Chapter Text
The opulent ballroom of Malfoy Manor was suffocating, the air thick with a vicious tension that clung to every surface like a bad aftertaste. Shadows stretched and warped under flickering candlelight, twisting like the dark secrets exchanged within them.
From the cover of the shadows, Harry watched, concealed beneath his invisibility cloak. His heart pounded as his eyes locked on Severus, who stood gripping the narrow hips of a trembling blonde youth. The boy, no older than a recent Hogwarts graduate, was bound on hands and knees, his body taut with tension as he fought against his restraints. His shallow, uneven breaths barely rose above the murmurs and groans of the room’s grotesque theatre.
The Potions Master moved with brutal efficiency—his thrusts hard, fast, and detached. His face was a mask of impassivity, his actions mechanical, devoid of pleasure or cruelty. It was the performance of a man fulfilling a duty he neither desired nor took any pleasure in. His mind seemed elsewhere, far from the room and the scene unfolding at his feet.
When it was over, Severus withdrew, flicking his wand with a practised ease to erase all traces of the act. The boy whimpered softly, curling inwards as much as his bindings allowed, his pale, bruised form trembling as though he could will himself invisible. The older man didn’t spare him a second glance as he adjusted his robes, every movement as precise as a ritual.
Harry shook where he stood, gripping his wand tighter under his invisibility cloak. His pulse hammered in his ears as he tried to process what he had just witnessed, though the sight of Severus with the boy had not shocked him. No, the horror lay in what it represented—the darker currents pulling at the man he’d thought he understood, the compromises made in this warped war.
The air shifted as Lucius stepped into Severus’ path, his presence as sharp and predatory as the gleam of his silver hair. He looked every bit the master of this house of horrors, his aristocratic poise only adding to his menace. “Not so fast, old friend,” he purred, his voice smooth and dangerous, like silk over steel. “Stay for a drink. Besides, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss… regarding your little pet.”
The word hung in the air, reverberating like a curse. Severus froze mid-step, the faintest flicker of tension betraying the effect of Lucius’ words.
In the shadows, Harry stiffened, dread coiling in his stomach. A bead of cold sweat rolled down his temple as he strained to listen. Panic gripped him, a battle of instincts pulling him in two directions: flee or stay, vanish into the night or learn what Lucius intended. He had sworn a wizard’s oath, hadn’t he? Would that be enough to ensure his silence?
Severus turned slowly, his expression unreadable, though to Harry, who had studied every nuance of the man in their time together, the faint hesitation in his movements spoke volumes. He was wary, like an animal sensing danger but unable to identify its source.
With deliberate calm, Severus followed Lucius through an arched doorway, leaving the ballroom and its chaos behind. Harry trailed after them, each step cautious and silent, his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
They entered a lavish drawing room, its stark opulence a jarring contrast to the grim spectacle of the ballroom. Rich ivory drapes framed the windows, and the dark wood panelling gleamed under the warm glow of strategically placed candelabras. The faint echoes of the debauchery outside seeped through the walls, a haunting reminder of what still unfolded beyond the doorway.
Lucius settled into a leather armchair with a predatory grace, the creak of the seat punctuating his ease. A glass of amber liquid materialising in his hand, the firelight catching the edges of the crystal. He lounged like a king in his castle, utterly at home in the decadence surrounding him.
Severus, in contrast, remained rigid, his posture straight and formal as he sat opposite. His face was a mask of stone, but Harry could sense the tension radiating from him, an invisible armour against whatever game Lucius was about to play. Between them, a crystal decanter glinted on a small table, its contents glowing like molten fire under the dim light.
Harry slipped into the shadows of an alcove, his cloak brushing the edge of a side table. Every muscle in his body was taut, coiled with anticipation as he crouched in silence, his gaze fixed on the two men. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, the suffocating atmosphere of power plays and hidden threats.
“Quite the wanton creature you’ve ensnared,” Lucius drawled, lifting his glass to his lips. His tone was casual, but malice rippled beneath the surface like an undertow. “I must say, I was rather surprised to find you with a submissive of your own. And such a promising one at that.”
