Entry tags:

fic, harry/snape, smut

Fic: The Spoils of War, Harry/Snape, NC-17
Title: The Spoils of War
Author: foreword
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Pairing/Characters: Harry/Snape
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: character death, spanking, cross-dressing, UST, rent-boyness/prostitution, mild bondage
Author's Note: This was written for saoni, for harry_holidays. atrata was my wonderful, patient, accommodating beta. ♥

***

Harry rarely answered the door anymore. He certainly didn't answer it if the knock was unscheduled.

It wasn't like he had any cause for visitors. He wasn't really Harry Potter. Not anymore.

When Ron had fallen, bloody and tired and done, something in Harry had fallen, too. From then on he was only half a person - half a hero - and he was tired. It wasn’t supposed to reach that point. Ron wasn’t supposed to die. Harry hadn’t planned for that.

Hermione had tried to comfort him, tried to drag him out of his depression to fight, tried to bury her own pain at the loss, but Harry just couldn’t. He couldn’t bounce back from it. He couldn’t forget the vision of ginger hair and so much red. He couldn’t forget that it was his fault. He should have never let Ron come along.

He was sluggish, and apathetic, and numb. Half his mind, half his emotions were elsewhere. He didn’t feel like Harry Potter anymore, not even when he was with Hermione. She tried to bring him back, tried to make him care again, but he was just going through the motions. He still saw the arc of her body and the curse meant for him when he closed his eyes. He couldn’t move, couldn’t react, and Hermione had died.

That was the day Harry Potter died.

No one was surprised when the Order collapsed. The papers seemed to expect it, and articles had started to slant in favour of the wrong side months before the war was actually over. Despite that, Harry was surprised. Even as the last of the Order members were snuffed out, even as Hogwarts and the Ministry were placed under Voldemort's control, even as Muggles stopped leaving their houses at night. Even as the Muggle Extermination began.

Once some part of Harry knew he should fight, but he didn't. There wasn't any point in fighting. Everything worth fighting for was dead.

But he had nowhere to go. Nowhere that was safe.

The Death Eaters had killed the Dursleys early in the war, hoping to hurt Harry by attacking his family. At the time Harry had felt a sort of twisted satisfaction, something he hadn’t shared with anyone. He shouldn’t be pleased about death. Not their deaths, not anyone’s death.

At night he dreamed of freckles and blood, of books and curses and a greenish glow that illuminated everything. He watched them all die in his dreams, and he was never able to stop it. Sirius was always so graceful when he was hit, his body arching back through the veil. Harry didn’t scream anymore, because the others always followed, and he’d given up on waking up.

Dumbledore always fell, and Harry stayed as frozen as he had been at the time, watching him fall from the tower and hating Snape more than he’d ever thought possible. Sometimes he fantasized that it was him cursing Snape, that it was Snape's body toppling over the parapets, but then the dream would twist and he’d be reliving another death.

He tried to revive Ron every night, just as he had when he’d died. Every night, Harry wiped the blood away from his face and tried to bring him back, and every night Hermione pulled him away, only to die herself, in the next twist of the dream. It was always Harry’s fault, in every dream, every nightmare scenario, and the worst part of it all was its truth. The truth haunted him, his memories became his enemies, and he didn’t understand why he was still alive.

He’d left Hogwarts, left the United Kingdom, knowing it wasn’t safe for him there anymore. Voldemort would find him. He’d find Harry wherever he went, but at the moment, Harry could at least try to run. He couldn’t fight. He hadn’t found the horcruxes, and he didn’t see a point in trying. It was over. He couldn’t take Voldemort by himself, and there wasn’t anyone left to help him. He wasn’t the Chosen One after all. Maybe Trewlaney’s prophesy was true now, but Harry could only see one possible outcome. Trewlaney certainly wasn’t around to say, not anymore. Poisoned sherry. Harry had felt a savage sort of anger at that, at how painlessly she’d been allowed to get out of this. Sometimes he blamed her for everything, on those nights when the dreams were the worst. It was easier to shift the blame, to make someone else responsible for all of the death and loss. But easier wasn’t true, and his guilt wouldn’t let him forget it.

His goal had become to beat the prophecy.

How that had led him here, he’d yet to figure out. Hermione had mentioned Munich to him once, had told him how her parents had taken her there on one of their educational holidays. She’d liked it, and had wasted no time in detailing its history to Harry. She’d also let slip, in between retelling Muggle history, titbits about hot food, potent beer, and too many friendly faces to recognize just one. It had sounded like a brilliant place to Harry.

