Icon II (Harry/Severus)

Warning: Misuse of Catholic ritual (written for churchofsnarry ) -- Please don’t click if this squicks you!

Other Warnings: chan, D/s, general wierdness

Words: 2839

Rating: R

Notes: Big Thanks for ideas to skree_ratling , pauraque , captainjames , quite_ah_safe , kestrel  and amelia_eve. Eternal devotion to sinick luckybrans and littlecup for reading and holding my hand.

Click here for part I

Harry woke. The infirmary was full of the small noises of other people sleeping. There was a candle lit. And he felt fine.

His chest was warm under his hand and he could feel himself breathe. He was flesh, not wood. His fingers moved however he wanted them to. There was no altar, no incense -- whatever it had been, it was over, and he felt fine.

But he knew he didn’t belong here. There was something tugging at his heart.

He turned his head one way, then the other. Quietly, he rolled over onto his stomach and reached under the mattress, fingers searching. Yes -- he found it. He dug into the cloth, tugged, pulled it out and over himself. Careful not to make a noise, he sat up. He made his way between the rows of beds and to the door, his feet bare, silent.

In the Entrance Hall, he took the door to the left of the marble staircase, opened it quickly, spun around it and pulled it shut with a little click. Then he went down the stairs into the dark, confident because he had walked these corridors before. He was not a child any more.

He turned a corner into deeper darkness and looked back. There was a dead end behind him, where he had come through just a moment ago. And there was a new doorway off to the left. The corridors were moving again. He grinned from within the invisibility of the cloak, and moved forward again, quick and quiet; because he knew that no one else would ever be able to find it. Only he could. He would be able to find it no matter how the corridors rearranged themselves. He could feel it tugging at his heart.

He walked until he had no idea where he was, until he gave up trying to tell where he was going, until he was following only his internal sense of direction, completely blind. And then he found the door. It opened easily before his hand.

And his breathing quickened, because this was it: quiet, echoing, a shrine filled with flowers. Banks of candles flickered all around him.

And he was looking right into the eyes of a life-sized doll – a shy, perfect child with feathery eyelashes and soft, soft skin and the sweetest expression. He loved it immediately.

But it was himself. He recognized it. It had his hair and his eyes and a jagged mark on its forehead, still fresh. And the feeling was coming from it; he wanted to touch it, because this was what tugged at his heart. In the flickering light of the candles, it almost seemed to breathe. He moved slowly to one side of the door, unable to look away.

Its eyes followed him.

And he felt his back hit the wall, his head light and his heart jerking in his chest. The thing was looking back at him and he was riding a wave of panic, looking into his own eyes; unnatural. His heart pounded, the face before him filling with awe and wonder. The thing was sweet. It was lovely; someone had made it that way.

He clutched his cloak tighter. But the eyes still saw him.

And he had done this himself, he had made them see simply by coming here. He felt the strength leaving his body and going into this thing, and he knew that he had been an utter fool, that he had walked into a trap that could kill him, that because he loved the thing, he would stay here; that he would sink against this wall and shrink and fade and waste away until there was nothing left of him at all.

He could feel the wooden body now, full of sorrow and joy. The eyes that looked into his were sad and kind and loving, the face sweet because the thing's heart was made with nothing but tenderness. He felt his mouth fall open as if to say something, but it was the doll’s mouth, and it could not speak. He felt its desperate affection for him, its desire to help him as it stole his soul.

And then he felt that mouth curve into the slightest smile, because Severus was here, dark eyes looking into his own, and whispering to him, fingers feathering over his cheek, spidery fingers crawling over his neck, he could see them. They spread over his chest, bony and thin, one of them bending to pinch; a hard bite that made heat rush to follow it.

He could see the long greasy hair that fell across his cheek, could feel it tickle against his neck, feel his vision blurring now as breath whispered over his lips and then, yes, into his mouth, lips warm against his own, breath making his chest rise, filling him with helpless devotion.

And he could see a spidery hand moving over his shirt, spreading over the front of his trousers; Snape had stolen his clothes from somewhere; those were his clothes, his, the cloth wrinkling between two fingers that slid slowly downwards on either side of his prick, that reached underneath, delicate, making heat rush into it, making his knees collapse, the other hand holding him effortlessly. He could still see those fingers on him, the dark oily hair falling in front of the face that bent over him, could see himself looking up into it. And he could see nothing but the man he adored, knew without doubt that this man loved him, that this man was vicious; fingers crawling over his trousers, one of them wrinkling the fabric along his prick, knuckle bending gently. He fell back into the arm that held him, seeing only the dark beautiful eyes now, letting his soul move completely into those eyes and those hands.

