took him several moments to realize the whipping had ended. Blinking through the tears that hung in his eyes, he lifted his head slowly and turned to look back at Snape. A light hand traced across his brow as Snape reached down to hold him, and Harry folded readily into the embrace, feeling anchored only to him inside the world of chaos that surrounded them.

"Shh," Snape soothed, brushing Harry's sweat-soaked hair away from his face. Harry nuzzled into the caress without thinking, feeling completely defeated by the simple gesture. Snape held him tightly, and Harry clung to him, crying out his pain and his despair as Snape murmured to him, telling him over and over again that it would be all right.

"I'm scared," Harry whispered, wiping his tear-streaked face against Snape's chest.

"I know." Snape pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Harry felt so safe inside his arms, so warm, and Snape was massaging something cool and thick into the wounds on his back now, working some kind of a salve into his skin. Instead of pain, the touch brought only a soothing numbness with it, and Harry sank against him with a soft sigh.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world when Snape bent down to kiss him. Harry opened to him with a low moan, feeling lightheaded, and shivered when Snape caught his lower lip between his teeth, biting him gently. It felt good, in that indescribable way that only Snape had ever made him feel, and in his current state of emotional devastation, it no longer seemed to matter that he wasn't in this bed of his own free will.

"Harry," Snape groaned, stretching out beside him, and Harry felt a spike of arousal flicker to life low in his belly. He was still crying, but the tears came easier now, and he burrowed into Snape's embrace, taking full advantage of the comfort he was offering. It felt so good to be held this way, to be kissed this way, and there was a reason why he hadn't wanted to give in to this before but for the life of him he couldn't think what it was right now.

Snape insinuated a knee in between his thighs, and Harry ground forward against him, panting hard. His arms were wrapped around Snape's neck now, and Snape was still kissing him, breath rasping like a heated brand across the skin of his cheek. It was all moving so fast, so very fast, and Harry could barely control the overwhelming tide of need within him, alien in its hunger.

"Please," he breathed, without having any true idea what he was begging for. But Snape seemed to understand regardless, and smoothed his hair back away from his forehead with a low hum of encouragement, tracing the line of his ear with one finger.

"Shh, it's all right," he murmured, kissing Harry directly over his scar. "It's all right. Just let it go."

And Harry did, as orgasm struck in a wave of blinding brilliance, stealing his breath away. His voice sounded raw as he cried out, and when he came back to himself several moments later, it was to find that Snape was still kissing him, soft brushes of lips over cheeks and eyelids and jaw that felt almost unbearably erotic in his current state of mind.

Snape held him while his breathing slowed and his heartbeat quieted, and Harry lay there in a dreamy sort of lassitude, waiting for the world to right itself. The beating he'd gotten seemed a million miles away now, as if Snape somehow had the ability to remake reality as he saw fit, depending on his mood.

"You can't let them win, Harry." Snape's voice was low and intimate, the barest of whispers spoken above Harry's ear.

Harry nodded, even though he wasn't at all sure what Snape was trying to say, or what he wanted Harry to understand, or even who "they" were. Snape's arms were sheltering around him, and Harry nestled in against his side, feeling flushed and sated and utterly, bone-wearyingly tired. Half-asleep already, he wondered fleetingly that Snape hadn't tried to take his own pleasure tonight, but then even that aberration failed to hold his attention as the tide of exhaustion beckoned.

His final thought before sleep claimed him was how much more comfortable Snape's bed was than his own.

"I begged him for it the first time," Draco confided to him the next morning.

Harry had woken in Snape's bed that morning to find Snape gone, and himself wrapped rather pitifully around Snape's pillow. Feeling stiff and more than a little awkward, he had dressed in his robe and returned to his room, where he immediately indulged in a hot shower to wash off the residual stickiness of his pleasure from last night. The warmth felt good against the lingering ache in his back, and while there was still a fair amount of pain when he moved, it seemed that whatever Snape had treated the wounds with was going to ensure that they wouldn't scar.

