teddy_radiator | I Take It Like I Take My Coffee

Those of you who know me, know my Muse. He is gentle, kind, compassionate. He seldom gives me anything dark. I can only surmise that he and

mimimanderly 's Muse have collaborated on this; it just doesn't feel like him alone at all! Sorry, Mimi, but you know how he gets!

This strange little tale came to me, and I don't know where it came from except to say that it is something I have never explored, the darker themes of remorse, psychosis and co-dependence. It is un-beta'd, so heaven knows what mistakes you'll find. This tale comes with a list of warnings a mile long, so don't read any further if you cannot stomach non-con, dub-con, and violence. The wrong side wins, and the light is gone. This is the tale of the week after the Apocalypse.

Is there redemption? I have read my own ending four times, and I still don't know. Perhaps that is the job the Muse has given you - to tell me. This is Part One of Four.

Title: I Want That One, Part One
Category: Drama, Angst
Pairing: SS/HG
Length: 2,252 Words
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con, dub-con, violence, drug abuse,

On the night the Dark triumphs, Lord Voldemort grants his most faithful a boon.

Anti-Litigation Charm: I owe nothing - I used to add, except my heart, but I don't even have that anymore.

“I want... that one,” he drawled, a sneering grin twisting his already cruel features. The circle of black-clad Death Eaters followed the path leading from the pale, pointing finger to its target.

Lucius was the only one who laughed. He thought it was the most amusing choice he’d heard yet. “What on earth do you want with that, Brother?”

Snape shrugged. “She’ll make a good house-elf.”

Amidst the jeering laughter of the Death Eaters, their Master contemplated his most valued, most trusted spy. Severus Snape had pointed at the Mudblood, the Granger girl, thus claiming her as his granted prize for the victory Lord Voldemort and his followers had achieved.

By rights, she really should be dead now. Most of them were. The defeat of the Order was bloody and all-encompassing, but the sheer fact that the girl was unceremoniously dumped on the Malfoy’s doorstep moments before the final slaughter meant that the victorious Death Eaters could all but smell the fresh meat presented to them.

MacNair, the hero of the hour, who had triumphantly cast the still struggling Potter boy at the Dark Lord’s feet, was given the happy task of being the first to take her. The first of many. The boys watched, first pleading, then threatening, then sobbing, as they were forced to witness their unbroken friend broken time and time again, before their lives were ceremoniously ended. Then the true slaughter had begun. From that time onward, it was to be known as the Night of Screams; the night the Light vanished, and the Dark emerged the victor.

She sat in a little cluster of women, mostly her age, mostly students. Those who had initially tried to fight had been killed; those who hesitated had been killed; those who had pleaded, protested, postured and defied had been killed. The stench of death was a miasma in the air; to Snape’s sensitive nose, it smelt like a slaughterhouse in summer – which indeed it was.

Why was she still alive? Perversity, most likely. A whim of the gods. After the Death Eaters had tired of her, she was thrown in with the other spoils to await her fate. Her fellow survivors had taken pity on her, and she was now kitted out in their castoffs, spare clothes those around her had given up to cover her dignity. The striped shirt was yards too large for her; the skirt much too short. Her bare feet were dirty, her thighs bore smudges of reddish brown blood.

At his words, “I want that one,” the collective sound of the harem rose, mournful and pitying, and unconsciously they all took a step back. No one wanted to be the spoil of war to the Judas, the Headmaster – The Snape. After the slaughter of the night, the death of their dearly-held hopes and dreams, he was seen as being worse than the Dark Lord. He was the Henchman, the Pale Rider on the Pale Horse, and of all the Death Eaters, the most mistrusted and feared.

For he had approached them early in the night, soothing them with his honeyed tongue, quieting them with the mere familiarity of his pale, dour features; caressing them gently, offering them soothing potions and ointments to ease their suffering, all the while delivering up their secrets to his Dark Master. He had touched them, had granted them succor; had betrayed them all.

