The Slave - Part Two
Mar. 8th, 2013 08:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
teddy_radiatorThanks to everyone for your amazing response to our art/fic collaboration. ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lemonade8 and I are both having more fun than should be allowed putting this together for you.
Challenge: Potions, Tattoo
Title: The Slave - Part Two - a comic bylemonade8 and teddyradiator
Team: Death Eaters
Rating: R (Language)
Warning: Ambiguous!Snape
Length: 14 X 100
A/N: A huge thank you tostgulik for her lightning-fast beta work, and a caveat that I went back and added three more drabbles afterward, so mea culpa and all that. And a very, very special thank you to lemonade8, who has been an inspiration from my very first days as an SSHG shipper.
She was being undressed. At least, her capris were gliding over her hips as if being spelled down. A cool, clammy hand slid over her backside, making her grimace.
Mustn’t touch what isn’t ours, Rob.
Oh, that’s why you’re playing with her bumcheeks, then, Snape? She is a lovely bit of it.
Who? What?
Mind your business and do your job. How’s your mother’s lumbago? Did the potion work?
You don’t have to bribe me, Snape. The voice grew darker. She’s much better. I appreciate what you did. People have no respect for hags; St. Mungo’s wouldn’t even see her.
She tried to stir, but a warm hand held her down almost gently. “Not yet, Hermione... just a bit longer...”
Gods, she was sleepy... she was hungover, yeah, that was it... that, and dreaming some very trippy dreams. She was tight and loose in all the wrong places, and the sheer obscenity of the sensations were... oh, and she had had this dream before and... the words were so disturbing. People didn’t say those things. It was a dream. A stinging, singing, tingling pain/pleasure rode low on her hips, below her back, making her want to squirm and buck and moan.
Listen to me, Robert Brackfawn. You’ll keep schtum about this, or your little secret will become everyone’s little secret, do you understand?
I don’t need blackmail, either.
Fine. A hesitation. What the fuck are you playing at?
Your blood, Snape. I need a drop for the final spell to seal in the design.
Why? A suspicious tone. Why did she know it, and why did it make her shiver and shudder in the same breath?
Because you want to be able to control her, yeah? A drop of your blood controls the runes; the runes control her. Won’t need much.
A hiss of anger. Fuck, Rob! A simple slicing spell—
Spells don’t work, Snape. The blood has to be taken by force to exert force. You of all people ought to know that. You’ve got one of the most powerful blood tattoos ever created rotting on your arm, there.
It’s nothing now. Just a smudge.
Is it, Snape? What if she’s right? What if that tat is still controlling you? There’s certainly enough power—
Can’t you work any faster? The dark voice was angry, and Hermione shifted uneasily. Angry was bad. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did.
Sensations came over her at once. Burning, searing, blazing pain, running in all directions, like a hot needle etching a crossword puzzle on her back. She wanted to get away from it, but it confined her to the surface she lay upon, a butterfly tacked down by a giant pin. All she could do was feel.
The sensations warred with the voices, telling her to relax, telling someone to hurry up! The potion won’t last all night.
Agony overwhelmed everything else, and she screamed.
It’s not supposed to hurt her! You said she wouldn’t feel any pain, you bastard—
Severus was perspiring and swearing under his breath by the time he’d wrestled Hermione’s unconscious form through the Floo to Spinner’s End. “Welcome home, kitten,” he muttered under his breath, looking down at her bedraggled form.
Gods, what a clusterfuck.
Severus’ prodigious nose wrinkled in disgust, but not at her. He was still furious that Rob had not used a numbing spell; the pain had caused her to be violently ill, among other things. She appeared to be wearing every bodily fluid she could produce. He needed to get her out of her ruined clothes and into something remotely bearable now.
He had never been so glad of Granger’s resourcefulness as he opened her frivolous little handbag and discovered it was roughly the size of Gringott’s inside. She had everything in there; toiletries, money, make-up, even a change of clothing. Good job too, after what that son-of-a-hag bastard Rob had done to her.
Severus laid her down on the bed. She was as light as a feather, and felt as delicate as a petal. Her skin was cool, and even in her unconscious state, she still shivered. On impulse, he lay down on the bed beside her and drew her closer.
He gingerly caught the hem of her blouse between his index and middle finger and slowly pulled it up her back. The tattoo was a series of circular patterns, the ancient language within so obscure even he wasn’t sure what it meant. As the half-blood son of a hag and a wizard, Rob Brackfawn’s skills were unique, even rare, but the tattoo’s intent was more or less the same as the one he still wore on his arm.
Just as his Dark Mark had been a connection between himself and the late, not-lamented Voldemort, this one connected him with Hermione.
Watching her sleep, Severus felt a minute stab of remorse. What had seemed at the time a great lark, a harmless prank, now seemed dubiously so, even wrong. Hermione whimpered and stirred restlessly; the tattoo was irritating her. He rolled her onto her side, and she slipped effortlessly into his arms. She was small, and nestled against his shoulder with a soft sigh.
