Equanimity
Title: Equanimity
Author/Artist: geniusartist
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Harry/Severus
Warnings: angst, chan, character death, slash
This is my FIRST Harry Potter fic. Please be gentle.
Thanks to shighola for her quick beta and encouragement.
x-posted: snape_potter and darkones
He knows he is dying.
Snape feels the whisper of time leave his body with every kiss, every touch. Every minute he savors Potter’s mouth is twice that from his life expectancy; every day he worships that body and lingers in its lines and crevices, its angles and slopes, is a week of agony closer to death.
And yet, he continues to feed, like a man infected with a parasitic worm.
***
It struck him, then, like the blinding white light of electricity, the foreshadowing of a violent storm. The images of a still body…Cedric…stillness not from sleep but vacancy, a vanquished life… whipped his brain with its startling reality. He recoiled from the feel of skin, warm from blood that had yet to cool without the pulse of perseverance, the struggle and will to survive. And the sorrow, the guilt…the shame…twisted into him, a knife of understanding that bent his body double and he retched dry in the memory.
Snape yanked himself with ferocity from the boy’s mind, stumbling against his desk, vision blurry. It took several haggard breaths for comprehension to crystallize the present. And when it did, there was Potter on his knees, head in his hands, squeezed tight into himself, a defense too little, too late from the invasion. When Potter finally looked up, the movement tentative, but necessary, Snape found himself diving into green sea, infinite in its pain.
For brief seconds longer, but what felt like eternity, they remained unmoving, staring at each other. And then Snape became aware of it: the mask, practiced and refined, had neutralized his expression into boredom and scathing disappointment. It settled into his features unbidden, without thought, without effort, a skill earned and mastered from a lifetime of dutiful deception. Potter flinched, his own features hardened with resentment.
And without a word, Snape straightened his robes, raised himself to his full height and strode blithely from the classroom.
***
In the Occlumency lessons that follow, Potter braves himself to exhaustion against the onslaught of Snape’s hoarsely uttered Legilimens. He is successful. The few times the spell penetrates, it only fingers at the edges of inconsequential memories.
Potter leaves the lessons tired but satisfied. He mistakes the lesser gravity of the whispered commands as failure. He doesn’t know, didn’t suspect that each whip of a muttered incantation was purposely designed to lash out like a shortened leash, to reach like stubbed fingers into a bottomless vat.
Snape knew then that his death sentence had begun and started counting down the minutes.
***
It happens on a night that followed another surreptitious meeting with Voldemort. Snape is all rattled nerves, tense and coiled like a snake ready to spring an attack. Potter is positioned in front of his desk, Snape by the door. When Snape hurls a roaring Legilimens, Potter slams backwards into the edge of wood, clawing at his temples.
At first, the images seep into his mind, oozing bits and pieces, fragments in curls of fog. And as before, the starkness of past experiences, sensations since buried as belonging in another time and place, quickly encompass his consciousness. He is suddenly surrounded by the living ghosts of Potter’s childhood memories.
…A cramped, unlit room housed a small, trembling body, barely beyond the vulnerabilities of infancy, feverish with sickness… A school-aged child, comically garbed in clothing too large for his thin frame, bouncing a ball, alone in a deserted space of the courtyard… The sudden, reflexive block in anticipation of a strike…
When Snape releases him, Potter falls clumsily to the floor, knuckle-white grip against concrete, dry heaving on all fours. For a moment, Snape is still, watches the trembling figure rendered pathetic by the force of his spell. And then his legs are moving. They are like his mask, practiced in their compulsory reaction and fluency, and within seconds he is standing before Potter, like a looming wall of granite. Potter reaches a hand, fingers clench weakly at flowing fabric. He looks up, eyes piercing in accusation, a silent, desperate plea. Snape hauls Potter to his feet with a sharp pull on his arm, ignores the wince. Potter stretches his other arm behind him, braces himself steady against the desk. His eyes are level with Snape’s chin when a hand curls around the back of his neck, and he gasps as his head is suddenly wrenched upwards. Snape’s every intention of berating the boy for his reckless arrogance dies on his lips when he feels the soft, tentative touch of Potter's mouth against his, the wet tip of a tongue imploring in its touch.