He heard himself make a sound.

Without warning, the hands were gone and he could stand, was standing away from the wall -- his feet braced, his cock hard, his mouth open to wail or scream, his hands shaking. Because that blind love was gone, that moment of bliss, what he thought he had seen, what he had been so sure of. He ached inside.

And Snape was looking at him. Snape all the way across the room; bony, ugly, the hands that had touched him creeping into the darkness of his sleeves. And it was completely different now, because they were of a height. They were eye to eye.

His mouth was open, but he couldn’t speak because he couldn’t think.

He realized that he was not even holding his wand.

~

Harry saw his true self for the first time; he saw his own face. It was like looking in a mirror. But the face he saw was filled with loathing. And he knew that he was only a reflection, a poor simulacrum, a thing of wood and paint and scraps.

Severus had turned away from him, was stepping away from him, because this was the one that Severus truly loved; this one, and not himself at all. This was a young man, not a child. He had seen his own small hands and they were nothing that this vibrant, capable being would possess.

The young man did not pull his cloak back together. He only turned, and left the doorway empty behind him, his footsteps fading into silence. And Severus was still, his back turned, a featureless black statue between him and the empty doorway. He felt his throat work, but he kept his eyes open wide and clear and did not make a sound, indeed, he could not. Severus did not move, did not look at him.

But finally, he spoke.

“Nox.”

All the candles went out in a rush of darkness. And Severus was leaving him, was outside already, his hands were on the doors. But he was waiting, waiting for something, a dark silhouette against the light of the corridor. Harry wondered if Severus could see anything of his face. And he knew that this moment would end -- but it seemed stretched.

There was nothing he could do; Severus would go soon. And he felt strangely peaceful. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up in a tiny smile, though his face was wet, and it didn’t really matter whether Severus could see it -- because he had stopped for a moment.

Then the doors shut with a deep and final sound and he was alone in complete darkness.

There was no light. There were no words, not even a whisper.

There was the scent of the flowers, but eventually, it faded.

Time passed, but soon there was no sense of time, either.

He felt himself slowly dying, but there was no pain, only the loss of sensation. He realized that he could not feel his feet or hands. He was not sure whether he would fall, because he no longer had any sense of balance. He was drifting in nothingness, and he dreamed – he dreamed of his other self.

And in his dreams he was much more alive than he had ever been.

~

Harry woke. This time, he had no idea where he was.

It was dark and quiet, so quiet that he could feel the silence vibrating in his ears. He blinked, fighting to come out of his stupor, trying to clear his eyes. Nothing happened.

For an infinite, timeless moment he struggled, trying to find his balance in the darkness; to feel his limbs. And then he realized that he felt absolutely no pain. He had no idea how much time had passed; he had no memory of what had happened; he only knew that he had been used to desperate effort. He was used to ignoring pain -- but now it had stopped. His body was strange to him.

He was dead.

He was suddenly sure of it. He felt fear filling him in a cold rush, and he looked but he could see nothing, perhaps because there was nothing for him to see; there was nothing, no light, anywhere. He forced his head to turn, searching, straining his eyes, wishing frantically, with all his heart; wishing only for a light.

And the candles lit themselves in a wave spreading out around him, first a few springing into life near his feet, and then more and more in a great rush until the room was filled with light.

He knew immediately where he was. He should have known it before. He should have known all along that he was coming back here, that he could not avoid it. It was the place that he had seen only once but visited again and again in his dreams, the heated, drugging secret that sprang into his mind at odd moments during the day, that he returned to when he closed his eyes. Now it was real. He blushed.

But the candles welcomed him in their hundreds, banks of them next to the altar on each side. And dead flowers lay in drifts, covering everything like snow over a familiar landscape, making it strange. He wrinkled his forehead and patted his pockets for his wand.

He tried wishing them away.

Nothing happened.

He kicked some of them off the altar with his foot. Then he bent and picked up one edge of the altar cloth, stepped around it, raised it higher, watched flowers rain to the floor, heard heavier things fall with a clatter. When it was empty, he shook it out and dropped it to the floor behind. He might have a use for it later.

He jumped down, landing on his hand and one knee. He looked around. He tried to move one of the candelabra. It was ridiculously heavy, and he was ridiculously small. But these things were his now and he could do as he wished with them.

He found and collected various interesting items: a censer, a knife, a bowl, an empty vial, the things that were used to make him. He rolled them in his hands; explored them with his fingers.