She would wake soon enough, and there would be no thoughts of snuggling against him. She would be furious, demanding, and rebellious, until she discovered what he’d done. There would be no tender embraces for him then.
When he’d been exonerated, the Prophet had called him the tragic, misunderstood hero. Where had it got him? An Order of Merlin, bit of blood money from the government. True, he no longer danced to any tune but his own, but what good was that when the song was overplayed and boring?
He’d learned how to get just about any witch he wanted, but why this one? The others wanted fantasies, and he could spin them very well. Granger hadn’t wanted his fantasies. What had she wanted?
And what did he really want from Granger? A good, old-fashioned power trip?
She already thought the worst of him. What would a few days of discomfort matter? She would be powerless against him, even if he allowed her to keep her wand, which he wouldn’t. He was drunk; he wasn’t stupid.
So, she thought of herself as second-class. He’d give her a taste; just for a few days. He’d show her what it was like to be truly mastered, to know what a second-class citizen really meant.
No, a few days of scrubbing the house would make her appreciate how good she had it. His malicious joy and anticipation faded a little.
In the cold light of pre-dawn, he allowed himself this moment of introspection. Granger could always get under his skin. In her youth she had been such a carbuncle of piss-off. Even after she’d learned to stop regurgitating other people’s ideas and started coming up with her own, he’d spent half her class time holding himself back from throttling her.
Severus shook the remorse away like a dog in a downpour. How dare she judge him? Just because her life wasn’t all ha ha hee hee didn’t give her the right to inspect his under such a condescending, disapproving microscope.
So what if in the old days he’d done a few dirty deeds dirt cheap without too much thought? In the long run, who’d paid for it more than he?
Ah, screw it, he thought. She already thinks I’m a perv. Granger needs to be taken down a peg or two; she’s been asking for it for years. Why not prove the rule and teach her a lesson?
Severus rose from the bed, and Hermione rolled over onto her stomach. The tattoo glowed faintly, like a live wire spelling magic under her skin.
His blood was in there as well.
The tattoo pulsed with her heartbeat; a glowing, pearly light beneath her flesh. It was, in its own way, beautiful. On impulse he touched it.
Everything happened so quickly. Hermione awoke with a wail that could wake the dead, and Severus reeled back with a short bark of horror.
In that split-second when he’d touched her, she had seen through his eyes, and he’d been inside her unconscious mind—for the briefest of moments, they had switched places.
“What the fuck?” she bellowed, glowering in the corner.
Severus suddenly wondered why he’d not asked if the tattoo could be removed.
lemonade8 and I are both having more fun than should be allowed putting this together for you.Challenge: Potions, Tattoo
Title: The Slave - Part Two - a comic by
lemonade8 and teddyradiatorTeam: Death Eaters
Rating: R (Language)
Warning: Ambiguous!Snape
Length: 14 X 100
A/N: A huge thank you to
stgulik for her lightning-fast beta work, and a caveat that I went back and added three more drabbles afterward, so mea culpa and all that. And a very, very special thank you to lemonade8, who has been an inspiration from my very first days as an SSHG shipper.She was being undressed. At least, her capris were gliding over her hips as if being spelled down. A cool, clammy hand slid over her backside, making her grimace.
Mustn’t touch what isn’t ours, Rob.
Oh, that’s why you’re playing with her bumcheeks, then, Snape? She is a lovely bit of it.
Who? What?
Mind your business and do your job. How’s your mother’s lumbago? Did the potion work?
You don’t have to bribe me, Snape. The voice grew darker. She’s much better. I appreciate what you did. People have no respect for hags; St. Mungo’s wouldn’t even see her.
She tried to stir, but a warm hand held her down almost gently. “Not yet, Hermione... just a bit longer...”
Gods, she was sleepy... she was hungover, yeah, that was it... that, and dreaming some very trippy dreams. She was tight and loose in all the wrong places, and the sheer obscenity of the sensations were... oh, and she had had this dream before and... the words were so disturbing. People didn’t say those things. It was a dream. A stinging, singing, tingling pain/pleasure rode low on her hips, below her back, making her want to squirm and buck and moan.
Listen to me, Robert Brackfawn. You’ll keep schtum about this, or your little secret will become everyone’s little secret, do you understand?
I don’t need blackmail, either.
Fine. A hesitation. What the fuck are you playing at?
Your blood, Snape. I need a drop for the final spell to seal in the design.
Why? A suspicious tone. Why did she know it, and why did it make her shiver and shudder in the same breath?
Because you want to be able to control her, yeah? A drop of your blood controls the runes; the runes control her. Won’t need much.
A hiss of anger. Fuck, Rob! A simple slicing spell—
Spells don’t work, Snape. The blood has to be taken by force to exert force. You of all people ought to know that. You’ve got one of the most powerful blood tattoos ever created rotting on your arm, there.
It’s nothing now. Just a smudge.