He hadn’t bothered trying to get money out of his Gringotts vault. The Ministry would be looking for him there, and he didn’t fancy getting captured. Hermione had wisely advised taking out a significant amount of his vault ages ago, and Harry used what remained of his Muggle money to rent a room several blocks from the Marienplatz. He spent as much time there as possible, drinking beer in cafes along the street and watching the tourists take pictures of the biggest cuckoo clock Harry had ever seen. A voice nagged at the back of his mind constantly, wondering where he was going to get money when his ran out, wondering why he was lounging around in Munich when he should be searching for bits of Voldemort’s soul. Wondering how long it would take them to find him. Harry learned quickly that a few beers could drown the voice out.

It shouldn’t have been any surprise, really, when the second month’s rent left him penniless.

Harry spent his first day broke in the middle of the Marienplatz, his back against a statue as he watched the tourists milling around him, some shooting him dirty looks and guarding their handbags more closely, and others ignoring him completely. He still couldn’t find it in himself to be worried about his current state. Maybe he’d die here. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

A few colourful bills rained down next to him, landing softly on his pullover, and Harry looked up, startled. His generous stranger seemed to have vanished into the crowd, however, and Harry shrugged, shoving the money into the pocket of his trousers and grinning at his luck.

He probably should have known that he couldn’t get something for nothing.

There was a sharp tap on his shoulder and Harry looked up to find a nervous-looking middle-aged man, wearing spectacles and a sweater vest and glancing around him anxiously.

“Sprechen sie English?”

Harry frowned and tilted his head at the awkward German, squinting into the sunlight as he looked up at the man.

“Er…”

The man frowned in response to this and looked around once more before bending forward slightly to murmur to Harry.

“Speak English, son?”

Harry nodded numbly and swallowed, wondering what on earth this stranger could want from him. He made his intentions all too apparent a moment later, however, when he flashed a hotel key and a condom. Harry was so surprised that he followed him.

Somehow, this is what Harry’s life had become. Every day, he’d return to the square, just as he had before, and he’d wait. Some days, no one would offer. Others, he’d go home with more money than he’d had when he arrived in the city. Harry learned how to dress to impress – learned quickly what would make him the most money. The faces were always different, their requests were never the same, and Harry learned to block out the disgust and self-hatred he felt every time they fucked him. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. The only thing that mattered to him was living, and he couldn’t stop to figure out why. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to come up with a reason.

Some nights, he didn't dream. His memories of what it meant to be Harry Potter were getting fuzzier. Sometimes, he wondered if that had been the dream, when he was getting fucked into a mattress by a stranger.

Today had been different, though. Today he’d seen a black cloak in the crowd, and he'd let go of any fantasy of it all being a dream. Today he hadn’t gone home with anyone, and had run back to his flat instead, like some scared child.

It was probably nothing, probably one of the eccentric costumes of the street performers. He’d never forget the day he sat up against a statue that wasn’t a statue. He’d learned to pay more attention then, that all things shiny and solid looking might be disguising a man, instead.

He wasn’t really surprised by the knock on the door. Part of him had been expecting this since he'd got here. He’d known he would be found, he just didn’t know by whom.

He almost couldn’t remember where he’d hidden his wand, but he found it quickly enough, and he paused at the door, his wand hand trembling as he spoke in a voice that wasn’t his.

“What is it?”

“Busy with a customer? I could come back …”

Harry closed his eyes. No. Him, of all people. Harry opened his mouth – to say what, he didn’t know – and closed it again, his knuckles white as he gripped his wand. He hadn’t felt like this in ages. Not since the nightmares began had he felt such a strong surge of hatred for someone other than himself.

“I’ll kill you.”

He still didn’t open the door. He was answered with a soft laugh, and it made Harry angrier.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be threatening, Potter. I suggest you open the door unless you’d like me to collect the bounty that’s been placed on your head.”

Harry turned the knob savagely, pulling the door so hard that it swung back against the wall. His face was hot with rage and his fist hurt from gripping his wand, but there was a wand in Snape’s hand and before Harry could mutter any hexes, black eyes twinkled and he found himself disarmed.

Snape shook his head, clucking his tongue as he pocketed Harry’s wand.

“You never were cut out for Occlumency, Potter. Such a pathetic mind is no use at guarding its secrets, I suppose.”

Harry moved forward – to do what, he wasn’t sure, but throttling seemed like a good plan – and suddenly found himself unable to move.

Snape tsked quietly and closed the door behind him, wandering slowly around the room and examining Harry’s rather messy quarters. He frowned as he passed the unmade bed and stepped quietly over piles of dirty laundry, finally turning to sneer at Harry.

“Clearly unable to care for yourself without Miss Granger around to see to your living conditions.”

