Pairing: Severus/Harry, Severus/Ron, implied Harry/Ron (if you squint)
Summary: It was foolish to let him go looking for Snape on his own.
Word Count: 2244
Warnings: angst, voyeurism, non-con, character death, implied necrophilia, moral ambiguity, dark themes
A/N: written for knight_move's request in the hp_loveletters exchange. Thank you to my wonderful and patient beta-readers.
You are terrified to open the door for fear of what you will find. Your fingers curl around the cold metal of the doorknob, and you stop yourself from turning it. You scrape together the remnants of your Gryffindor courage and try to keep from shaking. You have never been so scared.
Harry's been missing for weeks now. It was foolish to let him go looking for Snape on his own, but he's Harry, and he wouldn't listen. He said that this was something he had to do on his own. He said that it was for your own good that you and Hermione stay behind. You understood; you know he wanted only to keep you alive.
But you followed him anyway – left the Burrow in the middle of the night and traced the path Harry left. And now you are here.
You are terrified, standing on the porch of a dilapidated house, its rooms empty and creaking and waiting for you. You could turn around, leave in blissful ignorance and hold onto the shred of hope that Harry might still be well, might still be alive, might have vanquished Snape after all. He might not even be here, you think, but you know that’s not true.
The house is grey and menacing, and the wood stinks of rot and mildew. You can feel that Harry is still here, entombed within the walls, held captive by spells and strange potions. You know he’s here, know Snape is, too. Maybe it’s in the rustle of tall grass, growing in scattered, unkempt patches around the porch. Maybe it’s in the groaning sounds the house makes as the wind brushes against it. Harry is here. It’s not a question of if. It’s only a matter of where.
You turn the doorknob and push, hard, as if you expect resistance. The door creaks when it opens, but it opens, and the light behind you filters into a dark corridor. There are tapestries on the walls and a carpet on the floor covered with muddy stains.
The house is quiet, and it’s a desolate and hopeless quiet. A dead sort of silence.
You listen, but you don’t hear movement. The stillness makes your heart leap into your throat. You should have asked Hermione to come with you. You should have notified the Ministry. You should have brought an army of Aurors with you.
You should have done many things, but you don’t always think of should haves when it’s Harry. Instead you think in impulses. Your impulses – your ridiculous, Harry-driven impulses – have led you here and now you’re trembling, but you climb the stairs to the second floor landing anyway, following a blue-green glow of light from one of the upstairs rooms.
The room is dark when you reach it. The glow of light is coming from what you recognize to be a pensieve. You’ve heard Harry talk about the one in Dumbledore’s office, the one in Snape’s dungeons where he saw his father and mother. The swirling mist seems to call you, drawing you nearer until you’re staring into the glowing light of a memory. You brace your hands on the sides of the stone bowl before falling forward, into the past.
When you blink your eyes open again, you see Harry.
He’s staring up at not you with watering eyes, and you sense fear in his gaze. Professor Snape is next to you, and when he speaks, his voice resonates in your head. His memory.
“What do you know about Horcruxes, Potter?” Snape says, a devilish sneer on his lips. Harry is on his knees before the professor, and you can see that Snape is hard, an erection straining at the crotch of his trousers. Oh, god, you think, and are helpless. You reach for Harry, but your hand slips right through him effortlessly – as though he isn’t, wasn’t, even there at all. You are just grappling for empty space.
Snape undoes his trousers and pulls back his robes, and you see his cock red and leaking precome. He’s waiting – you both are. You bite your lip into your mouth to keep from making a sound that neither of them will hear. Harry, you mouth, helpless and hopeless, and he looks up, looks at you, just for a second. You think, he sees me, but then his gaze shifts to Snape again, meeting those beetle black eyes with his own green ones.
Harry gulps before Snape’s cock presses into his mouth, slicing between Harry’s parting lips. Harry makes a whimpering sound, and you shouldn’t be getting hard, because this is Harry, your best friend, and he’s gagging. You can hear him gagging, and you can do nothing. You’re helpless, you both are. All you can do is content yourself with the knowledge that this is over now, that this was the past, that it ended eventually, even though now the seconds and minutes seem to drag out infinitely.
“This is for your own good,” Snape grinds out, voice just as dense and dark as you remember it from afternoon lessons and lectures on potions ingredients. You try to pull yourself back, out of the memory, but the scene isn’t over yet, and you find your body trapped right where it is, unable to move.
Harry chokes out a hollow, broken sound, and Snape groans and thrusts forward again. You remember all of the playful nudges and hugs and holding on to Harry for dear life, and you try to reconcile those pictures in your head with what you’re seeing now, the scene you know, painfully, that you’ll never be able to push from your mind. This is no longer just Snape’s memory. It’s yours, too, burned onto the canvas of your mind like a brand. I was here. I was here and I did nothing.
When Snape pushes him back, his fingers fisting Harry’s hair, he growls out, “Turn around,” and you know what’s coming next. Harry falls forward, bracing his palms on the ground, and a moment later, Snape slides his cock through the tight ring of muscle of Harry’s arse. Harry cries out and spits on the ground. Hardwood floor, you think, keying back into the memory of the bedroom in which you’d just stood. It’s then that it hits you: The light streaming in through the open window, the bed behind them with the sheets still messy and bunched. This morning.
This is a recent memory you're looking at. You watch Harry’s face contort, muscles in his neck straining at each thrust. His eyes are pinched shut as if looking would mean believing. Snape’s hips snap forward in rhythmic pulses, and you are reminded of commands to stir the potion – one, two, three – times before adding the final ingredient.