Is it, Snape? What if she’s right? What if that tat is still controlling you? There’s certainly enough power—
Can’t you work any faster? The dark voice was angry, and Hermione shifted uneasily. Angry was bad. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did.
Sensations came over her at once. Burning, searing, blazing pain, running in all directions, like a hot needle etching a crossword puzzle on her back. She wanted to get away from it, but it confined her to the surface she lay upon, a butterfly tacked down by a giant pin. All she could do was feel.
The sensations warred with the voices, telling her to relax, telling someone to hurry up! The potion won’t last all night.
Agony overwhelmed everything else, and she screamed.
It’s not supposed to hurt her! You said she wouldn’t feel any pain, you bastard—
Severus was perspiring and swearing under his breath by the time he’d wrestled Hermione’s unconscious form through the Floo to Spinner’s End. “Welcome home, kitten,” he muttered under his breath, looking down at her bedraggled form.
Gods, what a clusterfuck.
Severus’ prodigious nose wrinkled in disgust, but not at her. He was still furious that Rob had not used a numbing spell; the pain had caused her to be violently ill, among other things. She appeared to be wearing every bodily fluid she could produce. He needed to get her out of her ruined clothes and into something remotely bearable now.
He had never been so glad of Granger’s resourcefulness as he opened her frivolous little handbag and discovered it was roughly the size of Gringott’s inside. She had everything in there; toiletries, money, make-up, even a change of clothing. Good job too, after what that son-of-a-hag bastard Rob had done to her.
Severus laid her down on the bed. She was as light as a feather, and felt as delicate as a petal. Her skin was cool, and even in her unconscious state, she still shivered. On impulse, he lay down on the bed beside her and drew her closer.
He gingerly caught the hem of her blouse between his index and middle finger and slowly pulled it up her back. The tattoo was a series of circular patterns, the ancient language within so obscure even he wasn’t sure what it meant. As the half-blood son of a hag and a wizard, Rob Brackfawn’s skills were unique, even rare, but the tattoo’s intent was more or less the same as the one he still wore on his arm.
Just as his Dark Mark had been a connection between himself and the late, not-lamented Voldemort, this one connected him with Hermione.
Watching her sleep, Severus felt a minute stab of remorse. What had seemed at the time a great lark, a harmless prank, now seemed dubiously so, even wrong. Hermione whimpered and stirred restlessly; the tattoo was irritating her. He rolled her onto her side, and she slipped effortlessly into his arms. She was small, and nestled against his shoulder with a soft sigh.
She would wake soon enough, and there would be no thoughts of snuggling against him. She would be furious, demanding, and rebellious, until she discovered what he’d done. There would be no tender embraces for him then.
When he’d been exonerated, the Prophet had called him the tragic, misunderstood hero. Where had it got him? An Order of Merlin, bit of blood money from the government. True, he no longer danced to any tune but his own, but what good was that when the song was overplayed and boring?
He’d learned how to get just about any witch he wanted, but why this one? The others wanted fantasies, and he could spin them very well. Granger hadn’t wanted his fantasies. What had she wanted?
And what did he really want from Granger? A good, old-fashioned power trip?
She already thought the worst of him. What would a few days of discomfort matter? She would be powerless against him, even if he allowed her to keep her wand, which he wouldn’t. He was drunk; he wasn’t stupid.
So, she thought of herself as second-class. He’d give her a taste; just for a few days. He’d show her what it was like to be truly mastered, to know what a second-class citizen really meant.
No, a few days of scrubbing the house would make her appreciate how good she had it. His malicious joy and anticipation faded a little.
In the cold light of pre-dawn, he allowed himself this moment of introspection. Granger could always get under his skin. In her youth she had been such a carbuncle of piss-off. Even after she’d learned to stop regurgitating other people’s ideas and started coming up with her own, he’d spent half her class time holding himself back from throttling her.
Severus shook the remorse away like a dog in a downpour. How dare she judge him? Just because her life wasn’t all ha ha hee hee didn’t give her the right to inspect his under such a condescending, disapproving microscope.
So what if in the old days he’d done a few dirty deeds dirt cheap without too much thought? In the long run, who’d paid for it more than he?
Ah, screw it, he thought. She already thinks I’m a perv. Granger needs to be taken down a peg or two; she’s been asking for it for years. Why not prove the rule and teach her a lesson?
Severus rose from the bed, and Hermione rolled over onto her stomach. The tattoo glowed faintly, like a live wire spelling magic under her skin.
His blood was in there as well.
The tattoo pulsed with her heartbeat; a glowing, pearly light beneath her flesh. It was, in its own way, beautiful. On impulse he touched it.
Everything happened so quickly. Hermione awoke with a wail that could wake the dead, and Severus reeled back with a short bark of horror.
In that split-second when he’d touched her, she had seen through his eyes, and he’d been inside her unconscious mind—for the briefest of moments, they had switched places.
“What the fuck?” she bellowed, glowering in the corner.
Severus suddenly wondered why he’d not asked if the tattoo could be removed.
