damned if you do

[zeldadestry]

Title: The Greater of Two Masters
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character, Pairing: Snape, Lily/Snape
Rating: explicit sexual content
Disclaimer: not my characters



The Greater of Two Masters

He stands outside the house, face set in a sneer as he contemplates it. There are no lights on or candle flames wavering, only strange flashes of various colors; blue predominates. When his father had lived here, he was the one to fall asleep drunk in front of the television. Now his mother has developed the habit, stolen it from him, all the more shameful as she’s no Muggle.

“Sev?” she cries out when she hears him unlock the door and step inside. He ignores her, goes straight to his room without even looking in on her. He locks the door behind him, does not answer though she pounds on it, asking to speak with him.

In the morning the house is quiet and he hopes that she’s gone out. Hungry, he creeps down into the kitchen but when the door swings open she is standing in front of it, waiting for him, a familiar leather-bound volume in her hands.

“You’ve been sneaking around in my room!” he shouts, grabbing the book away from her.

Disdain begins to curl his mother’s lip. “Obviously. And now that I know what you had in there, I see I ought to have done so sooner.”

“I paid for that book with my own money. I’m of age, and you ought to respect that my business is entirely my own and nothing to do with you.”

“You’re right, you are an adult. But do you realize what that means? Do you really understand what this book is? Do you know that the mere possession of it would land you immediately in Azkaban?”

“I have no intention of using the knowledge. I simply wish to have it.”

“I know, Severus, I know. When I was your age I was curious, too. But there can be no compromise. The book goes or you go. Do you understand?” She holds out her hands. “Give it to me and I’ll dispose of it. Please, Sev. Trust your mother.”

He releases it into her waiting hands. What does he care? He’s already learned everything from it that he could. He’s already memorized every torture devised in it. Let his mother enjoy her fake victory. Still, though, the relief on her face at his relinquishment pains him, however dully. How much she wants to believe he’s still her little one, her dear one. Fool.

He feels he has conquered the known world. There is nothing more they can teach him at Hogwarts, he knows it all. It is only through his new allegiance that he will gain the ultimate understanding of magic and its limits, should it have any.

He has a fetish for the Mark, it’s true. He used to wish he could ask to see Lucius’s without seeming weak, used to relish when Bellatrix wore clothes that left her forearms bare and allowed him to look as much as he pleased. Now he’s obsessed with his own, it makes him feel strong and like a man for the very first time in his life. “You’re a bad one,” the mirror says as he observes himself in front of it. “Think I want to look at that? You’re mad.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve ruined your life, I hope you know.”

“Shut up or I’ll grind you into dust.”

“I know how to put myself back together again. You won’t be able to, once they’re done breaking you.”

He raises his fist to strike, but just then he becomes aware of his mother’s eye reflected in the mirror, of the sliver of her face peeking through the crack of the door. He whirls to face her and she slams the door, he hears her mutter something and it locks him in. He rushes to it, pulls at it in vain, gets his wand and blasts it open. She is standing at the end of the hallway, her own wand pointed at him.

“It’s not what you think,” he says, though he does not know why he wants to keep this, the proudest achievement of his life, from her, why he wants to lie. Is it possible he wishes to protect her? Is it possible he wishes to protect himself, remain, just for a little while longer, a son, rather than a terrifying stranger she must send away from her home? She quivers in front of him. She is afraid of him and he dares not step closer towards her. “It’s not what you think,” he says again. “It’s alright, mum. Everything’s alright.”

“You need to leave. You need to leave right now. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, but you can’t stay here.”

“There are only a few things I have with me. Let me get them and I’ll be gone.”

“You need to leave,” she repeats.

She is in shock, he knows. For a moment he has an insight into Remus Lupin’s life, into how it must feel to be looked at in dismay and terror as a monster. He will do what she asks, it will be his last offering to her. He heads into his room, gathers together his remaining belongings into a knapsack. When he steps back into the hall, she has gone. He does not look back as he leaves.

Walking the streets of their town, he picks through his options. It’s too cold to spend the night outside and he can’t go on ahead to Malfoy’s. He can’t risk being asked questions about his early arrival, can’t risk ruining his reputation and his good standing. In retrospect, leaving his books and papers around his room was stupid. Given the current hysteria at the Ministry, if his mother had reported him he would have been apprehended, questioned.

From across the street a gang of young men have noticed him. He hears their shouts but ignores them, keeps walking, his hand on his wand in his pocket. He does not expect the rock that hits the side of his face and he falters, falls against a store front window which shatters underneath his weight. There is more shouting, laughter, and then the sound of boots pounding the pavement as the crowd runs away. He keeps his wand drawn, though his hand is unsteady. When he’s able to stand he shakes out his clothes and little pieces of glass fly off. He’s tempted to follow them, make them pay for what they’ve done, but they’ll all pay, soon enough, and an idea that had previously seemed so unlikely he’d barely dared to consider it has suddenly bloomed in his mind.

He is hurt, and now he does have a place to go. Lily won’t turn him away, not when his face is bruised, his hands bleeding. He can go to Lily.