Harry felt a new, hot flash of anger at his words, but found he still couldn't move. Snape sighed and flicked his wrist, watching Harry closely as he released the spell.

“Please note that if you insist on lunging at me again, you’ll find yourself quite unable to move,” his lip curled up in a poor imitation of a smile and he added, "…again."

Harry glowered at him. How dare he. How dare the son of a bitch show up here. How dare he still be alive. How dare he tell Harry what to do.

“What do you want?”

It was the most civil response Harry could manage. His fingernails were digging into the palms of his hands and he hoped there would be blood.

Snape raised an eyebrow in an annoyingly cool, collected manner.

“I should think that would be obvious, Potter.”

***

Harry had never hated Severus Snape more in his entire life.

And, if Snape was to be believed, the feeling was mutual. A hard slap across his already raw arse brought with it the stinging realisation that Harry was most certainly not in control, here.

He struggled against the invisible binds on his wrists and ankles as he tried to ignore the fact that his cock was hard against the wood of the kitchen table.

Snape had waved his wand, and leaving Harry dressed like a schoolgirl, and he wondered if it was merely out of spite or if Snape actually liked it. He knew he shouldn’t like it, shouldn't like the feeling of his panties being tugged roughly down around his thighs, shouldn't like the way the skirt felt as it was shoved up over his bare arse. This was Snape and Harry was repulsed and angry and he thought he might throw up or cry at any second, but he wouldn’t give Snape the benefit.

The best idea, he thought, as another slap of flesh against flesh left his arse aching and clenching, his cock twitching against the table, was to stay as still as possible. Snape, apparently, had other ideas.

“Up, Potter.”

Harry opened his mouth to make some sort of retort about his binds, but found them suddenly gone. He paused, still pressing his face against the cool wood of the table, his glasses digging into his face as he attempted to will his erection away. There was another sharp smack on his behind.

Snape’s voice was low and dangerous, an unspoken threat in each syllable. “Get up.”

Slowly, Harry pushed himself up, sliding carefully off of the table as smoothly as he could manage with the knickers still around his thighs and his hard-on brushing against the wood of the desk and the wool of his skirt.

He didn’t bother trying to tug his skirt down over his obvious erection, staring at Snape, flushed and defiant.

Snape sneered at him, circling Harry slowly and tapping his wand against the palm of his hand.

“Look at what a little whore you are. You like it, don’t you, Potter?”

Harry didn’t answer, biting down hard on his bottom lip and focusing on how much he hated Snape.

His cock was still hard.

And then Snape was pressing up against him from behind and Harry could smell him – the scent he’d associated with humiliation, failure and hatred for six years. He hated the reminder, hated that Snape could be doing this to him, hated that he had, as always, the upper hand.

His arse was still raw and he could feel Snape’s arousal pressing against him, as his skin tingled under the fabric of the skirt.

Snape’s mouth was at his ear now and Harry closed his eyes, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Don’t be rude, Potter.” He could feel Snape's breath against his skin, and it almost made him shiver, a mixture of repulsion, attraction, and anger.

"Fuck you." He could barely get the words out, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he tried to ignore how hard his cock was, under his skirt.

Snape pulled away from him without a word, and Harry twisted around in surprise, ignoring the unspoken order to stay.

But Snape was gone, a brightly coloured Muggle note left behind on the table Harry had just been bent over. He would be back, Harry knew. He tried to ignore the nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach that felt distinctly like hope. He hadn't had hope in ages.

**

It was three days before Snape came back.

Harry spent most of his time waiting, though he'd never admit it to himself. He didn't frequent the Marienplatz, preferring to stay within the confines of his flat, generally only leaving to get food. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for – a part of him hoped that Death Eaters would show up at any minute and it would be done. Part of him still hoped this was all a dream.

And part of him hoped that Snape would come back.

He had Harry's wand, after all. Harry had all but forgotten what it was like to be a wizard in the months that his wand was locked away in a drawer. He hadn't needed magic, and he hadn't used it. But now that the choice was no longer his – now that he didn't even have his wand, he felt naked without it.

Snape didn't knock this time, catching Harry just as he was coming out of the shower wearing a towel over his shoulders and nothing else. He shoved his glasses on clumsily and tugged on the towel, letting it fall casually across his front as he glared at Snape.

Snape sneered, letting his gaze wander lazily over Harry's wet body as he closed the door behind him, turning the lock with an ominous click.

"Couldn't you knock?"

Snape crossed his arms over his chest and stared back at him, leaning against the front door. "Would you like to get dressed first? Or is it really necessary?"