He was sitting in the north lounge with Draco now, watching TV. He still wasn't sure what had prompted him to seek out the other boy's presence this morning, except that he felt suddenly disinclined to spend any further time alone. Odd how realizing that distancing himself from his situation wasn't going to do a damn thing to help him could make him feel so very sociable, but there it was.

"Why?" he asked, feeling honestly curious. He really didn't have to ask what Draco was referring to. He did feel mildly embarrassed that Draco would be aware of the punishment he'd received at Snape's hands last night, but at the same time, he was looking forward to hearing this story now that Draco finally seemed willing to talk to him about it.

"I'm not really sure." Draco leaned back against the corner of the couch to settle himself. "I had a crush on him back when we were still students at Hogwarts. You didn't know that, did you?"

Harry shook his head, wide-eyed. "No."

"No one did, really. Except for Severus. Of course he was adamant that nothing could ever happen between us, him being my professor and all." Draco's smile turned rueful. "I think I actually hated him for that, for a while. I thought he was treating me like a child."

"I hate to break it to you, but you were a child," Harry couldn't resist saying.

The look Draco speared him with was eloquent in its unspoken meaning. "Anyway, when I was first sent here, he told me I could have the run of the place, and that as soon as my father jumped through whatever hoops Voldemort wanted him to, then I'd be free to leave." He paused slightly, his expression darkening. "Not that I really cared -- the last thing I wanted was to go back home. Being sent here was a godsend, no matter what Voldemort intended."

That revelation made Harry pause. Draco had mentioned before that he found slavery to Snape a far preferable option than living free at home. Involuntarily, Harry's mind provided images of Lucius Malfoy the way he'd appeared when Harry had met him at the start of their second year -- cold and arrogant, with a casual disdain for anyone's rights that weren't his own. He'd never really thought about it at the time, but now with the benefit of hindsight on his side, he believed he might know where Draco had learned to equate the infliction of pain with love.

"So what happened?" Harry asked, caught up in the story despite himself.

"I seduced him, of course." Draco grinned smugly, his dark mood lifting. "Crawled right into his bed one night and refused to leave. I reminded him he wasn't my professor anymore, so the only excuse he'd have for not wanting to shag was that he wasn't attracted to me. And when it came right down to it, he couldn't pretend that he wasn't any longer."

"Wow." Harry had to admit to feeling a small amount of awe at the other boy's audacity. And then, because the thought had been bothering him, "Doesn't it bother you that I'm here, too?"

Draco paused thoughtfully, considering his answer before he replied. "It did, at first. But Severus pulled me aside the morning you first came here, and told me that Voldemort would kill you if we didn't take you in. And I know you think I'm a heartless bastard, but I really don't want to see you dead."

Harry couldn't help feeling a bit abashed at that. His opinion of Draco while they'd been at Hogwarts had been fairly well-known.

"And besides," Draco added, shrugging slightly, "I've kind of gotten used to having you around."

Feeling strangely warmed by the statement, Harry said, "So after you seduced him, is that when you asked him to... you know." He couldn't bring himself to say the words aloud.

"Not right away, but close." Now Draco looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he didn't like laying himself open this way. Whatever ritual of pain and pleasure he and Snape followed together, it was clearly a very personal matter. But his voice was even when he said, "And now I wouldn't leave him even if Voldemort ordered me to."

The comment didn't surprise Harry. Only a fool wouldn't be able to see that Draco was in love with Snape.

"Why didn't he heal your scars?"

"I asked him not to." Draco shrugged as if it mattered little to him, but Harry could read the truth in his eyes. "I wanted to keep them."

For himself, the thought was incomprehensible to Harry, but he thought he might understand how Draco might find the thought appealing. A visible sign of Snape's mastery over him, a tangible promise that he was protected and loved.

"We're a bunch of fucked-up bastards, aren't we?" Harry said, and Draco laughed.

