Immature
shanna seanachai

[. . .how could I be so immature?]

Plenty of times, it bothered him; he doubted what he was doing, what he was feeling; he doubted himself. Especially late at night, as he lay in bed. Staring at the mark on the inside of his arm: like a brand on livestock, saying: I own you. And Lucius - those eyes staring out at him, watching as he winced, trying to ignore the pain as he was marked. Finally he'd managed to drag his eyes away. It hurt, yes, it hurt, and so he had watched his hand, which was tightly clenched by the end of the procedure; he watched it so he wouldn't scream. Inside he was screaming, though: why am I doing this?

Lucius again: always soft and sinuous and compliant, whispering in his ear, poisoning his mind, coaxing him on. It was Lucius who had convinced him, that time, to go out to the Willow, when Black had taunted him with the information. Lucius had kept saying how great it would be if he surprised them by actually showing up and catching them at whatever they were up to. Would he have gone if Lucius hadn't said all of that, and...implied...even more? No. Definitely not! He was a fucking coward at heart, even the thought of getting those bastards expelled would not have been enough to get him to do something like that. It just wasn't worth it.

[. . .to think he could replace. . .]

He was a coward, and Lucius knew it, and he'd been too afraid to stand up to Lucius and say: no! I don't want to do this. I don't believe in this. And now he was sucked in, and he knew the whole situation intimately and he was even more scared of trying to back out.

Do you think they'll let you go, Severus? Think they'll just let you back out of this, after all you've seen and done? Maybe if you were someone important...like Lucius. Shit, Severus Snape was nobody. The only reason he had any clout was because everyone (well, everyone who mattered) knew he was going to bed with a Malfoy. He should be grateful, they muttered under his breath. If it weren't for Lucius...well, suffice it to say, if it weren't for Lucius, Snape would have been put in his place long ago. Who needed a whiny little kid like that around all the time?

Oh, fuck, he'd gotten himself into such a mess, and he couldn't screw around anymore. He had to do something soon, or he would wind up...dead, or in Azkaban, like some of them. Or worse. Him and his followers...they could sniff you out, of course. They knew if you weren't really devoted to their cause. And not everybody cared about Lucius Malfoy's protection.

And who said he even had it anymore? When was the last time they'd slept together? At least a month. Lucius barely looked at him anymore. It left a sick, empty feeling in his stomach, like someone had ripped out all his vital organs. Disemboweled him. And they all surely knew this. They knew everything, they pried into what would normally be private business; it was all their business. They knew that Severus Snape had been Lucius Malfoy's bitch for years, and now they probably knew if Lucius had some new dumb twat, that he'd gotten tired of Snape.

[. . . the missing elements in me . . .]

It was a frightening feeling; he felt like he had been shoved out into the sun after years of hanging on to Lucius' shade. It was all to bright and his skin, his heart, it was way beyond the pale. Why had he let himself fall into this? True, he hadn't been in his right mind at the time. He'd only been sixteen years old at the time. Sixteen...it was hard to believe he'd ever been so young and naive. Lucius Malfoy, scooping him up into his safety. Into his bed. He'd found himself dividing his life in half: Before Lucius, After Lucius. Before Lucius, his world had been stark, gray, formless. And then, a little color had shown. A little color, in those eyes, in those hands, traveling up his sides, holding him, so sweet...Lucius had changed him. Drawn him out, made him feel alive. Made him feel wanted. Made him feel important. How wonderful to feel important! And now...

And now. It was a sob noise, those words. And now, now what?

You were empty, a soundless being, not even possessing an echo. You hated everyone - because they had fortunately been born inside themselves, and not inside you. You wanted someone to fill you up, and Lucius did, and you as good as sold yourself to him. Lock, stock, and barrel. Now he's sold you down the river. You were an idiot, Severus. No one can fill you up but yourself. All you can do is give them power over you, make you ache for them, beg. I will do anything. Oh, please, just look at me, smile at me, touch me, love me, love me, I need...

[. . .how extremely lazy of me . . .]

You need. To get away.

Dumbledore can help you. He could help you, he told you so. He said to come to him if you ever rethought your position. Stupid old man, he'd thought then, but he'd been out of his mind at the time. Bloated up by Lucius' attention and false conceived notions of himself. Stupid old man, he'd said, laughing, and now he was ready to crawl across god damn hot coals if that stupid old man would just help him, damn it, help him. He wasn't like this, really! He wasn't like them. Not really. And he would never let anyone get into him like that again.

Never again. Never again.

*

Ah, oh, touch me like that. No, don't. No, do. I don't know. Lucius, I...

