SOMEWHERE I HAVE NEVER TRAVELLED by
Mac
(Warning: This is Dark Non-Con, take heed)
Somewhere I have never travelled
Gladly, beyond any experience,
Your eyes have their silence
They had been Dumbledore's
rooms, before The Fall.
But he is dead now, old dear Dumbledore, and he rattles in the wind like a child's windchime. This
place, these rooms, had been his, but only the walls are the same. All that's left of him is the
cushion, made all of gorgeous feathers that once graced a phoenix. That, and the mirror.
I never look in it.
I write potions in my head, imagine myself mixing them on the workbench in my rooms. I am sure I
have discovered a dozen, a hundred, new ones. Last night in between the dreams I think I found a
cure for something. I forgot it by morning. I might remember it again tonight.
I think my Master is too fond of black. It decorates everything - curtains, bed coverings, rugs on
the floor. I liked black once. Too much now, there is too much of it and it sucks in the light.
Red would be a better colour for him. Red, the colour of dried blood. We have seen a lot of that.
Some things should stay inside a person; their intestines, their brains, their blood.
I was getting cold and I thought of being warm. No. He was due any moment and he liked things to be
a certain way. Me, waiting, naked and chained, ready for him. He didn't care about how cold I might
be, or how tired. I was his, for the waiting, and that was that.
There was a clock on the wall, an old grandfather clock. It stopped being charming a year ago.
Sometimes I thought I would give anything to reach and destroy it. Just to stop the moments.
I heard sounds in the corridor beyond the closed door; voices raised, the sound of laughter, or
perhaps a muffled shriek of pain. It could be either, in this place. Then the door was thrown open
and he entered, the night swirling around him like mist.
in your most frail gesture
are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near
Time for the rituals and observances. I slid to my knees, pressed my forehead to the floor, as
gracefully as I could, with the chains. His steps sounded on the stone and his booted foot stopped
in front of my head.
"Are you glad to see me, my pet?"
I can almost always tell what it will be like, by the tone of his voice. Tonight I rather thought it
might be bad.
"Yes, Master."
"Show me how glad you are."
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
The days blend together. What day was it?
I didn’t know. I do remember it was a
Wednesday in October when the world ended.
It had begun like any other day; classes,
with me trying to grind some understanding into young minds while they, in turn, tried to blow or
disintegrate or poison themselves with their mismade potions. I
was teaching a second year class that day, mostly Ravenclaws as I recall, when the back wall blew
inwards, showing the room with rock shards and glass and cold wind.
The children screams mingled with the
coughing roar of the monsters that flooded in through the gap in the wall. I was flinging spells before I even realised it.
Visions from nightmares they were, made up of a dozen things that should never have seen
daylight. I held them back somehow, destroying them as
they fought their way in through the hole torn in the fabric of reality.
There was no time to think, hardly time to be afraid.
But it was draining, exhausting work and I
knew I could only hold them off for so long. Long
enough, I hoped, for all the children to get away.
And when it seemed that my energy was
almost spent, I felt strength come to me from somewhere close by.
What little attention I could spare I directed to the side and I saw him standing next to me,
slender body rigidly upright, lips moving in a flow of incantation.
Young Harry Potter – not quite so young as he had been, and growing older by the moment as
he faced the hellspawn at my side.
I
had disliked his father and that dislike had been passed onto to him, but after almost seven years
of teaching him and watching him grow from precocious child to spectacular manhood, it was hard to
hate him still. And when he looked at me, and there was laughter and power intermingled in his
emerald gaze, I forgot whatever reasons I’d had for disliking him.
It seemed we might win.
I began to hope, when the creatures dropped back – but it was only to allow a greater evil
to enter. Voldemort, reborn into some hideous
half-alive thing, flowed into the room. We struck at
him and I think perhaps for a moment he wavered – and then he seemed to expand and before either
Harry or myself could throw up any sort of ward, he struck.
Not at me – but at Harry.
I threw myself forward, knowing that Potter must live, for his power and worth were greater
than mine. I was pushed aside, knocked to the ground
and held there by some of Voldemort’s creatures as the evil thing enveloped Potter.
It could not long live in the world as it
was, that dark form that was the pure essence of the evil Lord. It needed a new form and Harry was its meal of choice.
The young wizard fought and screamed and for a moment I thought he had succeeded, for the
black shape seemed to vanish. But when Potter
straightened and turned to me, I saw madness and evil shining out from his perfect young face.
Both of them were in his body, for he was
Harry and he was Voldemort, a magical blending of the two spirits. Potter’s mind had been warped by the contact.
