
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/469721.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Severus_Snape, Harry_Potter, Voldemort
  Additional Tags:
      Non_Consensual
  Series:
      Part 1 of Broken_Lullabies
  Stats:
      Published: 2003-03-05 Words: 2281
****** Hush Little Baby ******
by Vain
Summary
     Broken Lullabies: Line F ~ Disturbing Material, Mature Content. -
     Same ole, same ole with a lemony twist: Harry gets captured and
     Severus does a bad, bad thing.
Notes
                               Hush Little Baby
                            - Hanakai Mikakedaoshi
                                  03.02.2003
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
     Standard_Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and
     all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered
     trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am
     not profiting from this.
     Notes: Special thanks you's are extended to Apapazukamori for beta-
     ing.
     Do not steal from me.
     **WARNING: This story contains MATURE CONTENT, EXTREMELY DISTURBING
     MATERIAL, slash, and NCS.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
" 'Your judgment is so abnormal that I begin to have doubts of your normality.'
  "He stopped, looked at me in a way that I will be unable to forget until my
        dying day, and quietly, very quietly, in a bitter voice asked,
   'And do you really think that it is possible to stay seven years here and
                               remain normal?'"
                             - Petro G. Gigorenko
                                    Memoirs
                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
Shhhh . . . Don't cry. Don't cry. Please don't cry. It'll all be over soon.
I gently steer him onto my lap and he whimpers as I kiss a bare, slightly
tanned shoulder. I want to whisper soft words to him, tell him that it's okay,
but I can't; they're watching. His bare skin feels hot and soft against mine,
like running your fingers through a candle flame. Small, trembling hands make a
sad attempt to cover his nudity, but it only makes him look perversely coy. My
tongue flicks over the delicate shell of his ear. He cries out and I
shudder—both from him moving on top of me and the odd thrill of pleasure that
moves through me at the sound.
"Hush." My fingers glide over the shallow bow of is collarbone and slide down
to tease a small, flat nipple. I lift my chin slightly and rest it on his
shoulder so that I can see over him to image of the throne directly in front of
us and the monster that occupies it.
"Please . . ."
I gently pinch him. "Don't tell . . ."
He's so perfect like this. God, I hate him.
A single tear slips down his cheek. "Please stop."
Voldemort's eyes glitter hungrily for more.
My left hand slides down and grips one of the child's wrists and my right
sneaks up from his waist to seize the other. I pull them apart, exposing him.
His back arches slightly and he makes a sound like a scream as he unconsciously
lifts himself off me for display. One of the others laughs and I can't help but
smile as he sobs quietly, struggling to pull away from me.
I shouldn't be feeling this way. My stomach twists in revulsion as I release
his wrists to grip those small immature hips and pull him back to me. But I
still can't keep down the sick surge of triumph that moves through me. His
thrashing grows weaker. It had never been very strong to begin with—too many
Crucius Curses.
Hold still! Just—
All his wiggling around is only making this worse, damnit. Insufferable brat!
Just—
I groan. Stop it.
"Please stop it," he begs me pathetically.
I close my eyes as I pull him tighter to me, partly to shield him from my view
and partly to savor this moment. I feel his humiliation, his rage and
helplessness, seep into me as one of my sensitive hands slides from his bare
hip to run over the long expanse of his smooth, well muscled stomach and slowly
moves down, seeking, questing. Little hands grab my wrists, desperately
attempting to pull my hands off him, but he's too weak and I'm much stronger
than I look. He makes a sound like a quiet scream when I find what I'm looking
for. I lick a shoulder almost lovingly, tasting the fine layer of sweat and
terror that's built up on his skin since his capture.
It's sweet.
I stroke him, touch him in an intimate, too-eager way that I know he's never
before experienced. It doesn't take long to get the reaction I want and he
moans through his sobs, both fighting against me and attempting to thrust into
my right hand. He never did have an ounce of self-control. My left hand grips
hip firmly enough to leave bruises. I'm holding him. I'm in control. He tossed
his head back, bucking slightly—looking accidentally sensual and all the more
innocent for his ignorance.
