Name: Dreams: Descent Author: BlackRose Genre: Drama Rating: NC-17 Summary: A harsh lesson in the consequence of one's choices. E-mail: lenoirrose@softhome.net Homepage: http://www.digitalmidnight.net Ff.n page: BlackRose

Dreams: Descent

There was a moan building up deep in his throat; an inarticulate homage to the play of flickering lamp light over ice pale skin and the velvet feel of it molded across the curve of hip and thigh beneath his hands. He could hear the rasp of his own breath, a low rhythmic counterpoint to the soft sob of wordless cries that the touch of his fingers had drawn forth. They were not cries of pain. He told himself that, repeatedly, like a litany of rationalization within the small thinking portion of his mind. They were not, could not, be cries of pain. Because even if they were, it was too late. He couldn't stop. Not now. Not with the mingled taste of sweat and blood on his lips or the boneless arch of the body beneath his, setting his thoughts aflame until they were burned to ash and only the reality of flesh remained. It had been too late when he had entered the room.

The body lay, crumbled like some abandoned rag doll upon the rug in front of the hearth. The light of the fire in the grate illuminated bloody streaks of white skin and the tattered remnants of a black velvet robe and his first thought had been of death.

Soft strands of silver hair clung damply to his fingers. The tender indentations along the hollow if the spine drew his lips, his tongue tracing each ridge, each dip. The dark flush of bruises were everywhere, like a mottled painting in stark black and white, sliding on living canvas beneath his grasping hands. If he listened hard enough he could almost make out the shape of words in the tiny grasps and cries. He closed his ears to them, unwilling to hear. "Please... please, hurts..."

"Draco? Draco!" "... prof... sor..." "Sh! Don't try to talk, boy. No, don't move! I'll get Madame Pomfrey..." "... no..." His own burst of profanity had been drawn from startled lips, falling loud into the quiet room. That was when he had truly been lost, whether he knew it or not. When he had first reached out trembling fingertips to the horrific vision of the Dark Mark, seared like a ragged brand into the pale, soft flesh of one lean thigh.

A full throated moan rang forth as he cupped one palm across the warm shell of a buttock, fingers kneading the soft flesh. Slender thighs parted at his thouch, to body writhing in a pantomime of struggle, for and against. His own breath released on a helpless groan, his eyes closing to shut out the light and the tantalizing sheen of sweat across smooth skin. This was agony. This was want and desire and the primal heat of purest need, in its undiluted form. This was hunger, beneath his lips, beneath his hands and body, there in the thick covers of his bed.

"Ah!" He had snatched his hand back, afraid to cause further pain, the mark upon his own wrist throbbing dully. "Draco..." But words had failed him, had left his mouth empty of anything but meaningless swearing, his mind a whirl. A slender hand had clutched at the ruined thigh, blood trickling from beneath the clenched fingers. The mark of a Death Eater, drawn in a travesty of deep burns into flesh and muscle. The boy's breath had been a keening sob, rough and scratched in a throat that sounder over used. "... hurts... it hurts..." He had reached out then, intending only to offer what comfort he could, to pull the pale hands away and see what might be done for the wounds. The thought of summon help had vanished, lost in the vision of panic and disgust that he could only too clearly imagine the sight of that dreaded mark invoking. "Let go, Draco. Let me see." But when his hand had touched skin that was so hot it seemed to burn from within, the words had dropped away, forgotten. The heat had surged up his arms and washed through him, leaving in its wake a kindled fire that made his breath catch. Only dimly, as he looked down, had he realized that eyes which should have been the palest grey were black instead, the pupils lose amidst ink stained darkness. Distantly, above the rush of his own blood against his eardrums, he had caught the fragments of a boy's lost and uncomprehending plea - "... hurts... make it stop..."

A long fingered hand lashed out at a random, striking. He caught the thin wrist easily, pinning it to the bed. Beneath his fingertips he could feel the fluttering thunder of a frantic pulse, trapped within the cage of flesh and bone. The words were there in aching, breathless sobs, beating at him insistently as he tried to shut them away. "No... stop... hurts... please..." And, as he let his weight come down, giving himself the guilty pleasure of the warm body crushed beneath his and the first delirious surge of slick heat as he thrust forward, the sobs became a low, wailing cry and one word burst forth to wash him in the sound of absolution. "More..."

