A Perfect Circle
Chapter Six: Eyes of a Tragedy

He pushed through a crowd of London�s least desirable, into a tiny park that was little more than a slice of verdant grass ringed by hedges and overhanging trees. There was almost a claustrophobic feeling to the space. It was night, and the single lamp post in the center of the unusually small square was lit, spilling yellow light on the likewise single bench. There were people in this space, though thankfully they seemed insubstantial, unreal against the unnatural vibrancy of grass and light and overweening night sky.

There were no stars.

One figure alone stood out in equal complexion, and he was moving toward it, unsure of its exact nature even as he passed the rutting couple on the bench to catch red lips in a fiercely possessive kiss.

There was some unspoken history here, only felt.

The body was small beneath his, and he pressed it to the luxuriant grass, feeling heat and taut warmth caught between his broadly-splayed hands. Clothes, indistinctly dark-hued and less than important, ripped like tissue, shredding easily to expose smooth, moon-pale skin. It almost glowed, and green eyes were curiously blank above a decidedly male chest--

Snape woke from the dream, gasping audibly as he propelled himself up and away from his desk. His robes caught on his chair and sent it toppling to the flagstones with a startling crash. His hands shook, and he stared at them for a moment, seeing pale flesh clutched tightly between them.

What in Merlin�s name was that?

He staggered back to his desk, righting the overturned chair and easing himself into it with the care of a much older man. His hands still trembled.

That dream had felt . . . real. Disturbingly so.

Not as though the exact circumstances in the fictional dream-park (fading into hazy recollection even now) had actually occurred, but as though some feeling, some sensation had been experienced bodily. He could feel . . .

No. He felt nothing.

The empty expanse of his desk spread before him like an accusation; he couldn�t recall what he�d been working on, or why he�d fallen asleep here, only steps from his bed. The glass paperweight had begun leaking again, slowly, a thin black ooze that puddled and pooled on the polished mahogany desk. He glared at it absently, wondering briefly why he felt as though the still liquid should roil.

Any extraneous thoughts were shaken free with a few sharp twists of his head. His neck protested, and he climbed to his feet slowly; he simply couldn�t understand why he was so very sore. Surely falling asleep at his desk hadn�t been so damaging as all that. The cracking of his spine was deafening in the still room. Perhaps he should get a familiar, a snake or a bat, for company. He stood on unsteady feet, the bare perception of the nightmare lingering like a wind-shredded mist, fading quickly. He had potions that would help, of course, ready-brewed in the locked cabinet in his office where he . . .

Green eyes.

His steps faltered, and he had to grip the wall with one hand to keep from falling. The old stones were cool to the touch. He was sweating, and shivering faintly.

Green eyes. Why green?

The potion was swiftly downed, after an eternity of forcing the ancient key to turn in its rusty lock, of scrabbling through unlabeled bottles to find the one that could offer relief. It should have occurred to him in the brewing of it that if he needed this potion, then he�d hardly be in any shape to breach his own defenses.

And why did everything he invented have to taste of cloves and licorice?

A grimace of disgust twisted his lips, and he sagged to the floor beside the tall cupboard, back to the wall. It felt cool even through the fabric of his robes. The tiny bottle, unstoppered, rolled from his aching hands, and clinked along the flagstones until it came to rest near his school desk. Perhaps those missing papers were in here, he pondered blearily, staring at the rarely-used pine monstrosity with a weary, reflexive hatred. The open cupboard door creaked as if in a gentle wind.

He sighed, and climbed to his feet, using a hand braced on his knee, the other grasping the cupboard door. This wasn�t like him, to feel so weak, so frail, so . . . used up. Drained. He grimaced, and limped over to the pine desk, settling uneasily into the rarely-visited chair. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. And terribly familiar.

It almost didn�t matter as he pawed through the molting clutter of papers that clotted the desk�s drawers. There was nothing newer here, just old red ink, faded

--whip marks on fair skin--

nearly to illegibility. He shifted a paper, shook his head. Dust wafted steadily from the drawer, dancing a wavering golden curtain in the lamp light

--cast warm on shadowed jade-green eyes--

and swirling in the shifting air currents. He scowled. Perhaps a prank, those Weasley twins . . .

But no. They�d fled the premises in typical twin fashion last spring. Well, Griffindor frequently attempted to give away their much-needed House Points in silly pranks, perhaps one of them had crept into his rooms and . . .

