His War is Finally Over

Title: His War is Finally Over
Author: dognmonkeyshow
Pairing(s)/Characters: Snape/Harry
Summary: The greatest power of all is the power of life or death. Isn't it?
Prompt: "It is a strange desire, to seek power, and to lose liberty; or to seek power over others, and to lose power over a man's self." ~ Francis Bacon
Rating: R
Word count: 1600
Warnings: Nothing beyond the spoilers below.
Spoilers (Highlight to read): Character death, necrophilia
Author/Artist's notes: An extra big helping of thanks to my beta, who saved the day at the last minute and made all of this possible.





HIS WAR IS FINALLY OVER



~ + ~

Today was Tuesday. On Tuesdays Severus sharpened his knives.

He set off for the nearby well, bucket swinging in his hand. It was a sunny day, and for once Severus stopped in the clearing along the way and turned his face to the sunshine, allowing the heat to bake into him for a minute or so.

As he drew the bucket from the well, in his mind's eye the water turned to blood and he smiled. He knew it was just water, but he hummed as he dipped his fingertips, his imagination turning the cold to warm and sticky, coating the floorboards of the tumbledown cottage where he had been hiding for the last few months.

The boy had had to pay. That's all there was to it.

~ + ~

It was finally over now. His war. For five years he'd sat back in the shadows, watching others celebrate, fornicate and re-build their lives. He'd held his mad, clenched passion in check just a little longer. But now it had come to an end, come to its only proper end. The only end that would satisfy him. The ending he never would have thought he'd get, that he'd never allowed himself to even dream of.

Severus placed the half-full bucket on the long work-table and gathered his knives from the slotted holders along the wall. The ones spread out on the table needed to be cleaned first, of course, so he dipped a small pot into the water and heated it with a silent flick of his wand. Soap and a clean cloth made short work of the job, then he poured the now pink water down the drain.

He lost himself in the ordinary pleasure of work. Sharpening his knives always contented Severus. The rhythmic play of steel on stone. The craft of a well-honed edge. The satisfaction of simple but necessary work done well.

It calmed him, this return to routine after the morning he'd had. His life should be dull, just as he liked it. And he was alone, again, just as he liked it. It had taken years to achieve the peace and quiet he'd long craved; one of the few benefits of the fugitive life was the blessed solitude.

That is, until the boy had stumbled out of the trees, wand outstretched and eyes staring, expression a mix of shock and relief. There'd been the requisite tedious banter and hexes until the boy had cracked like an improperly tempered cauldron. If it hadn't been so banal, Severus would have laughed and laughed. He only wished Dumbledore had been alive to see his favourite little tool shatter under his first properly aimed blow.

With the tip of a finger he traced the long gash across the boy's throat. It curved up at the end like a wry smile. The first smile the boy'd given him and Severus wouldn't have had it any other way.

He'd never wanted the boy's approbation, never wanted to be the recipient of one of those bright smiles, never wanted to be one of the many crutches the boy had required to succeed. Because Severus knew—he had always known—that they'd end up some place like this, some dank little room with a floor covered in blood. That the room hadn't ended up being his office in the Slytherin dungeons was only due to seven years' remarkable restraint on his part.

Restraint which had paid off in the end, though.

Severus looked down to the surprisingly small, crumpled bundle on the floor. A sprawling wreck of remains. Remains of so much scheming, twisting, distorting, killing, ruinous work by so many, tossed away by foolhardiness, and worse: idle curiosity.

But a very satisfactory resolution, if he didn't say so himself.

It was only justice. Isn't that what Potter had fought his little war for? To restore justice to the wizarding world? Well now Severus was finally getting what he deserved; he was making damned sure he finally got his justice, even if he had to make it himself.

He ran his fingers through the soft hair. He sensed that he felt something new. Affection, perhaps, now that it was over and done with. Now that he had back all the things the boy had taken from him. His life. His peace. His self-respect. They were all his again and Severus felt whole for the first time in three decades.

He watched his fingers card through the black strands, watched them part under this minor onslaught then succumb, caressing his red fingers. He raked them through, over and over, until they were clean. Imagining what Potter's reaction would be to this liberty brought a thin smile to his face.

A voice in the back of his mind whispered, tantalising him with the impossible, with the boy's voice protesting, in vain. Severus felt himself stirring at the thought of it.

Avoiding the coagulating edges of the puddle taking up most of the floor, Severus strolled around the edges of the room as he dried his hands on a towel.

What a tumbledown mess of a creature Potter was, arms and legs akimbo, as graceless as he'd been in life.

It wouldn't do at all. Severus examined him from various angles. Careful, he gently pulled and shifted limbs until the boy was laying almost flat on the floor. Severus stepped back and admired his composition. The light caught the young muscles stretched and slack under creamy skin, the ladder of spine emerging fragile from gently undulating planes of back and the sweet dip of sacrum that made Severus' mouth go dry.

He contemplated the curve of the skull as he cupped it with one hand. So small. It was almost as if he could crush it with little more than a thought.

His fingers in the boy's hair released an untainted, adrenal musk that rose up and bored straight into Severus' hindbrain, like a Bludger to the back of the head.

Dizzy, Severus trailed his nose across the edge of the hairline. The smell of him! The sweet, glorious scent of blood and boy. Snape drew it into his lungs again and again but it still wasn't enough. Captivated, intoxicated, he needed more, to immerse himself in it.

Back leaning against the rough wooden door, he fought trembling knees as he folded his clothes into a neat pile. Then he did it, he dove in, ignoring the edges of stone catching his ribs as he slid into the pool. Reaching out for the boy he rolled onto his side, revelling in the sticky pull on his skin as he bent over the slick back, marked with the tracks of his fingers through the half-dry coating of blood. The boy curved into him; Severus thrilled at the feel of that compact form fitting to his, as if it had been designed just for that place.

Severus' hands were red again but he didn't care. They made fresh marks as his fingers trailed over the boy's shoulders, down his arms, across his chest.

One lick.

Then another.

The skin, oh, the skin was heaven under his tongue.

It was luscious, the taste of revenge on the boy's flesh, and Severus lapped it up, marching his way down the back, down, down the ladder of the boy's body. His tongue followed the perfect parabolic curve of an arse cheek before dipping into one faint dimple, then the other. He smiled at his shaking hands as he teased himself with the possibility of stepping back now. Though he knew he wouldn't.

And before he knew it he was thrusting against the soft, unresisting flesh, thrusting into it, surrendering himself to the engulfing, redemptive pleasure.

Severus felt time fading, dissipating. He felt himself cleansed by the boy beneath him and he became white, bright, clear.

Perfect. Yes, perfect.

And Severus knew that he could die, at that instant, and it would be all right. For he'd had his moment of perfection and it was enough. His orgasm was irrelevant; he barely noticed it. He was whole again, himself again. His own man for the first time in thirty years. He could begin his life again, now that his war was finally over.

And then he was done.

He fastened his robes and turned to leave. At the doorway he hesitated, one hand on the frame. Then he returned and bent over the crumpled pile of boy on the floor. He allowed himself one long, deep inhale for remembrance, the scent invigorating still.

His breath rustled the boy's hair as he whispered, “Give my regards to your mother.”



~ the end ~




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