Somewhere, inbetween the touch of his palm to that burning skin and the moment, heartbeats later, when it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to slide his hand up along the smooth expanse of chest in a slow caress - somewhere between those two, he had ceased to think. Alarm, worry, conscious action; it had all fallen away, his reality narrowed to the feel of flesh and the throb of desire in his own veins. The heat of their bodies was consuming and his robes had been discarded somewhere across the floor, strewn from the hearth to the bed where he laid them both down. The shock of that first touch was engraved upon him, drawing him helplessly on into the depths of sensation and desire.

He was burning, consumed, a phoenix reborn in the fires of pleasure. Every thrust, every grasped moan, the small, wet sound of their bodies and the muted protest of the bed; the scent of sweat and blood and sex, heavy on the warm air - it washed over him in a cacophony, each wave drawing him closer to the brink. He tried in vain to hold it off, to slow the inevitable and draw out the moment, but control had been left behind long before. When it struck, it was like nothing else in his experience. It touched him with the angry lash of lightning, electric spasms arcing through is body, searing away nerve and flesh and bone in a blinding flash. The scream, torn hoarse and breathless from his throat, was echoed in the boy beneath him. A release so intense it was painful, and in its wake he tumbled down, gasping, fringes of dizzying blackness chasing themselves before his eyes. Utterly drained, it was thought that returned first, and with thought, realization. And with realization, horror. It took him two aborted tries before he found strenght to move the muscles in his arms, to push himself up from the body he had collapsed on. The soft, whimpered sound as he pulled away struck him like a physical pain, a sickened feeling deep inside. Draco lay still upon the covers, face hidden within their folds and shielded by sweat soaked strands of tousled silver hair. The labored breaths that echoed his own shook the slender shoulders, still interspersed with the quiet catch of sobs. Snape closed his eyes, wishing against hope that he would wake from a dream, but the reality was the sounds of those sobs and the image of the boy's body, burned indelibly into his memory. It seemed impossible to force words past the tightness of his throat, or to find any words at all. Licking his lips only brought him the lingering taste of sweat and warm flesh, making him shudder. "Draco...?" The only response was a shiver and a hitch in a long exhale. Snape slowly reached out a hand, watching the furious tremble in it, and forced himself to lay it upon one pale shoulder, gently urging the boy to turn over. Draco jerked away from the touch, violently, rolling to one hip and half sitting up. As he did, Snape's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening. There was a bruise across one high cheek, black and swollen and spreading. Another stained the point of the boy's shoulder, raised welts scored by droplets of drying blood streaking through it and down, raking the planes of his chest. And before the older man's eyes, they were changing. From a deep, angry black, to vivid purple, to dirty brown and faded yellow - shades at a time, the bruises faded, restoring the skin beneath to undamaged pallor. The welts healed over, red lines shrinking, leeching to white and then to nothing at all. Unharmed, unmarked, as though it might never have been, but for the lingering smears of dried blood left in their wake. If Draco felt it or noticed it, he did not react. He was still breathing hard, small shudders quivering through him. His eyes, looking up at Snape through the fall of his hair, were silvery grey and bloodshot, red rimmed from the tears dried in tracks across his cheeks. They had a look to them they hadn't had only days before, when Snape had seen them, as he always did, near the back of his class. It was like shattering a mirror to expose the black lining beneath the shiny glass. He shuddered, unable to keep himself from watching as the sliver of a pink tongue licked out across the boy's dry lips. It was up to him to find his voice once more, and he did so only reluctantly, the words meaningless on his tounge. "What happened?" Something like a spasm of pain crossed the boy's face. Snape reached out unthinkingly, catching one wrist as he scrambled towards the edge of the bed. Draco sucked in a sharp breath, wrenching away, the motion sending him sliding heavily from the edge of the bed to the floor. "Don't!" Pulling his hand back, Snape swallowed past the rising bile in his throat. He couldn't think - unreal, dream-like, snatches of memory danced before his eyes in a sickening taunt. His voice was broken, rough and unsteady. "Draco... I didn't... I couldn't..." But he had, and there were no mere words that could ask for any understanding of what he had done. "It wasn't