He wants more. I know he hates himself for it.
We always hate ourselves the first time. And then again. And again.
I rise up to my knees and force him down on all fours on the cold floor, hand
still at work. One of us groans.
"Oh, for the love of God, Sev! Hurry, would you?"
Shut up, McNair.
"Shut up, McNair," Lucius's smooth voice echoes. The lust and hunger is
unmistakable in his voice and I feel it move through me, spurring me on.
"Art," I murmur against the boy's soft skin, barely audible over his sobs. He's
stopped struggling, his small, little boy nails scraping uselessly against the
stone as his fists clench and unclench. "This is art."
I don't know if I'm talking about the act or the boy. Either way, it doesn't
matter. I think Lucius is laughing. I know the Dark Lord is.
The Mark on my left arm tingles as I position myself behind the child, forcing
him up to his knees for easier access. I'm slow and careful as I position him.
While I have oils on for myself, there's no preparation for him. That would be
suspicious. My eyes flutter closed as I pull those small hips back down on me.
There's an odd roaring in my ears and I'm only vaguely aware that he's
screaming. Begging me to stop. Begging me . . .
"Professor!! Professor!!"
I don't care. He's tight. I can feel him writhing against me, fighting like a
cat and eager as a bitch in heat. Hush, little baby. Hush. I'll take care of
you.
My hips move of their own accord. Too fast too soon. Too hard. He says it
hurts, but I don't stop. Can't stop. Don't want to stop.
"PLEASE!!!"
Harder.
I want to hurl him away from me and claw at myself. I want to kiss him and
touch him. There's heaven inside him and all the while he's screaming himself
raw. It sounds good.
More. Harder. God, he's beautiful. And the sounds . . .
Stop crying, little one. Shhhh . . . Almost done. Just a bit . . .
He's whimpering now. "Professor . . ." Such betrayal in that one word.
And the others are hissing lewd things, encouraging me, wanting me to hurt him
more. No. This is art.
Oh, God . . .
And he's moving with me. Screaming somewhere deep, deep in the back of his
throat, but moving with me. One hand wrapped in front of him, small fingers
stretched wide as he attempts to grip my fist and force it to move. To touch
him. To please him. I want to please him.
"Professor!"
What is he begging for?
It doesn't matter, though; he comes. A choking sound leaves him and he jerks in
my arms. A pearly white suddenly coats the floor beneath us and he collapses,
sobbing in quiet hysterics as I finish.
He never did have much control.
But he's beautiful in his tears and tight and sweet around me as I fill him.
Fill him and then sit back and hold his limp unresisting frame against me while
he sobs in despair. Beautiful.
I grab a handful of wild black hair and pull his flushed, tear-streaked face up
and capture his stretched and swollen lips in a hungry kiss. I don't know why I
do it, but I want to kiss him and I bite his lower lip so that blood spills
into our mouths. He tastes like fire. I tease him, claim him, snake my tongue
into his mouth and suck on his bloodied lip like a starving man. He allows it.
He knows he cannot stop it now.
"Severus."
I look up, reluctant to break off that kiss or look away from his charming
brokenness. "Master?"
Voldemort smiles and I want to kill him. "I was beginning to have doubts, my
Severus. Beginning to wonder . . . But Lucius said that you had not strayed
from my fold."
A long, bony hand gestures for me to come to him, so I rise. Harry falls from
my lap into a bloodied, shattered heap on the floor. I stride to the throne,
shameless of my nudity. There's blood on me from the boy, but I pay no mind. I
kneel at Voldemort's feet and kiss his robes, feeling the others look
on—feeling Lucius's pride and Wormtail's envy and fear.
"I live only to serve you, my master," I whisper humbly into the soft cloth of
his robe.
He strokes my head—a master petting his dog for a job well done. "Well done, my
Severus." At one time I would have gloated over this. Now I only feel ill. "My
child. My little lamb."
Harry's muffled sobs are the only other sound in the chamber as the Dark Lord
fawns over me.
"The pleasure was mine, my lord." I can still taste the child's blood on my
lips. Fire.