"Yeah," he said, grinning as he met Harry's gaze. "I suppose we are."

The winter passed without too many disturbances, marred only by the occasional visit by Death Eaters wanting to vicariously enjoy the horror of Harry's captivity. Harry suffered their visits stoically, showing them the picture-perfect image of the broken-willed slave, and they always went away happy, secure in the knowledge that he was being punished for his sins.

And in bed afterward, Snape would always make such careful love to him, soothing away the memory of their hands and eyes, so that Harry oftentimes forgot about them altogether. He began to look forward to their time together, and to take a strange sort of pride in the way he could make Snape moan, make him writhe, make him come.

When Snape was called away for yet another Death Eater meeting, Harry wasn't surprised in the least when Draco showed up in the doorway to his room after nightfall. Harry welcomed him to his bed without hesitation, and they held each other long into the night, both offering comfort to the other as they grieved their master's absence.

And when that comfort turned physical in nature, Harry again accepted the change in their relationship with a distinct lack of surprise. It seemed perfectly natural that they should share this kind of intimacy together while Snape was away, and the soft chorus of moans and bodies and hands and cocks was a welcome change from the loneliness that had once characterized his nights lying in these rooms alone.

Like the night when Draco offered him the chance to top for the very first time, rolling onto his stomach in a silent plea for Harry to take what he wanted from him. Harry hesitated, torn between the desire to take what was being offered and his fear that he would hurt the other boy, but Draco insisted, guiding him with softly murmured encouragement to ease away his fears. Harry opened Draco's body carefully, feeling awed by the sight of his fingers disappearing into smooth, pale flesh, and traced the pattern of crisscrossing scars across Draco's back with his tongue.

The feel of his cock sliding into that tight, hot sheath was almost more than Harry could bear, and he clung to Draco for a long moment, simply feeling. Draco felt so very good around him, under him, in a way Harry had never experienced before, and the pleasure sizzled along his nerve endings with a kind of wild recklessness that made him want to throw back his head and laugh his joy aloud. And from there it was easy to slip into the slow rhythm his body demanded, as Draco groaned under him, kissing the pads of his fingers as Harry moved inside him, drawing them both closer to the completion they craved.

Snape never used the whip on Harry again. When he returned to the manor, he seemed to sense the changes that had taken place in the relationship between his two young charges, and summoned them both to his bedchamber together with increasing frequency. Harry began to look forward to those times most of all, although he still enjoyed the rare nights when Snape chose to spend time with him alone. Just as he didn't begrudge Draco the nights when Snape would forego Harry's presence, and indulge solely in the company of his silver-haired slave.

At times, Harry wondered at just how normal it all seemed, and how much comfort he drew from it. If there had been a time when he hadn't enjoyed being here, or being in servitude to Snape, he couldn't remember the cause of it. Snape took them for long walks in the woods outside the estate, standing by with an indulgent smile while the two of them romped and played and mock-fought in the snow, pelting each other with snowballs and laughing like loons. They helped him collect the ingredients for his potions, and on occasion he even allowed them to assist him in their preparation, chopping and dicing ingredients while he stirred the cauldron over the fire in his lab.

It was during one of Snape's increasingly frequent absences when the first rumors drifted to the manor of Dumbledore's return. Not quite sure how to take the news, Harry found his comfort in Draco's arms, trying not to think about how very ambivalent he felt. He was overjoyed at the thought that maybe Dumbledore hadn't truly died, but at the same time, he knew that Snape was a Death Eater and a traitor and not likely to find very much mercy at the former headmaster's hands.

The winter wore on into its darkest months, and still the rumors came. The war between Voldemort's forces and the Order of the Phoenix had broken out in earnest again, and the house elves regaled them with tales of skirmishes in Essex, in Bedfordshire, in London itself. Marcus Avery was dead now, the rumors said, and the rebels had taken back the grounds around the school. The Ministry was vacillating, sensing its alliance with Voldemort to be crumbling.

