A Perfect Circle

**************************************************** A Perfect Circle Chapter 4: Temporarily Pacify this Hungering ****************************************************

run desire run this sexual being run him like a blade to and through the heart no conscience one motive to cater to the hollow screaming feed me here fill me up again temporarily pacify this hungering so grow libido throw dominoes of indiscretions down falling all around in cycles circles constantly consuming, conquer and devour it's time to bring this fire down bridle all this indiscretion long enough to edify and permanently fill this hollow feed me fill me up again temporarily pacifying feed me here fill me up again temporarily pacify this hungering

                -the hollow

                -a perfect circle

He stayed in the Owlery all day, until dinner had ended and the curfew bell had rung the tower down, until night had covered Hogwarts in its shivering embrace. Hedwig was a comforting presence, a soft weight by his side where he curled against the wall pretending to nap.

He wasn’t actually sleeping, of course.

He *couldn’t* sleep. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to sleep again.

His book bag had been dropped carelessly by the door, too heavy to bear further, but he himself was hidden behind a row of perches; bags of sawdust and cedar chips also provided some cover, along with masking somewhat the strong scent of a mews.

His legs and butt had gone numb long ago; in the case of the latter, numbness was a mercy. He was still a bit raw from his first time. He’d stayed in the same position all day, knees to chest, arms curled protectively around his legs, chin on knees. The light dappled slowly in shifting slanted beams across the far wall, dancing dust- motes in the slow swirling drafts, until finally the tower faded into shadow.

It was growing cold; though it was still early in the fall, the northern nights were frost-wreathed and fog-prone. He tucked a bit more tightly around his legs, biting his lip to prevent any teeth-chattering.

True, no one had disturbed his peace this day, but someone might yet decide to mail a letter to a sickly aunt or something. You could never be sure.

He shifted again, feeling the tremors course through his numbed flesh, awakening faint prickles with the restoration of blood flow.

This not thinking thing was definitely getting easier with practice.

A full-out shudder wracked him then, and he finally gave up; throwing out his arms for balance, he climbed unsteadily to his feet, being careful not to disturb Hedwig. He moved through the full dark like it was daylight, swinging his bag onto his aching shoulders and striding with something like confidence to the door, paying absolutely no heed to the roar of returned feeling currently burning his legs.

He paused with the door partly open, hand braced on the frame. Breathe in. Breathe out. Where was he going? His own presence was intolerable; how would the common room be? The library? The Great Hall.

He let his hand fall from the splintering wood, breath leaving him in a rush. He couldn’t even live with himself, much less his friends.

Hermione would . . .

No. None of them would understand. They *couldn’t*. He didn’t *want* them to be able to understand. Not if it meant going through this.

He wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

His back pack was dropped to the floor again, and he slumped down the wall by the door; he was staring at his wrists, a few speculative thoughts running through his tired mind. The skin there was so thin, so fragile; his blood pumped blue through clearly visible veins. No chance of missing.

Hedwig shuffled her wings, turning her head to stare at him sleepily. He met her gaze after a moment, feeling a need almost to explain his thoughts to her. She blinked.

"I don’t want this anymore, Hedwig," he whispered, running one finger down the snaking tributaries of his forearm. "I never wanted any of it." His nails scratched into the flesh, just a light sensation of jittery anticipation, four thin white marks carved into the dehydrated tissue. "And now . . ." Then harder, the marks flushing red, the aroused blood beating to the surface and finally breaking through, staining his nails and fingertips with a wash of crimson.

And something curious happened.

When the pain came, his heart stopped hurting.

His hand stopped moving of its own accord. He stared at the torn skin with a vague horrified wonder. The logical connection was inevitable: if he hurt himself, then the things Snape had done to him didn’t hurt quite so bad.

Perhaps the release of endorphins, or a sense of regained control, or the fact that he liked the color of his own blood trapped black and gummy under his own nails.

Whatever it was, it was *his*. *Harry’s*. No one else’s. Just his.

Blood had trickled down nearly to his sleeve, a thread of scarlet bisecting marble. He licked up his wrist in a single, broad stroke, swallowing sweet copper. Was this what Snape tasted? Was this what Snape felt?