Alright. Perhaps he was simply getting both paranoid and forgetful in his old age. Never mind that he was thirty-seven, very young for a wizard. Never mind that Voldemort had bollocksed up his memory more times than he cared to count. Never mind that Dumbledore had done the same in the name of peace. Or victory. Whichever.

He paused. His hands stilled in their absent paper-shuffling, the ivory scrolls almost dark against his skin; his breath spilled out as his eyes widened, almost involuntarily, over the memory of

--the Dark Lord will have his victory--

hissed into the bloodied shell-curve of an ear. Black hair and green eyes tangled in the memory somewhere, and Severus sat down heavily, scrolls falling from numb hands unnoticed. He couldn�t breathe.

It wasn�t possible.

It was just a dream. He�d never spoken to Albus the night before, McGonagall had cat-tracked him down and stared until he�d retreated to his usual nightly rounds. And the extra sleep should have done him some good, but instead . . . dreams. Damn that Griffindor busy-body. Merlin, this could be . . . this could be the end. If he�d . . .

Merlin. He couldn�t even think it.

His hands were shaking. He gulped in a breath, and levered himself onto trembling legs. Dumbledore would know what to do. It was almost a watchword at Hogwarts: If anything went wrong, then surely Dumbledore would know what to do. And Albus was usually as reliable as his reputation would indicate, even if the meddling old man was frequently rather more reliable than Snape would like.

But personal irritations aside, this was a serious matter. The last time his mind had been tampered with like this . . .

It didn�t bear thinking of.

He swept from his rooms into the early morning light, heart still running a panicked beat in his breast, eyes staring through student and professor alike. He�d been delayed the night before, but McGonagall had no reason to fear for her precious Griffindors in the daylight. Unless the little brats were up to worse mischief than usual.

Unless he�d been. Unless he�d been raping one of them under her nose.

He gritted his teeth, jaw clenching, biting down on the fear. He couldn�t be seen like this, but squared shoulders and a piercing black glare could hide a multitude of sins. And weaknesses.

But no one seemed to notice in his rush to reach the Headmaster�s office. Students swept from his path like leaves, and Flitwick was left talking to his back, paused mid-sentence, a faintly miffed expression growing in his patient eyes that Snape never noticed. It was all ignored, and he burst into the Headmaster�s Office without a single significant interruption.

"Albus!" he called, stepping past the gargoyles with his usual impatience, eyes searching out the old wizard before he�d even fully entered the room. "Albus, we need to speak. Urgently!"

He moved quickly through the first room, ducking into the tower without much thought, nerves singing with anxiety that only increased with each passing moment. It could be him, he could be the one to bring everything to an end and where was Albus?

He stopped before the Headmaster�s desk; it felt as though the last faint hope in his breast had been killed, cremated, and scattered over the North Sea. His eyes squeezed shut, and he breathed a careful sigh, turning to leave. Maybe he could handle this on his own, maybe . . .

"Severus!"

His eyes snapped open, and he whirled to see Dumbledore levering himself carefully down from his astrolabe. The hope surged in his breast, and he almost smiled at the old wizard, a faint curling of lips more used to snarling. Albus grinned back, eyes twinkling merrily behind the half-moon glasses dangling from one ear. "Albus," he breathed, letting his eyes slide shut for just a moment. Then he blinked up at his mentor. "Albus, we have a problem."

"Oh, dear," Dumbledore murmured, easing himself into the chair behind his desk. "I hope it�s not serious," he continued as he began rummaging through a drawer for sweets. "Tea?" he added absentmindedly.

"No, thank you," Snape said impatiently, almost throwing himself into the chair across from the Headmaster�s desk, and sitting ramrod straight once he�d landed safely. Tension thrummed all through his body, he could feel it, and if Albus didn�t stop fiddling with those lemon drops soon his ulcer was going to come back he just knew it . . .

"Here," Dumbledore said after a few moments, his voice kind as he nudged the tea service across the desk. "It�s your favorite," he prompted. Snape ground his teeth desperately.

"Thank you," he muttered, taking the damn cup and sipping from it sullenly. "Can we approach the subject at hand, please?"

"Of course, my dear boy," Albus said, his voice kinder than Snape could bear; he winced, and Dumbledore paused, the sparkle in his bright eyes fading at the slight motion. "Whatever is the matter, Severus?"