Then with his hands and his feet he raked all the flowers together, out from around the altar, out from among the candelabra on either side, until they were all piled into one large drift at the side of the room. He jumped into them. He got up, laughing, raked them together and jumped into them again; he had never gotten to do this as a child. And then he lay still, moving his arms, felt them soft and dry and rustling under him. This room was like his closet, because he had it all to himself -- he could really do anything he liked, for the first time in longer than he could remember.

He buried his face in the flowers and breathed. The faint smell of roses and incense was a surge of pure delight, fingers creeping over him again, over his chest, sliding along his prick. He jerked himself onto his back, breathing. He looked up at the ceiling.

At the center of the vault there was an X where the ribs came together. Along each rib, the rows of stones arrowed toward each other like fish bones. He followed each line with his eyes. He did not think that name. But he still felt the overwhelming loneliness, the love planted in him by his maker. He was a creature made to love, and he knew exactly who he wanted. He tried not to think, tried not to feel, but he knew that he had failed. Because he could feel Snape, because he had made Snape aware of him; and he thought No -- No -- but it would do no good. Now Snape knew he was here.

Before he was ready, the door opened quietly, and shut again.

He let his head fall to the side.

Snape was staring at the empty altar, his head turning now, turning; Snape was looking right at him. He lay still.

Snape knelt.

Snape’s hands were gentle on his face, behind his head, checking each arm and leg, But Snape’s face was so strange. The hands moved efficiently, but the look on his face – Harry didn’t know it at all. It was blank of its usual expression. He had never seen it this way. He just stared.

He remembered how he hated Snape, but could no longer feel it.

And then Snape was looking directly into his eyes, just looking at him.

So he smiled, and he said, “You’re probably wondering how I got down here, aren’t you.”

Snape froze.

And he knew immediately what he had done; that he had just spoken, that he should never have spoken. That look on Snape’s face, the one that he had never seen, would disappear in a moment. Snape would leave.

All around the room, candles began to dim and go out, one by one.

Harry sat up. He stood, to look Snape in the eye. But Snape still had that look on his face; still didn’t move, and Harry realized that Snape was kneeling before him – kneeling.

The candles flickered madly.

And it was then that Harry knew what he had become; not a boy, not a child, but a thing – a thing without a real heart, unnatural, both dead and alive. He understood now how Voldemort could desire worship, because he wanted this so badly. He understood the thirst for it. He took a step forward. And he knew that he was a monstrosity, a horror, but he leaned closer, close enough to feel Snape’s breath tickle his cheek, tilting his head.

The lips under his mouth were unmoving, but so soft – who would have known they could feel that way? He felt a thrill of unreality, amazed that he had done this, that he was doing it.

And then there was an arm tight around his back and fingers holding his chin, pinning it still for the tongue that suddenly filled his mouth, and his eyes flew open, his mouth open around it. The arm tightened until he could not move, only look, and gasp as the tongue left his mouth, that hand still pinning his chin, holding him still now for Snape to look into his eyes and read his mind and see exactly what he was.

Snape reached up. There was a dried flower stuck in his hair.

Snape lifted it out, combing with his fingers, hands moving over his body again, soothing him, softening him, making his knees and elbows give way until Harry leaned against him, completely limp in the crook of his arm.

And Snape’s fingers worked inside his clothes; fingers, nails on his chest now, and Snape still looking into his eyes and his mind.

“Do you feel this?” Snape whispered, his fingers tracing over that place where they had been inside him.

And there was a beating heart inside his chest. He could feel it under Snape’s hand.

A surge of joy flooded through him and all the candles in the room flared into life.

But Snape was still speaking, and he listened with his entire body, feeling the words fall around him.

“You are mine." Snape's fingers traced his features, his eyebrow, his cheek, his mouth; "I created you. Years; years. You are mine." And Snape sank a fingernail into the barely healed wound on his forehead, making him gasp, saying “Mine -- not his,” making him bleed, like a real boy; he could feel it running down his face like tears. “I created you. Look at me.”

He felt his mouth opening in pain and happiness, his arms and legs loosening again, wanting whatever Severus wanted, felt those fingers touch all the marks on his body; his ears, his nipples, one finger stroking his prick until he was swaying with it, the touch filling his whole mind. He fell back into the arm that held him, seeing only the dark beautiful eyes now, letting his soul move completely into those eyes and those hands.

And he was that boy again, that doll-like boy that he had seen for only a moment and could never forget. He knew exactly what he looked like. He was a toy, he had always been; shaped by adult hands, marked from birth -- he had never been free.

But he was also the child he had never been outside his most secret dreams, a perfect, lovable boy with open, wondering eyes, with arms around him that would never leave him. 

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