FIC: Nine Adulteries, NC-17

Title: Nine Adulteries
Pairing: Er. Severus. Harry.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Chan. Some dub-con, I think. Strangeness. Spoilers for HBP.
Summary: Obsession isn't all we have in common.
Dedication: Inspired by and dedicated to switchknife. Happy birthday, love.
Notes: The idea for this came from an exchange with Switch in the draft comments of nights_nothings, long since deleted from LJ but not, obviously, from my brain. It's, um. Not like anything I've ever tried to write before, and I can only hope it doesn't suck. Title from Ezra Pound's 'The Temperaments'. Feedback always more than welcome.
Thanks: *deep breath* To tangleofthorns and shaychana for early encouragement, critique and hand-holding; to snubkin, my most loyal lurker, for assuring me this makes sense someplace other than my head; to gattava for the once-over; to happiestwhen for the final beta; and to switchknife for the bunny.
ETA: I've posted a commentary to this fic here.

*
It's cold on Spinner's End, cold even in his heated robes in front of the fire, and his gnarled hands are shaking as he wraps them around his teacup. Severus hates the cold, though he tells himself he really ought to be used to it by now. But he's not. He's cold, and he hates it, and he has only his hatred to keep him warm.

He sneers and looks at Potter.

Then again, perhaps hatred is enough.

*
Easy prey, I told you once, I called you once, and you were, wearing your heart on your sleeve. I wonder what you'd think of me now, if you'd think of me at all, if you were capable of thinking. But that's ridiculous—of course you would. Obsession isn't all we have in common, boy, but it's a start.

A start. Let me show you a start. I can do that, show you where everything started. I have all of you, you know, caught and stoppered, shelved and stocked, meticulously labeled. You're my potions, now, and there was some debate as to how best to organise you, but in the end I chose chronology.

But no matter. We were starting.

One.
You're thirteen. I have you before now, have you at nine and five and seven months. Undeniably interesting, unless I'm confronted, in which case everything is deniable—particularly my interest in you at nine years old. I shouldn't know you at nine years old. Meaningless. We were speaking of starts, and you're thirteen.

You're thirteen and you think you're thirty, think you're subtle, think you're clever, think you're smart. I assure you time and again that you are none of these things, but the last thing you do is listen.

No, you don't listen. Except when you do, and on those rare occasions you deliberately misinterpret my words, and it's incomprehensible to me until I remember that you're a child, and all children are mad. Particularly you. Mad, as you barge into my quarters with a please and a pout on your pretty pink lips, mad as you press them to mine, wet and clumsy but undeniably hungry and I don't know what they're teaching children in school these days but this is unacceptable.

I try to push you away. Mad. I try to tell you to stop. This is.

I try. But the last thing you do is listen, and your madness is catching.

It's quick, this first time, your body soft and straining against mine as I stumble backwards. You push me into a bookshelf. The wood is hard against my back, and I think about that, focus on that, on the wood hard against my back and not on the way your robes slide from your shoulders, broken wings on the broken-winged.

You're too thin. Too thin, too pale, too sharp. Your collarbones will cut me open. I can count your ribs and I can span your waist with my hands and I do. Blood and fire and breath in my grasp, and I don't.

But I do, I do.

I'm trying to hold you away from me, trying to tell you to put your blasted clothes back on, but you push yourself closer and your prick is hard against my thigh, your breath is hot against my neck and you're gasping, gasping, and then I'm gasping too, damn you.

You're thirteen.

*
Severus stares at his shelves, his lips curled, and doesn't remember the last time his lips weren't curled. In sleep, perhaps, but he doesn’t remember the last time he slept. He tries, briefly, to remember, but quickly decides there is nothing less relevant. He doesn't need to sleep. Not anymore. Not now that he has Potter.

*
Sometimes that's my favourite. I have a collection, of course, a catalogue, a cross-referenced, categorical compendium, but that one. That one's proof. Proof that you started this. Proof that you always were a filthy whore, a wanton slut even at thirteen, and that whatever cruelty I inflicted on you was well and truly earned.

Proof.

Oh, I know what you thought. You thought no one would know, no one would notice, no one would see that your eyes gave you away. Your eyes, wide and wandering and never where they were supposed to be. Your eyes.