And then came the report that tipped the uneasy balance of the war -- the giants had somehow been convinced to come down out of the mountains and fight at Dumbledore's side. Harry rather suspected that Hagrid would have had something to do with that, and the thought made him grin inwardly at the thought of his longtime friend. He and Draco pressed the house elves daily for information, hearing descriptions of defeat after defeat at the wands of Dumbledore's forces, as the list of those fallen in battle grew. Hogwarts was apparently ground zero now, and in a totally unexpected assault, the werewolves attacked from out of the Dark Forest, almost completely decimating the remainder of Voldemort's troops.

After that, it all seemed to be over except for the aftermath. Harry waited anxiously for news of what had happened to Snape, but on this, the house elves were frustratingly silent. He did what he could to comfort Draco, who grew increasingly distraught as the days passed, and tried to ignore his own conflicted fears.

Finally, word reached them that the remaining Death Eaters had surrendered to Dumbledore's forces. The particulars of what exactly had happened were a little unclear, but the arrival of the news Harry had been waiting most to hear made that minor detail irrelevant: Voldemort was dead.

The war was over.

It felt odd to walk in through the doors of Hogwarts again after being away for so long. The walls were decorated triumphantly with banners of all four Houses, giving the place a festive air that seemed incongruous with the unpleasantness that still marked the end of the war effort. It looked subtly different in other ways as well, populated not by giggling students now but by scattered clusters of weary-looking wizards and witches, each looking fiercely fitting against the background of grey-flecked stone.

Aurors had arrived at Snape Manor the morning after the war's ending to free Harry and Draco. The two boys were whisked away immediately to the school, which had become a kind of rallying point for the victorious wizarding forces. Hermione was there, and Ron, and Sirius, and after that Harry had gotten rather lost in the chaos of welcomes and well-wishes as word of his homecoming spread. His former classmates and teachers gathered around him in droves to voice their happiness at his return.

He lost Draco somewhere in the press between Ron and Hermione's effusive greeting and the obligatory trip to meet with Madam Pomfrey to make sure he'd survived his ordeal with the Death Eaters unscathed. Draco's absence bothered him somewhat more than he wanted to admit to anyone, but he had to content himself with the knowledge that they were among friends now. If nothing else, Draco could take care of himself.

It wasn't until after he'd received a clean bill of health from Madam Pomfrey that Professor McGonagall told him Dumbledore was waiting to speak with him in his office. The summons made Harry feel unexpectedly nervous, and it took him a few moments to realize that it was because he still didn't know whether Snape had survived or not, and he was sure that Dumbledore was going to tell him, one way or the other.

Swallowing hard, he moved to follow McGonagall toward Dumbledore's office. The corridors in this part of the school seemed unsettlingly empty after the chaos of the outer hallways, and he tried not to think about how his footsteps echoed around him as he walked. Hogwarts seemed like a ghost of its former self, a shell emptied of the learning and laughter it had once held so dear, and while he knew that the school's spirit would return in time, it was a bit of a blow to see the place so reduced by recent events.

McGonagall spoke the password at the base of the griffin staircase and then motioned that he should go on alone. "Welcome home, Harry," she said to him in parting, giving him a tired smile that nonetheless lit up her eyes. "We truly are very glad to have you back."

Feeling a bit emotionally raw around the edges, Harry could barely offer up a smile of his own in reply. It seemed to be enough, though, and she gave his arm a light squeeze of encouragement as she turned to go.

Harry's feet felt leaden as he made his way up the curving staircase, but whether that was from exhaustion or something else entirely, he couldn't say for certain. Coming home after spending so many months in captivity should have been a joyous occasion, but instead, all he felt was a lingering disquiet and a sense that he didn't really seem to fit in anywhere anymore. It was a bit like waking up from a long, intensely vivid dream, and he couldn't quite shake off the haze of his waking. All he knew was that he wanted to curl up somewhere soft and sleep for a month, preferably somewhere far away from anyone who had ever heard the name Voldemort.

