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Severus is busy slicing antirrhinum stems in his workshop when he feels it: the sharp burn of flesh on his inner arm. A summons.
He’s gripped with what is by now a familiar fear: he’s been found out somehow, betrayed. As he cleans off his knife and prepares to apparate, he can’t help but imagine the other death eaters waiting for him, replete with drawn wands and no mercy to spare.
Letting out a shaky breath, he folds away the fear; if it’s sensed it will be its own sort of betrayal. In its place he cultivates a careful blankness, and over that he lays the casual thoughts that any other card-carrying Death Eater might have: irritation at an itch in his robes, musings about the weather, a mild headache.
He apparates, and the familiar walls of his chamber fall away into mist. In their place rise the oak-paneled walls and high ceilings of the great hall at Malfoy Manner, now crowded with figures, cloaked and masked.
All save two.
Severus stops dead when he sees them. The two figures are kneeling by the foot of the Dark Lord’s seat at the end of the hall, hands bound behind their backs with coils of crackling magic. They wear the black robes of death eaters, but their heads are bare, and their hair… their hair is icy blonde.
The one on the left looks up, and Severus almost takes a step back at the jolt of recognition. Lucius. There’s pain and terror on his face, and a desperate entreaty. To save him? But then his eyes flick sideways to the other bound figure and Severus realizes Lucius is begging not for himself, but for the figure at his side. For Draco.
“Severus,” the Dark Lord calls out. “Welcome.”
Severus starts, and sketches a hasty bow. “What is my lord’s bidding?” he asks, looking away from Lucius and Draco; he’s looked too long already.
The Dark Lord gestures towards the figures at his feet. “I wish to give you a gift, Severus. Pick one of the two, to use as you will. Loyalty will always be rewarded. And treachery always punished.”
Of all the things he’d expected to hear… “I don’t…”
The Dark Lord cuts him off with a hiss and a lazy wave of his hand. “But you do, Severus. It’s been remarked upon, the way you watch them. “
Severus swallows. Against his will he looks at Draco, and then down at the floor. The shame is hot in his throat. Because the Dark Lord isn’t wrong. Draco has grown into an exquisite young man, and Severus would be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed, and lying more if he pretended he hadn’t thought of those lean arms and legs in disembodied flashes as he stroked himself in the dark of his bed. Desire is what it is; he made his peace with that long ago. But he never would have acted on it; for all Draco has his majority, he’s still a child at heart. And Severus doesn’t fuck children.
His hesitation must show on his face: the Dark Lord tilts his head in a liquid motion that reminds Severus of a cobra preparing to strike. “Do you wish to refuse my gift?”
So gentle a suggestion; the words light like silk, belying the threat beneath. “No, my lord. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Suddenly Lucius is twisting around in his bindings to face Severus, a wild look in his eye. “Please, Severus,” he gasps, “save my son. Please, I’ll—"
His voice cuts off as one of the other death eaters hits him with a quick crucio, and he falls into silent screaming on the floor.
“I’ll take the boy,” Severus says into the quiet.
The Dark Lord purses his lips. “Because his father wished it?”
“No,” Severus says, thinking furiously. “Because his looks are pleasing to me.”
“Tell us: In what way does he please you, Severus?”
He resists the urge to grind his teeth. “His lips are fuller than his father’s,” he says haltingly, praying his reticence is taken for modesty. “And his skin is smoother. It will show markings to better effect.”
The Dark Lord’s eyes darken and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Severus knows he’s judged his master’s proclivities correctly. “Take him, then, to one of the empty rooms of the mansion. And enjoy.”
***
Severus manhandles Draco out of the hall, ignoring Draco’s struggles and cries. Draco manages to land a sharp elbow in his gut; Severus brandishes his wand and casts petrificus totalis before he can do any more harm.
He finds a spare bedroom in short order and bundles Draco into it. As he shoves Draco to the floor and spells the door locked, his mind is racing. He needs a plan; he needs to decide how he’s going to play this. The plan, when he decides upon it, is very simple: he’ll be a villain; he’ll be every monstrous thing that Draco is afraid of. Or the whole charade will fall apart.
“I trusted you!” Draco snarls, spittle flying, “I thought—I thought—"
“You thought wrong,” Severus says curtly, undoing the buttons at his neck with mechanical speed. The other death eaters will have set up seeing spells in the room already. He casts a brief look around. On the mirror, perhaps? Or through the eyes of the snake sculpture resting on the sideboard?