�Don�t,� Snape began, struck with the irrational thought that he didn�t deserve his own first name. Something so intimate. He shook himself, narrowing confused eyes as he continued, �Professor, I think we have a problem.�

�Oh?� And Albus raised one white brow, seeming almost amused as Snape searched his face desperately for some sign of concern. �One of the students perhaps?�

�No,� Snape growled. �Or, yes. Maybe.� And the Potions Master floundered to the halt, staring into the depths of his tea. Fawkes purled quietly, breaking the stillness, and Albus turned to offer the phoenix a lemon drop. His fingers were shaking almost imperceptibly around the quarter-ounce bag , and Snape squeezed his eyes shut against a thought.

�Now,� Albus said, his back still turned, �What seems to be the trouble, Severus?�

Snape sat quietly for a long moment. His hands were clenched so tightly around his cup that the liquid trembled and sloshed over the edge, pattering softly on wool and flesh. Snape didn�t notice. He squeezed his eyes shut as though fearing a blow, or trying to remember something so long forgotten it more closely resembled a dream. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded as distant as the wheeling thestral beyond the tower window.

�Albus,� he husked. �Albus, I�ve been . . . I think I may have been losing time again.� It was said with the weight of a great confession, and Snape refused to open his eyes, hiding in the black. �I remember sensations, and images, but nothing more, and they�re like dreams. Very vivid dreams, nightmares, really, and I think I might have done something terrible . . .�

His voice broke, and died. Fawkes rustled a sleepy wing, but there was no other sound. After a long moment, Snape opened his eyes.

Dumbledore was smiling.

�I shouldn�t worry too much about it, Severus,� the Headmaster said warmly, before swallowing his lemon drop.

�Did you hear me, Albus?� Snape growled, leaning forward in his chair so that the front of his robes dabbled in his Darjeeling. �It�s just like before, the disorientation, the lost time, it�s all the same--�

�I�m sure you can handle the situation,� Dumbledore said. He was smiling gently, always a bad sign. �I have full confidence in you, my boy.�

Snape smiled, a tiny little smirk that he felt curling his lips quite beyond his control. �I only wish I shared your certainty, Albus.� It was all over. There was nothing more for him here. He rose smoothly to his feet, setting the fragile tea cup aside and letting his mask resettle into its accustomed graven lines.

�Leaving already, Severus?� Dumbledore was smiling still, that warm, paternalistic lie of a smile that sparkled over his half-moon glasses in fading blue eyes. Snape felt his tiny smirk fade, and was relieved.

�There�s little point in my staying, is there?� he asked. �You know as well as I how little control I have over this disaster, and I suspect that you have even less. What more is there to discuss?� The smile was back, and he tilted his face into the light, feeling something familiar in this, old and familiar like the ache in his Mark, deeper than cartilage and bone. His robes rustled, dizzy recognition, and he turned to face the door. �Good night, Albus.� And there was more than a night�s worth of finality in his purring voice.

�Good day, Severus,� Dumbledore said calmly, stirring another sugar cube into his tea. Snape shook his head, and left.

His robes seemed almost subdued, barely rustling with his long strides through the cluttered office to the door, utterly still in the stairs, never regaining their winged flare and flap.

What he needed was a solid plan.

He could always talk to the boy. Yes, he thought, scripting the conversation as he strode slowly down to the dungeons. Simply call him into the office, say Listen, Harry, we . . . Okay, no, the �Harry� will tip him off immediately, if there�s nothing really wrong then that would make him suspect. Right then, hello Potter, we need to talk. Have I been raping you for the past few weeks?

Oh, bollocks. This was never going to work.

Snape had a problem.

Nothing he could have prepared for, of course. His life had never followed the usual, expected routes to disaster. No, his downfall had been engineered by the Dark Lord and a fey green-eyed boy. A boy. Underaged. His student. Popularly known as the Savior of the Wizarding World, the Boy Who Lived. The boy Snape had been raping on a regular basis for who knows how long.

Oh, Fudge would have just loved this one.

This was the plan. It almost had to be. Snape stared down at his hands, clasped white-knuckled on his desk; Ravenclaws were whispering, the Hufflepuffs chattering in the face of his inattention, but he didn�t stir. It was becoming absolutely imperative that he speak with Har-- with the Potter boy, and the inevitability of learning the truth of his own misdeeds curled, waiting, fluttering in his balls.

He really couldn�t do this anymore.

However tightly he clasped his hands they would insist on trembling; sweat slicked his high, pale forehead, dampened his hair. A cauldron hissed ominously on the Hufflepuff side, but he didn�t bother to check on his students. This was rather more important than a ruined Sleeping Draught, and exploding cauldrons were somewhat rarer in this sampling of the Houses.