Did he want the answer to that?

He shuddered away from his torn wrist, literally, scrambling to his feet and backing into the wall with a *thump*. His breathing was hard, and unsteady, like a run-out horse; nervous sweat had soaked his temples. He’d just experienced a brief paradigm shift. Those are never pleasant.

Rather like having one’s brain stirred with a wooden spoon, really.

Everything settled back into place with a snap, and he found himself pressed into the wall so hard that it was digging into his spine; his legs were shaking, and he let all his breath go out in a sob as the pain welled within him.

He couldn’t fucking *breathe*, it hurt so much.

He was curled over his knees, almost retching with self-hatred. Blood was pounding into his head. Even behind his eyes, the closed lids paper-thin, he could see the bright flashes of light heralding unconsciousness.

And oh, he longed for it.

He just wanted this to stop.

Hedwig had flopped over, awkward as any bird on the ground, wings too long for proper hopping, and was currently nudging softly at his knee. He sank to the ground beside her, finally breaking into tears.

He wanted to die.

He wanted to see his mother again. ***

It was full dark before he finally dragged himself to his feet and through the door. Hedwig cooed a soft goodbye, but he ignored her, absorbed so in his pain that he almost didn’t notice the outer world.

He stepped gingerly down the stairs, watching for any changes as he felt his way through the dim light. It was definitely after curfew; if he was caught, there’d be hell to pay. Not that he wasn’t in dreadful trouble already. One did *not* skip a potions class without a *very* good excuse.

He shivered his way through a side corridor, unnerved by the thought. Though he was careful to keep to the shadows, he was very aware of his absent Invisibility Cloak; paranoid glares about the castle were alternated with cursing renunciations of his own stupidity.

"Going somewhere, Potter?"

The voice seemed to come out of nowhere, and he choked on a scream as he leapt backwards. Snape emerged from the shadows like a darker ghost, a grim sneer twisting his lips. Harry stared up at him, terror creeping into his eyes.

"Well, Potter?" Snape asked, only stopping when he’d forced Harry into a wall; he loomed over the boy, using his bulk to crush him into the chill stone. Harry gulped.

"Just back to my room, sir," Harry whispered, staring up at Snape like a lost soul seeing hell for the first time. Snape’s sneer widened.

"Having been *where* all afternoon, I wonder," Snape said with a cutting sarcasm.

"No-- Nowhere, Professor," Harry stuttered, his eyes sliding away involuntarily; his heart was beating too quickly to count, and he felt on the verge of hyperventilation again.

"Is that so?" Snape’s voice was silky now. He pressed in closer, though it seemed impossible, the black robes rising to nearly suffocate the boy. Harry could feel the Potions Master’s erection through the layers of thick cloth, and he moaned in terror. "And did we not discuss your terms of address? You are to address me as Master in private."

"What?!" Harry’s fear shattered beneath the ludicrous words; he met Snape’s eyes incredulously. "We discussed no such thing!" he shouted, suddenly not caring if they were found. He actually had the pleasure of watching Snape’s panicked eyes roll to either end of the hallway, before a slim-fingered hand covered his mouth and nose.

His fear rushed back in a heart-jolting prickle. He jerked once, then again, and was still. Those strong fingers slid around to grip the back of his neck, making the nerves there twitch and shudder.

Snape leaned in, as though to sniff at his neck, close enough to kiss. Or kill.

"Oh, Potter," he murmured like a lover.

"Please," Harry whispered, eyes tightly shut. Snape chuckled. Caressed torn skin.

"We’ll take this down to my office, Potter," Snape growled into his soft- fleshed throat. "We have much to . . . *discuss*."

"Like what?" he asked breathily, staring up at the Potion’s Master from beneath trembling lashes.

"I believe we’ve been over this. And really, Potter, I’m surprised your grades aren’t even worse if this is as much attention as you grant everything."

"What do you *want* with me?!" he cried, twisting in Snape’s vise-like hold.

"*Want*, Potter? Want isn’t an issue here," Snape said, oddly still as he spoke to the boy. His eyes burned. "*Need* is an issue. *Command* is an issue. *Want* doesn’t really enter into things at all."