Dumbledore's office was lit with a series of high-burning torches that successfully chased every ounce of gloom away. Fawkes gave a low warble of welcome when Harry entered the room, and the sound immediately made his spirits lift. Looking around, his gaze fell on Snape's black-robed form sitting in a high-backed chair against the wall, with Draco standing behind him looking defensive and more than a little out of place.

Harry's heart leapt at the sight of them -- Snape was alive! -- but before he could say a word, his attention was drawn by Dumbledore's low voice.

"Welcome back, Harry."

Harry tore his attention away from Snape's scowling visage and turned to face the broad desk where the headmaster sat. Dumbledore looked no different than the time when Harry had first laid eyes on him, except that he seemed a bit more tired now, a bit more worn around the edges. Thankfully, his near experience with death seemed to have left him none the worse for wear.

"H-Headmaster," Harry greeted, feeling inexplicably shy.

Dumbledore smiled kindly. "You've been through quite an ordeal these past months, my boy. Professor McGonagall counseled me against it, but I thought you might prefer to have some kind of closure in this matter before you begin taking your much-deserved rest."

Harry resisted turning to look in Snape's direction again. "Yes. Thank you," he said, moving tentatively to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk. And then, because he couldn't help himself, "I saw you die. How did you...?"

"Return?" Dumbledore's voice was mildly bemused. "Years ago, I took precautions against my own demise in much the same way as Voldemort did. When my body was destroyed, my... essence, I suppose you could call it... remained. All that was left for me to do was to wait for those faithful to me to work the charms that would heal my body and return me to it."

It was a good thing, Harry couldn't help thinking, that Dumbledore's followers were somewhat more faithful than Voldemort's had been.

"I'm glad," Harry said fervently, meaning it. He closed his eyes, seeing again the bright curse-green flare of light, hearing the shouted words of the Killing Curse as the last hope of the wizarding world went up in flames....

"As am I," Dumbledore said ruefully, although there was a haunted cast to his eyes when he said it.

This time, Harry couldn't stop his gaze from turning once again in Snape's direction. He felt cut adrift, not sure how to interpret the steely silence being leveled in his direction. Snape's expression was closed, shuttered, his eyes barricaded behind emotions that Harry couldn't even begin to name. And why was he here? How could he be here? Even after the war's ending, surely a former Death Eater spy wouldn't be welcome inside Dumbledore's inner sanctum.

Dumbledore's next words caught Harry entirely by surprise, even as they seemed to answer the questions he couldn't bring himself to ask. "You will, of course, realize by now that Professor Snape had never truly betrayed us."

The declaration hit Harry like a brick between the eyes, and he swayed, feeling lightheaded. And of course it all made sense now, with that simple explanation. Of course Snape hadn't betrayed them; Harry had only assumed he had. And perhaps there had actually been some small token treachery, to assure Voldemort's trust, to make him into the "golden boy" of the Death Eater army. Working against Voldemort from within, doing what he could to shield the evidence of Dumbledore's revival, all the while protecting the innocent victims of the Dark Lord's cruelty where he could. Draco. The house elves. Harry....

Snape's lips curled in a mocking smile as he met Harry's gaze, as if he were fully aware of the shock Harry felt at the idea that he wasn't a traitor.

"Professor Snape's help has been invaluable to us," Dumbledore continued, as if he were completely unaware of the by-play going on between the others in the room. Harry knew better. "He provided vital intelligence of the Death Eaters' movements, warned us of imminent attacks, and of course diverted attention away from the spells being cast to return me to my body. In the end, I believe Voldemort found my reappearance to be quite a surprise." He sounded pleased. "In the end, Professor Snape was the one to cast the final Avada Kedavra that sent Voldemort away from us for good."