The letter waited on the corner of his desk. Well, not really a letter. Nothing so respectable. Just a few scribbled lines in an unsteady hand. A note, really. Nothing that should seem so troubling.

He sweated in his winter robes, donned for concealment rather than warmth: it was not yet Halloween. That letter could end him. That so few lines of jointed print could end it all. Everything he�d worked for. Everything.

�Professor Snape?�

A Ravenclaw girl, Cho Chang, Snape catalogued dully, looking at her raised hand as though nothing else existed in his tunneling world.

�Professor?� she asked uncertainly, beginning to lower the hand, her dark eyes wide. He cleared his throat, pulled his stooping shoulders upright.

�Yes, Miss Chang, what is it?� His voice was only a shadow of its usual snarl, but at least it had stopped shaking. Noticeably. He hoped.

�Well, we�re all finished,� she began hesitantly. �And we thought,� here she looked to her other, less brave classmates, who avoided her bright gaze. �That you might want to look them over?�

He stiffened his back, thought of Harry covering this girl in clumsy kisses, both of them a year younger and still hopeful; and then of his much older hands on Harry�s pale skin, soft skin, it would be soft, gold and darker than his own twining limbs, their hair dark and tangled together--

�Yes, Miss Chang,� he said dryly. It was like waking up. �That seems an excellent use of the last few minutes of class. Bring your samples up one at a time.� And waved a languid hand, as if he couldn�t be bothered with rising.

He did admittedly become a bit bombastic when under stress.

The Ravenclaws received their usual top scores, and the Hufflepuffs received their best grades ever amid whispers of �Is he ill� and �He looks terrible� that did nothing for his already poor self-image. Not that any of it affected him. It was all too certain. He was already viewing the neat rows of eager students as past; everything would end, he would lose everything, and it all seemed to be passing in a dream.

It was dead certain. His memories. Just the final, deciding test, and he would truly deserve crucifixion.

After all, he was a Potions Master. An empiricist. Couldn�t go through on this without proof.

Charms was usually another matter. Usually enjoyable. Which is why it wasn�t so terribly unusual for Harry to be the first in his seat, before the classroom was officially open, before Flitwick had even left his office. Harry crept into the still and silent room, taking a seat out of Flitwick�s direct line of sight and arranging his books so that he would hopefully be hidden behind them.

His hands were trembling slightly. He pressed them together, and prayed no one would notice.

How many weeks had it been? How many times?

He felt a shudder wrack his thin frame. The chill of the ancient stones cut through thick wool easily, as though any attempted defense were useless. The other boys were playing conkers in the hall. Every crack of chestnut on magicked chestnut caused him to jump a little. And as everyone, Griffindor and Slytherin alike burbled into the classroom happily, on healthy legs that didn�t ache with their last beating, he crept further and further into his corner of shadow. Until everyone had arrived, and Hermione and Ron had eased into the seats nearest his without anyone else really noticing he was there.

Their OWLs were past, their NEWTs not for another year. But they were, nevertheless, practicing advanced mood modification charms. Flitwick had redesigned their curriculum after the Umbridge disaster, and Hermione had been like a cat in a creamery ever since their first class of the year, constantly pulling out her copy of Hogwarts: A History to cross-reference new spells and their last documented use by some famous witch or wizard.

Harry found he didn�t especially care.

His wand felt almost unfamiliar in his hand; he spent so much time wishing for it and not having it that he�d become used to the lack. The helplessness. His charms-work was getting shoddy, enough so that Hermione had noticed, but he somehow didn�t think that a spell, however advanced, was going to fix this problem.

He waved his wand listlessly. It had actually been a few days since he�s been forced to pair up in class; Harry wasn�t sure if Flitwick was being kind, or simply hadn�t noticed he was there. Truthfully, Harry felt a little invisible.

It was a good feeling.

�Harry, won�t you at least try?� Hermione pressed, scooting her chair around to play his victim.

So much for being invisible.

He didn�t say anything, just glared repressively, and felt almost ashamed that he was glad to see the invitation in her eyes wither and die, unaware that his own eyes glowed sulfur-yellow beneath his bangs. Brighter, almost venomous. He most definitely wasn�t in any mood to talk.

�That�s alright, mate,� Ron said after a moment, gaze darting between them uncertainly. �Hermione and me can handle it, yeah?�

�Of course, if you don�t feel like it, Harry,� Hermione said, her voice very still, her eyes fixed to Harry's as if she wanted to divine his soul. Harry blinked, and some feeling of heaviness seemed to lift. She turned back to Ron, leaving him in the shadows of his corner desk and tall-stacked books.

