Absolution

Tonight, once again, the knock on my door comes late-he likes to keep me
waiting, off-balance. The knock is a courtesy and a warning, since he
strides in immediately after I hear the sound. The door closes behind
him, and I stand, watching him and trying to gauge his mood tonight.
Storm-gray eyes look back at me, and he gives me a razor-edged smile
that makes me nervous. Fingers grown suddenly clumsy, I start to
unfasten my robes, to strip for him.

"What makes you think I want to see that ugly body of yours?" he drawls.
"Now, get over here and greet me properly, before I start to get
annoyed."

I sink to my knees and crawl over to him. Here, on the thick green
carpet of my rooms, it seems perfectly natural for me to kneel and
worship this creature, this beautiful angel. Muggles seem to think that
angels are friendly, saccharine good-luck charms. They forget about the
one who stands at the Garden with the flaming sword, and the one who
struck down the first-born of Egypt. I am prostrate now before my angel
of vengeance and punishment, and I love him.

I kiss his boots, lips caressing the dragonhide that costs more than I
make in a year. Above me, I hear him laugh. He loves this image, and I
don't blame him. I wish I could see it. My students would be astonished:
Professor Snape, the cruel and the terrifying, licking Draco Malfoy's
boots.

Then again, perhaps it's not that surprising.

I lift my head, seeking what I know is hidden beneath the elegant,
expensive robes. I want to taste him so badly, to take him in my mouth
and run my tongue along his shaft, even softer than the rest of his
pale, perfect skin. He grabs my hair and pulls my head up, slapping me
once across the face before shoving me back so hard that I nearly fall.

"I don't remember telling you to do that," he says, in a voice that
matches those North Sea eyes. "And now look what you made me do-you know
I hate touching your filthy hair. Don't you ever wash it? Gods, you're
disgusting!"

He's right. I *am* disgusting, a twice-traitor damned to the lowest icy
circles of Hell. Here is where I belong, at the feet of my angel, a
slimy thing blinking blind eyes in the sunlight after the rock it lives
under has been overturned.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I don't know how he learned the truth. He came to my quarters one night;
I was astonished to see him there, since I hadn't realized he knew where
my rooms were.

"Mister Malfoy. I trust you have some very important reason for
disturbing my evening?"

"Oh, yes, Professor," he sneered. "At least, I'm sure my father will
think it's important....and the Dark Lord will almost certainly agree
with him."

My stomach lurched, but I managed to keep my expression neutral as I
gestured him into my small sitting room. He told me how he had heard
raised voices, and how he had listened at the closed door of what should
have been an empty classroom as I argued strategy with Sirius Black.
Once again, Black was the agent of my downfall. It seems the universe
has a sense of cosmic justice after all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

At his direction I lean against the wall, hands clasped behind my head.
He could restrain me, but he enjoys ordering me to stillness, then
punishing me further when I cannot comply. He trails the whip over my
back, letting my feel each strand of braided leather before he pulls
back and strikes. The pain is sharp and hot, a handful of blown glass
shattered and pressed to my skin. I manage to stand motionless for the
first few blows, but finally I break and find myself arching into the
agonizing caresses. Something slams me against the wall-a spell, I
think-and he is standing on tiptoe to hiss in my ear. "You don't learn,
do you, Professor. How many times do I have to tell you to stand still
for this? I think you're doing it on purpose, because you like it when I
have to punish you."

He is right, of course.

He moves behind me, the fabric of his robes almost-but not quite, never
quite-close enough to brush against me. His voice is the whisper of silk
as he says, "Crucio." Even had he commanded that I remain still, I could
not obey. As the pain of the curse sears my nerves I fall convulsing to
the floor. I am grateful that he had not yet attained his full power,
for he cannot hold the curse for very long-not like his father, or Lord
Voldemort. I remain on huddled on the carpet, twitching. Another pain,
sharper and more immediate, and I lift my head enough to see that he is
standing next to me, the toe of one boot pressed against my hard,
betraying cock.

"You like this, don't you, you sick fuck. Pathetic. Get up."

I stagger to me feet and he shoves me forward so that I am bent over the
edge of the bed-a deliciously uncomfortable position for someone of my
height. I brace myself with my hands as he thrusts into me. It hurts,
but not as much as the sweet poison he drips in my ear as he rides me:

"You love this, you twisted bastard. I'd like to take you like this on
the High Table in front of the whole school, and let them see what kind
of a slut the Potions Master really is. And then I'd laugh when the
Ministry wizards came to cart you off to Azkaban for seducing your poor,
innocent student....

"You're such a desperate whore, aren't you, *Professor*? Tell me, did
you writhe and cry out for my father like this? Or Voldemort? Or was it
Dumbledore-that's it, isn't it? You changed sides because he was fucking
you, I'll bet. Was it worth it? I can't imagine the nice Headmaster
hurting you like you deserve, like you want so badly...."

He rakes his fingernails over my back, scraping away more layers of my
already-abused skin, pounding me mercilessly to his completion. I can
feel myself slipping away from my battered body into the sweet, warm,
welcome emptiness of my own release. I am forgiven, my sins absolved,
washed in my blood shed by my angel; I am redeemed; I am, for this
little while, free.