Those lips, eating me up. Oh, no, oh no. Don't ever leave me! 'Severus.' The way he says it. That voice unravels me and then winds me back up again. And again. And again. Oh. Oh, no, again...

Complete, complete, I am complete. 'Shut your eyes,' he whispers. He likes it when I shut my eyes. I shut them, and he is imprinted on my eyelids, in wild colors. Lucius. Mm, oh no.

'Here you are. Here we are. Mine.' I can't see him. My eyes are shut. He is whispering in my ear. I'm his. He's in me. It's perfect. It's pointless. It's endless. Again. And again. Yes, again.

And then it's like cymbals crashing in my ears, in my chest. I'm so dizzy, even though my eyes are shut, my mind is spinning, it's him, he's all over, he's all there is, the world is dark and he is the only thing to hold on to, he's all I want, he's all there is. Hold on to me! I'm lost, don't let me go!

It's over. He lets me go.

And I just lay there. In the dark. I begin to fade, in and out. In, out. Out of here. And then his hands are on me again, suddenly, and I open my eyes, and he looks different. No wonder he tells me to shut my eyes. It isn't the same. It isn't the...

Never again. Never again.

*

[ . . . how could I be so immature?]

And now here they were. Not exactly of the same polarity, but close, so close it made him dizzy. Too close for comfort. He couldn't make himself dislike Draco Malfoy - he reminded Snape too much of Lucius. Father and son, and both had those same sort of eyes, odd eyes, that turned you inside out and upside down. The same voice - soft, lazy, sometimes biting. It was a bit like being slapped hard on the back, hearing that voice again. No, he was too much like his father, and that played off too many strings in his heart and his head.

Neither could he make himself feel particularly fond of Harry Potter. He knew he should, but sometimes he looked at him, and something deep and vital in his stomach turned, and spoiled. James' son, after all. James Potter, his childhood tormentor, whether James had been aware of that fact or not - probably not. So much torment is induced unwittingly, isn't it?

So, he knew Draco Malfoy was up to no good, up to sneaking, up to thieving, in the most intimate sense of that word. He was exactly like Lucius, in mind and spirit as well as body and attitude, and he would weave his web right around Harry Potter, just as surely as Lucius Malfoy had done to him, twenty years ago. And there was so much more at stake here - a lot more than there had been then, when an antisocial but well meaning sixteen year old boy had allowed himself to become the slave to Lucius Malfoy; for what had that boy ever done? Nothing, of course. Nothing. Harry Potter was another matter. Potter had a lot in his hands. Potter could drop those things. And Malfoy Junior and Senior would be awfully happy to see him do so.

Sometimes he just wanted to grab Potter and shake him - ask him what the hell he thought he was doing! Stupid child! Draco Malfoy will not make you feel real, make you feel alive. Draco Malfoy and his lot, they will kill you in the end, and the rest of us with you. Don't you know that, boy? This isn't a game! Not a game!

But he knew Potter wouldn't listen. He and Draco were at that age - sixteen - when you knew too little to do you any good and too much to stay out of trouble. Yes, he'd caught them sneaking little looks at each other; convenient touches, cloaked in the guise of accidents (and excuses to bicker); they often disappeared at the same time, missing from meals or classes or dormitories. The others thought they were off having a fight, trying to get each other in trouble. What more could you expect from those two? But Snape knew better. He knew exactly what was going on.

Now what was he going to do about it?

[. . . to think he could replace . . .]

Moonlight cut parallel across the hallway, more like a tangible object, like bars. In a parceled off section of his brain, he was aware of how he looked. Flushed and sixteen years old, thick, coarse, black hair hiding his eyes, two pale and skinny hands squeezed together like a tough, weathered knot. Holding himself together.

There was one step before him, and it was a big step, for it meant to open that door, to walk into that room. He could hear his heart thumping in his ears, the blood running through his veins; it sounded sometimes like a thunderstorm. Sometimes like a pounding drum, beating out a deep, primal rhythm of pain and expectation. He always felt like this, right before...well. Part of it was excitement - arousal, hot and ferocious and fighting to get out. Yeah, Draco could speed up his pulse, weaken his limbs, send shivers up his back, and all with just a look. This was monumentally more.

Part of it was fear, too. Two kinds, to be exact. Fear of being caught - which almost paralleled with the excitement. And fear of...him. Of Draco. Yes, that was it, that was the truth; he was afraid of him.