This was exactly what he wanted. What would they talk about anyway? He fiddled with his wand for a moment, peering dully at the smooth wood, completely incurious, noting his fingers pale against dark smooth silky wood that felt rather like a cock--

He dropped his wand, heard it clatter to the floor over the roar of his blood, the sudden sickness churning in his belly. He squeezed his eyes shut, fingers pressed together as if he didn�t dare touch anything with them, not even another part of his own body. He did not just think that. Feel that. No.

He couldn�t have.

He moaned low in his throat, a sound that went unheard beneath the general chaos of practical charmwork, Neville laughing hysterically and Dean snarling and Malfoy audibly making eyes at Crabbe. But the world seemed muffled, his hands too filthy to hear, too covered in his failure, his weakness, his want. How could he want any of it? How could he even think of--

And it shot through his mind again, an echo of Snape holding him down and forcing him to hardness and, not satisfied even then, milking him in a hot mouth, softer than sin, Harry�s toes curling on the force of an orgasm stronger than anything he�d ever managed on his own--

�No!� He shouted, leapt to his feet unaware of the tears brightening his green eyes, knocking his stack of books to the floor with a crash that stilled the room.

�Ah, Mr. Potter!� Flitwick said quickly, before the whispers could begin. Harry�s sightless glare turned to the old goblin, who approached his desk on unsteady feet, a folded sheet of parchment clutched in his hands. �We didn�t think you�d come today, either,� he smiled, ignoring the tumble of books to place the letter carefully on Harry�s desk. �Professor Snape asked me to deliver this. I do hope you�re not in trouble again, your first game would go poorly without you.� And the kindly old man turned back to his class, setting them to practice with a few quick gestures of his wand.

Quidditch. Their first game wasn�t for another . . . few weeks. Harry stared down at the letter, fists clenched, ignoring the murmurs and pitying stares that rose among his classmates, the jeers from the Slytherins . . . except Malfoy, who watched him with horrible, knowing eyes. Harry bit his lip. Why remind him of something he�d never do again? He couldn�t play Quidditch. Quidditch heroes didn�t take it up the arse from their Potions Masters . . .

He sat down heavily. Hermione and Ron continued to watch him, long after the rest of the class had turned back to their mood-enhancers. He very carefully did not look at them, though he could feel their eyes on his skin. All his attention was consumed by the letter. Snape. Flitwick had said it was from Snape.

Master. You are to address me as Master in private.

He shook off the memory, reaching for the letter with shaking hands. Parchment rustled and crinkled beneath his thin fingers, became stained with his sweat, and tore open to reveal just a few innocuous lines that stole his breath and retrenched the terror in his gut.

Harry stared at the S, drawn like a jagged treble clef sign, for a long moment. Then crumpled it in his trembling fingers.

�Oh God,� he thought, too lost for magical curses, �not again. Please no more.� He still hurt from the last time.

A sob rose in his throat. He stifled it, but not before Hermione noticed, and turned fox-sharp eyes his way. He wouldn�t look at her, couldn�t look at her, hadn�t been able to for about a month

17 days 11 hours

now, could only assume that she saw the filth covering him, the guilt, the . . . He�d been ruined.

Surely they all must see.

The note crinkled warningly in his fist. He choked another sob, knelt carefully and began gathering up his books, avoiding everyone�s eyes, prying eyes, until he�d shoved his things into his bag.

And then he ran.

Snape stopped talking. During. That�s the single thing that confused Harry the most when things suddenly changed, at first, anyway. The silence. The absence of taunts or threats or even menacing promises. Just . . . silence. And an odd sense of impersonality, like the monster couldn�t be bothered to come out and roar anymore. It didn�t seem like this could possible be the normal order of things. Didn�t seem real.

And that fit with the remainder of his days, actually. Everything seemed in a haze, distant, like it didn�t matter. And it didn�t. Matter, that is. Anyway, at least he didn�t hurt anymore.

�Harry, we need to have that talk.�

In fact, he didn�t feel anything. Not really. He was ice. Solid. So Snape�s cock up his arse wasn�t likely to affect him. Not now.

�We�re worried about you, mate.�

His test results were steadily getting worse. McGonagall knew something, or suspected something. Her sad eyes followed him in class and at every meal, noticing that he ignored everything possible and rarely ate. He was losing weight. Snape had stopped taking House Points from him. It was just the silence.