And he counts: another minute, another hour, another day…
Snape does not respond in kind to the delicacy. Merciless, he crushes his mouth against Potter’s, pries the other’s open and claims the incoherent mumblings, the stuttered breaths, the innocent awkwardness of inexperience. His movements are swift and desperate, as though to hasten the act would lessen the impact upon the toll of time. He feels himself already disappearing, but it only steels him to move with more urgency.
Potter is on the desk. Potter’s robe is gathered around his waist. Potter’s cock is throbbing in his hand. Potter is arching into his touch. Potter is on his stomach. Potter is chanting, please…please…please…. Potter’s hips twist with the impact. Potter is thrashing. Potter is crying out. Potter is bucking… He is coming and coming and coming…
When they finish, Snape doesn’t resist the nudge of Potter’s head beneath his chin, the lithe body that curls against him, shaking...or perhaps it was him, the aftershocks of his crime.
He feels grayer around the temples.
***
When a man has been sentenced to death, he has little care for trivialities. He disregards lingering hesitance at temptation and doesn’t bother with forbidden.
Snape knew he was a dying man, so he forsook everything bridled. He paid penance to his limited time by surrendering completely. It was, after all, inevitable.
Potter drove a stake within every inch, every expanse of his battered body, with a feather-light kiss here, a gentle caress there. He sucked in and from, every withering breath of life as he drove Snape to the pinnacles of ecstasy, a blinding insanity that rejected rationalization. Snape fought it anyway, responded with a brutal bite after a tender lick, a shove against the wall after an innocent embrace.
He knew he was a dying man, but he still had a role to play.
***
He was nearing his end, then, at the tower.
He felt, without seeing, the tendril of fear, the tether of disbelief. He could hear the silent scream of “Nooooooooooooooo” as he lifted his hand… felt invisible fingers, soft, yet calloused, circle his wrist in one last act of desperate faith…
“AVADA KEDAVRA!!”
With a flick of his wand, the curtain of death fell dramatically. All hope, all lingering assurances of certainty fell clattering, loud, like shattered pieces of a porcelain vase tipped to its doom.
And in the silence, he heard the hastening of time, the sands that whooshed through the hourglass in a rushed speed, the seconds’ hand ticking a half beat, then another, faster.
They faced each other for the last time, Snape past the border of what once was familiar and secure, Potter still within its confines. He ignored the strain, the pull of an opposing force that assaulted him with a desire to throw himself at Potter’s feet and beg for salvation.
Harry…
Instead, he drew from his reserve of hatred, and his features fell naturally into place: a snarl of righteousness and disgust. He watched Potter’s hands flutter over his robe, watched betrayal cross his features, humiliation guiding his fingers to graze against a cheek, his lips…no doubt remembering, reliving Snape’s impress upon them…and, now, reviling it. And those piercing eyes sentenced him again, and again, and again, unknowing that the blade of the guillotine had begun its fall long ago.
***
It happened in an open field, amongst grassy knolls. Amidst clashing spells, missed hexes, and pummeling fists, his subtle change in loyalties went unnoticed. Fellow Death Eaters collapsed unceremoniously, without so much as a warning that surprise had not even the chance to graze their uncircumspect minds.
Lucius Malfoy was still crumbling to his feet when Snape saw him, twisting, thrashing, and writhing under Cruciatus.
Potter twisted… Potter thrashed…Potter writhed…
The loud gong of a bell sounded in the distance.
And he was moving, swift, now a reflex.
In the singular moment that Voldemort raised his hand, Snape dove. In the second that Voldemort cast the spell -
“AVADA KEDAVRA”
-- Snape fell. The green light spiraled then struck him, sharp and unforgiving. His body convulsed from the attack.
Tick…tick…tick…
And suddenly, there was an explosion of white light. Screams of agony followed, hitched gasps for air. In the haze, he watched Voldemort splinter irreparably.
The last thing he sees are round fingertips hovering close to his lids. The last thing he feels is the caress of those fingers shutting his eyes. And, at last, he has gained equanimity and he releases his final breath.