Harry continued to stare at Snape, hearing a dull roaring in his ears that refused to recede. He felt suddenly ill at the thought of the insults he had leveled against him, calling him a murderer and a traitor, accusing him to his face of being directly responsible for Dumbledore's assassination. Snape had taken all the abuse he could hurl at him, and hadn't said a word.

"Why?" he whispered, speaking directly to Snape now. Even he wasn't entirely sure what he was asking.

Snape's expression darkened. "Surely you realize there was no guarantee you would be kept indefinitely in my care," he said, biting the words off sharply as if he found them distasteful. "If I had released you, my cover as a double agent would have been destroyed. And I had no way of knowing that you wouldn't be summoned back to Voldemort at some point, and perhaps tortured for information or for amusement. Either way, if you had known of my deception, it would have proven disastrous for the headmaster's efforts. Likewise if Voldemort had ever taken it on himself to examine my own memories of our encounters." He paused, looking uncomfortable. "If our... liaisons hadn't had at least the appearance of the servitude he'd intended for you, he would have known.""

It made sense, however much Harry hated to admit it. Even the rapes.... If he had been summoned back to Voldemort, he had to have believed entirely that he had been sexually subjugated, just as Voldemort had intended. And so Snape had done what he did -- reluctantly, Harry saw now -- in order to maintain the illusion of his defection to Voldemort's side in the war. He wondered suddenly if the odd spicy taste he'd come to associate with their initial liaisons together meant that Snape had felt the need to fortify himself with some kind of aphrodisiac before attempting to bed him against his will.

Except he'd been careful not to let Harry become too mired within the roles they were being required to perform. When Harry had begun to lose himself, when he'd begun to buckle under the weight of his captivity, Snape had shocked him into taking a good hard look at the price he was paying for that passivity, and pulled him back from the edge. And through all of those long months, partly through Harry's own resilience and partly through Snape's tenacity, Harry had managed to pull through with a spirit that remained unbroken.

He didn't know whether to thank the man or throttle him.

"Your wand, Mr. Potter." Snape's voice was formal. Harry's throat ached when he saw Snape hold out the slender black length of his wand, gone all these long months. It was several moments before he could force himself to move from his chair to accept it.

"Thank you," he murmured, shivering as his fingers closed around the familiar smooth shaft of the wood.

Snape's gaze flicked toward Dumbledore, dismissing Harry entirely. "And now that all the dramatic revelations are out of the way," he said, voice thick with sarcasm, "I respectfully offer myself up to the custody of the aurors."

Draco stirred where he stood behind Snape's chair, speaking for the first time since Harry had come into the room. "No," he said, sounding pained. He looked at Harry in entreaty.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I assure you, there will be no fault found for anything you did while working undercover. In this case, I believe it's fair to say, the ends more than justify the means. If I'm not mistaken, there may even be an Order of Merlin in store for you for your final defeat of Voldemort."

Snape glanced down sharply, clearly not feeling very pleased by this news. "I don't believe you understand the entirety of the... offenses I was forced to commit these past months." He was apparently uncomfortable saying anything more explicit, although to Harry his meaning was perfectly clear. "I was required to perform some very... questionable acts. Particularly against the persons of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy."

"If you're looking for absolution, Severus, I'm not the one to give it to you." This time, Dumbledore's eyes were solemn, and there was no doubt in Harry's mind that he knew exactly what Snape was referring to. "You may indeed be held accountable for your choices by those you have wronged, but I assure you, in the eyes of the Ministry and of the majority of the wizarding world, you are a hero." He glanced at Harry briefly, looking apologetic.

Harry had to bite back a bitter smile at the irony of it. Severus Snape, transformed into a wizarding hero against his will. Maybe they'd even come up with a catchy nickname for him to immortalize his fame for all eternity.

Snape looked like he was going to argue further, but then he seemed to realize the futility of it. There was absolutely no arguing with Dumbledore when he used that tone. Smiling in a way that was curiously devoid of humor, he inclined his head respectfully. "As you say, Headmaster. If that is all, may I be excused?"