He was quite insane from that moment. My
greatest fear has always been that the real Harry Potter was still locked inside there somewhere,
gibbering in its madness. I hope, for his sake, that it
is not so.
My life, such as it had been,
ended at that moment. If life is hope as much as flesh
and heartbeat, then it was finished then.
or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
It was mostly the same every night, or some variation of it. I
would slowly undress him, or remove just some of his clothing – he would sometimes fuck me partly
dressed and sometimes he would like to be fully naked. That
night he seemed to be in a hurry, hungry for me, for I no sooner unzipped him than his cock was out,
pushing for my face. I opened my mouth and took it in
licking and sucking on the velvety length of it, tasting power and heat under the salty flavour of
his skin.
His fingers twisted in my hair. Sometimes he hurt me, pulling on it so hard that he would tear clumps loose.
Other times he played with it as I sucked him, twisting it through is fingers.
“So pale,” he murmured, combing it with
his fingers, “silver white, like snow, and such a
good match for your skin.” The hand moved down to my
forehead, fingers delicately touching my temples. “But not so cold now, are we, my pet? You are hot for me, aren’t you, Severus?”
He wove the spell into his words like honey
dissolving on the tongue and the pain lanced into my brain, white-hot needles, pure, sweet agony and
I gasped and choked and fought not to bite down - for if I did, if I were to bit down on the flesh
in my mouth then I would know more pain than even I could appreciate.
So he hurt me as he delighted to hurt me,
and I served him as it delighted me to do, the sound of my moans vibrating in my throat as I
swallowed him, deeper and deeper. He kept pushing so
that he was in me in every way, until the pain and the pleasure ran through me like glorious,
dreadful wine from a cup that never, ever filled to the brim.
He had grown his nails until they were like
talons and had used some sort of magic on them so that he could withdraw them into his fingers like
cats claws. But his skin kept growing back over them,
so that as he flexed his talons they cut through the skin on the ends of his fingers.
The pain must have been exquisite. Whenever he
marked me with them, our blood mingled.
The pain dimmed finally, as he slipped from
my throat and pulled me back onto the bed. The chains
fell heavily against my legs, rubbing the raw patches around my ankles.
They were only six feet long – enough distance to move about the bed and that was all. My own little kingdom, which came with its own slave.
He was huddled in the corner on a soiled cushion, trying not to be seen.
My body slave, who cleans me and collects my waste and feeds me.
My dear old friend Sirius, made mute by his fear and finding something to hate even more than
me.
I lay where I knew he would want me to be.
On my stomach on the brown and grey pelt that half-covered the big bed.
The fur filled my mouth when my faced was pushed into it. I tasted Remus, and I liked to imagine I could still smell him in the fur.
The tanners had done a good job. His fur was
even more beautiful in death than it had been while he lived. Poor
creature, how you howled when the rievers skinned you alive. You
howl still in my sleep.
As he covered me, his breath whispered on
my back. “"Oh, by the way, pet, I've found
Hagrid. The last of the centaurs was hiding him."
He tossed a long length of bloodied horse tail onto the floor beside the bed. "What should I do with him, do you think?
What should I do to Hagrid?"
I flinched.
I could not help it. He was the last of them,
the last of any of them that meant anything to me. “You could – please –live – let him live -“
He pulled me over onto my back, his blood
red talons slashing my cheek heedlessly and I looked up into his perfect, cold features.
“What?
What can I do, Severus?”
“Please, Lord. . .”
He smiled, wicked and feral and bent to
lick my face and it was only then I realised I was crying. “Lord,
but I love it when you cry. Will you cry when I feed
him to the dragon? I will unchain you, pet, and you can watch my dragon feed on him.
Remember,” he said, softly, bending to nuzzle at my throat, “he left me alone with them,
him and Dumbledore, left me there all those years. He
deserves to die, doesn’t he?”
I lifted my legs and wrapped them around
him, wanting to kill him, wanting to hate him, wanting to have him in me all the way to my brain and
my soul. But he was there already, part of him, the
dark part of him. “Please, Master.. .”
I rubbed myself against him, feeling his arousal, feeding his lust.
Even when I hated him, even when he dragged me back from contemplating morbidity, still I
wanted to touch him.
Perhaps it was the echo of that frail,
perfect person in the blazing heart of his eyes. Perhaps
it was the vanished taste of innocence on his tongue, that followed after his curses.
His voice carried the echo of the child’s laughter, of the young man I had briefly
loved.
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing