Chapter Thirty two

He knew he was dead. He knew the moment he’d opened his eyes and saw what they’d done. Oh, for a few minutes, his brain had tried to hide it from him, but Smith had never been one for denying the truth. Unfortunately, facing death with his eyes wide open wasn’t as important or as soothing as he hoped it would be. He still felt a pillock—but at least his demise would be interesting.

He wished he could lash out to expel some of the burning frustration, but the drug was still oozing around his body, sapping his strength. It wouldn’t have helped, anyway; the chain around his ankle looked suitably heavy. All he could do was let his gaze drift around his cell.

It was small, only just long enough to let him lie flat, and if he could extend his arms, then his hands would touch both walls. It was a broom cupboard. There were wooden notches in the wall where the upright brooms would be nestled so the bristles were kept clear of the floor—no flier worth his salt would tolerate his bristles getting bent out of shape from resting on the floor. There was a small, slatted window up above to allow for proper ventilation, and the door was solid—half a foot thick wooden panels inlaid with iron—to prevent unruly brooms breaking free. Unfortunately, that also meant it was sound-proof.

Not that he’d be calling for help. Only the cream of society could afford broom cupboards, and that meant he was most likely the guest of a pure-blood, which all in all suggested he would be getting no help. A conclusion further enforced by the fact that the chain around his ankle was attached to the end of one the brooms—a Nimbus 2000 by the looks of it: devilishly fast and nimble. So, he knew he was dead; he just hadn’t physically caught up, yet.

That isn’t to say he hadn’t tried to escape or send some message to his comrades… to Moody. Whatever Rookwood had stuck in him had also affected his magic, and although he was adept at wandless non-verbal magic, he could barely summon the magic to disturb the dust motes in the air. His Patronus—despite his recollections of his beloved wife—failed to even glow reassuringly, and his efforts at untangling the chain had just resulted in a headache.

Moody would have to find out the hard way.

She felt something soft mould around her back and shoulders and the hard weight of Severus above her, pressing her deeper. Puffs of dust assaulted her nose, but they were lost in the smell of his musk and excitement. Apparition always left her breathless, and the heady combination of travel and Snape were pushing her beyond what she could control: it was terrifying and liberating. The spell deserted them, and their limbs wrapped around each other, gravity crushing them together.

Her hands slid up his back, as if to ground her, and up into his hair which fell in soft, slick strands between her fingers. His face was in shadow, but she could see the glint in his eyes, and she couldn’t stop the shiver his gaze elicited.

Just as she felt herself begin to burn in that stare, he turned his head and flicked his tongue over the soft flesh on her inner wrist. The move surprised her, not only for its seeming uniqueness but also for the response it inspired in her belly. When he dragged his tongue languidly over the spot he had just tasted, she groaned and twisted beneath him. But then he stopped; save for his chest heaving with deep breaths, he was frozen.

Was he waiting for something? Had she done something to cause him concern? He was watching her intently. Those black eyes, those chips of onyx, were scrutinising her face as though searching for something specific. A frown marred her sweat-beaded forehead, and she brought her hands round to cup his stern face.

Her thumb slid down in a gentle arc to brush the corner of his lips. He jolted at the contact, jarred out of the fugue that had gripped him. His pale lips parted, and the tip of his tongue caressed the pad of her thumb. It was gentle; it was slow. It was erotic beyond words.

Her breath snatched and her guts rolled. She had no idea what to do, yet urgently needed to do something. Her last experience had been Regulus; then, it had seemed so straightforward, but now…. She pushed her thumb into his mouth, earning a groan and the exquisite pleasure of seeing his eyes flutter closed. Warm lips closed, trapping her digit, and Severus’ tongue curled around it.

His own hands brushed along hers until he could grip her wrists. While sucking and gently dragging his teeth over her thumb, he pulled her other hand down towards the pillow, holding it fast beside her head. He could hear her breaths… feel her breasts brush against his chest. When her thighs shifted, he was overwhelmed with lust. He’d waited, longed for this for twenty years… agonising over and relishing images of her plucked from another’s mind. He wanted to eradicate the memories of Regulus; he wanted, needed, her mind to be full of him.

“Severus…”

He was selfish and greedy. He’d waited, he’d longed… he’d grieved, and then he’d denied. Now he had what he wanted and needed. She was here, trembling beneath him… sighing his name.

His name!

It came as a whisper, as a sigh, as silk against skin. His name had never seemed so evocative and passionate… so promising and sensual. He shuddered at the sound. Beneath his palms, he could feel her pulse fluttering wildly. From her trembling lips, he could hear breathy moans, and his gaze was drawn to the shadows playing across her pale skin. He let her thumb slip from his mouth, nipping it before her hand fell to the pillow, where her fingers desperately plunged into her hair, gripping it.

“Ophelia…” he muttered, lingering over the ‘o’ so her name was like a gasp.

Those dark eyes closed and her mouth fell open; Severus smirked and wondered if her name from his lips had affected her as profoundly as his from hers. He repeated her name, drawing it out, teasing her with it. She squirmed and pressed her head back into the grey pillow. The hollow at the base of her throat demanded attention, so he delicately traced the edge of a collar bone from her shoulder to that delicious shadow. Beneath his fingers, he felt her shiver, goosebumps blossoming across her skin.

She mewled like a cat, arching her back and grimacing as if in pain. He knew that pain. He knew the ache and the throb and the burning heat that a single touch could engender. It was hell, and it was divine.

He took advantage of her agony and dipped his head to taste the flesh on her neck. She eagerly obliged, tilting her head, allowing him access to ease her suffering. Her skin was smooth and warm beneath his questing lips. Tendons stood taut as she strained, and he bit and licked his way from throat to ear. The soft, rounded lobe slipped between his teeth, and he gently suckled, relishing the weight of it against his tongue.

A hand suddenly gripped his hair, twisting painfully, and he let slip a snarl of appreciation. A nail raked across his scalp, and a moan burst from his chest. He bit down on the tasty morsel, earning a squeal and a harsh tug on his hair. Severus released his treat and lifted his head, seeking her eyes. In the gloom, they looked as dark as his own, and in their depths, he searched for approval… permission… desire.

She was confused… confused and frustrated beyond reason. He kept stopping! His face was carefully bland, which she knew meant his mind was awhirl. She could see the mania of his thoughts in his eyes. It was difficult to focus on them without drowning, but she bullied her mind until it stopped thinking how nice he smelt, and how his hands burned her skin, and how she could still feel his trail of kisses and nips along her neck. She’d seen something similar a long time ago. In a crystal cavern…

It was impossible to examine the memory, and constructing a stratagem to deal with Severus Snape was even more ludicrous, given that her body ached and her brain was slowly melting. Not that she was sure she could do it when not inebriated on lust and longing. But through the need and the urgency, a long-fettered instinct reared its head and broke its chains.

Smith heard the footsteps. They were coming for him. As a romantic young Auror, he’d seen his death in battle, curses and spells exploding around him as he fought to the last, dying bravely and with honour. As a jaded old man, he just wanted to die with as much dignity as he could muster. It was all he had. The door swung open smoothly and silently. Life was rarely as dramatic as one imagined. But when he saw the masks, he knew life was as nasty and as pain-filled as one feared.

“Come on, old man,” sneered the farthest of the two Death Eaters. “You’re needed outside.”

To his surprise, he was helped to his feet by the other wizard, who used his shorter stature to drape Smith’s arm comfortably across his shoulders. The other masked man grabbed the Nimbus and walked out, the chain clattering unnervingly against the stone floor as it slithered out.

He was led out to a tiled courtyard. Torches cast their warm, flickering, golden light, and the gathered Death Eaters cast their long shadows. They formed a semicircle before him, and in the centre stood Voldemort. The chain was placed carefully at Voldemort’s feet, then the two escorts slipped to the edges, their duty done.

“Auror Smith… Onesiphorus,” Voldemort whispered smoothly, as though greeting a comrade.

The sound of his name caused a stir in the standing wizards. Smith let his gaze drift slowly over them, taking in as many details as possible. It was all he could do, really. That and die like an old Auror. Merlin! He’d make them dread killing an old Auror.

His gaze returned slowly to the Dark Lord: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Smith would be damned if he was going to be cowed by a former classmate—one who had failed to beat him in Defence against the Dark Arts! It may have been easy to beguile these… children, but it was harder when someone remembered all those things you did as a boy at school.

“Mr Riddle… Tom!”

Outrage unfurled, and he felt his lips twitch in triumph. He’d make his murder hard for them. One wry laugh from Voldemort quelled his followers.

“Very good, Smith,” he sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me. Just as I know that you’ll play your part in this… drama with exceptional skill.”

At this, another broom was presented. Smith watched as one of the masked men stepped forward and magicked an equally thick and heavy chain into being. He wasn’t shocked when it was attached to his free ankle. He had been right: his death would be interesting… and also messy.

“You may not be aware,” Voldemort continued conversationally, “but there was once a man—your namesake—who made a pilgrimage for the sake of his faith—much as you have done, if faith and duty were synonymous.”

Again, the gathered wizards stirred… eagerly and with predatory interest.

“I know of St Onesiphorus,” Smith muttered disdainfully—he’d allow them no fun at his expense.

Voldemort blinked slowly and then sneered as he realised he had very little power over the Auror standing before him. The man knew what was coming, and yet he stood tall.

Smith attacked him with the only weapon he had left. “I don’t know what’s after this, “ he growled, “but I go there with grace and peace, and there ain’t nothin’ that ye can do to make me fear ye or cause me to bow one inch to ye.” He leant forward and pulled back his lips, the scar twisting his face into a fearsome expression. “Ye fear it, dread it… ye fret to stop what must ‘appen to all men at the end of their span.”

The curse arced through the air, hitting him squarely in the chest, snatching his breath and sending him crashing to the floor. His scream lodged behind his firmly clenched teeth. He wouldn’t give them anything: not his life, not his dignity, and not his screams.

“I do not fear Death,” Voldemort hissed into his ringing ears. “I will be its master. You will not fear Death; you will fear me.”

Smith spat out bile and turned his aching head towards the Dark Lord. “No one can escape Death,” he croaked. “’E’s a canny ‘unter, and ‘e’ll find ye as sure as ye will be brought down.”

Voldemort inched closer, so that his lips were against Smith’s temple. “Death could walk at my side and not do so much as caress my shoulder.”

Unseen, Smith grinned triumphantly. Tom would never change: he had been proud then, and he was proud now. Smith used it.

“Ye arrogant toe-rag,” he gasped. “There ain’t no power to stop ‘im.”

In his ear, Voldemort laughed softly. “There is. Every child knows of it. But even without it, I cannot be touched by Death. I have no need for whatever is ‘after this’, for there never will be anything other than this for me… for you.”

“Ye will die, and ye’ll die incomplete.”

Voldemort pulled away to look Smith in the eye. There was the smallest flicker of doubt in the scarlet depths, but it was quickly snuffed out. “You are a clever Auror. How many others know, I wonder?” The smug smile fell back into place. “No matter; not even my Death Eaters know what or where they are. The destruction of one has done me no harm—as you can plainly see!—and I have more important things to occupy my time. I will not concern myself, and you will die: alone, useless and unknown.”

Voldemort stood, turning to his Death Eaters, who, sensing their time had come, darted forwards. Harsh hands grabbed at Smith, hauling him to his feet where his eyes latched onto the two riders mounting the brooms. Despite it all, Smith grinned. He would die an Auror. With a wave of Voldemort’s pale hand, the riders lowered on their brooms and hurtled into the night.

He traced the outline of the wound. Ophelia had healed the others when they’d returned to Grimmauld Place, but he’d hidden this one beneath his cuff. Watching her face as she had applied the salve had been a delight—the way it flickered between sympathy and pleasure. He knew—and rumours would be circulating Hogsmeade in the morning of just how severely the shack was haunted—that she’d taken pleasure from what they’d shared, just as he knew that she would have the same thoughts and questions that had plagued him as a young man. Whereas, he had had no one, she had him to reassure her, make her know that despite how it looked, he had found a deep release through what she had done. He couldn’t quite explain why he desired, needed, it to be this way… he just did.

His fingernail grazed over the sore crescent on his inner left wrist, and he inhaled sharply. The red curve reminded him of what they’d shared, of the relief and connection she offered… and the joy she inspired. The sharp sting reminded him she had provided him with everything he had needed. Her parting kiss—sweet and gentle against his chapped lips—had assured that all was well between them. They had become lovers. The thought warmed him as he extinguished the candle and slid under the duvet.

Miles away, Ophelia felt herself ache in delicious places. Even in the kitchen, she could still smell him… them. She wondered if the scent was haunting her, or if she actually carried it with her. Her lips curved up into a wicked smile at the thought of Sirius sniffing around her; would he figure out who had claimed her? The thought, for some reason, delighted her. Maybe that was it? Severus had marked her, claimed her: made it clear where she belonged. And in his way, he had assured her that he belonged to her.

Despite the thrum of her nerves and the tingle across her skin, she was exhausted. The kitchen was as she had left it. Her eyes lingered over the portents of her evening—the askew chairs and the empty mugs on the drainer. Her angst at Molly’s words seemed so long ago, and her own fears and dread had reduced to the echoes of a bad dream: she felt foolish for being so terrified. She straightened the chairs and moved to rinse out the mugs. When she looked up, she caught her reflection in the window. She didn’t question who looked back at her, nor did she turn away. She knew who she was, and she found that she was content with the knowledge.

Author's notes: At last! I can only hope I am forgiven for the delay. Pending beta approval on the last chapter, this is now complete. For those who have stayed with this: thank you. I hope you enjoy it.