“I’ll kill you; I’ll—"
Severus leans down and slaps Draco hard across the face. As the boy reels and gasps with pain, Severus twists a hand in Draco’s hair and yanks him forward so that their heads are pressed together. He bites down on the cartilage of Draco’s ear, hard enough that Draco whimpers. Then he lets his lips graze the hurt, and murmurs a quiet warning. “I would be very careful what you say, from now on. The walls here are no longer friendly to your family.”
Draco swallows convulsively; Severus watches the motion disappear beneath his collar despite himself. “They’re watching me,” he whispers.
“They’re watching both of us,” Severus mutters in return, and undoes the petrificus with a wave of his wand. “Now get on the bed.”
Draco scrambles to his feet and backs away, hands up as if to fend Severus off. Idiot boy. “You won’t—you won’t really…”
“Oh, but I will,” Severus says, favoring Draco with a sneer. “I’ll have what I want from you, whether you like it or not.
“I’ll… I’ll fight you.”
“Some men would think that very stimulating, Severus observes, brow arched. “They find that overpowering their playthings gets the blood up.”
A hair’s breadth from hyperventilating, Draco starts to struggle again.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake—” Severus whips out his wand and casts another quick petrificus, modifying the flick of the downswing so that only Draco’s limbs are immobilized. He doesn’t want to feel like he’s fucking a corpse. Not that he wants to enjoy himself, of course, but the faster this is over with the faster he can get Draco somewhere safe where he can curse Severus to his heart’s content and then cry himself to sleep. Severus is shooting for realistic goals these days.
Severus stalks up to Draco’s bound body. The boy reeks of the sour scent of fear; his limbs tremble minutely; his eyes are wide with the glazed look of a hare facing down a hawk.
Ever so slowly Severus lifts his wand up to the pulse pint of his neck and presses down ever so slightly, a threat in potentia. Blessedly, Draco gets the hint and stops struggling. “Finally,” Severus growls, and with his hand on the back of Draco’s neck, yanks their mouths together into a kiss.
Draco’s lips taste bitter, washed in tear salt. Severus shoves his way past them, forcing Draco’s mouth open so he can plunder it properly. Draco squirms as best he can, crying out his protests—but Severus swallows them all, drinking down every bit of resistance and giving no quarter in return.
When Severus finally leans back to take a breath, Draco is a mess of reedy little gasps.
Severus gives him no time to regain his composure; with a flick of his wand he shreds the clothing from Draco’s body. His robes hang in tatters from his frame; Severus can just make out the pinkness of his nipples and cock amidst the scraps. He’s not hard, of course. But he will be.
Severus whips his wand over Draco again, and the tatters fall away, leaving only bare skin. He takes a moment to admire the lean lines of Draco’s naked body. Because that’s what the watchers will expect him to do, he tells himself. He reaches out and lets himself touch, whispering his fingers over Draco’s skin as he traces the lines of his muscles. Draco whimpers quietly beneath him, eyes wrenched shut like he’s trying to wake up from a bad dream.
He digs his hand into Draco’s arms cruelly, nails gouging into the flesh, planting the beginnings of bruises. “I’m going to hit you know,” he says.
“Why?” Draco asks with a sniffle, blinking up at him with tear-blurred eyes.
Because the Dark Lord will expect it. “Because I want to,” he says roughly.
He casts a curse and watches as a whip of power flies from the tip of his wand, snapping against the milky pale skin of Draco’s ass. Draco arches as shrill scream breaks from his lips, back bent as much as allowed by his restraints.
As his scream trails into a whimper, a harsh red line blooms from his skin. Severus had been right, when he’d told the Dark Lord that the boy’s skin would mark beautifully.
Throat tight, he raises his wand again.
He gives Draco five swats, each one turning his skin rosy with welts, each one forcing a cry from Draco. It’s a good thing, he tells himself. They’ll be able to hear the screaming from the hall.
He steps back to admire his handiwork: Draco’s quivering flesh, the heated redness of his ass, his muscles tight and trembling. He presses his thumb down against one of the welts, and Draco’s moan goes straight to his cock.
“Here,” he says, raising a hand to Draco’s mouth. “Suck my fingers.”