His heart is divided, structurally unsound. With them, he finally has a place. With them, he belongs. Even before he pledged himself to Voldemort, he was a Slytherin. For a brief span of time he was allowed to move freely through both worlds; he had a place with her, he had a place with them. Why couldn’t it be like that again? He casts a charm to obscure the Mark.

His heart is corroding, collapsing in on itself as it shrinks and dries up. And yet the hope that she will not send him away causes it to rise, to race. Yes, he can be beside her, this night, she won’t leave him like this.

He points his wand in the direction of the Evans’s, sends his Patronus to her. After a few minutes he apparates to her home.

She is waiting for him at her open window. “Sev?” He can not remember the last time she used the nickname. It was part of the days before their final argument. Her hair is loose and mussed and her light blue nightgown has slipped down low in front revealing the tops of her breasts, the freckles sprinkled across them. His whole body heats at the sight of her. “What are you doing here? Are you alright?”

“I need your help.”

“Come in,” she says, and he notes the wariness in her voice. He climbs over the sill, and now that he’s inside, under the light, she can see his injuries. He’s embarrassed by the little cry she gives, by her hands flying to her mouth in shock. He wishes he could tell her he’d fought them all, hurt them, avenged himself, but he knows that wouldn’t impress her either. He doesn’t know what would. “What happened?”

“I got in a fight.”

“A fight?”

“I didn’t start it, if that’s what you think.”

“Who did this?”

“Stupid fucking Muggles.”

“Did you provoke them?”

“No!” he snarls. “Worthless bastards, mean and drunk.” He wants to add that, as far as he can tell, Muggles have no reason to live, but he knows how she would react to such a statement.

“I’m sorry. There are some real assholes in this town.”

“I can fix it myself, but would you?” He doesn’t have to state the reason. They both know she’s far superior at healing.

“Of course.” One by one, she takes away the cuts and abrasions with her wand and after each one disappears she gently presses her fingers against it to test that the wound is fully healed. “Feel alright?” she asks when she’s finished and he nods. “When you sent your message you said you needed a place to stay?”

“My mum and I argued. She got angry and kicked me out.”

“Kicked you out? Why?”

“She’s drinking too much.” It’s not the truth, but it’s true, after all.

“That’s rough. I’m sorry,” Lily says, and this is the closest they have been in a year and a half.

“Can I stay here?” She doesn’t answer immediately. “Lily…”

“Alright. Petunia’s away. You can take my bed.” The room is small, the beds close together with only a narrow strip between them. She turns off the overhead light, waves her wand and makes her own ceiling reflect the night sky, like in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. Now the room is illuminated by the half moon, by the stars.

“Impressive.”

“Thank you. It took a lot of practice.” She pulls down the covers of her sister’s bed and slips inside, turning towards the wall. He quickly strips down to his underwear and gets under the sheets. It is still warm where she lay. The pillow smells like her hair. Once he is settled, she flips over to face him. “Will you go back home tomorrow? Give your mum a chance to calm down?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“She hates me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because of course she doesn’t. She’s your mother!”

“So? You were my best friend and you hate me.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Is it true?”

“Stop!” she cries and he does. She looks at him for a long while, then looks down at her hands. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

He wishes it meant something, but it proves nothing of her feelings for him, only proves the tenderness of her own heart. “What would Potter say about this?”

“It’s none of his business.”

“Do you love him?”

“I…don’t know.”

“You sleep with him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Who told you?”

“I can tell. Everyone can. The way he struts…” Though he and Potter have always hated each other, they had once been compatriots in a single respect: wanting Lily. Much as he wished to hurt Potter, despised him, he had always recognized their shared panic, their need to have her and their agony in fearing another would win her, take her away. She had been the one thing Potter hadn’t been able to have, the one halt to his arrogant victory march. And the way he’s with her now is different. He is so easy, so confident, because he’s too smug for doubt; now that he has her he believes he always will. “…he’s finally won his prize.”

“Prize? I’m not a thing, Snape, and he doesn’t own me.”

“Don’t call me that. I hate that name.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate him who gave it to me.”

“Don’t piss me off and I won’t say it. What do you care if I sleep with him? You don’t own me, either.”

“I can’t stand having less of you than he does.”

“You don’t have any of me. Not anymore.”

“I never had you.”

“How can you say that?”

“Having your friendship was never enough. It’s easier not having you at all.”

“Oh, is it? You’re telling me that all you ever wanted was my body?”

“No!” What he wants is for her to look upon him like she used to, like she cares, like he matters. That’s all. “I want-I wanted all of you. If we were still friends…”

“We’re not.”

“But if we were, did I ever have any hope of you?”

“I suppose there was always hope, as long as we were friends.”

“Lily…”

“It’s too late, Sev. It’s far too late.”

“It would have changed everything,” he says, because he believes it.

She does not answer, only sighs and moves closer to the wall, further away from him.

He hears her wake in the night, thinks he hears her crying. “Lily?” he says, voice strange and hoarse and unmistakably wanting in the middle of the night. “Are you alright? What is it?”