you." Low and strained, Draco's whisper jerked him upright. The boy had wrapped his arms around his chest, the muscles in his shoulders straining as he held tight. His face was turned down, hidden, but Snape could see his knuckles whiten, nail scarving tiny crescents into his arms. "That was... my punishment." There was a bitter tone to the words, heavier than any he had heard on the boy's lips before. His eyes went to the now livid scar upon the boy's thigh, red and shiny smooth against white skin, carved too deep to ever be erased. He knew the answer before he asked and it only made him sicker, the nausea churning against his ribs. "For what?" Draco shivered, a sharp shudder rocking him from head to toe. He pushed himself up abruptly, swaying on his feet, any trace of color blanched from his face. He seemed at a loss for a moment, looking around, hands jerking as they began one movement, then another, uncertainly ending each. There was the echo of sob in his breath. Stooping abruptly, he snatched up Snape's own discarded robe, wrapping the thick folds of it tight around himself. In profile, the older man watched the slide of a muscle in the boy's jaw as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. "For failing Lord Voldemort," Draco whispered at last, the words barely breathed. Snape flinched, lips pressed tight. Draco backed away, almost stumbling. His eyes were glassy, unblinking and equally unseeing. Snape started to rise, reaching for him, but a violent jerk of Draco's hand stopped him. "Professor Snape?" His voice was thin and strained, younger than his years. Snape drew a slow breath, making his answer as gentle as he could. "Yes?" Draco swallowed, the hand that was not clutching the robe falling to rub, almost savagely, agains the mark on his thigh. "Don't leave the grounds. He'll kill you if you do." It was, possibly, the last thing Snape expected to hear. The Dark Mark upon his arm throbbed with a dull, aching pain that spread up his shoulder. "If he wants me dead, it won't matter where I am." Pale eyes focused on him slowly. "Yes, it will. Because I already swore I wouldn't do it." Contained and deliberate, the words dropped into the air to linger. Snape closed his eyes, unable to respond. Frozen, he heard the door open and then swing heavily shut once more, leaving him alone in the dim shadows of the flickering fire.                                                           ***** He never knew how he passed the long hours of the night without incident, or how he rose and dressed himself in the morning. By rote and sheer habit his feet had carried him, looking neither left nor right, down the corridors and up the steps to the dining hall. The bustle and chatter of students as he passed them were surreal, like disorted images that flickered before him, fading away into shadows. Only the head table where the faculty sat was solid, all too clear and real. Dumbledore seated there with juice and toast before him, bidding a good morning to a yawning Professor Filtwick. To Snape, it seemed as though the steps between the entrance and that table were infinite, and each one an effort filled with the sickened voice within him. Step. [This is the end of everything you've worked for.] Step. [This is what you deserve.] Step. [There is nothing left.] He never knew what made him look up as he passed the long table of the Slytherin house. But when he did, it was to meet a pair of pale, glittering eyes. Draco said nothing. Seated between his classmates, a filled breakfast plate before him, he said not a word. He only looked, eyes meeting the older man's with a gaze that said no more than his lips. And then, unhurried, he turned away, slender hands resuming the task of buttering toast. As nothing at all had happened. As though nothing were going to happen. He was ill and shaking, but somehow he made it to the head table to collapse, limply, into his own chair. Dumbledore looked up as he did, brows drawing down slightly. "Severus? Are you alright? You're pale as death." Snape thought he might have replied with something, but he had no idea what. His hands, of their own, reached out to pour a cup of tea, holding its warmth clenched between his frozen palms. Had the walls of Hogwarts itself fallen, he could not have dragged his eyes from the Slytherin table or the pale haired figure that sat there. Nothing. As though it might have been a dream. Only as the morning post arrived did Draco react, something like surprise making him jerk back as a large owl dropped a letter before him. Snape watched as the boy reached out to take it, handling it rather gingerly. The contents were read quickly, and the older man thought, for one moment, that the boy might tear the letter in two. Abruptly, Draco stood. His gaze turned across the room, meeting Snape's for one moment, something naked and undefined upon his face. It was gone as quickly as it came, locked behind the icy gaze. Thrusting the letter into the pocket of his robe, Draco turned and left the hall.