Blind, of course. But if the last thing you did was listen, you never even got the chance to see. You were blind to begin with.

Two.
You're fourteen.

You're fourteen and you're masturbating in the prefect's bathroom, not that you're a prefect, not that you will ever be a prefect. But as the rules of the universe don't apply to you, why should the rules of Hogwarts? They don't, of course, and that has to be why I stand in the shadows and watch you. Why I don't drag you off, haul you away, have my way with you. At the very least I should assign you a detention, but I don't. I don't. I stand and watch and don't.

You're still too thin, gaunt and haggard and pale, and you slide a little deeper into the water. Your skin is sleek and shining, and your hair is damp and curling, and your mouth is open and gasping and I can feel the ghost of your breath on my neck. I'm standing and I'm watching and I'm hard under my robes and still I don't.

But you do. You move your hand over your cock and I can't quite see it from here, but I'm sure that's what you're doing. You're moving and you're moaning and you're splashing and you're ridiculous. You're fourteen.

But you're not—oh, you're not. You're moving, twisting, working your other hand behind you and between your legs. My own hands fist in my robes, dig into my thighs, and I can almost feel you stretching around my fingers. You'd be soft and tight around me, so hot my hand would catch fire. You'd consume me.

But you don't, and I don't, and you're not. No, you're arching back against the edge of the tub, you're screwing your eyes shut tight, you're fucking yourself on your fingers, thrusting into your fist, and then you're throwing your head back and crying out, short and sharp and yes and crying out and coming and yes.

I make my escape, and it's as if I'd never been there, never seen. I'd never been there. Never been.

You're fourteen.

*
Severus takes the paper when he remembers to do so, remembers to care, remembers he has habits and patterns and routines which keep him sane. He doesn't remember how often he remembers.

*
Sometimes that's my favourite. It's proof too, though of a different sort. It proves you have no secrets, no shame, no stories to tell I've not already lived. I drained you dry and drank you down. You and everyone who knew you. And they were legion, weren't they?

Whore.

It proves your blindness, your ignorance, your childish immaturity. As the rest of us worked to protect you, to save your worthless hide, your scrawny neck, your—enough. As the rest of us were working, you were tossing off, unaware, ungrateful, unable to see that which was right in front of you, always in front of you, behind you, all around you. Always. Always blind, in a place you never were supposed to be, a place you never—a place I never was.

Three.
You're fifteen and I wish you were dead. It would be the least you could do, really: dying. After all I've done for you. Tried to do for you. Though you, of course, are blissfully blind to it all. Still a child, then, dealing in death and playing at soldier and haunting the halls of Grimmauld Place like you're asking for it.

And then you are asking for it. You're asking. You're surprising me in a bed I shouldn't have, a bed you shouldn't know I have, and you're shivering and shaking under the covers and the vibrations shake my sanity loose.

You're climbing and crawling and clawing at my skin, and I'm letting you. I'm letting you, I'm lying there, and the noises I'm making are the noises you're making and I'm letting you lick me and stroke me and suck me to hardness and there won't be anything left of me when I— When you come. When you go.

You will, of course. You will. You'll come—no. You'll go. You'll go, you'll leave me alone, and it will be perfect, and it's that thought which does it, reminds me I only want you to leave. I want you to leave so I shove you off my cock and refuse to acknowledge you staring at it, staring and licking those lips, staring like you want nothing more than to taste it again. Taste me again, but you can't. You can't. There'd be nothing left, and I can't.

I flip you over and fuck you.

You're fifteen.

*
Today's paper is strangely familiar, and Severus wonders if he's read it already. Yesterday, perhaps. He thinks he remembers yesterday. Perhaps—no. That's madness. Today's paper brings news of another body dumped on the Ministry's doorstep, another body stripped of memories, stripped of clothing, stripped of self.

Memories.

Severus looks at his shelves, looks at Potter, and wonders why anyone bothers caring about memories anymore, why anyone bothers caring about anything else. He throws the paper onto the fire.

*
Sometimes that's my favourite. Often, actually, and I should think the reasons are obvious. The sight of you straining beneath me, the scent of your sweat on my skin, the sound of your surrender as your body opens to mine.

I hate you. I've always hated you. But it only ever made you tighter, made you brighter, and I'm hardly one to complain of such results. Perhaps it was this one which decided me, all those years ago.

