Of whom much is given, much is required, she would tell him softly, running her fingers through his hair--thick and dark and as unruly as her own. And you, Severus, oh, how very much you've been given.
And he listened, leaning against her in the quiet darkness of his room, his plump cheek pressed to her worn cotton housedress, his dark eyes looking up at her in wonder as she spun her stories, her tales of the grand Princes. How they had moved among wizarding society, and the balls and the soirees and the power they wielded in the corridors of the Ministry.
They had been rich once, she told him, in a dreamy voice, and Prince House had been the envy of all with its grand portriats and marble halls and stained glass windows so different from these cold, grim corridors and tiny mud-streaked windows.
There were no portraits at Spinner's End.
Always remember you are a Prince, she would whisper, as she tucked him in at night and her lips brushed his pale forehead. My Prince, and she smiled down at him.
And he believed her.
I am a Prince, he said, haughtily, to his dormitory after being Sorted, and there were glances and sniggers, but one well-placed hex and they were silent.
A Prince has respect, he learned. Half-blood or not.
She gave him a book on Christmas Eve. A Muggle book, and she touched his cheek as he looked up from the frontispiece. A Prince for a Prince, she had written in her smooth, elegant script, and his fingers traced the loops and the curls of her favourite blue ink over black copperplate lettering. Much is required, Severus, she murmured, and her hands were like ice against his flushed cheek.
And he listened in class and he took what the fools taught him and, late at night, hunched in his bed, he read Machiavelli again. And again. And again.
The spine cracked his seventh year--the year he met the just-wed Lucius Malfoy and took him into his bed.
Lucius learned to suck cock well. Such a pretty little mouth, and his hair was soft and fine. Like spun gold, Severus would gasp as his hips bucked up and his fingers twisted in the silky strands.
It was Lucius who told him the truth of the Princes.
There was no Prince House.
No wealth.
No marble floors.
No power.
Merely second-rate shopkeeps off Knockturn Alley.
In the silent, dark solitude of his bed, the green velvet hangings pulled tight, he cried, his sobs muffled in the goosedown pillow. Lies, all lies, and his world shattered.
She never understood why he refused to return home that holiday. He saw no need to tell her.
He went to Malfoy Manor instead, on Lucius' insistence.
Narcissa found them together on Christmas Day, Lucius' hand in Severus' trousers, stroking him roughly as they kissed, wet and open and warm, and Lucius slapped her and forced her to her knees before Severus and her mouth was warm and soft and her hair felt like silver gossamer spread over his wrists and thighs. She was slick and warm when he fucked her and her soft sighs urged him into her, harder, faster.
He slept in their bed that night for the first time.
The next day he knelt before His Lordship, kissing the heavy gold ring on that thin, pale hand. Promising to destroy blood traitors for the promise of power. Glory. Wealth.
The Dark Lord told him what he was to do.
Penance for his bloodline, he said.
Severus understood.
She was calm when he stood before her, his wand raised.
Of whom much is given, much is required, she whispered, and she touched his cheek lightly before she fell.
And he listened, leaning against her in the quiet darkness of his room, his plump cheek pressed to her worn cotton housedress, his dark eyes looking up at her in wonder as she spun her stories, her tales of the grand Princes. How they had moved among wizarding society, and the balls and the soirees and the power they wielded in the corridors of the Ministry.
They had been rich once, she told him, in a dreamy voice, and Prince House had been the envy of all with its grand portriats and marble halls and stained glass windows so different from these cold, grim corridors and tiny mud-streaked windows.
There were no portraits at Spinner's End.
Always remember you are a Prince, she would whisper, as she tucked him in at night and her lips brushed his pale forehead. My Prince, and she smiled down at him.
And he believed her.
I am a Prince, he said, haughtily, to his dormitory after being Sorted, and there were glances and sniggers, but one well-placed hex and they were silent.
A Prince has respect, he learned. Half-blood or not.
She gave him a book on Christmas Eve. A Muggle book, and she touched his cheek as he looked up from the frontispiece. A Prince for a Prince, she had written in her smooth, elegant script, and his fingers traced the loops and the curls of her favourite blue ink over black copperplate lettering. Much is required, Severus, she murmured, and her hands were like ice against his flushed cheek.
And he listened in class and he took what the fools taught him and, late at night, hunched in his bed, he read Machiavelli again. And again. And again.
The spine cracked his seventh year--the year he met the just-wed Lucius Malfoy and took him into his bed.
Lucius learned to suck cock well. Such a pretty little mouth, and his hair was soft and fine. Like spun gold, Severus would gasp as his hips bucked up and his fingers twisted in the silky strands.
It was Lucius who told him the truth of the Princes.
There was no Prince House.
No wealth.
No marble floors.
No power.
Merely second-rate shopkeeps off Knockturn Alley.
In the silent, dark solitude of his bed, the green velvet hangings pulled tight, he cried, his sobs muffled in the goosedown pillow. Lies, all lies, and his world shattered.
She never understood why he refused to return home that holiday. He saw no need to tell her.
He went to Malfoy Manor instead, on Lucius' insistence.
Narcissa found them together on Christmas Day, Lucius' hand in Severus' trousers, stroking him roughly as they kissed, wet and open and warm, and Lucius slapped her and forced her to her knees before Severus and her mouth was warm and soft and her hair felt like silver gossamer spread over his wrists and thighs. She was slick and warm when he fucked her and her soft sighs urged him into her, harder, faster.
He slept in their bed that night for the first time.
The next day he knelt before His Lordship, kissing the heavy gold ring on that thin, pale hand. Promising to destroy blood traitors for the promise of power. Glory. Wealth.
The Dark Lord told him what he was to do.
Penance for his bloodline, he said.
Severus understood.
She was calm when he stood before her, his wand raised.
Of whom much is given, much is required, she whispered, and she touched his cheek lightly before she fell.
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