He was now looking down at Hermione with undisguised repugnance. “Get up,” he snapped, grabbing her thin arm and marching her away from the others. He could hear the catcalls and laughter as his fellow Death Eaters closed the circle again, casting lots for the next slave.

She looked back to the cluster of females where she had taken refuge for a few moments. Her space was gone; it was as if she had never been there.

She closed her eyes, feeling his strong fingers biting into her skin. Some of the girls had whispered that Snape might be the best choice of a new Master – that is, those that weren’t so traumatized that they were no longer capable of speech. Most were nearly catatonic with fear; Hermione was one of them.

Her former Potions master dragged her along, and Hermione knew she’d better keep up. Inside, her body sizzled and throbbed. She could feel something loathsome trickling from between her thighs, and she could feel tears threaten. A sob escaped her lips, and Snape stopped and turned on her.

A fierce slap nearly knocked her off her feet and made her ears ring. “Shut up. And don’t bother trying to gain my pity. I don’t have any for you.” He pulled her forward again, out the door, his chilling calm and cold voice washing over her like a sluice of ice water.

Gasping, holding her burning cheek, Hermione willed her feet to move with him.

They arrived at his home and he warded the house with such logic-defying complexity it made Hermione’s already befuddled head spin. She ventured a look around, shivering in the cool, musty air.

“Get upstairs, take off those rags and wash yourself. The loo’s on the left at the stop of the landing.” He didn’t look at her, but removed his robes and sat down on an aging sofa. When she hesitated, he jumped to his feet and rushed at her so quickly she took several stumbling steps back, and fell on her sore backside with a cry. Such was her fear that she jumped up again quickly, afraid of more abuse.

She looked up into his eyes, which were black and unreadable, then looked down again. For a moment, there was only the sound of her harsh breathing, the ticking clock on the wall.

Finally, in a voice so deadly quiet she had to strain to hear, Snape said, “I can see I need to make you aware of a few home truths, Miss Granger. The Order is dead. Potter is dead. Your parents are dead. Everyone you loved or cared about is dead. The Dark has triumphed, and you are a spoil of war. The Dark Lord granted his chosen their pick of slave, and I have chosen you. Don’t make me regret it; there are dozens of willing girls who will happily take your place.

“I have literally waded in blood tonight, girl, and I could add yours to it so very easily. The victors are celebrating in the streets, parading around the dead bodies of your friends. What happens next is entirely up to you.”

Hermione stood as still as a stone. Whatever dignity she could muster she managed to find, and she nodded and turned and walked up the stairs, holding onto the railing with both hands, dragging her body upward and into the upstairs loo.

She locked the door and removed her borrowed clothing, shivering even more. Don’t think about anything, she told herself, as she ran the battered tub full of the hottest water she could stand. Don’t think, don’t act, don’t feel, don’t wish, don’t THINK. She wouldn’t think about the Death Eaters, or the rape, or the pain, or the boys -

The door flew open, and Hermione tried to snatch a towel to cover herself. Snape stood in the doorway, looking at her thin, almost childish body with contempt. “You do not lock doors in this house, Miss Granger,” he intoned, and she nodded again. It earned her another swift slap. She had forgotten how quickly he could move. Tears threatened, and she looked down at the water, fascinated, as a drop of red blood landed on the surface with a little, light plip and dissipated into lighter red ribbons in the water. She rubbed the blood trickling from her nose.

“When I address you, you will answer me. ‘Yes, sir’ will suffice for now.”

Hermione swallowed. “Yes, sir,” she said, her voice rusty, her throat raw from screaming.

She looked up into his severe face again. He had never liked her; she knew that for sure. She had hoped that her instincts about him had been real, that he was on the side of the light; but she was starting to realise that everything Harry had suspected about Snape was probably true.

As he read her thoughts, he smiled grimly. “I see we are starting to get the full picture now, Miss Granger. You are now my slave. As such, your job will be to obey me. Show me obedience, and you will be allowed to wear clothes. If not, you will serve me, and any guests I may have, as you are now.”