He pets me for a few more minutes before allowing me up. I can feel Lucius's
lustful eyes on me as I pick up my robes and place them on with easy, unhurried
grace. I am not a beautiful man, but my body is something to behold. Indeed, it
has been held quite often. I teasingly allow a hint of promise to enter my dark
eyes as they rise to meet those of Lucius. He smirks.
"Take the boy downstairs," Voldemort orders.
I freeze before I can think. Me? "Master . . ." My mouth snaps shut suddenly.
Questioning the Dark Lord was a notoriously stupid thing to do, no matter how
good a mood he's in.
But he knows what I want to say. "I want our dear mister Potter more . . ." his
lip curs into a sneer as he regards the insensible child on the floor, "himself
. . . for his demise." He grins and his eyes flash with obvious insanity.
"Otherwise it won't be any fun."
I nod as the other Death Eaters titter in idiotic amusement and remove my wand.
I magic the boy up (he hasn't moved since I dropped him to the ground) and
stalk out of the chamber, moving with just the right amount of speed and sway
for my robes to flare out behind me. The walk is short and it isn't very long
before Harry is laying on a cot, still curled in his fetal position.
His wide green eyes are open and tears are sliding down his cheeks, but he
doesn't move or speak.
"Harry?" I try to keep my voice gentle, but he flinches anyway.
A bit of life returns to his glazed eyes and he blinks once, very slowly as
though the action were painful. I wait for anger. I wait for tears. I wait for
everything but the single word that leaves his lips.
"Sir?"
I blink, feeling stupidly befuddled. For a moment we stare at one another and
whatever I was thinking vanishes in a wave of emotions that I cannot identify.
I turn away, unable to look into those unnaturally green eyes of his. And I
hate him. I reach into my robes and grab a round, tangerine-sized bottle of
green fluid.
"Drink this," I order, shoving it in his direction. There's a moment's
hesitation before he accepts it. I stare at the floor and listen to him
swallowing.
I hate him.
"Sir . . .?" The word is slurred and indistinct.
I look over with detached interest as his pupils slowly dilate and his eyes
begin to lose focus. No point in telling him that the memory potion I added to
that healing draught will wipe away the events of this night. No need to tell
him that Poppy and Albus know. That they're waiting. That one of Albus's pets
is waiting in the wings to miraculously rescue him and steal him back to
Hogwarts and heal him up. Replace his memories. Wash the bitter taste of this
night out of him. No need to know that this was planned. That this was for my
sake so I could retain my position. No. There's no need for him to know any of
this.
So I lean down and kiss him gently on the lips as his eyes flutter shut. My
skin crawls as I do so, but I want to kiss him. He slips away into merciful
unconsciousness as my concoction takes hold of him.
I trail my lips over to his ear. "One hundred points to Gryffindor."
It doesn't matter anyway—Longbottom will lose them all within three Potions
classes.
I stand, ready to march back up, head held high, to take my place amongst the
others at Lucius's side. I stand . . . and the world tilts sickeningly. I lurch
over to a corner and retch, spilling what little I managed to choke down at
lunch.
I hate him. I hate Albus for allowing me to do this. I hate Voldemort for
making me do this. But most of all, I hate myself for doing it. I hate myself
for enjoying it. And I hate the twisted part of myself that wouldn't mind doing
it against—not because of who or what he is, but because for a moment he looked
beautiful to me and that beauty was mine.
I vomit until I can't breathe. God, I hate him.
But when I drink a breath-cleansing potion and straighten my robes, I feel sick
anew once I realize why I'm walking so rapidly back to my former master and why
I feel such release as I whisper the spell to signal Dumbledore's Aurors to
come get the boy. Because for once, it's not for me. It's not for my guilt.
It's not for my regret. It's not for the sickness I felt when he screamed
"Professor" like it was the only thing he knew.
It's for him.
All for him.
. . . .
Hmph.
How worthless.

                      *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*


                                    ~ Fin


                     *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*
                         Continued in Don't Say A Word
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