“Nothing,” she says, and she leaves the room, heads down the hall to the bathroom. He lies there, waiting for her return, heart pounding, sure she will be back to tell him he has to go, that she hates him, can’t bear to be near him. Then something in him shifts. The obscured brand on his forearm burns, as though it approves of his anger, his determination. She’s a fucking Mudblood. Who cares what she wants? You want her? Have her. It’s intoxicating to feel this power and confidence he never had before. He waits beside the door, grabs her when she comes back through it. “What are you doing?” she hisses.

“Don’t make me leave,” he says. He holds her face between his hands, kisses her, is shocked to feel her lips part willingly beneath his. He pulls down on the side of her nightgown until it rips, and he can drop his head and suck her nipple into his mouth. She moans, brings her hands to the back of his head as he kisses her breasts. He runs his hand up the inside of her taut thigh until he reaches its damp crease, she’s sweating. She’s not wearing anything under her gown and he can feel the coarse edges of her pubic hair against his palm as he curves it around her, cups her pussy for a moment before sliding his fingers between her swollen lips. She shakes in his arms when he finds her clit, her breath hot and humid against his cheek as she pants. He tries to kiss her again, but she pulls her mouth away.

“Wait,” she says, but she doesn’t stop him, she doesn’t say more. She lets him drag her to her bed. She sits down at its edge, watches as he strips off his underwear. The realization that she’s staring at his cock makes him harder.

“Lie down,” he says, and it makes him shiver to see her obey. He moves over her and her thighs fall open for him. He slips between them and rocks against her, and her hips rise to meet his own.

“Wait,” she says, and holds up the hem of her nightgown, and he takes it from her, drags it up and over her head, throws it to the floor. He has her, finally, and this is the triumph he has always sought, her body spread out before him, beneath him. She draws up one of her legs and hooks it over his shoulder. “Now,” she says, holding her lips open with her fingers. He brings his hand to his prick, finds her center and begins to press inside. “Oh, fuck,” she whines. “Feels so good.” To hear her swear and speak so bluntly makes him hate her, hate everyone who has and ever will have her like this, makes him hate himself. He thrusts in, balls-deep, and she cries out.

It is over for him too quickly, almost as soon as it started, but he tells himself he does not care. All he wanted was to finish, to have had her and come inside her. He rolls off of her and lies beside her, catching his breath. “Oh,” she says, turning on her side and curling around him, her hand stroking his chest. “We’ll go again, yeah? When you’re ready.”

In the early morning he can feel the cold through the window pane and the sky above him is gray. He dresses as quickly, quietly as he can.

She is waking, stirs and murmurs his name. He is crouched on the floor, checking his bag, making sure he has everything he needs, and she pushes her covers off, rises from her bed and walks over to him. “You’re leaving? Already?” A yearning in her voice, and she is so close, he wraps his arms around the back of her thighs. He is on his knees, worthless penitent, as he rests his cheek against her belly. He nuzzles at her through her nightgown, completely mad, completely aware that he will never ever get another chance to touch her. He clutches her, draws her down to him so that he can kiss her face, her cheek, her brow, her neck, everywhere. “Sev, wait, wait,” she says, stroking his cheek with her fingers, her lips so close to his own. “Don’t go.” She is holding on to his robes, not pleading but demanding. “Don’t go. Stay with me. It doesn’t matter what my parents say, if they won’t let you stay here, I don’t care. We can stay in Diagon Alley, or go on to Hogsmeade and stay there until school starts again.”

He has always recognized the faith that lives within her, the kind of happiness he has been denied. She has loved her mother and father, even her sister, and been loved by them in return. And growing from that soil, she has expected that all should love and be loved in return. She expects love to be the natural state of life. If she has ever loved him, it is because love is what she knows. Even now she holds out hope that he can be saved. But he does not want to be saved. He is where he needs to be. He is going where he has to go. He admits no doubt…because even if he does doubt, it is far too late. The Mark is burned into his skin and he has been baptized the Lord’s. Now he can never ever return. “I can’t. I have to leave. Alone.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you wanted- don’t you want to be together?”

“What I want doesn’t matter.”

“What are you talking about? Where are you going?”

“Malfoy Manor. They’re expecting me. I have to go.”

“Malfoy? Sev, you can’t. You can’t go there. You don’t have to go there.”

“Yes, I do. I don’t have a choice anymore.”

“We always have a choice. It’s never too late.”

“Yes. It is. I - there was a time- when I - I belonged to you. But that life is over. I serve another, now. I belong to him.” He pulls up his sleeve, reveals the Mark.

She discovers the truth differently than his mother, though the horror is the same, the fingers slowly pressing against the trembling mouth. There is no disgust in her eyes, however, her shock is followed only by a deep sorrow, which hurts him far more. She turns from him and covers her eyes with her hands, she’s crying, and though he wants to see her, he has neither the nerve nor can marshal the cruelty to pull her hands down and force her to confront him again. When she finally turns around she has collected herself, steeled herself against him and her eyes are cold and even hateful. “Get the fuck out of here. Go on, go to hell.”

The next time he sees her he’s walking out of the Great Hall. She’s walking in, beside Sirius Black, and he stops, stares like an idiot, while her eyes sweep over him with no expression, as though he is a stranger, unworthy of notice or attention or regard.