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Rating: R? I honestly don't know. Pairing: Snape/Draco Warnings: Character death, suicide, implied torture Archive: Black and Silver; all others please ask. Summary: Snape has been exposed as a spy, and Draco helps his lover escape in the only way that he can. A/N: It says a lot about me that this was originally a Valentine's Day fic. The cell is cold and dank, and I suspect that my father summoned some rats in, purely out of spite. My lover's robes are tattered and filthy, his black hair matted and his chin shadowed with stubble. The elegant hands that used to stroke my hair and drive me mad with their feather-light touch on my skin are curled in his lap, useless now, long fingers shattered. And yet, despite everything, he sits on the thin cot as if it were a throne, his back as straight and unbowed as ever, the black eyes still burning with the fire that seduced me from my path so long ago. "Do you have it?" he asks. His voice is a harsh crow's bark, not the black silk it once was, but it still sends a shiver through me. I nod, and hold up the small vial, the liquid inside a pale, pale green. "I followed your instructions exactly," I tell him as I shove my other hand into my pocket to hide its trembling. He gifts me with one of his rare smiles. "Of course you did. I would expect nothing less from my best student." I cannot help but be pleased at the praise. Most people assumed that my high marks in Potions were due to our mutual syncophancy: I sucked up to him; he sucked up to my father through me. The truth was that from the first day in his class, I wanted to do well. I wanted to see the black eyes light with pride as I learned from him. I wanted him to show me how to brew glory and stopper death. I never dreamed that the death would be his. "You don't have to do this," I begin, trying one last round of the endless argument, but he shakes his head. "There is no other choice, Draco. There is nowhere I can go that Voldemort will not find me in the end. At least with my death, there is a chance that he will believe the only spy is dead-and you can continue to work against him, and help Albus." I don't have the heart to tell him that I could give a good goddamn about Dumbledore and the rest, that the only reason I betrayed my father and my Lord was because of my lover, because I knew it would please him. Potter and Weasley and Granger still look at me as if I were something unpleasant they'd stepped in, and I've heard Potter's godfather Black wonder in my hearing how long it will be before I switch sides again. I close the distance between us with two steps, and kneel in front of him, resting my cheek against his bony knees. He pets me awkwardly with a crippled hand. He is right, at least, that there is no escape for him, and no refuge but death...yet I still hate him a little, for going there without me. I feel his warm breath against my hair as he kisses my head. "You'll have to feed it to me, I'm afraid," he says calmly. "I don't think I can hold the vial." I nod. Still kneeling, I unstopper the vial and raise it to his lips. I try not to think about how surprisingly mobile that mouth is, and how soft it felt when he would brush it against the curve of my ear, or press it hungrily to mine. His eyes never leave mine as he swallows the pale fluid. When he has drained the bottle, he sighs, and I realize how much pain each simple movement costs him. In the months that he has been a prisoner here in my father's dungeons, I have done what I can for him, but repeated, prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse has taken its toll. No wonder he seeks the mercy of a clean, quick, death. "Thank you," he whispers. For the first time that I can remember, he looks old, and tired. I raise myself up and bend to kiss him, but he draws back, smiling faintly, and shakes his head. Of course: there may be traces of the poison left on his lips, and he has made it quite clear that he does not intend for me to follow him in death. I climb onto the cot and sit beside him, leaning against him. I nuzzle him, trying to imprint his scent on my memory, and caress his starved, broken body. My hand is on his chest when it falls, and does not rise again. I am still there, cradling him in my arms, when two of my fellow Death Eaters enter the cell, intending to take the traitor Snape to Lord Voldemort for further torture. Crabbe and Goyle Senior are no brighter than their sons, so it takes a while before the implications of the scene sink in. When they finally get it, they do exactly what I would expect: they call for my father. Lucius strides in, robes swirling around him as he stops short, assessing what he sees. Snape's head in my lap and the empty bottle in my hand tell the story eloquently-there is no need for me to speak. He turns pale, and I smile, realizing that he understands perfectly. His dream of having me at Voldemort's side as his heir are shattered now that I have helped the spy escape the Dark Lord's justice-and he doesn't yet know the full extent of my treason. "You will wish you had more of that draught before the end, boy, I promise you that," he snarls, and stalks out of the cell with Crabbe and Goyle in his wake. They slam the door, leaving me alone with Severus again. "I'm sorry, love," I tell him. "I know it's Gryffindor-stupid-exactly what you told me not to do. But you know how selfish I am. I'm not going to let you go without me, no matter what I promised. You can yell at me in person soon enough." It won't be all that soon, and I know it. Lucius was never one to take disappointment well, and he will make me suffer. But for once in my life, I have chosen my fate. I am not a copy of my father or my lover. I allow myself to wish for a moment that I could have found another way to prove my independence; then I settle back on the grimy cot, clutching my lover's stiffening corpse in my arms, and wait. |