He snatched the towel from her hands and looked down at her body. She was battered, all right. He could still see blood trickling down her thighs in thin, watery strips. It angered him so much he wanted to slap her senseless. “Clean yourself, girl. You’re a disgusting mess.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and with a wave of his hand, he cooled the water.

“No point in having you bleed to death. Show some common sense, girl!” he looked down at her with such avid dislike she cringed. For some reason, that irritated him as well. “Broken already, are we? It didn’t take much for you to turn into a crying child. Pathetic, useless, weakling!” He turned to go. “Clean yourself up and go and lie down on the bed across the hall. If you are still bleeding, lie down on a towel, unless you fancy cleaning a mattress by hand.”

The door closed behind him with a bang, making Hermione jump. Shaking, she climbed into the high-walled tub with trembling limbs, and bit back a cry of searing pain as her damaged nether regions made contact with the lukewarm water.

For several moments she lay in the tub, too exhausted to do anything but soak. A few more ribbons of blood unfurled from her thighs, then stopped. Hermione tried to wash herself, but stopped when she realised she was scrubbing herself raw. This kind of dirt, she knew, would never disappear. That was one kind of clean she would never feel again.

Suddenly afraid he would punish her for soaking too long, Hermione half-pulled, half-dragged herself from the water. She gasped at the weakness in her protesting legs, holding onto the tub until she was able to stand and dry herself. There were no clothes here, and, thinking about his parting words, Hermione crept out into the hall, across the landing, and into the bedroom, holding onto the towel.

The room was sparse, the faded wallpaper outdated and dull. The bed was narrow, and rather short, and Hermione wondered if this had been his boyhood bed. Now he would have to either sleep on his side with his legs drawn up, or dangle his long feet off the end. The image of this made her giggle for some reason, and she put her hands over her mouth, in case the laugh turned to screaming.

She lay on the bed, in the waning light, warm and so tired. Her mind drifted, and she had almost dozed when the door opened, and his tall silhouette loomed in the doorway. Hermione forced herself to lie still, waiting. She knew that whatever she did, it would somehow be the wrong thing.

Sure enough, he crossed to the bed. “Too tired to wait up, eh? Slattern.” Hermione turned away, only to feel his fingers dig into her cheeks and force her head back to face his. He looked at her with fury. “Never turn your head away from me, girl!”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and felt her tears threatening again. She forced herself to look at him.

Satisfied that she was watching him, he looked down at her imperiously, then his eyes followed the contours of her body. He regarded her dispassionately, as if he were studying a rather unsavoury specimen.

He placed his large hands on her thighs. “Open.” When she made a soft, pleading sound, he absently said, “Shush.”

“Please sir,” she swallowed thickly. Her whispers sounded childish and whining to her ears. “Please don’t. Not now. Please let me have time to heal – “

“Silence,” he said, as casually as before. “Open your legs, Miss Granger, or I’ll Imperuse you. Is that what you want?” He looked at her impassively, waiting for her to decide.

Feeling as if her heart were dying in her chest, Hermione allowed him to part her legs, and he looked down at her sex, a strange, almost puzzled look on his face. She whimpered as he parted her labia, peeling it back with two fingers, examining her with chilling indifference. “Shush,” he said again, his voice almost bored.

Without preamble, he slid one finger deep inside her passage, causing her to hiss. He withdrew it, looked at the smear of blood staining it, then pushed two long, slim fingers inside, pushing down on her pelvis with his other hand. Hermione heard her own harsh, panting breath, and forced herself to watch his solemn face as he studied her damaged vulva with faint distaste, his fingers probing deeply, pressing inside her.

“Hmm.” He withdrew his hands and cleaned them carefully. “You’re tight, I’ll give you that. You may turn out to be of some use after all, Miss Granger.” He produced a small vial and, holding her nose, unceremoniously tipped its contents down her throat. “Swallow…”

Hermione barely had time to force her parched throat to obey him when her world slipped sideways and set her adrift…