Harry’s blood ran cold as Lucius’ words hung in the air, poisonous and deliberate. Across from him, Severus sat rigid in his chair, his grip tightening imperceptibly on the armrest. His jaw clenched, the muscles twitching beneath sallow skin, but his expression remained unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and controlled, honed like a blade. “What do you think you know?”
Lucius chuckled softly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as though savouring his position. “Oh, I know quite a lot. You see, I’ve taken a particular interest in your little pet. And once my curiosity was piqued…” He trailed off, the pause deliberate, a smile tugging at his lips. “Well, I had my suspicions about where someone like you could acquire someone like him. Remedial Potions, wasn’t it? Clever, old friend. Very clever. But not clever enough.”
Harry’s stomach twisted, a sinking weight settling in his gut. Lucius had all but named him without breaking his vow, twisting the truth into a blade that cut deep. It was a calculated move, so thoroughly Slytherin that Harry cursed himself for not anticipating it.
Lucius leaned back in his chair, his smile widening. The next words spilled from his lips with the cruel precision of a final blow. “And I must say, you’ve trained him well. Merlin knows I had my doubts, but after sampling him myself all week… I understand why you’ve kept him hidden. Our little celebrity is quite the eager gem.”
Under the cloak, Harry’s blood roared in his ears, a tidal wave of fury and humiliation surging through him. He bit down on the urge to burst into the room, to hex Lucius into oblivion. Instead, he stood frozen, grappling with the bitter sting of betrayal and the acidic taste of his own carelessness. He had let himself be outmanoeuvred, played like a pawn in a game he hadn’t fully understood.
The room plunged into silence. Severus’ dark eyes, so adept at masking his thoughts, now held a rare flicker of fury. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold enough to frost the very air. “What. Do. You. Want?”
Lucius’ smirk deepened, the predator savouring his prey. “Ah, my dear Severus,” he murmured, his words dripping with false camaraderie. “Always so direct. But that’s always been part of your charm, hasn’t it? Straight to the point.” He swirled his drink lazily before adding, “I don’t know what game you’re playing with the boy, but I do know you. There’s always an endgame with you.”
Lucius paused, his smile sharpening as he leaned forward slightly. “You’re fortunate, old friend. Fortunate that our Master has tasked me with an important mission abroad. I’ll be gone for several months, which gives you some time to… manage things. I will leave your little pet untouched. And I’ll even keep your secret.”
Severus’ lips thinned. His next words came out hissed through clenched teeth, low and venomous. “And the cost of such generosity?”
Lucius held his gaze, letting the tension stretch unbearably thin. His silence was deliberate, a slow tightening of the noose. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth and unhurried, a man luxuriating in his power. “Oh, Severus,” he murmured, his smile growing wicked. “You already know my price.”
For a moment, neither man moved. The air crackled with silent menace, charged with an unspoken understanding. Then Severus inclined his head, a single, deliberate motion of resigned agreement. Though he had barely moved, the shadows in the room seemed to deepen around him, drawn closer, as if the very darkness sought to swallow him whole. He appeared to shrink into himself, the high collars of his black robes rising like battlements against an unseen enemy. The stoic mask he wore hardened further, his expression betraying nothing—no anger, no fear, no hint of humanity.
Without a word, Severus rose from his seat, his movements deliberate and precise. He unfastened the clasp of his robes and let the heavy fabric fall, pooling around his feet. His pale fingers moved to the buttons of his black trousers, undoing them with a practiced ease. The soft whisper of fabric against skin was the only sound as the trousers slipped past his narrow hips, revealing a body lean and marked by faint scars, pale lines etched into his skin like echoes of old battles.
There was a quiet dignity in the way Severus stripped himself bare, a devastating contrast to the humiliation of the act. Harry watched from the alcove, hidden beneath his invisibility cloak, his heart pounding painfully in his chest. He couldn’t look away from the scene unfolding before him. The man he had known for so long—his professor, his protector, his lover—was bartering his body with the same grim detachment he wielded in battle.
