fic offering
May. 31st, 2006 08:40 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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irisgirl12000
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to JKRowling, and no money is being made in my manipulations.
Warnings: violence, blood-letting
This was written as a series of drabbles formimiheart. I've been distracted by other obligations, but hope to continue it shortly.
He looks pitiful lying there on the packed dirt floor of his cell. Blood from wounds made by my compatriots’ Sectumsempras and Crucios mixes with the dust and tears on his face, making it a sticky mess. If I didn’t know this to be Potter, I would not recognize him.
I hear his heartbeat slowing, smell the scent of death approaching. It has come to this, then. I had hoped that Albus was wrong about the ‘power’ the boy would use to defeat the Dark Lord, but how often did that happen? Really, I should have known better than to doubt the old man. He was, after all, the one who took me in when I turned from my Lord, who knew what my master had made of me. Of course he did. He probably knew even then that one day the strength of the Undead would turn the tide of the war.
Steeling myself for the inevitable rage and horror that will follow, I kneel and lift his wrist to my lips.
***
His blood is the richest I have ever tasted. Rich with magic, with power, with passion, with emotion – misery and fear, it is true, but powerful emotions nonetheless. Were the bitter flavor of death and the knowledge of its consequences not already so close, I would be tempted to drain him, to savor the aroma, the texture of his lifeblood.
Instead, I retract my teeth when I feel his pulse falter, swiping my tongue across the punctures to heal them. Shifting his weight, alarmingly little as it is, I tilt his head. The vein I open in my own wrist drips blood steadily onto his lips, but he is so weakened that it falls to me to massage his throat to force him to swallow.
Immediately I see the change. Wounds heal, golden-tan skin pales, his eyeteeth sharpen and elongate. When his eyes snap open, their previously unnatural green now almost glows with intensity.
Or perhaps it is hatred. I can see the instant he recognizes me, realizes what I have done. The expected rage twists his face into a snarl. His instinctive move out of my arms has him on the other side of the cell in an instant. Only the Dark Lord’s wards hold him in now. Ah well, at least that gives me time to explain. I hope.
***
Macnair interrupted my hurried narrative. Rather than Obliviating him, I let Potter have him. It eased his initial bloodlust temporarily.
I can see that he rails against his nature already, but perhaps there is enough left of the Slytherin qualities the Sorting Hat once saw in him to use the advantages he now possesses.
The feeding stupor the brat is in makes him more amenable, so I go into detail I had originally planned to omit from my explanation. A spark of understanding lights his eyes.
He blinks, then meets my gaze and nods. For a split-second that lasts an eternity in my mind, I know what it is like to have a partner, an equal, to not be alone at an impossible task.
"Rookwood is coming - I recognize his footsteps. Let him take me to Voldemort."
***
Rookwood eyes me oddly, but does not inquire about my presence in Potter's cell. The fool's senses are so dulled by firewhisky that he doesn't notice the change in the boy, nor does the shimmer of magic that is Macnair's Disillusioned corpse attract his attention. To his credit, Potter is hanging his head, behaving like the defeated whipping boy the Dark Lord will be expecting. He allows Rookwood to drag him out of the cell and up the steps to the Great Hall.
When Rookwood releases Potter in front of my Lord's throne-like chair, he falls to his knees in a boneless heap, his head only inches from the Dark Lord's knee. The other Death Eaters probably see this as a posture of defeat, but slim shoulders are tense, and I know the boy realizes that he is as close to Voldemort as he will ever be, that the perfect opportunity is nearly at hand.
Voldemort reaches down and grabs a handful of Potter's filthy, matted hair, using it to lift him. He taunts Potter about the humiliation and degradation he'll suffer before his death, about the pain and misery his friends will feel when Darkness covers the land. I can see his increasing frustration at the brat's lack of response. With a jerk, he lifts the boy's face higher, trying to force him to meet his gaze, but the green eyes remain focused on the floor, his face empty of expression.
With a snarl of disgust, Voldemort tosses Potter aside, and he falls heavily back to his knees. When the boy slowly climbs to his feet, my Lord studies him briefly before dismissing him. His attention is already on the next prisoner being brought in, kicking and screaming. Hermione Granger.
I am the only one who sees the flash of rage and regret in Potter's eyes before resolve hardens them. Faster than thought Potter is behind Voldemort's throne, lifting him with one arm around his neck and the other holding the hand clenched on the yew and phoenix-feather wand. With an ironic twist of his lips, he sets his fangs to the Dark Lord's carotid. After a few gulps, he allows the blood to pump into the air for one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three. Then he twists the neck sharply, and I hear the crack of shattering bone.
***
The Mark on my forearm throbs, a faint echo of the pain the screaming, writhing men surrounding us must feel. Were I not Changed, I am certain I would share their agony.
Granger, who appears quite stunned by the turn of events, has backed as far away from Voldemort (and Potter) as possible. If the great doors weren't warded, I believe she would flee. Potter drops the body in his arms and moves toward her, stopping short of touching her.
"It's done, then? You destroyed the Cup? You must have, or he'll be able to come back." His voice is hoarse.
Granger is silent, her impossibly huge eyes fixed on Potter's face.
"Hermione-" When he speaks again, his fangs are visible, and that is enough to pull her from her stupor.