�We know something�s happened, Harry.�

It was like . . . he imagined standing in the middle of a great forest must be like. Everything muffled, and echoing as though far away, with only the occasional howl of agony to pierce the stillness. Overall, very restful.

�Has Voldemort done something?�

Lonely, perhaps, but then, he craved solitude. Especially just after . . . Snape had stopped taking House Points, but he unfailingly assigned Harry detention at every opportunity. It wasn�t a regular thing. That would at least have given him something definite to dread.

�It�s not Cho, is it? I thought you were over her, mate.�

But the dread had been constant. Snape seemed to summon him on whim, like today, and though he never repeated the violence of the first . . . episodes, Harry still required several days to recover his equilibrium. Physically, at least. And he wasn�t getting that time, and it just kept happening and he never knew when Snape would glare at him and issue a summons in his velveted growl of a voice.

�You have to talk to us, Harry.�

And it was sort of like sinking into something, a little like inevitability, when Snape began to make him like it.

�We can help you! Please let us help you.�

So really, his slow loss of feeling was also inevitable. It was easier than hating himself. Easier than swearing a revenge he�d never achieve. Easier than wiping the look off Malfoy�s face every time they passed in the halls. Pity. Fuck that, he didn�t need it. Pity? For what?

�Harry?�

Why bother?

He�d lived through worse.

�Harry, please . . .� Hermione. She was crying . . .

�I�ve got detention,� he said roughly, blinking his eyes to clear them and then ducking his head shyly to hide behind his fringe.

�That�s another thing,� Ron said, grabbing his shoulder; Harry flinched, green eyes flashing on sudden terror, and Ron stepped back, his expression falling before he regained his momentum. �You�ve been getting detention four and five times a week! What have you been doing? And why didn�t you invite me?� Ron finished, grinning hesitantly at his own joke.

�Nothing,� Harry said, not meeting his eyes, missing the worried look Ron exchanged with Hermione.

�You must have done something . . .� Hermione began.

�It�s nothing,� Harry said flatly, rubbing a hand over his scar as he stepped forward. �Just drop it, okay?�

�Harry, you can talk to us,� Hermione insisted, darting ahead to block the tower door. �We�ll understand--�

�You won�t understand,� Harry snarled, his self-imposed silence broken by a rage-tainted incredulity. �How could you understand? I wouldn�t . . . God, I wouldn�t want you to.�

�Harry, c�mon . . .� Ron began, stepping forward as though to grab at him again.

�No!� Harry jerked away, startling Ron and Hermione; Ron flinched, and Hermione let out a little shriek as Harry whirled and pushed desperately past her, flinging himself through the portrait entrance and out into the dimly-lit hall beyond.

�Harry!�

There was an unconscious authority in Ron�s voice, leant by his obvious, sudden anger, that stopped Harry dead, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow.

�Harry . . .� Ron stopped, and the anger seemed to deflate from him in a long sigh. When he continued, his voice was almost gentle. �Harry, mate, I know . . . no,� he said quickly when Harry would have replied. �Hear me out. I know that something�s wrong. Something�s been wrong, almost since . . .� He paused, and Harry could imagine the frustrated shake of Ron�s head if he wasn�t quite brave enough to turn and see it. �That�s not what-- Look, we know you�re upset. That you�ve been hurting and no, we don�t know why but we�re trying to help,� his voice was beginning to rise and Harry could hear Hermione trying to shush the taller boy to no effect. �But lashing out at us isn�t going to help anything, Harry. It�s not our fault,� he almost yelled.

The words echoed down the silent hall. A gear creaked, clicked, and struck the clock somewhere in the castle�s heights. Harry swallowed.

�I�m late,� he almost whispered, the words carrying clearly in the painful silence. He heard Hermione begin to speak, and flung up a hand. His fingers were trembling. �Just- no. I�ve got to go.� His voice broke. Everything was rising in him like the tide, inevitable. �I have to go,� he repeated. His voice was dead. �I have to go.� And he ran. He�d left his bag behind, but didn�t hesitate. He had an appointment to keep.

And he didn�t feel fear and disgust coiling in his gut. Not at all.

�Harry,� Hermione whispered, staring after her friend as he rounded a far corner and disappeared. She blinked slowly, wishing for a moment that there was a spell for this.

�We have to do something,� Ron said, his voice hushed, almost reverential in the dark.

�Like what?� Hermione asked bitterly.

