by kai
April 2003
Forgiveness comes at a price.
His is an unruly beauty.
It is that of a storm-tossed sky, a rocky, wave-shattered coastline, a squalling, red-faced newborn. Stark, uncommon, untamed. It is a beauty that requires either a discerning eye or a devoted heart to perceive.
Thus, I should not be surprised that Harry Potter--the Boy Who Should Have Died, a thin, reedy almost-man with the eye of a Seeker and the blind courage of a lion--would know to scour away the layers of soot and grime and rot to find the rare gem within.
Harry and Severus stand before me now, not quite touching, but close enough together that they radiate solidarity. Severus' eyes are properly downcast, but Harry meets my gaze with defiance.
Defiance, despite all that I have given him!
"Albus," Severus says, his lovely voice is broken and rough, "I have no excuse to offer for my behavior."
I press my lips together and frown.
When the stains vanished from the tips of his fingers, when his once-jagged nails were filed smooth, why, then, my suspicious should have been roused.
When he complained of swelling and heat in his jaw, when he ceased to eat for days at at time because of pain, when I had Poppy refer him to a dentist, when he returned with straight, white teeth, I should have felt the bindings grow slack.
When he grew his hair long so that it curled past his shoulders, when he began to bathe again, sometimes twice daily, when his interest in Quidditch reawakened unexpectedly, when his pale yellow skin became bronzed from the sun.
Oh yes, I should have known.
Potter's eyes narrow and he puts his hand on Severus' arm. "As for excuses," he says, "I don't need one."
I turn away, so as not to hex the insolent whelp where he stands, and to consider this unforeseen complication.
###
His is an elemental passion.
It is a dark, sooty fire, one that I carefully nurtured as he grew from a young boy and into a man.
I fed that fire with my blood and fluids, I thrust myself between his young lips and soft, virgin thighs. I fanned the flames with gifts of books, scrolls, bits of forbidden, whispered lore; how I pleasured his body and his mind!
And when he fled from me, all for the promise of of love and forbidden power--ha!--and when he crawled back, broken, contrite, and marked, I welcomed him, of course. And I disciplined him with harsh and bitter choices for his betrayal.
I offered him redemption, and on his knees, with my prick between those marvelous, penitent lips, he took it and drank it down.
And now this. A second a knife in my back: a bitter reward for my years of care and indulgence.
Were Severus any other teacher, were Potter any other student, I would strike both their names from history. I would crucify and burn them, then scatter their ashes upon the cruel wind of public opinion.
But I have not done yet with my tools, either of them: another of my unruly children needs to be reminded of his place in the order of the universe.
So, with my emotions firmly mastered, I turn back to them and say, "Mr. Potter. Leave us, please."
Potter's knuckles go white where he grips Severus' arm. "No," he says. "Whatever you need to say to him, you can say to me."
But Severus shakes his head, exhibiting, much too late, the rare intelligence that I cultivated so patiently within him. "Please, Harry," he begs. "Just go."
I watch while they argue silently, bodies bristling with unspoken words, until Potter finally, to my mild shock, yields. He gifts me with a final, delicious glare--oh, and if looks could kill!--then departs, closing the door behind him with a quiet snick.
Severus drops to his knees immediately and presses a kiss to the hem of my robe.
Once, it might have been almost enough.
Once, afterwards, I might have whipped him, then taken him hard, still bloodied and sobbing, over the edge of my desk. Alternately, I might have ignored him instead--perhaps a more cruel punishment for a weak, needy one such as Severus. I might have let him shadow my steps for days, like a forlorn, beaten puppy begging for the least scrap of my attention and affection.
Tonight, however, I am not appeased and no amount of blood or pain or groveling will suffice, no.
I take his chin in my hand and tilt his head upwards. "Look at me, Severus."
The black gloss of his hair slides over my hand as he slowly meets my eyes. His eyes are dry, his face is blank, and for the first time in our association, he is entirely opaque to me.
My stomach clenches and it is all I can do not to snap his neck between my hands. It is as I feared: where Riddle failed, Potter has succeeded.
And what is there to do with my now-flawed blade? What must I do before it shatters in my hand?
After a long moment, I cradle his head in my hands, accepting the subtle rebuke of his soft, clean hair against the pads of my fingers; young Harry Potter is a most worthy adversary.
"My dear boy," I say at last, and with genuine pleasure. "I am not the least bit angry. With either of you."
The faintest of frowns wrinkles his brow but he knows better than to interrupt.
"On the contrary, Severus," I continue, anticipating the wet thrust of the knife when I slide it home. "I am quite pleased that you have ensured Mr. Potter's loyalty to our cause. Carry on, I insist upon it."
And when I bend to place a kiss on his forehead, it is as if I can feel his hot blood gush over my hands.
I smile kindly and savor the panicked realization I see in his eyes.
Finis.
Warning: Themes of child abuse. Evil!Dumbledore.