TBGCTBGC
He Defines Me
Chapter Fifteen
Harry sat on the floor next to bed. It had been so cold in Master’s arms, and the moonlight coming through the window had made it hard for him to fall asleep. No, that was wrong. It hadn’t been the moon, it wasn’t the moons fault he couldn’t shut off his own inner voice.
It was right though, that little annoying voice was right. Tibby was dead, and Severus was going to die, the only person who ever loved him was going to die, and it was all his fault. If he just hadn’t forgotten what he’d always known, Master would come for him. Even if it had taken years Master still would have come, he should never have let himself think otherwise. Tibby was dead, Severus would die, and Draco would wish he was dead.
Harry couldn’t, didn’t want to imagine what Master would do to Draco, make him do. Would he have to sleep in the cage? Would he be allowed to go back to school? He tried to stop the train of thought, it was making him feel ill again. Not that anything else coming to mind was making him feel better. He kept remembering how Mister Pettigrew had screamed, and imagining Severus’ silky voice begging, apologizing, sounding like parts of him were being ripped out.
Clutching his head between his hands he bit his own lip. It wasn’t right, none of it was right, he had to do something. His feet shifted slightly farther apart, bare toes brushing against something heavy and cotton on the floor. For a moment, he thought it was the remnants of the clothes Severus had bought him but those had never been that... hard. That wasn’t right, cotton wasn’t hard. It could be stiff and scratchy and heavy, but never hard.
Dropping his hand to touch it he immediately knew the material. It was Master’s cloak. He usually hung it up, but he must have been in a hurry, or perhaps he’d forgotten. Running his fingers lightly over the place his foot had hit, he felt a stiff bulge. Oh, the dagger. It was hidden in a secret pocket that Harry had found when he was ten. Not that Master knew, he’d have gotten in trouble for playing with the robe.
The idea did not come to him immediately, nor did he sit there thinking about the weapon, or its significance. But after several minutes he found himself starting at the place it was concealed in wonder. It could work, would work, he just had to be quiet, and he was very good at that.
Slipping his hand inside, he cringed at the loud shuffling sound the material made as it brushed against itself, but continued searching until he had wrapped his fingers around the cold metal and pulled it out. It was so pretty, strange that he would have forgotten about it. Then again, he hadn’t so much forgotten as he had no reason to remember until now.
The handle was green colored pearl, innumerous serpents intertwining around the six inch handle. He stared at them for a moment before closing his fists around it, tightening his grip desperately. The lengthy blade stared at him, glittering silver and sharp, another small serpent was carved into the base, this one enchanted to move and hiss without making a sound. Harry looked at it a moment longer, his brow furrowing. It hadn’t done that before, or maybe he just hadn’t been looking closely enough.
Harry’s body seemed to move of its own volition, and with great difficulty. He stood, clutching the side of the bed as waves of dizziness passed over him, leaving him light headed and airy. Slowly, he heaved himself up onto the feathery silken bed and crawled his way over, never taking his hands from the dagger.
As he sat there, staring down at Master, Harry slowly brought the knife to lay on the cushion of air above the steadily beating heart. It would be so easy, so definite. Severus wouldn’t die, Draco couldn’t be hurt, everything would be alright. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He could hear his own heart in his ears, erratic and heavy, unsure. Maybe there was another way. He could put it back, Master never had to know. He could try and distract him, he could lie; not that he’d ever lied before, and he would probably fail miserably, but he could try.
Slowly opening his eyes, staring at the dagger still poised to strike, he held his breath. Maybe, just maybe. Leaning forward, he held his face inches above Masters, hands shaking slightly as he felt the end of the handle press against his chest.
Harry really wasn’t sure how it happened at first. He was most prominently aware of his body sinking down, of the almost inaudible popping sound of the knife sliding through flesh and the sickening slurp of the blood working it’s way around the silver intruder. He saw his Master’s eyes open, staring forward in shock, not looking at him as they quickly glazed over and dulled.
It wasn’t until after the warm blood had leaked over his own chest and abdomen, rolling off Master’s sides and onto his elbows, that he felt the hand on his back, clutching his shoulder, refusing to slacken and let go, even in death.
Sometimes, on the rare occasions that he got up before Master, Harry would wake him up with kissing. Sometimes, in a playful nature, Master would pretend to be asleep, waiting until the very moment when his pet’s breath brushed against his lips, to grab him, pulling Harry down into a passionate embrace, chest to chest, far from the chaste good morning Harry had intended. Sometimes it made Harry laugh, sometimes it led to sex.
There was no kissing now.
Harry stared, unable to move. The red in Master’s eyes had drained entirely, leaving only the cool light hazel, dull and unseeing. Pushing himself up slightly, and preying his own fingers forcefully from the knife, Harry gripped Master’s shoulders, "Master?"
He couldn’t be dead, it was impossible. A little voice in the back of Harry’s head seemed to scream that it was very much possible, he’d just stuck at eight inch dagger straight through the man’s heart and, Master or not, he was still a man. Slowly backing away, Harry watched Master for any sign of movement, flinching as the hand slipped off his shoulder and landed useless against the bed.
He hadn’t meant to. No, that wasn’t right, he had thought about it, he was going to, but he’d changed his mind. Can’t be dead, can’t be dead, ‘because if he is I don’t what to do.’ He slipped of the edge and onto the floor, wrapping his arms protectively around himself, ‘Who do I belong to if Master is gone.’
Shaking his head, he held himself tighter, ‘Not gone, Master is never gone. Master will always come for me, he has to come for me. I forgot that once, I let myself forget, but he did come. Always. Always and only; I’m Master’s pet, Master’s pet, Master’s Pet.’
-tbc-