a/n: One of my darkest fictions. But for some sick/perverse reason, I enjoyed writing it and I think it is one of my better pieces.
disclaimer: I do not own the characters. There are two, one who is nameless (though you will know who it is, hopefully) and Severus Snape who is only ever referred to as Snape or the potions master. There are mentions of others, but all of them (named or not) belong to JK Rowling.
Inside there are ONE-SHOT, M/M RELATIONS & NON-CON...and if you read any depth into the story there is more than just one instance at different levels.
NON-CON refers to non-consensual sex. Therefore there are sex-ish scenes, but nothing explicit. If I offend, I am sorry, but hopefully you have enough warning here to turn back now if you don't like this kind of thing.
Years of Grace
By: Miss Jinny
grace: a delay granted for payment of an obligation
The hands that carded through his hair were rough, but they were always rough.
It had started just like the other times, like the first time; only the rooms and the conditions were slightly different. Then it had been anger, regret and deep grieving. Fears of the veil, loss of life and heart greater than he had expected then. But after, with perfect hindsight, he knew he should have expected it; that great hole where his soul had been echoing the tears that fell from his chin.
Sirius was lurched from his fingers and flung wayward into death so very quickly. Too quickly. He was left standing, gaping and wondering why his chest hurt and did not rise and fall until he realized that he was not breathing. His lungs were screaming for air and his head swam but he did not notice. He was too concerned with who else was not breathing, who would not need breath again. Sirius. Dead and gone.
Blurs of color and motion, the whole world meshed and blended into hazy voices and shadowed pictures. Unfocused snapshots, the whole lot of them. But he was deposited elsewhere, left to his misery; remembering only deeply sympathetic blue eyes that did not twinkle when they abandoned him.
There was another with him, with onyx eyes. Cold and hard as slate. They did not sparkle, barely conveyed emotion but he knew--he could feel it somewhere in that spot where his soul had lived only hours before--that they were laughing at him. Grim lines of hard satisfaction set in a pale face; one elegant brow lifted in wait; hooked nose looming over lips that twitched. He had stood, stiff and waiting for the potions master to make a comment. His heart gave a sick clench when he could see the words forming in the man's head even before he snorted--a sure sign of the evil thoughts that were about to be made clear.
The words had rung hard and piercing in his head, echoing around as though waiting for him to recognize them as English. Mutt...filth...should have rotted...Azkaban... And as they took root in the new vacancy deep in him, he could feel rage. The first blessed emotion after all of it. And Snape had sneered, knowing that he was poking a sleeping tiger--or more accurately, a slumbering wolf.
All the color, every single shade of blues, greens and ambers, they bled of their vibrancies and only greys remained. Blacks and greys and whites. He recalled the slightly panicked widening of Snape's eyes as he snarled at him. And it made his stomach lurch in sick satisfaction. Hair prickled at his knuckles, spread to the back of his hands and made thin trails up his forearms. Snape had backpedaled, back pressed against the cool stone walls of the Headmaster's office.
He had cornered him, wolf senses sharp and exact, and smelled Snape's fear before he had even stepped in front of him. In the back of his mind he idly wondered if Snape felt repentant for his earlier words; if he would take them back if he could. The other part overwhelmed the unconscious thought with screams for revenge. It didn't care if the man was sorry, because it knew he wasn't. And it was the truth.
He had grabbed him by the shoulders, the material of Snape's robes falling apart beneath his fingers too easily. They had ribboned, tatters littering the floor at their feet and the heat of Snape's skin burnt his palms. Snape was shivering, thin cotton shirt doing nothing to withhold the chill of the stones now that his robe did not hide him. Perhaps it was fear...but it was probably both.
Anger, revenge, and sweet pain. He needed to expel them, give them to someone else and for the twisted life of him he was going to give it to Snape. The potions master didn't fight him; too afraid, too weak to do anything. As he pulled at the man's collar and sent the tiny buttons flying, as he ripped the belt from his pants, Snape's elegant hands were clenched into fists at his sides, stilled by some force unknown.
He pulled him to, bodily, and gnashed his teeth as he felt the erratic heartbeat pounding in the other man's chest. Those hands snapped up then, burying deeply in his shaggy hair and pulled his head away. His neck muscles had bulged and shifted as he fought them, fought the strength he didn't know Snape had.