Harry stared at him, disbelieving fear crawling through his eyes, glowing them green.

"I know what you’re thinking," Snape purred. "I thought it once as well. But you *will* be broken, Potter. Make no mistake, you *will* be broken. Now come, to my office."

"I won’t," he breathed.

"Pardon?"

"I won’t." Voice stronger.

Snape regarded him consideringly for a long moment.

"You’re right, Potter." He smiled thinly. "We aren’t moving nearly fast enough, are we?" ***

He was marched down each long hall, Snape’s wand at his back, Snape’s long white fingers around his throat. They encountered no one else, not even a ghost, though outside interference couldn’t save him now. He’d become resigned to this fate; Snape was absolutely right. Harry could deny it into eternity, but he was half-broken already.

He sobbed once at the thought, a harsh sound in the silence, and Snape shook him roughly.

"Stop your sniveling, boy," he growled into the torch-lit darkness. "I haven’t hurt you. Yet."

"Frankly, sir, it’s the ‘yet’ that has me worried," Harry returned breathlessly, wanting to stab himself for a fool as soon as the words left his mouth.

"As it should, Potter," Snape purred, deep in his throat like a hunting tiger. "As it should."

And down innumerable stairs, for once immobile in the shifting light; Snape pushed him bodily down to the dungeons, straight ahead, right turn, left turn, cross the corridor, third turn on the right, left again, and there!

He was shoved through the door so roughly that he had to pinwheel his arms to keep from falling; Snape caught him before he could regain his balance, forcing him into arms swathed in smoke-scented wool. He was spun about to face the taller man; Harry looked up at him warily, the mouse watching the snake. Snape sneered.

"You have much to answer for, Potter," Snape said, fingers tightening on slender shoulders until bones creaked protest. Harry winced, and tried to pull back. Cloth tore, and Harry gulped a panicked breath. He couldn’t breathe.

"Please, stop," he gasped, fingers clawing helplessly at the heavy, enveloping fabric. Snape shifted, dug fingers into the shoulder’s ball socket, and squeezed until Harry was babbling confession. "I didn’t, I’m sorry, I didn’t--"

"Stop that whinging this instant!" And Snape ripped into Harry’s Gryffindor robes; buttons clattered to the flagstones with the sound of snapping thread and riven pressed wool. Harry shouted wordlessly, cringing back from the sudden assault as Snape bruised his flesh with the force of each pull.

"This shall be our pattern," Snape growled, fingers busy at the more durable Muggle clothing as he stripped Harry down to skin. "When you behave badly, you will be punished." Snape paused, looking down at his shivering charge. "Oh, I won’t be taking points from your precious Gryffindors any longer," he continued, smoothing a hand over Harry’s neck and squeezing lightly. "Instead, you will be assigned detention," he said, fingers tightening with each word. "And I will do my best to make you *bleed*." By the end Harry was gasping thinly for air. Harry’s vision spotted and blurred, and his body sagged in Snape’s grip, knees unable to support his slight weight.

Snape released his grip suddenly; Harry gulped in a breath of air so sweet it rushed through him like liquor, and collapsed in a boneless heap. Snape caught him before he could hit the flagstones, cradling Harry’s body onto his robed lap.

"But if you are good," Snape purred, running his fingers through Harry’s untamed hair. "Then I won’t hurt you when I take you." He nuzzled against Harry’s cheek a bit; Harry groaned, coughed weakly, and turned his face away.

Snape drew back, ebon eyes glittering cold.

"Today, my dear boy," he purred in mock of Dumbledore. "You have been *very* bad."

"No," Harry murmured; Snape seemed to take no notice.

"Skipping breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Mister Potter? Is that how you were raised?"

"Yes."

Everything stopped.

Snape had obviously meant the question to be rhetorical, as yet another occasion to mock his least favorite student. He hadn’t expected an answer. His brows furrowed, and he actually looked at the starkly visible ribs beneath his fingertips. He licked his lips.

"You look beautiful," he said slowly. "Remind me to thank those Muggles when I see them."

"What?" Harry’s head snapped up, and he stared at Snape, amazed. Oh, not that he showed zero sympathy for poor starved Potter, but that he’d evinced a desire to visit *Muggles*. "Why would you want to meet *them*?!"