Draco turns his head away, sniffing like a petulant child.
Severus resists the urge to slap him again. “Shall I fuck you dry, then?”
That gets through to Draco, at least. He gulps and takes Severus’s fingers into his mouth. He holds them there a moment like he doesn’t quite know what to do, but then hesitantly, ever so hesitantly, he begins to suck, until he’s working desperately, suckling at them with his tongue like an entreaty, like he’s begging Snape to reconsider.
Severus closes his eyes and lets himself focus on the sensation of it. It should disgust him, how the suction goes straight to his cock. Swallowing, he pulls his fingers out of Draco’s mouth with an obscene pop and reaches for Draco’s ass. Draco clenches up, but Severus shoves his cheeks apart easily enough, and gets to work rubbing the spit into the crease. It’s not enough; it’s not nearly enough; this will hurt him. Careful not to glance at the walls, Severus gives his wand in a subtle twirl and mutters a word under his breath, and then there’s oil glistening at Draco’s entrance.
Draco gasps at the sensation of wetness, and gasps again as Severus presses a blunt finger into him. He’s virgin tight, and as he clenches around Severus’ finger Severus wastes a second wondering whether he’s ever been fucked before, or even dared to finger himself in the darkness of his own bed for curiosity’s sake.
He shakes his head; there’s no time for such thoughts. He needs to fuck Draco, and quickly. He gets to work, fucking his finger back and forth, ruthlessly stretching the boy’s muscles to take a cock. Draco twitches and pants with every thrust of his finger. He’s buried his head in the pillows so that Severus can’t see his face, but his reactions are easy enough to read in the tremors of his thighs and the fisting of his hands in the bedsheets.
Draco can’t keep in his cry when Severus adds a second finger; Severus can feel the jerk and shudder seize through his body when he crooks the finger slightly and pushes in. “You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs, speeding up his fingers.
“No,” Draco moans, “no, please, professor—”
“For Merlin’s sake, don’t call me that,” Severus hisses. He yanks his fingers out of Draco’s ass and lines his cock up with Draco’s entrance. With a deep breath, he arranges his hands on Draco’s slender hips and pushes slowly in.
Draco lets out a cry like a wounded animal, back arching like a bow to the extent that the binding spells allow. Quiet moans fall from his lips, interspersed with pleading. Severus turns a deaf ear to all of it, focusing only on pushing inexorably in, in, in. The tightness and the heat are heavenly: it’s almost enough to make him forget what he’s doing, the guilt and the shame of it.
He pauses once he’s fully seated and takes a breath. Throat dry, he leans in to look at Draco, make sure he’s okay. A quick look tells him everything he needs to know. He’s hard now. He’s also crying.
He opens his mouth to say something reassuring, but he can’t think of any words that won’t ring false as he speaks them. Instead, he pulls back out, savoring the grip of Draco’s ass around him. He thrusts in again, and this time Draco is silent, but Severus can feel how it affects him by the way his ass clenches and his knuckles whiten in the sheets.
He bottoms out again. Pulls himself out. Thrusts back in. And out and in, out and in.
Draco begins to writhe beneath him before long, hips thrusting abortively into the air as his cock hardens, leaky and desperate, against his stomach.
Even as his own pleasure builds, Severus takes pity on the boy. With a grunt, he reaches around Draco’s hip to wrap his fingers in a ring around the base of his cock, so that every snap of his hips drives Draco’s cock into Severus’s fingers. Draco is pinned, trapped: between the pounding in his ass and the vise of Severus’s fingers there’s no way for him to escape the stimulation. His trembles and cries grow louder, more frantic, until he’s screaming, shaking apart as his cock spurts over Severus’s fingers and his limbs go limp.
The clench of Draco’s orgasm is all it takes to undo Severus: his rhythm fails, his thighs give out, and he falls against Draco’s back, coming at last with a hoarse and haunted cry.
***
After, Draco falls into an exhausted and fitful sleep. Severus lies beside him, counting the seconds in the dark until he can apparate the two of them out of the mansion without being missed. There are tear tracks on Draco’s cheeks.
It was for the best, what he did, he tells himself. The lesser evil.
He presses his eyes closed, and wonders how many wizards over the years set themselves on the path to darkness in search of the greater good, and how many ever found it.