Four.
You're sixteen.

You're sixteen, and you've lost what little mind you once possessed. You might as well still be thirteen, for all you think you're subtle, think you're clever, think you're smart. You're still none of these things, and I still tell you as much, and you still refuse to listen. You were probably closer to these things at thirteen than you are now.

Now. Now you're adolescent melodrama given form, all hormones and histrionics. Now you're clumsy kisses in the dark, clumsy tongue against my own, clumsy groping in the broomshed. Your hands are sweaty on my stomach, on my skin, and you tear your mouth away from mine and whisper, 'I've never...'

You're such a miserable liar that it makes me want to scream, makes me want to make you scream. Makes me want to make you want it.

But I don't, I don't. You don't. You're a disease, an infection, and I'm a rotten, hollow core and I don't recognise my own voice as I utter the latest in a string of inanities. 'Me neither,' I whisper, and I'm suddenly as miserable a liar as you'll ever be, but I press my lips to yours, press our lips together, and it doesn't matter, doesn't matter.

Nothing matters. You're sixteen.

*
The next time Severus remembers about the paper, he remembers remembering. The morning brings more bodies, stripped of memories, stolen selves, and he remembers why he stopped remembering.

He'd done this. Potions and mind magic and the Dark Arts, and Severus had changed the world, memories made form. He is no longer an observer. Now, he is an active participant.

*
Sometimes—no. That one's never my favourite. That one's poisoned by insanity, inanity and absurdity, and I don't know what came over me.

Five.
You're seventeen.

You're seventeen when you come after me, hunt me down, track me like the animal you forced me to become. You find me and I let you, let you believe it wasn't the other way around, wasn't I who found you. I let you think you're finally everything you always thought you were.

You're not, of course. You're not. You're nothing.

You're nothing and I let you be, let you become, let you believe. I let you take me, have me. Let you think you have me. Let you ask the questions, let you feed me Veritaserum, let you think there are no ways around it.

I let you ask me what I want, let you—finally—listen when I tell you, let you let me. Let you shove me to my knees, shove your prick down my throat, shove it in and out of my lying mouth, shove it in and in and in until you're shoving your come into my stomach.

I let you think you're all grown up as you collapse over me, gasping and panting and sated and utterly disgusted with yourself. You are. You're disgusting.

You're seventeen.

*
He hates it, of course, though he no longer bothers hating himself. It was too many years ago to count, and at least he can remember that much. He’d done what he'd had to do, as he always had. He'd always done what he’d had to do, and if this had further steeped him in hatred, at least it had delivered him Potter.

He sneers at his fully-stocked shelves.

*
That one's not my favourite, either, though it should be all the proof you require. You acquired a taste for it. For me. For me, as if your lips were worthy of any piece of me.

No. No, you were never worthy, and that's what makes it. Makes this. Makes everything.

Six.
You're seventeen.

Yes, still seventeen. Seventeen was an auspicious age for you, apparently, though you're too blind to see it didn't treat you well. You're seventeen and you're thinner than you were at sixteen, at fifteen, at fourteen. It's as if you've simply been stretched, been stretched and pulled from both ends, and you're in danger of coming apart at the joints.

You don't eat properly, I say as you skip meal after meal. You don't sleep properly, I say as you sit up night after night after night. You don't bathe properly, I think as you wade shirtless into a river and splash about like the child you so desperately want to leave behind. You don't do anything properly. It's disgusting.

You're disgusting. Still disgusting.

This life doesn't suit you, this life on the run after that life of being coddled, being treasured, being worshipped. Hero, celebrity, Chosen One. Please. This life doesn't suit you. You've been run ragged, drowned and reborn, and you are in desperate need of a haircut. Disgusting, but I can't tear my eyes from your hair, from your chest, from you. From you as you emerge, dripping, from the water. From you. Reborn.

I should rail against it. Would rail against it, would rant and rave and run away. I would, but I don't. You stripped me of my sanity long ago, and there's no longer any need to pretend. So I don't, and you don't, and you do, and then your body is against mine, sleek and shining and straining.

The ground is cold and hard against my back, and your prick is hot and hard against my thigh, and your mouth is wet and open against my throat. You're thrusting, rocking against me, rubbing your cock against mine and nothing you do has any right to feel so good. I clutch at your shoulders but my hands slip away when I come, you slip away when you come, and you're left bereft when I push you away and stand. Push you away and walk away on legs you'd never know were trembling.