�I don�t know,� Ron snapped. �Talk to someone?�

�Dumbledore . . .� Hermione began, doubt heavy in her chest.

�Yeah,� Ron agreed. �If something was wrong wouldn�t Harry have gone to Dumbledore himself?�

�Maybe,� Hermione said. �But remember last year?�

�I thought he�d gotten over that,� Ron murmured, eyes going unconsciously to the far shadows of the hall, as though expecting Harry to return any moment. �Anyway, we have to do something.�

�Yes.� Hermione nodded, also staring into the distance, though there was a light like planning in her eyes. �We�ll figure something out,� she said softly. �Don�t worry, Ron. We�ll figure something out.�

�Now that�s the Hermione I know,� Ron said with a relieved grin. �Where do we start?�

It was time. Always time. If not for time he wouldn�t be here.

Okay. The thought was irrational.

But if there were no set time at which to make an appointment, he wouldn�t ever have to show up, right?

A draft shivered over his skin. The worn wood of the large desk cut into his skin, pressed into his spine where he was bent backward over its cold lacquered surface. Papers rustled around him, he shivered, and a tear slipped down one cheek. His legs were splayed as wide as they would go, toes just touching the floor, thighs quivering with the strain, and somehow he knew that it still wouldn�t be enough.

It was never enough. And sometimes Harry thought that Snape would peel back his skin and peer inside if he could. If that wouldn�t spoil his toy.

A shudder racked Harry�s thin frame. His shoulders ached from clinging to the desk�s edge, his fingers sore from the sharp corners. He rolled his head to the side. He couldn�t possibly be a pretty sight, covered in bruises and too thin for holding.

He still fucking hurt from the last time.

He sobbed, then, unable to stop himself as the weariness of the last few weeks rolled over him, rolled him under like a hurricane, and everything in him just wanted to curl up into a little ball until the world went away but he was too fucking scared to move. It almost wasn�t even about Dumbledore anymore, though the fear of failure weighed on him constantly. But no. The other kind of fear had become almost habit by now. As if he�d always been terrified of Snape, and always would be.

And that was all there would ever be. The fear.

He sobbed again. And froze. Waiting.

Snape approached his quarters hesitantly, though no sense of uncertainty was telegraphed by his stride. His robes billowed around him, and no Slytherin would meet his eye. Just as well. No need to infect them too.

His Mark throbbed.

He clenched his fists. Resolve rose in him, swelled in his breast like purest martyrdom; he was in the wrong, he couldn�t be saved this time, he shouldn�t be saved. All of Albus�s meddlings would be proved useless, a waste of time, worse, directly beneficial to Voldemort�s cause.

All his work toward redemption . . .

Worse than fantasy, his sinking heart told him. The mob was far better known for execution than a merciful spirit. None of them very forgiving. He deserved their hatred. Azkaban. The Dementor�s Kiss. All of it.

He swept down his hall in a fouler mood than when he�d left it, all his self-sacrificial hope drowned in a flood of pessimism. It would do him no could to confess all this time. There would be nothing for Albus to even attempt. This would be the end.

Draco Malfoy was waiting in front of his chamber door, leaning insolently against the wall with all of his father�s grace. He seemed to hear Snape�s approach, for he looked up quickly, a smile lightening his gray eyes.

�Sir,� he said gladly, before faltering. Snape looked away from Draco�s searching gaze, one hand clenched over the steady burn of his Dark Mark. He forced a smile more like a grimace.

�What is it, Draco?� he asked as pleasantly as he was able. The boy�s smile faltered, faded, and fear began to crawl silver through his eyes.

And if Snape�s groin tightened at the sight, he was able still to ignore it.

�Nothing really, sir,� and Snape could see Draco rebuilding the mask with every word. �Just noticed Potty headed this way. He has detention, then?�

And Snape found that very suddenly the mask was absolutely the last thing he wanted to see.

�It�s hardly any of your business, Draco,� Snape sneered in his best strict-teacher voice. Well, he considered at the slight deflation in Draco�s stance, we all have our masks to wear. �It won�t be quite enough to keep Potter out of the next game,� he continued, softening his voice a bit. �Your best strategy would still be practice.�

�Yes, sir,� Draco murmured, looking somewhat chagrined as he ducked around Snape to head for the dorms. �Good night, sir,� he called back over his shoulder, every inch the perfect lordling.

Snape stared after the lithe form for a long moment, seeing gold-kissed skin beneath torn black robes, before he shuddered, banishing the image of the child of his oldest friend sprawled beneath him.