“You know why you are indispensable to the Dark Lord, yes?” Snape asks, panting heavily through the question. The words come out as clipped intonations. You watch the movement of Snape’s lips, horrified as you see them go glossy under his tongue.
“Fuck you, Snape,” Harry shouts, and Snape just smirks, leaning forward until he’s riding Harry’s back, on all fours himself. His beaked nose nudges the back of Harry’s neck and you hear him whisper, “He’s in you, Potter. He’s in you.”
You don’t know what he means, but Harry flinches and his eyes flash open, brilliant, angry green. You think impulsively of shoving Snape away, gathering Harry in your arms and wrapping him in the too-long arms of your jumper. But you’re just spectral now, passing through everything in this already passed world. You try to mentally tear yourself out of the memory, but you’re paralyzed. You are trapped just like Harry is trapped between Snape and the floor.
You wonder, How many times, and think that you really don’t want to know. You hope this was the first time this has happened, but Harry’s been gone for weeks, so it could be the fifth, tenth, thirtieth. Your throat feels dry. You want to cry or scream, so you do, freely, because these shadows can’t see you. When Harry looks up, you wish he’d meet your gaze, but he doesn’t. His eyes look hollow, Slytherin green and Killing Curse green and dark despite the morning light. He looks resigned, and you hear him whisper, “Horcrux,” and then you know.
“Dumbledore always wanted to keep you safe,” Snape says, slamming into Harry’s arse more forcefully than before. “He couldn’t have you worrying.”
Harry gasps, and Snape shudders, pulls back and thrusts in again, and you can feel him coming, because this is his memory now, and the air in the room seems to stop when it happens. Harry hisses and falls hard on the floor when Snape pulls out and rises to his feet.
You look with watery eyes at your broken friend, the wizarding world’s hero, curled into a ball on the ground.
Please, you think, but aren’t sure what you’re asking for. You are confused and aroused without cause and you want to kill Snape right now, think you have the strength to, too, but you can’t. You are nothing. You are helpless.
“You understand, Potter, that there’s only one thing to do, now.” Harry looks dazed, like he’s not really listening to Snape’s words, but he looks up anyway, meeting Snape’s gaze.
Their eyes hold for a long, angry second, and then Snape summons his wand. Everything happens so quickly: you hear the words – Avada Kedavra – and you see Harry react, not with fear, but with realization, understanding. The room flashes green and without needing to think, you fling yourself into the curse’s path. “Harry!” you scream, as you leap toward him. You can feel the green jet through you, slicing you open, and then you hear Harry fall behind you, his head slamming into the wooden floor with a crack. You are nothing, and all of this, all of this has already happened.
You watch Snape slide his wand back into his robes, and when you turn to look at Harry, his scar is bleeding, brilliant red.
“It’s destroyed,” you hear Snape murmur to himself. No, you think. No, he’s destroyed.
You close your eyes and don’t notice when Snape moves again, forward this time, closer to you. And then his hand is on your shoulder, his fingers spindly and cold as ice.
You think, this is wrong, he can’t touch me. You’re in his memory.
When you open your eyes, though, you aren’t anymore. You’re standing next to the pensieve in the room where it is now late afternoon, and the hand on your shoulder is hard and gripping and oh god–
“Mr. Weasley, do you make a habit of barging into other people’s memories?” The whisper is cold and dark. “Tell me, did you enjoy what you witnessed?”
You spin on Snape immediately, startling him and shoving him backwards. You draw your wand clumsily, but he’s just as quick.
“What did you do with him? Where–“
“Calm down, Mr. Weasley,” Snape says, sneering. “It was for his own good.” Your hand is shaking and when Snape pushes you back against the wall you try to shout a hex, but his hand clamps over your mouth and you are helpless.
You think that you can fight him off. He killed Harry. He killed Dumbledore. He’s working for Voldemort and he can’t win. This is good against evil and the good must win. It’s the way things work. The thudding of your heartbeat tells you that this time, that isn’t the case at all. Snape’s wand is still against the vein in your throat. Two words and it could all be over. And it will all be over. You wonder how many days it will take for word to travel. Will Hermione worry? Will your mum and dad come looking? You hope, desperately, that someone is already on their way, that someone is running up the staircase right this very moment, that any second now the door will slam open on its hinges and you will be rescued.
In your hazy vision, it’s Harry, and he’s alive and saying, Hah! Good laugh that was, Ron. You should have seen your face!
But that won’t be the way it will happen. Because you and Snape are the only two people alive in this house, and you and Harry were the only ones clever enough to find it.
Snape closes his eyes and kisses you hard. His mouth tastes sour and like Harry, and when he pulls back, you can see the laugh in his smirk. It all ends now, his expression says.
“You’ll tell them for me, won’t you?” Snape says. There’s a strange smile on his lips now. You can see his teeth and they’re yellow and pointed in the dim bedroom light.
Who? you mouth, but he waves the question away as if it’s meant to be obvious.
His fingers pull on the cord of the drapes and light pours into the room, illuminating the shadows of the tables, the pensieve, the bed. Before Snape’s mouth parts again, not to kiss, but to speak, say those two horrible words, you see Harry’s crumpled body on the bed, his head propped up on the pillow, his glassy, lifeless eyes looking at you, dead and ready.
“Go,” Snape tells you. “Just go.” His words spit with impatience. “They won’t believe you, but the Dark Lord will die just the same.”