Trembling.

You're seventeen.

*
They're looking for him, now. Imbeciles. He hasn't moved in years, hasn't left or lived or changed his name. They can't be looking particularly hard. Incompetents. Perhaps Potter is in charge.

He likes that thought, likes getting the better of Potter once again—this time, without even trying. When he remembers that Potter is his, the bile in his throat tastes almost like regret.

Not that he would know.

*
I never tire of playing favourites, but that one is somewhat difficult to categorise. I drink it when I'm angry with you. Angrier than usual, overcome with the need to drag you down, drink you down, and the swirling mists of memories curl their way down my throat. It's easier every time. Easier to drink, easier to walk away, easier to drink again.

Seven.
You're twenty-three.

You're twenty-three and hiding. Still afraid, still a child, for all that you're a killer, now. Wasn't what you expected, was it? What you thought you wanted. You wanted.

You're hiding in a locker room, hiding from your press, from your fans, from your fame, from yourself.

I've told you not to hide from me. I've told you.

But you persist. You're hiding and you're masturbating, one hand braced against the wall while the other flies over your cock. You're hiding as the water tries to rinse you clean, as your hair curls in the steam, as you try to forget everything you are, you aren't, and never were.

As you try. As you fail, as I make you. As if I'd let you, now.

I curl my own hand around yours, meet your startled eyes, your startled gasp, and I still don't taste you when I make you come.

I make you. I made you.

You're twenty-three.

*
They come for him sometimes. Less incompetent now, it would seem. They come at random intervals: nameless, faceless sycophants begging for his help. Severus, they tell him, you should do the right thing. The world, they tell him, is out of control. They have statistics and reports and the laughable impression that he cares.

*
That one's not my favourite. That one's never my favourite. That one bores me. You bore me, still hiding and cowering and masturbating at twenty-three. Playing that ridiculous sport and wasting your life, wasting yourself, wasting away.

Oh, don't—don't look at me like that. I'm hardly wasting anything.

I've a project.

Eight.
You're twenty-eight.

Yes, I've skipped ahead, though of course I have you in between. I always have you, and I have you at twenty-eight.

You're twenty-eight and you seem to be confused as to which one of us is the whore. Not that it shall matter in the end. We both know the truth.

In the end you keep chasing me, hunting me, finding me, fucking me on dirty hotel sheets, stained with a million kinds of come.

You're no longer too thin, no longer young as you snarl obscenities in my ear, no longer fragile as your cock splits me in two. Your teeth are sharp in my shoulder and your hands are hard on my hips and your cock is exquisite inside me, stroking and spurting and stroking and softening.

You're no longer. No longer there as I turn over, finish myself off. Finish.

No longer.

You're twenty-eight.

*
Severus is civil, of course. He offers them tea. Firewhisky. Ogden's finest.

Their eyes are suspicious as they glance anxiously around the room. He can smell their sweat, taste their nervousness, and he looks around at his well-ordered shelves and wonders what exactly they have a problem with. Their eyes light on Potter and he feels his lips curl, feels his hackles rise.

They decline the tea and leave.

*
Sometimes that's my favourite. I'll admit I like to see you so debased, but your cock in my arse isn't exactly an unwelcome feeling. Together, I believe the word is 'sublime'. I'm almost running out, in fact, but my recent experimentation has paid off; I've perfected the duplication process. If I had you before, and I did, I have you in multiples, now.

My final victory.

Nine.
You're thirty-seven.

You're thirty-seven and you think you're seventeen, think you're immortal, think you're invincible, think you're indestructible.

Incomprehensible.

Nothing's changed.

Nothing's changed as you track me here, track me to this ruin of a warehouse, track me and corner me and trap me in the dark, as if you expect to win. As if you expect to stand against me as you stood against him, as if you expect to stand and win and make it out of here alive.

You don't, of course. You don't. You always were careless, and now you're—.

I was never alive to begin with, dead at the very same age. Dead as you sneak right past me, miss me entirely, show me your back. Dead as I step from the shadows, raise my wand, bring down your shields.

Dead as I whisper the words which damned me.

END