Dumbledore hesitated, the skin between his brows pulling together tightly, but then he sighed. "Yes, Severus. You may go."

Severus nodded crisply and pushed himself to his feet, then moved toward the stairs without a backward glance. Draco cast a fleeting look in Harry's direction before pressing his lips together tightly and moving to follow.

Harry's eyes trailed after them long after they were gone. He could still hear the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears, and his fingers were beginning to cramp where they clenched around the end of his wand.

"I'm sorry if you feel cheated in some way, Harry." Dumbledore's voice was somber. "I do understand that you suffered greatly during this ordeal, and for that I am more sorry than I can say. It was never intended for you to be captured by Voldemort. But I do hope that someday you'll be able to--"

"No." Harry's voice was so quiet even he could barely hear it, but it was enough to make Dumbledore fall silent. He rubbed the back of the hand holding his wand over his eyes, trying to pull his thoughts together.

What did he want? Did he feel cheated? Yes, he realized, but not for the reasons Dumbledore was assuming. He didn't want Snape to be charged for the crimes he'd committed. Harry understood that Snape had done what he had to do in order to help ensure Dumbledore's return, and for that Harry was willing to forgive him just about anything. But still, there was a small niggling of disquiet pressing at the back of his mind, refusing to let him simply walk away and let the matter go.

What did he want?

Whatever it was, he certainly wouldn't find it standing here. Feeling suddenly energized, he turned toward Dumbledore and asked, "May I go as well?"

Dumbledore nodded assent, looking worried, but Harry didn't have time to reassure him now. Descending the stairs before he even realized he was moving, he hurried to catch up to Snape and Draco where they were walking together side-by-side down the downstairs hall.

"Wait!" he called, running after them.

Snape turned and fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare, which was enough to make Harry halt in his tracks. Behind Snape's shoulder, Draco watched Harry with a distrustful air, as if he half-expected Harry to launch himself physically in Snape's direction.

Snape closed his eyes briefly, clearly expecting Harry to further accuse him. "For what it's worth, Mr. Potter, I apologize for any wrongs I committed against you." He sounded like it was physically painful for him to say the words. "Although I know you have no earthly reason to believe me, I truly did do everything I did in order to protect you. I won't be surprised if you choose to blast me into oblivion now." He paused. "And I likely would not move to stop you if you did."

Harry realized he was still clenching his wand so tightly the bones of his knuckles showed through the skin. Draco tensed, looking ready to leap to Snape's defense, but Snape stopped him with a single upraised hand. He didn't look away from Harry's eyes.

Trembling now, Harry forced his wand-hand to relax. Even the thought of using an offensive spell against Snape made him feel physically ill.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, swallowing hard when his voice shook.

Next to Snape, Draco relaxed slightly, although his eyes didn't lose their animal wariness.

Trembling, Harry tore his gaze away from Snape to look at Draco. Moistening his lips slightly, he asked, "Is... is your father--"

"He's still alive." Draco's eyes glittered softly in the light. "He's already beginning to work out a deal with the Ministry. My father always has had an instinct for self-preservation." There was a bitterness in his voice that surprised Harry, although he wasn't sure why. Clearly, Draco had no intention of returning home now that his freedom had been granted.

They stood looking at each other for a while longer, until Harry at last took one tentative step forward, and then another. Part of his mind was screaming at him, demanding to know just what the hell he thought he was doing. After all, he wasn't a slave anymore. Wasn't a slave; he could go anywhere he wanted, do anything he wanted, without anyone to tell him yea or nay again.

His choice.

"I...." He trailed off, looking from Draco to Snape again, and then back to Draco. He didn't know what he was feeling, what he wanted to say -- all he knew was that he couldn't let them disappear together down that hall, passing out of his life as abruptly as they'd fallen into it this past year.