He clutched the Dark Mark convulsively, fingers strained white against his black robes. The Mark still burned, but quietly, as it had for hours now. Not a summons. Just a small reminder.

Snape stood frozen before his door, staring blindly at the faded, dust-gilded portrait of Mimsy Mummiford with something like fear. His resolve had all but fled. Something else was rising in him, something else, something far baser . . .

He didn�t entirely trust himself to open the door.

�Did you want to go inside, dear?� the portrait asked solicitously. He nodded, the movement jerky, instinctive, and whispered the password.

The opening of his own chamber door shouldn�t have seemed quite so ominous.

He stepped through into his front room, heart pattering lightly over his short breaths, eyes searching the shadows for he knew not what. Light, warm and golden, spilled form the door of his study, and he approached it like any traveler before a will-o'-the-wisp.

He began to see it even before he reached the open door, splashes of color that didn�t belong according to his, admittedly spotty, memory, long limbs sprawled across his desk, flung wide, slender cock rising out of creamy flesh over a sudden bolt of lust that went straight to Snape�s spine and curdled in his gut

And surely at sixteen the Potter boy had gone through puberty.

and the Dark Mark flared to terrible life as he stepped through the doorway, a sudden shock, and the world seemed that much realer.

This wasn�t right.

But he was dragging forward on reluctant feet and Potter�s flesh was quivering, shivering, the boy was obviously awake, stretched like a side of beef, a whore on the desk, and miserable, but he refused to look up as Snape approached the awful truth and refused to even move as Snape�s hand closed over the slender cock, the hard cock, precome dripping over Snape�s long fingers, just a body-wide shudder like a horse trying to shake off a fly, and Snape�s fingers slid down the shivering flesh to press into the pubic mound, and the surge of relief when his questing fingers found stubble nearly stopped his stuttering heart.

Shaved. But of his own will? The boy was hard, but Snape could hear his panicky breaths even over the roaring in his ears. He had to think what to do. The plan had worked a little too well. He had his truth. No need to ask. He had to think what to do.

Harry sobbed.

And all Snape�s planning crumbled to dream-wisps, and his world contracted back down to the �now�. His eyes cleared, fixed on the shuddering ribcage, the breaths drawn in by skin stretched starvation-thin over skeletally-visible ribs, the velvety skin like butterfly�s wings, almost translucent in his terror.

Snape�s hand left the reassurance of manhood, brushed the trembling cock and crept up the taut belly to the sweat-slick valley below the heaving chest. He stoked down softly, brought his other hand up to cradle the curve of the skull, to turn the face, so resolutely thrust away from him, to a more comfortable angle. Harry flinched at every touch, spending every splinter of energy he might�ve had in starts and shivering, eyes squeezed shut as though the dark would save him.

And Snape�s hands stilled to a more comforting rhythm, just enough so that Harry would know he hadn�t moved, and he took the brief respite to think.

Though he cringed away from the reasons Harry could have for such fear.

Though something black in him curled through his soul with glee to feel such fear.

And his Mark still burned. So near Harry, Snape fancied he could almost feel Voldemort�s crimson eyes gleaming over the scene.

Never mind that those eyes had once been clear brown, the hands soft, the voice warm.

Snape felt a shudder move through him. He shook his head sharply, ignoring Harry�s flinch at the sudden movement, the fact that the boy still hadn�t opened his eyes or made a whisper of protest. He needed to think. Needed desperately to think.

�Go to my bed,� he growled, wrenching himself back a few steps, noting with dread how reluctantly his hands left soft skin. Proof indeed. The mind may have forgotten, but the body remembered. �Wait for me there.�

Harry�s eyes fluttered open slowly, and he levered himself to his feet with obvious pain and little enthusiasm, avoiding Snape�s gaze and moving as quickly as he seemed able to. He moved like an old man, for a few worrying paces, until his youth walked out the stiffness and he began to move with his usual, coltish grace.

Snape watched his progress carefully, the smooth slide of muscle in a flank creased red with the desk�s edge and fading whip marks, the lean-muscled back, strong thighs, all of it too thin for Snape�s liking.

And that was not a visceral thrill at seeing his own marks laid out on fair Griffindor skin. It couldn�t be.

It couldn�t be.

It couldn�t be.

A/N Many many thanks to Scribblemoose for her hard work as cultural beta and first-reader, when she doesn't even like the fandom. Again, thanks.

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