Second Coming
Severus turns away when the silver hand touches him; he does not want to see those metal fingers, this travesty of an arm, against the white of his own skin. He is not vain; he has never had room for vanity, not where his own body is concerned. Yet he cannot think of anything worse than to have this--thing--attached to oneself, soldered on to living flesh. It is cool against him, dexterous as a real hand as it strives to bring him to life and though Severus knows it will go more quickly for him he cannot bear to will his body to hardness. Peter was the weakest of them all and the only innocent, and at the end of the day the one named for the wrong disciple.
In a time and a place where one wrong decision can damn you for eternity he is a fool--they are both fools--but Severus cannot bear to feel sorry for Peter. He had beautiful hands once, though his body lacked grace. It is the thought of them, delicate and white as a woman's, as a poet's, that persuades Severus to arousal. He never dreamed of any of them: not stolid Remus nor Sirius the falling star, not even James who wore his perfection round himself like a cloak. Least of all of Peter; sluggish useless Peter, always a step behind his brighter friends and often their target if no one else was there to be mocked. No one had ever doubted Peter was guilty, not when the first rumors of Black's innocence began to spread. Far more likely that fat awkward Peter Pettigrew had been the traitor than handsome and aristocratic Sirius Black.
Despite himself he is nearly fully hard now. He lies on his back with his hands bound so tightly he can feel the bruises rising, and he thinks not of England but of Peter Pettigrew at sixteen. Because, despite what Peter is doing to him now, it is the Peters of the world he is fighting for. The children who do not belong in the wizarding world and do not belong anywhere else, who spend years fighting for acceptance and in the end turn on their protectors.
His erection subsides and Peter makes a frustrated sound deep in his throat and rolls him over onto his side and forces his way in. It is pain that remakes the world, Voldemort saying, "He is yours," and is it possible he was relieved by that? Is it possible he thought that this was the better of two options? Only the head is inside him but it feels as big as a fist despite whatever it was Peter used for lubricant. There is no pretense now that this is love, that it is anything but rape. Peter has finally done what they all of them wanted to do, Peter the smallest and weakest. There is no better expression of power than this.
When he was twenty he had become the youngest Hogwarts professor in history and they had never forgiven him for it. James, Peter, Sirius, Remus; they were all of them failures: James, dead, all of his potential wasted; Peter, a traitor; Sirius, who had spent most of his adult life in prison; Remus, with the handicap he had never been able to overcome. They had marked him with their cruelty as surely as Voldemort in his pride had done.
He has hated them his whole life and Severus knows that there is no such thing as karma, and that even dramatic irony is questionable, but surely if there were this is how it would be. He made one mistake, made it because of his hatred, and out of carelessness, and it had put him inevitably on this path. It had put Peter on it as well. But when you are twenty-one and at the height of your power it is easy to be careless; it is easy to believe in immortality.
No doubt even his brothers and sisters in the Order believe he is a DeathEater first, and a spy second. No doubt they had concocted a heart-wrenching story in which he crawled on bent knee to beg Dumbledore for forgiveness. None of them would believe that Snape had volunteered--volunteered--for this, all those years ago. For what it is worth, and it is not worth much, he has always been on their side. Peter might have believed him, once; Peter knew how it was to be misjudged, overlooked.
The Dark Mark on his arm flares; Voldemort calling. He and Peter both scream. He remembered how Peter had screamed when they'd captured him. He remembered torturing him, thinking that it wouldn't matter, that Peter didn't matter. He'd hoped to prove his loyalty to Voldemort; instead he'd given away the secret Peter had been keeping. Peter had known he was a spy, of course--everyone had known, but Voldemort. Peter had begged for death instead. Hard to say who had been most surprised by the secret Peter had to keep. And afterward, when they all knew James and his wife and child were as good as dead, Peter had looked at him with dull, heartbroken eyes. Peter had known.
Peter is taking his time finishing, despite his master's summons. It doesn't matter. Every extra minute he spends in Severus's body is an extra minute of life. He had let Peter live, then, not out of pity but from rage. Peter will not return the favor.