Author/Artist: geniusartist
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Harry/Severus
Warnings: angst, chan, character death, slash
This is my FIRST Harry Potter fic. Please be gentle.
Thanks to shighola for her quick beta and encouragement.
x-posted: snape_potter and darkones
He knows he is dying.
Snape feels the whisper of time leave his body with every kiss, every touch. Every minute he savors Potter’s mouth is twice that from his life expectancy; every day he worships that body and lingers in its lines and crevices, its angles and slopes, is a week of agony closer to death.
And yet, he continues to feed, like a man infected with a parasitic worm.
***
It struck him, then, like the blinding white light of electricity, the foreshadowing of a violent storm. The images of a still body…Cedric…stillness not from sleep but vacancy, a vanquished life… whipped his brain with its startling reality. He recoiled from the feel of skin, warm from blood that had yet to cool without the pulse of perseverance, the struggle and will to survive. And the sorrow, the guilt…the shame…twisted into him, a knife of understanding that bent his body double and he retched dry in the memory.
Snape yanked himself with ferocity from the boy’s mind, stumbling against his desk, vision blurry. It took several haggard breaths for comprehension to crystallize the present. And when it did, there was Potter on his knees, head in his hands, squeezed tight into himself, a defense too little, too late from the invasion. When Potter finally looked up, the movement tentative, but necessary, Snape found himself diving into green sea, infinite in its pain.
For brief seconds longer, but what felt like eternity, they remained unmoving, staring at each other. And then Snape became aware of it: the mask, practiced and refined, had neutralized his expression into boredom and scathing disappointment. It settled into his features unbidden, without thought, without effort, a skill earned and mastered from a lifetime of dutiful deception. Potter flinched, his own features hardened with resentment.
And without a word, Snape straightened his robes, raised himself to his full height and strode blithely from the classroom.
***
In the Occlumency lessons that follow, Potter braves himself to exhaustion against the onslaught of Snape’s hoarsely uttered Legilimens. He is successful. The few times the spell penetrates, it only fingers at the edges of inconsequential memories.
Potter leaves the lessons tired but satisfied. He mistakes the lesser gravity of the whispered commands as failure. He doesn’t know, didn’t suspect that each whip of a muttered incantation was purposely designed to lash out like a shortened leash, to reach like stubbed fingers into a bottomless vat.
Snape knew then that his death sentence had begun and started counting down the minutes.
***
It happens on a night that followed another surreptitious meeting with Voldemort. Snape is all rattled nerves, tense and coiled like a snake ready to spring an attack. Potter is positioned in front of his desk, Snape by the door. When Snape hurls a roaring Legilimens, Potter slams backwards into the edge of wood, clawing at his temples.
At first, the images seep into his mind, oozing bits and pieces, fragments in curls of fog. And as before, the starkness of past experiences, sensations since buried as belonging in another time and place, quickly encompass his consciousness. He is suddenly surrounded by the living ghosts of Potter’s childhood memories.
…A cramped, unlit room housed a small, trembling body, barely beyond the vulnerabilities of infancy, feverish with sickness… A school-aged child, comically garbed in clothing too large for his thin frame, bouncing a ball, alone in a deserted space of the courtyard… The sudden, reflexive block in anticipation of a strike…
When Snape releases him, Potter falls clumsily to the floor, knuckle-white grip against concrete, dry heaving on all fours. For a moment, Snape is still, watches the trembling figure rendered pathetic by the force of his spell. And then his legs are moving. They are like his mask, practiced in their compulsory reaction and fluency, and within seconds he is standing before Potter, like a looming wall of granite. Potter reaches a hand, fingers clench weakly at flowing fabric. He looks up, eyes piercing in accusation, a silent, desperate plea. Snape hauls Potter to his feet with a sharp pull on his arm, ignores the wince. Potter stretches his other arm behind him, braces himself steady against the desk. His eyes are level with Snape’s chin when a hand curls around the back of his neck, and he gasps as his head is suddenly wrenched upwards. Snape’s every intention of berating the boy for his reckless arrogance dies on his lips when he feels the soft, tentative touch of Potter's mouth against his, the wet tip of a tongue imploring in its touch.