But the potions master was steadfast, and he resorted to pawing at him. His hardened fingers moved over his skin in harsh bursts, feeling the scars that littered Snape's torso and back. Snape had shifted, trying to find an out, as though he had only then realized he was standing nearly naked only inches from a snarling wolf in a man's body. But he was faster, rougher, and he had slammed Snape into the wall, satisfied at the great exhale of air and slight loosening of the fingers that would surely forever be tangled in his hair.
Snape shivered, revulsion, realization, fear, the cold, he couldn't tell which. But in the next few moments he had freed himself from his robe and gripped Snape's thighs. And the man fought, struggled, fumed, and screamed as his superior strength slowly won out. Just before he took him, he heard Snape plead once, very quietly in a voice full of pain, and for just a second he realized what he was doing and very nearly stopped. But didn't.
And so he took him, eyes tearing with his pain and regret, finding very little pleasure in the act. The smell of blood filled the air around him and he felt his mouth water, even as his mind knew where that blood was flowing from. Minutes later, he shuddered, mind reeling back to the present. He stepped away from Snape, feeling violently ill at what he had done.
Snape did not look at him, head turned away and eyes dull. The man's fingers were still curled tightly into his hair and he grasped the man by the wrists, forcefully yanking the man's hands away. He winced as great chunks of his hair came away with Snape's hands.
The potions master dressed in his torn clothing in a very deliberate manner. Snape did not once look at him, even as he limped to the doorway and flung it open, hobbling past a startled Headmaster and leaving a trail of robe tatters in his wake.
He watched the man's stiff form leave, still smelling the lingering blood and sweat and wanted to wretch. The Headmaster was questioning him, but he couldn't hear again, could only smell and remember. Trying to think when it was exactly that he could see color again.
It would be days before he would see Snape. The man passed him in the hall with a glare that would have cracked stone. He noticed that the wizard was still limping slightly and flushed with guilt.
He had crept to the dungeons that night, knowing he could never set things right again--not that they had ever been right to begin with. He had knocked incessantly until the door was thrown open in irritation. The spark of fear that flashed quickly over Snape's face made him cringe in regret. But Snape saw it, that look, and the fear that would have stayed had changed subtly.
And since then Snape held the cards in his hands. He still sought Snape once a year, for the past six years. The same evil day that Sirius was ripped away, the same day that he had taken what was never offered. And for some reason he would never understand, Snape let him in every time.
Any other day, when Snape had contacted him, he would sit meekly aside and wait. Because Snape liked him that way. A pliable waif that came to him when he called because he had the cards in his hands. A weak wolf that did not fight him when he smirked, when he touched, when he fucked him and threw him from his quarters only moments after.
All but for the anniversary. On those hellish days he would come to Snape, and the potions master waited for him. He would stand in the entry, telling himself he would not play these games anymore but Snape always seemed to know. Then the name-calling would start. Then the vicious attacks against him--always him first-- and then Harry Potter, and the boy's father James, but it always ended with Sirius. And when the first barb came then, the old rage reared its head and he would attack him again. Just like then.
The hands always embedded in his hair to keep him from biting, and the perverse pleasure he took as Snape hissed in pain still made his flesh prickle. He would collapse, exhausted emotionally, physically, mentally...and for a reason he still did not understand, Snape would let him stay. He would sleep curled into himself on the very far edge of Snape's bed, and Snape would not speak to him nor touch him, only let him sleep. And when morning came, it was like it had never happened and he would leave without a word and wait for Snape to call for him.
And he always did.
That's why he was here again. Snape's hands in his hair, Snape's lips ghosting at his neck--never really touching, because they would never kiss--Snape using him, flashing his cards that he lay upon the table.
And for a reason he did not want to think about, he came when Snape did. His eyes were floating in unshed tears, but they were from Snape pulling at his hair. At least that's what he told himself. And Snape pretended not to notice his mess or how unnaturally wet his eyes were. He rolled off of the bed and picked up his clothes, shaking them out a little as he pulled on his underwear and then his pants.
He stiffened in slight surprise when cool fingertips touched the sore spot on his head where Snape's fists had held tight. But pushed his surprise away. He stood, going toward his shirt but a quiet voice stopped him.
"Stay." A command.
And he did, because Snape held the cards. And he chose to ignore the slightly pensive look on the potions master's face, and the fact that Snape had changed his routine. He fell asleep on the edge of the bed, curled into himself and shivering, refusing to see that Snape had given some of his cards back.