Snape laughed.

"Well I must discuss your living arrangements for next summer," he said, actually smiling. "We can’t have you all alone and undisciplined for three months, now can we?"

The tower clock began to toll the hour.

Harry blinked.

Live with *Snape*. Like *this*?

"I’m in Hell," Harry whispered, eyes going unfocused and vague with sheer imaginative dread.

"Not quite yet, Mister Potter," Snape said briskly, climbing to his feet. He dragged Harry up with him as though the boy weighed nothing. "Oh, and also remind me to feed you a nourishment potion before you leave. Can’t have you dying of malnutrition, can we?"

"Actually, that was rather the point," Harry muttered numbly into Snape’s side.

"Do it and you’ll be seeing Dumbledore again straight after," Snape growled in reply as he dropped Harry shivering into an overstuffed chair. Harry very carefully did not think of his scratched wrists.

Snape knelt before the boy, pinning his slender arms and staring into his eyes as though to strike dead his soul.

"Understand me, boy," he said, his voice deadly enchanting like snake’s eyes. "I want one thing from you: control. I will have it, one way or another. And I can be patient. So patient the earth would be amazed. This is not anger, this is not impatience or simple frustration. This is the punishment that you *earned* today, Potter, with your immoderate actions and lack of respect for the rules. Are we clear?"

"I don’t--" Harry said, voice small.

"Are we *clear*!" Snape blasted him, shaking his thin form so that his eyes rolled nearly back into his head. He bit through his lip, and blood began to trickle down his chin.

"Yes, sir," he stuttered, wanting nothing more than to stop moving.

"Excellent," Snape purred, settling Harry back against the cushions. Harry stared at him, dazed.

Perhaps the Potions Master indeed had some plan that he was following to the very point, but his actions looked a lot like insanity to this boy wizard.

The Orb glinted in the dim light, perched near the edge of Snape’s wide, cluttered desk. Snape stepped back, fingers going to the row of tiny buttons fronting his own flowing robes. Harry shuddered, backing away from the slowly-revealed form as though it rivaled the dementors for horrific imagery. His back hit the desk, and Snape’s tailored slacks --black, of course-- hit the floor and were kicked carelessly aside. Snape grinned, a grim pulling- back of his lips. His canines rivaled Lupin’s for sharpness.

If this were a Muggle movie, Harry’d vault into a backwards somersault and land behind the broad desk, immediately discover some useful weapon, and blast his way to freedom in the bloodiest, most crowd- pleasing way possible.

This was *not* a Muggle movie.

Snape shoved him over the desk, easily turning his naked form and slamming his chest into quill-holders and stacks of red-stained blotters, fingers raking furrows down his cream-colored sides, rippling a rhythm on starvation-bared ribs. Perhaps he *should* eat more often. Snape’s hair brushed tinier fingers on whip-marked flesh, the black strands not greasy as commonly suspected but corn silk fine and thin enough to lash. Harry kept his head down, feeling breath lapping his neck, brow pressed to carved and varnished mahogany, chest sticking with sweat to the crinkle and rustle of ungraded papers.

A few students would probably be relieved to never see their essays again. After all, such is life.

"You seem to be experiencing a certain deficit of attention this evening, Potter," Snape growled into his shoulder, teasing the bruised skin there with little nips and lippings like a horse at oats. The image would be amusing if not for the sharp teeth.

"One could almost believe that you don’t wish to be here," Snape said, hair tickling down Harry’s neck, pooling in ebon strands on the desk top just before his eyes. Harry blinked.

"At this point it is customary to beg for mercy," came the whisper in his right ear, so close that he jerked in the Potions Master’s hold. His heart jumped to a gallop in his breast. He held his breath.

"*Now*, Potter!" Snape roared into his flyaway hair, shoving into him with a single thrust.

. . .

The man had killed him that time.

. . .

It was actually some time, possibly several minutes, before he realized that the gasped screams were coming from *him*. The pain was like . . . It was . . .

It was like nothing he’d ever known, nor could hope to describe.