Severus turned his back to Lucius, bending over the high-backed armchair with deliberate precision. His fingers gripped the polished wood, knuckles white from the strain. Though his posture was one of submission, there was defiance in the rigid line of his shoulders, in the way his jaw tightened as if to say this was not a willing surrender—it was a transaction on his own terms. Even here, even now, Severus retained a sliver of control.
Lucius rose from his chair with unhurried grace, predatory and commanding. He undid the front of his robes slowly, deliberately, savouring the power he held over a fellow dominant forced into submission. The air between them crackled with tension, heavy with the knowledge of who held the upper hand.
Harry’s throat tightened, bile rising as he watched. He wanted to look away, to flee, but he was rooted to the spot by a morbid compulsion to bear witness. It wasn’t just fascination—it was a need to understand the depths of Severus’ suffering, the lengths to which he would go for survival, for the war.
Lucius stepped closer, his fingers curling around his own cock, stroking himself to full hardness with languid, deliberate motions. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the faint, muffled echoes of the depravity continuing in the ballroom.
Ready at last, Lucius thrust into Severus, dry and unforgiving. The sharp slap of skin meeting skin echoed through the room, a brutal punctuation to the quiet.
Harry’s breath caught, his hands clenched into fists beneath the cloak. Severus’ body tensed, his grip tightening on the armchair as though he might break it, but he made no sound. His face remained impassive, a mask of stone, though Harry knew it had to hurt—knew the pain must have been searing. And yet Severus bore it, his pride refusing to let him break.
Lucius’ rhythm was relentless, his thrusts hard and deep, each one a cruel assertion of dominance. His hands dug into Severus’ hips, holding him in place as though the other man were no more than a prize, a conquest. His lips curled into a sneer of satisfaction, his movements a grotesque display of control.
Every moment chipped away at Harry’s composure, his heart shattering with each brutal motion. Tears stung his eyes as he stood frozen, every instinct screaming at him to intervene, to end it. But he knew he couldn’t. He was trapped—not just by the cloak that concealed him, but by the stakes of this war. To act would be to ruin everything, to expose them both. And so he stayed, silent and invisible, forced to endure the sight of Severus’ quiet torment.
The minutes stretched into an eternity before Lucius finally stilled, letting out a low groan as he climaxed. His hands lingered on pale hips, his fingers digging in one last time before he withdrew. The silence that followed was deafening, heavy with the weight of what had just happened.
Severus remained bent over the chair for a moment, his breathing shallow but steady. Then, slowly, methodically, he straightened. Without a word, he pulled his trousers back up, fastening them with the same quiet efficiency as ever. His face betrayed nothing, the mask of the dutiful spy firmly in place once more. Every crack, every wound, was hidden beneath the armour of his stoicism.
Harry couldn’t take it anymore. The weight of what he’d witnessed pressed down on him like a physical force. He turned and fled, his footsteps silent as he moved through the shadowed halls of Malfoy Manor. His breath came in short, panicked bursts, his heart pounding like a drum. He stumbled toward the veranda he’d noticed on the day he arrived, desperate for air, for escape.
Tears blurred his vision as he hurried through the house, the corridors stretching endlessly before him. The dim light of the ballroom was a distant flicker, barely visible now. Shadows loomed around him, their oppressive weight mirroring the chaos in his mind. He groped along the walls, his fingers brushing against the cold stone as he sought a way out.
At last, he found it—a heavy door slightly ajar. Beyond it lay the veranda, its glass panels reflecting the faint light from within the house. With trembling hands, Harry muttered an unlocking charm. The latch clicked softly, and the door creaked open.
The night air hit him like a slap. It was frigid, biting at his skin with the cruel indifference of winter. He stumbled out as he stepped onto the terrace. The wind whipped through his hair, tugging at the edges of his invisibility cloak. Before him stretched a world of stark monochrome—the skeletal silhouettes of trees against a dark, cloud-covered sky. Even the stars seemed to have abandoned the night, hidden behind the oppressive grey.