Harry felt himself flush, his prick stirring against the towel he still held pressed against his abdomen, his eyes darting to Snape's idle, yet capable hands. "Assuming a lot, aren't you? Where's my wand?"

Snape rolled his eyes and glanced around the flat, taking in the (considerably messier, Harry reflected) state of affairs before glancing back at Harry. "Business been slow, Potter?"

He found himself meeting Snape's dark, intrusive gaze, and he looked away, angry at his presumption.

"Give me back my wand."

Snape crossed the room before Harry realised what was happening, and there were cool, weathered hands shoving him back against the wall, one gripping his throat and the other encircling his wrist as Snape ducked his head, brushing his lips against Harry's ear.

Harry closed his eyes, shifting his hips forward against Snape without meaning to as he whispered, the towel slipping from his grasp. "Do you realise that you'll be found if you use it? Don't you think the Ministry is monitoring these things, Potter?"

There was a hard lump in his throat that was making it suddenly difficult to swallow, and Harry opened his eyes, twisting his neck slightly in an attempt to look at Snape. Surely he couldn't be serious. Surely he couldn't be protecting Harry. Harry felt sick at the thought.

"Do you want to be found, Potter?" He met Harry's gaze, and Harry could see himself again, sitting in the middle of the Marienplatz that first day, knowing that his life was over. Maybe he did want to be found. Snape's expression twisted into a frown and he pulled away, releasing Harry and turning his back on him to stare at the door.

Harry felt suddenly cold, and he realised the towel had fallen to the floor, his hard-on thick and prominent against his stomach, his skin still wet from his shower. He glanced down at his towel and swallowed, but made no move to pick it up.

"Is that all you came here for?" His voice was shaky, and Harry didn't know why this was so hard, why he was so humiliated and nervous when it was only Snape. He didn't care what Snape thought, and it wasn't like this was new to him.

Snape turned slowly, and didn't even have the grace to look surprised at the lost towel, instead meeting Harry's gaze for a long, silent, moment.

"On the bed."

Harry moved without thinking, crawling onto the bed on his hands and knees and stretching out on his stomach, glancing over his shoulder at Snape.

"Eyes ahead, Potter." His voice was cool and even, and Harry felt like he was in lessons again, taking an exam.

He shifted against the bed, appreciating the friction of the cool sheets against his prick as the mattress sunk underneath the weight of an additional person. Harry wanted so much to look over his shoulder again, to find Snape kneeling over him, to catch a glimpse of his face, but he knew he couldn't. A firm, cool hand steadied his arse and Harry sucked in a breath in anticipation, stilling the movement of his hips as if on command.

But nothing came. Snape's hand slipped off of him and Harry felt even colder without his touch, but he didn't turn around. Seconds turned into minutes and all he could think about was what sort of expression was on Snape's face, and all he could wonder was what would happen next. But he didn't dare turn around.

"You never learn, do you, Potter?"

Harry closed his eyes against the shiver building in his spine. His scar prickled slightly, but that was nothing new, not anymore. Nowadays, it was rare that his scar didn't hurt.

"Just as stupid and trusting and worthless as your father."

Harry opened his eyes at this, very nearly twisting to look over his shoulder, but no. This was Snape. He would berate him and insult him and fuck him and pay him. And tomorrow Harry would be done with this. Tomorrow he'd go to another city, and he'd never worry about Severus Snape again. He'd forget.

Snape made a noise that sounded distinctly like the clucking of his tongue and Harry clenched his arse cheeks together in anticipation, fully expecting to feel the sting of Snape's hand against his bare arse.

He was surprised when, instead, binds twisted around his wrists and ankles. He could feel fabric brushing across his back as the mattress shifted under him, and now Snape was draped over him, his mouth at Harry's ear as his hard-on pressed up against Harry's arse.

"I tried to warn you, Potter. You should have left days ago."

Harry felt a sudden chill sweep through him that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. Surely Snape was lying. That's what he was best at, right?

"What… what are you talking about?" he managed to croak out against the mattress.

There was silence then, and the mattress shifted underneath him again as Snape slid off him to stand beside the bed.

"The Dark Lord has your wand."

He informed Harry of this as if he were commenting on the weather, and made his way across the room to the window. Harry watched him move, a sinking feeling enveloping him as he jerked his hands futilely against their invisible binds.

"We thought you'd run, Potter."

He stopped at the window and turned, thoughtfully, to stare at Harry, and Harry closed his eyes against the intrusion.

"Why didn't you?"

Harry sneered, not believing this was it, not believing this was the end, not at the hands of Snape.

"I was waiting for you to come."

Silence answered him, and when Harry opened his eyes, Snape was gone.

And so were his binds.