The tableau held for a moment longer, and then Draco reached out to cup his hand over the back of Harry's neck. Tugging gently, he pulled Harry forward to press their foreheads together.

"You can't get rid of us that easily," he murmured, shaking the back of Harry's neck lightly. "Not if you don't want to."

"I don't want to," Harry whispered, rubbing his face forward against the other boy's cheek. He felt as if a tremendous pressure had just been released inside his chest, and he smiled, not knowing whether he wanted to laugh or cry. Leaning into Draco's embrace, he glanced up at Snape, looking for acceptance, for welcome, for things he didn't know how to describe.

Snape stared down at him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before he slowly lifted one hand to touch Harry on the cheek. Harry turned his head to kiss his fingers, feeling as if something had just snapped loose inside of him and sprouted wings to fly.

"You do realize," Snape said dryly, trailing the backs of his fingers across the slope of Harry's jaw, "that the wizarding world at large will not approve."

"Damn them all," Draco pronounced succinctly, and Harry laughed.

"You're a hero now," he said, meeting Snape's gaze very seriously. He could tell by the way Snape was looking at him that his eyes were shining. "I'd say that entitles you to a little leeway."

Snape smirked, and his thumb swiped briefly over Harry's lower lip. "Fortunate for me, I suppose, that you've never had more than a passing interest in following the rules."

It was the closest Snape would get to a declaration at this point in their relationship, Harry realized, and he smiled, accepting it like the affirmation it was. Sharing a bemused glance with Draco, he leaned forward to press a kiss to his agemate's lips before Snape gently settled a hand on his shoulder, urging them apart.

"I think we're going to have to sit down and discuss things before we decide where this... relationship... is heading." Snape's voice was firm. When Harry looked up at him questioningly, he softened his voice and added, "I could not bring myself to take advantage of you again."

The regret in his voice was painful to hear, and Harry closed his eyes, knowing this was a subject that would likely haunt both of them for a long time to come. Their future relationship -- if there was to be one -- would have to be based on something other than the force and threat and fear of the winter they'd spent together at the manor. If there was to be anything between them, it would have to be pursued willingly, without a hint of coercion. That meant no more masters, and no more slaves. Just ordinary people who had grown to care about one another, and were perhaps interested in pursuing something more.

At least until they each felt comfortable enough in their roles as lovers to... experiment a little. The thought made Harry smile inwardly.

"We'll go as slow as you want," he promised. Just don't leave me, he added silently, and Snape nodded as if he had heard the words.

"As slow as we need," Snape amended. He glanced at Draco and said, "As long as we're all agreeable."

Draco nodded solemnly, squeezing Harry's hand. "I want to try." And then, thoughtfully, "I think we need to."

Harry knew exactly what he meant. There was too much left unresolved from the months they'd spent together to just go their separate ways and pretend it hadn't happened. The feelings that had been awoken in Harry -- for both these men, incongruous as they were -- were very real, and he wondered fleetingly if toward the end, he'd subconsciously known that Snape wasn't what he was pretending to be.

"I'm hungry," he said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with the weight of the conversation. This wasn't anything they were going to resolve standing here right this very moment.

"I believe the house elves have prepared a breakfast in the great hall," Snape said, and Draco nodded enthusiastically.

"Good," Draco said, grinning in Harry's direction. "I'm starving."

Harry smiled and wrapped an arm around his waist, and together, the three of them moved off in search of food. He still didn't know exactly what he was doing, or where this rather odd relationship was headed, but he contented himself with the knowledge that whatever it was, it was his choice to make. Draco's slim body was a warm heat against his side, fairly vibrating with excitement, and Snape's thumb traced absent patterns across the back of his neck, soothing him with the solidity of his presence. It felt familiar, and comfortable, and right, and Harry knew with blinding certainty that he wouldn't trade a moment of it for anything else in the world.

Wherever they were headed, at least he knew wasn't going to be making the journey alone.