Harry descended the stone steps, his boots crunching against the thin layer of snow. The sound was sharp, intrusive in the stillness. The terrace gave way to a garden of twisted hedges, which in turn opened onto the barren expanse of the Malfoy Manor orchard.
The trees stood like skeletons, their twisted limbs reaching toward the sky. The orchard was a labyrinth of deathly stillness, each step deeper into its heart pulling Harry further from the house but no closer to solace. The cold gnawed at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the chill that gripped his soul.
He walked faster, his breath coming in harsh, visible bursts. The image of Severus bent over that chair, silent and enduring, was burned into his mind. No matter how far he walked, he couldn’t escape it.
Finally, his legs gave out, and he collapsed between two rows of trees. The snow soaked through his trousers, its icy touch seeping into his bones as he shook with dry, heaving sobs. His body convulsed, and before he could stop himself, he retched. The bile rose sharp and burning, spilling onto the snow in front of him. Again and again, his body heaved, as though trying to purge not just the contents of his stomach but the horrors of the night itself.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trembling as the cold seeped deeper. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his mind clawing at the memories he couldn’t escape—the image of Severus submitting, Lucius’ cruel sneer, the brutal cadence of the act.
“Merlin,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice raw and broken. “Someone… please… obliviate me.”
There was no answer. No stray spell, no voice to offer comfort. Only the silent orchard, the skeletal trees, and the crushing weight of his own guilt. He was alone in this nightmare, left to confront the truth that Severus had endured this humiliation—for him.
The realisation hit him like a hammer blow, driving the breath from his lungs. It was for him. Every moment of degradation, every flicker of pain, every sacrifice Severus had made—it had been for Harry. For the Boy Who Lived and the good of the war effort.
Tears burned in his eyes, blurring the dark outlines of the orchard as the truth sank deeper into his bones. Severus had risked everything—his position, his dignity, his body—time and time again, all for Harry and their fight against the Dark Lord. And how had Harry repaid him? By walking away. By ending their relationship because he couldn’t handle the impenetrable walls Severus kept around his heart. Because he hadn’t understood why Severus couldn’t just let him in, couldn’t be vulnerable in the way Harry had wanted.
A choked sob escaped him, barely audible against the stillness of the night. It wasn’t enough to release the storm building inside him—the anguish, the guilt, the shame—but his throat was tight, locked against the scream clawing to escape. It stayed trapped inside him, festering like an open wound he couldn’t close.
He couldn’t stay here. The memories, the overwhelming emotions, the icy grip of despair—they would consume him if he didn’t leave. With trembling hands, Harry pushed himself up from the snow. His legs wobbled beneath him, weak and unsteady, as though the weight of his grief threatened to drag him back down.
The foul taste of bile still lingered in his mouth, a bitter reminder of how his body had rejected the horrors of the night. He bent down, scooped up a fistful of fresh snow and rubbed it roughly against his lips. The cold bit at his skin, sharp and punishing, but he welcomed it. It was something tangible, something to pull him out of the fog of his thoughts. He spat the melted snow onto the ground, swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to rid himself of the taste—and the memories.
Drawing in a shaky breath, Harry steadied himself. He couldn’t stay here any longer. Every second spent within Malfoy Manor’s shadow was a second closer to disaster. He clenched his wand tightly, the familiar wood grounding him as he fought to suppress the weight of what he had seen, what he had felt. The memories clung to him, heavy and suffocating, like a second skin he couldn’t shed.
But he had to move. He had to leave.
With one last glance at the barren orchard, he muttered the incantation for Apparition. The world twisted violently around him, compressing and pulling at his body as the snowy landscape blurred into a void of white. The cold air vanished, replaced by the suffocating, wrenching sensation of magical transportation.
When the world snapped back into place, he stood in a different location, free from Malfoy Manor’s clutches. But the memories were still there. The guilt still pressed down on him like lead. He had escaped the place, but not the haunting echoes of what he had witnessed.
And he doubted he ever would.