His chin hit the desk top hard, smashing his lower lip against his teeth, and splitting the silk-thin skin; a wash of blood streaked the varnished mahogany, in echo of the spatters down his inner thighs. A few droplets streaked the Orb crimson. Lights burst before his eyes, the death of neurons, and he scrabbled a hand up and before his face, absorbing each blow in bone and skin.

Snape’s hips slammed into his lean-muscled buttocks, leaving bruised reflections of jutting bone. His hands gripped Harry’s shoulder and hip, for leverage, grinding finger-shaped marks into the boy. His teeth tore into Harry’s back; he was attempting to leave his name, though he was quite confident that it would take him at least twenty tries to scar in each letter.

"I will have you, "he panted into Harry’s bloodied skin. "I will posses you. I will!"

"No," Harry whispered, too quiet for comprehension.

"You are mine, and do you know why, boy?" Snape bit a line down Harry’s neck, licking the blood in a broad stripe to his chin. "Because no one else wants you. No one else cares."

"That’s not true," Harry moaned, struggling weakly away from the Potions Master.

"If they cared, wouldn’t they have done something by now?" Snape hissed. "Wouldn’t your dear *friends* have asked about *these*?" Licking the series of bruises down his throat.

"They didn’t see them!" Harry shouted, then again, wordlessly, as sharp pain flashed through him. "They didn’t know," he said weakly, slumping in Snape’s hold.

The Orb rocked with their movements, once, then was still.

Snape stilled, slowly, looking down at the boy spread across his bloodied desk. His brow furrowed, and he stirred idly to maintain his arousal as he thought; Harry moaned, slipping into a sort of half-consciousness of dim vision and lessened pain.

Snape shifted his angle of penetration again, moving in short, almost- gentle thrusts as he searched for the boy’s prostate; was rewarded by a fresh spate of moans when the gland was located. His fingers gentled on the chalk-pale skin, smoothing down to the boy’s limp sex. He grasped the boy firmly, timing his first stroke with a direct thrust to the prostate.

Harry breathed, a great gasping of air as he arched back off the desk into the Potions Master’s chest; the dimness receded, and the pain was suddenly flare-bright. But there was pleasure, too. Warring signals competed in his brain, merged, and arched him again.

"That’s it, pretty thing," Snape crooned, holding Harry nearly upright. Harry’s head lolled back against Snape’s chest, and he looked up at the older man with glazed, uncomprehending eyes. Snape smiled.

"You enjoy this," Snape purred, nuzzling into the sweating neck. Harry groaned wordlessly, tossing his sweat-soaked hair in mute protest. His body writhed under the older man’s ministrations. "You might even come, were I to let you." He seemed to think for a moment. "Would that make it worse, I wonder? Would the degradation be more complete if you were forced to take such a willful part?"

Harry’s eyes rolled wildly; his hands flogged the air. Snape remained impassive, a sleek-sided figure, a form of shadows and ice-pale skin. His own hair remained unruffled and undampened. His skin was slicked with no sweat other than Harry’s; certainly not his own. His eyes glittered.

"Please," Harry said, pride gone the way of his bitten lips. "Please, don’t."

"Don’t what?" Snape said, suddenly raising the boy to his toes. "Don’t stop?"

"Ahh!" Harry’s lips bled again, and his desperate hand caught at Snape’s hair. "Stop, please!"

"Damned wretch," Snape muttered, slamming Harry back onto the desk; his breastbone made an uncomfortable sound, but Snape stretched himself onto the boy, lowering his greater weight with something like confidence. His hands tightened. "Damned lying *wretch*. You. Want. This," he grunted, emphasizing each word with a thrust. Harry could no longer scream. "You want this, you do!"

Snape came, driving them both into bloodied mahogany, actually moving the ancient desk half an inch or more. The darkling contents of the Orb sloshed, roiled. Harry screamed at the last; a tear slipped onto the wet wood, mingling with his blood.

Snape lay quietly for some time, breathing harshly into Harry’s sweat- soaked hair. Harry didn’t move. He was still aroused. He couldn’t feel his legs.

The tower clock tolled midnight. Snape stirred, snorted as though waking from a dream, and muttered a cleaning charm on himself. Harry he left sticky.