Because all in all, Harry liked the fantasies, liked the implied suggestions in his eyes and his gestures, and he liked the foreplay - yes, he definitely liked all of that. He liked it, in fact, all together more than the actual couplings. Those dark moments of doubt and desire soured to despair. Harry sometimes wondered if there was an internal switch inside of Draco's body that flicked off once they got down to actually having sex. Yes, the switch flicked off, the lights went out, the body became cold and unforgiving, and it was no longer making love, it was hard, cruel fucking. It was painful. It was pointless. And it was endless, an eternal spiral of horror. Harry hated it. But it did not stop him from going back for more.

Why? He didn't know! All he knew was that it was nearly impossible to stay away from Draco. A glance, a murmur, and the boy had him on his knees. When he did try to stay away, he felt an acute misery, an emptiness, that was unparalleled; he was a shoe without its mate, he'd lost his positive conductor. So. He was miserable alone, and still miserable when they were together, and hell, if only there was a way he could get out of this. Some way, but it seemed impossible. There were no more exit doors. He'd left them long ago.

[. . . the missing elements in me . . .]

And that was why it was so hard to reach out his hand and open that door, to take that step into that room, where he knew Draco was waiting for him. He wanted it and he hated it, too.

So here was the question - which side should he give in to? He knew if he went in there, he would come out the next morning bruised, aching, sniffling, and totally unsatisfied. If he turned around and went back to bed by himself, he knew he would wake the next morning lonely, empty, full of regret, and also totally unsatisfied.

It was not that fair a decision, he thought.

The floor creaked, and Harry had the sense of another person near him; someone was breathing the same air he was. He paused, and tensed himself.

"Don't even move, Potter."

Oh, hell. He'd been caught - and by Snape, no less. He felt scarlet shame creeping up along his body like vines, cutting off his blood flow, tightening, ever tightening.

He heard Snape move up behind him; two hands were placed on his shoulders, turning him around.

"What exactly are you doing outside of your dormitory, Potter?" That slick voice of his was very soft. Menacing. Harry swallowed heavily.

"I was - I was -"

Snape shook his head, his mouth forming into a strange little smile. "Don't, now. You see, I already know." A pause. "You came to meet Malfoy, didn't you?"

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. God! "Oh, no, Professor Snape -"

Snape motioned for silence, and surveyed him carefully. Then he gestured towards the room Harry had been about to enter. "He's in there, now, is he?"

Harry shook his head emphatically, all the while praying for some way to get out of this without spending the rest of his life in detention.

Professor Snape smiled, a triumphant expression. "Oh, really?" He leaned over, and his hand rested on the door knob; a deft twist, and the door creaked open. Harry peered into the room, holding his breath.

[. . . how extremely lazy of me . . .]

It was empty.

His breath came out in whoosh. He blinked, stunned. Where -

"I was here a bit earlier than you, Potter," Snape whispered. "Malfoy is already down in the Slytherin dormitories again."

Slowly, Harry tilted his head up at the Potions Master, his eyes wide. Did he know?

Snape sighed, and he looked rather tired. He had shadows under his eyes. Harry wondered suddenly how old he was.

"Go back up to your dormitory, Potter," Snape said. "Take this as a warning."

"A warning, sir?"

"Stay away from people like Draco Malfoy, Potter. Trust me. You'll regret it, in the long run."

"Professor Snape...I...I'm not sure what you mean."

"It doesn't matter." He backed up, staring at Harry with eyes that had seemed, temporarily, to have a lost a lot of their malice. "Get up to bed."

Harry turned around and began to leave. All the muscles in his arms were trembling. He didn't know quite what had just happened but -

"And Potter?"

He halted, and turned his head. Snape was almost at the other end of the hall, where it was very dark; Harry could barely see him.

"Remember this: if you aren't happy enough without him, then you will never, ever be happy with him."

And then he left.

[. . . how could I be so immature? . . .]

I've done my best. Really, what was I supposed to do - have a heart to heart chat with Potter? Ridiculous. This is the best I can do. Maybe Malfoy will be to nervous to arrange a meeting with Potter for a few weeks. And maybe in that time, Potter will think about what I said. Maybe.

Too many damn maybes. I don't know what to think.

Just...sometimes, I wake up at night, and my mouth is open, filled with the beginnings of a scream. I have to swallow it, keep it in my stomach, and it burns and burns there the rest of the night. I roll over and put out my arm and Lucius should be there, he should, like he used to be. But he isn't. He's miles away from me, from my life. No, I'd rather die than be like that with him again, to feel the awful, unclean way he could make me feel. But at those times, when it's late, the dark all around suffocating me, and I'm all alone in my bed, a minute seeming an eternity, I wish he was there. I can think only of the small moments of ecstasy and the glory of being owned. I remember, and I understand, and it hurts.

[. . . how could I be so immature?]

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