And he counts: another minute, another hour, another day…
Snape does not respond in kind to the delicacy. Merciless, he crushes his mouth against Potter’s, pries the other’s open and claims the incoherent mumblings, the stuttered breaths, the innocent awkwardness of inexperience. His movements are swift and desperate, as though to hasten the act would lessen the impact upon the toll of time. He feels himself already disappearing, but it only steels him to move with more urgency.
Potter is on the desk. Potter’s robe is gathered around his waist. Potter’s cock is throbbing in his hand. Potter is arching into his touch. Potter is on his stomach. Potter is chanting, please…please…please…. Potter’s hips twist with the impact. Potter is thrashing. Potter is crying out. Potter is bucking… He is coming and coming and coming…
When they finish, Snape doesn’t resist the nudge of Potter’s head beneath his chin, the lithe body that curls against him, shaking...or perhaps it was him, the aftershocks of his crime.
He feels grayer around the temples.
***
When a man has been sentenced to death, he has little care for trivialities. He disregards lingering hesitance at temptation and doesn’t bother with forbidden.
Snape knew he was a dying man, so he forsook everything bridled. He paid penance to his limited time by surrendering completely. It was, after all, inevitable.
Potter drove a stake within every inch, every expanse of his battered body, with a feather-light kiss here, a gentle caress there. He sucked in and from, every withering breath of life as he drove Snape to the pinnacles of ecstasy, a blinding insanity that rejected rationalization. Snape fought it anyway, responded with a brutal bite after a tender lick, a shove against the wall after an innocent embrace.
He knew he was a dying man, but he still had a role to play.
***
He was nearing his end, then, at the tower.
He felt, without seeing, the tendril of fear, the tether of disbelief. He could hear the silent scream of “Nooooooooooooooo” as he lifted his hand… felt invisible fingers, soft, yet calloused, circle his wrist in one last act of desperate faith…
“AVADA KEDAVRA!!”
With a flick of his wand, the curtain of death fell dramatically. All hope, all lingering assurances of certainty fell clattering, loud, like shattered pieces of a porcelain vase tipped to its doom.
And in the silence, he heard the hastening of time, the sands that whooshed through the hourglass in a rushed speed, the seconds’ hand ticking a half beat, then another, faster.
They faced each other for the last time, Snape past the border of what once was familiar and secure, Potter still within its confines. He ignored the strain, the pull of an opposing force that assaulted him with a desire to throw himself at Potter’s feet and beg for salvation.
Harry…
Instead, he drew from his reserve of hatred, and his features fell naturally into place: a snarl of righteousness and disgust. He watched Potter’s hands flutter over his robe, watched betrayal cross his features, humiliation guiding his fingers to graze against a cheek, his lips…no doubt remembering, reliving Snape’s impress upon them…and, now, reviling it. And those piercing eyes sentenced him again, and again, and again, unknowing that the blade of the guillotine had begun its fall long ago.
***
It happened in an open field, amongst grassy knolls. Amidst clashing spells, missed hexes, and pummeling fists, his subtle change in loyalties went unnoticed. Fellow Death Eaters collapsed unceremoniously, without so much as a warning that surprise had not even the chance to graze their uncircumspect minds.
Lucius Malfoy was still crumbling to his feet when Snape saw him, twisting, thrashing, and writhing under Cruciatus.
Potter twisted… Potter thrashed…Potter writhed…
The loud gong of a bell sounded in the distance.
And he was moving, swift, now a reflex.
In the singular moment that Voldemort raised his hand, Snape dove. In the second that Voldemort cast the spell -
“AVADA KEDAVRA”
-- Snape fell. The green light spiraled then struck him, sharp and unforgiving. His body convulsed from the attack.
Tick…tick…tick…
And suddenly, there was an explosion of white light. Screams of agony followed, hitched gasps for air. In the haze, he watched Voldemort splinter irreparably.
The last thing he sees are round fingertips hovering close to his lids. The last thing he feels is the caress of those fingers shutting his eyes. And, at last, he has gained equanimity and he releases his final breath.