Harry Potter One Shots

Opheliac

All rights belong to the author, SeverusLuciusAbraxasMalfoy

He cautiously spits, and wipes at his mouth with a sleeve, trying to get the mixture of blood and dirt clean. It doesn't help much, I think.

He's still on his knees.

I can almost see the smirk in his eyes, challenging. It annoys me.

A minute under the curse, he's on the ground, trying not to writhe too much, though not a single scream emerges from his throat. It annoys me more when I see the familiar glint in his eyes.

I grit my teeth and pour my blackness, all the hate I can conjure up for this man in my heart, into the curse and watch as the flash of light blinds everyone.

Everyone except him and me.

He meets my eyes a split second before he grunts and claws at the ground. Somewhere I can hear laughter and it strikes that it is mine; I am surprised at the madness that rings within it.

I laugh louder and twist and turn the wood in my hand, in a vague impression of voodoo, poking and prodding, directing it to him, wanting to see him cry out in pain.

But he never does.

Body wracked with tremors, bloody and bruised, he gets back on his knees, and I can't help but gasp and groan in frustration. I'm panting, my breath coming in quick gasps, fogging over in the cold pre-dawn air.

I cannot be for certain that fatigue is entirely the cause for my quickened breathing and racing pulse. My face twists into the most seductive smile I can muster, and it doesn't surprise me that he only raises an eyebrow, as if to ask, "Is that all?"

My smile turns cruel, my eyes glint and I step closer to him, slowly, trying not to show that he has tired me, he had excited me. I do not fail in fooling everyone.

Even him.

I raise his face to mine, the smooth wood stabbing him painfully under his chin, and he only flinches for a moment.

Running the fingers of my free hand so very gently along his gaunt sharp face, I can see that the mockery of a lover's touch disgusts him. He tries to pull away but the wand digging into the soft flesh of his throat keeps him in place.

I glance to the side where The Dark Lord sits on the throne, eyes showing curiosity for the entire episode, and Lucius, dear sweet Lucius, has a glazed look in his eyes; hungry.

It takes true creativity to devise exquisite torture, and Severus knows that I excel at it.

He knows because I truly enjoy seeing pain.

I realise that all present have gone still, in anticipation of what ever I have planned next, and I decide to improvise.

Bringing my wand to his cheek, my other hand still holding his face in such an affectionate way, I can see the tiny frown he has worn. He has not expected this.

Good.

He grits his teeth at the sudden stinging that he would have felt, my wand drawing a smooth curve across his cheek, leaving a trail of sliced skin behind; the tip bloody with my need to press it into the wound.

It will have been very, very painful, and I thrive on the look of pure hate he shoots me.

Ah, Severus has always been so interesting.

I cannot help myself as the blood wells up, black in the darkness of this night, and I lean forward and run my tongue lightly along the cut, continuing the path till my lips, tinged with it, brush along his.

Once, and then again, so he can taste me, himself; and I can taste him, and the mud. The tang of the blood and the musk of his sweat nearly drive me insane.

I can feel warmth in my throat, a tingle in my spine, and my eyes glint and glaze over at the heady feeling that is truly Severus.

The I draw back to look at his face, full in the light of the moon, so wonderfully tortured and utterly devoid of any emotion.

I slap him; right across the cut, and he winces when threads in my glove catch in the cut, pulling at it.

I raise my hand to go again, when an invisible force holds me back.

"Enough," the Dark Lord hisses, and I obey, stepping back to take my place in the circle, beside the throne.

Severus' eyes never leave mine. The Dark Lord speaks to him, warns him of this, if Severus were to ever fail him again.

I throb at the anticipation, to repeat this, I grip the wand in my hand harder.

Moments later, the Dark Lord is gone, and I can hear pops of disappearing black robes till we are the only two left in the little clearing.

He gets off his knees, brushes off the dirt as best as he can and holds out his hand wordlessly.

I walk ever so slowly, swaggering my step, till I reach far too close to him, daring him with my eyes to step away.

He doesn't take the bait.

I lean in and he flinches; he hates me, I know. For some reason, it saddens me a little, but irritates me more.

I take out his wand from my sleeve, and run it along his arm, before he snatches it away from me.

"Do you see?" I ask him, lips close to his, eyes boring into my very soul, or what's left of it.

He only smiles, a cruel, and pitying smile; had I a heart, it would have broken.

"I see," the words slide over his tongue and I want to feel them. I want to feel him.

He leans into my ear and I can't stop the shiver than courses through me. I'm so far from being cold.

"I see," his breath ghosts over my neck and I grip his arm, wanting him to devour me.

"I see the Opheliac in you."

And then I am alone. I blink, cringing at the unwelcome loss of warmth. Recalling his words, I think over. "Opheliac?"

The answer comes to me, and I cannot help the bark of laughter that escapes my throat.

Muggle trash, he used to read all the time in the library at school; filthy half blood that he is.

Mad, he calls me. I leave the clearing.