"Harry? Oh Harry, what have they done to you?"
tbc?
irisgirl12000Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: These characters belong to JKRowling, and no money is being made in my manipulations.
Warnings: violence, blood-letting
This was written as a series of drabbles for
mimiheart. I've been distracted by other obligations, but hope to continue it shortly.He looks pitiful lying there on the packed dirt floor of his cell. Blood from wounds made by my compatriots’ Sectumsempras and Crucios mixes with the dust and tears on his face, making it a sticky mess. If I didn’t know this to be Potter, I would not recognize him.
I hear his heartbeat slowing, smell the scent of death approaching. It has come to this, then. I had hoped that Albus was wrong about the ‘power’ the boy would use to defeat the Dark Lord, but how often did that happen? Really, I should have known better than to doubt the old man. He was, after all, the one who took me in when I turned from my Lord, who knew what my master had made of me. Of course he did. He probably knew even then that one day the strength of the Undead would turn the tide of the war.
Steeling myself for the inevitable rage and horror that will follow, I kneel and lift his wrist to my lips.
***
His blood is the richest I have ever tasted. Rich with magic, with power, with passion, with emotion – misery and fear, it is true, but powerful emotions nonetheless. Were the bitter flavor of death and the knowledge of its consequences not already so close, I would be tempted to drain him, to savor the aroma, the texture of his lifeblood.
Instead, I retract my teeth when I feel his pulse falter, swiping my tongue across the punctures to heal them. Shifting his weight, alarmingly little as it is, I tilt his head. The vein I open in my own wrist drips blood steadily onto his lips, but he is so weakened that it falls to me to massage his throat to force him to swallow.
Immediately I see the change. Wounds heal, golden-tan skin pales, his eyeteeth sharpen and elongate. When his eyes snap open, their previously unnatural green now almost glows with intensity.
Or perhaps it is hatred. I can see the instant he recognizes me, realizes what I have done. The expected rage twists his face into a snarl. His instinctive move out of my arms has him on the other side of the cell in an instant. Only the Dark Lord’s wards hold him in now. Ah well, at least that gives me time to explain. I hope.
***
Macnair interrupted my hurried narrative. Rather than Obliviating him, I let Potter have him. It eased his initial bloodlust temporarily.
I can see that he rails against his nature already, but perhaps there is enough left of the Slytherin qualities the Sorting Hat once saw in him to use the advantages he now possesses.
The feeding stupor the brat is in makes him more amenable, so I go into detail I had originally planned to omit from my explanation. A spark of understanding lights his eyes.
He blinks, then meets my gaze and nods. For a split-second that lasts an eternity in my mind, I know what it is like to have a partner, an equal, to not be alone at an impossible task.
"Rookwood is coming - I recognize his footsteps. Let him take me to Voldemort."
***
Rookwood eyes me oddly, but does not inquire about my presence in Potter's cell. The fool's senses are so dulled by firewhisky that he doesn't notice the change in the boy, nor does the shimmer of magic that is Macnair's Disillusioned corpse attract his attention. To his credit, Potter is hanging his head, behaving like the defeated whipping boy the Dark Lord will be expecting. He allows Rookwood to drag him out of the cell and up the steps to the Great Hall.
When Rookwood releases Potter in front of my Lord's throne-like chair, he falls to his knees in a boneless heap, his head only inches from the Dark Lord's knee. The other Death Eaters probably see this as a posture of defeat, but slim shoulders are tense, and I know the boy realizes that he is as close to Voldemort as he will ever be, that the perfect opportunity is nearly at hand.
Voldemort reaches down and grabs a handful of Potter's filthy, matted hair, using it to lift him. He taunts Potter about the humiliation and degradation he'll suffer before his death, about the pain and misery his friends will feel when Darkness covers the land. I can see his increasing frustration at the brat's lack of response. With a jerk, he lifts the boy's face higher, trying to force him to meet his gaze, but the green eyes remain focused on the floor, his face empty of expression.
With a snarl of disgust, Voldemort tosses Potter aside, and he falls heavily back to his knees. When the boy slowly climbs to his feet, my Lord studies him briefly before dismissing him. His attention is already on the next prisoner being brought in, kicking and screaming. Hermione Granger.
I am the only one who sees the flash of rage and regret in Potter's eyes before resolve hardens them. Faster than thought Potter is behind Voldemort's throne, lifting him with one arm around his neck and the other holding the hand clenched on the yew and phoenix-feather wand. With an ironic twist of his lips, he sets his fangs to the Dark Lord's carotid. After a few gulps, he allows the blood to pump into the air for one heartbeat, two heartbeats, three. Then he twists the neck sharply, and I hear the crack of shattering bone.
***
The Mark on my forearm throbs, a faint echo of the pain the screaming, writhing men surrounding us must feel. Were I not Changed, I am certain I would share their agony.
Granger, who appears quite stunned by the turn of events, has backed as far away from Voldemort (and Potter) as possible. If the great doors weren't warded, I believe she would flee. Potter drops the body in his arms and moves toward her, stopping short of touching her.
"It's done, then? You destroyed the Cup? You must have, or he'll be able to come back." His voice is hoarse.
Granger is silent, her impossibly huge eyes fixed on Potter's face.
"Hermione-" When he speaks again, his fangs are visible, and that is enough to pull her from her stupor.
"Harry? Oh Harry, what have they done to you?"
tbc?
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