The man was puttering around the low-ceilinged rooms, flickering the scattered candlelight as he paced his rooms; Harry slid slowly to the cold stone floor, ending curled on his side, mostly face-down. He was shivering; his thin shoulders were curved inward in a futile attempt to hide his arousal. It subsided as slowly, almost unnoticed but for inconvenience in the overwhelming pain of his torn body.

The tower clock tolled the half-hour.

He leaked a small pool of blood onto the stones; nothing movie-dramatic, but enough to send Ms. Pomfrey into conniptions, were she to see. But she never would. No one would. He shivered again.

Snape, robe-swathed once more, strode with flaring wings back to where Harry lay curled before his desk; he nudged the boy with one toe, sneering distastefully at the streaks of blood. Harry’s body rocked a bit, but he otherwise didn’t move. A quick wave of his wand, and the blood vanished from floor and desk alike. Harry’s skin retained the stains, however, in a spattering of black-dried blood across his pale skin.

"Up, Mister Potter," Snape growled, pinning him with a black glare that he could feel searing his back. The toe nudged him again. "Up, I say! Or did you want another lesson in obedience?"

Harry started, jerking himself as far as his elbows before having to stop; eyes squeezed shut, he rode out the pain without a whimper. Snape scowled at him.

"Wouldn’t your parents be ashamed to see this," he said contemplatively. "Proud Potter, barely able to *crawl* before me." His final words were gloating, and Harry’s head whipped around, ignoring the pain.

"Don’t talk about my parents," Harry said, his voice a dangerous whisper. Snape paused.

Had Voldemort painted a portrait of Harry’s eyes upon the moment they reflected his killing curse, it would have resembled this moment almost exactly.

"Don’t you speak their *names*," he grated, eyes blazing.

Snape stared down at him thoughtfully for a few long moments; naked, bloodied, to all appearances broken, and yet . . . He smiled. And nodded.

"Fair enough, Potter," he said silkily. "Your defiance, of course, will have to be punished," he continued, with a pause to relish Harry’s sudden indrawn breath. "But not until this lesson has healed, of course." He finished, leaning over to grasp the flinching boy under the arms and lift him bodily to his wavering feet. "*Accio* *robes*!" Snape said, catching them with one hand while holding Harry on his feet with the other.

Harry flinched away from the scrape of wool on open wounds, but relaxed into the warmth once the robes had settled. Snape finished dressing him with a gleam like satisfaction lighting his black eyes. Harry shuddered, looking up at him.

Snape patted the wayward hair, eyes almost paternal. Harry shivered again.

"Don’t heal these wounds," he said, eyes never losing their glow. "I want you to remember this for some time." His eyes hardened, and his grip tightened on the boy’s shoulder until he’d wrung a gasp from him. "And pray don’t confuse me with an incompetent; I *will* know if you heal yourself, or drink a potion. Make no mistake, boy," he breathed, leaning in to kiss Harry’s bitten and bruised neck. Harry shivered helplessly. "I want you in *agony*."

He leaned back, so suddenly that Harry nearly fell.

"Get back to your dorm, boy," Snape said, his voice disconcertingly businesslike and professorial. Harry could only stare at him, shocked; he huddled into the robes as Snape’s eyes spat fire. "Get to your dorm, Potter! Now!"

Harry started at Snape’s tone, and ran, skittering through the portrait- guarded door and down the darkened halls, leaving a scattering of blood behind him.

Snape stared after him for an unknown time. The shadows lengthened. The portrait eventually closed itself. The tower clock chimed an uncounted, unmarked number. The candles burned out, plunging the room into darkness. And still Snape stared.

Finally he started, seemed to come out of a trance, and looked wildly around the darkened room as though for an intruder. Wrapping himself in his voluminous robes, he circled his rooms thrice, renewing and relighting candles and examining each remaining shadow for clues.

There was nothing.

The Orb swirled, undisturbed, on his ancient, mahogany desk.

He glared at orb and desk for a moment, brows drawn together thoughtfully.

The tower clock chimed again, counting off four measured tones.

Snape’s head came up at the tolling of the bell; he counted the chimes, counted again in his head to be sure, cursed, and strode angrily for his bathroom. Forgetting the Orb and his confusion.

The shadows lengthened. ***