FIC: Whatever It Takes, NC17, Neville/Bella, Luna/MacNair, Snape/Ginny Title: Whatever It Takes Author: Serpenscript Prompt:Voldemort's not satisfied that Neville, Ginny and Luna have been sufficiently punished for stealing from Snape. Pairing: Neville/Bellatrix, Luna/Macnair, Snape/Ginny. Rating: NC17 Taboo Kink: Non-consent/rape Warnings: violence, nudity, insanity, lust potions? Disclaimer: If they were mine, I'd be rich and Snape would be alive still V_V Word Count: 2100~ Notes: Sincere apologies for any incoherence. I wrote this in one sitting while trying to desperately stay awake, but I wanted to get it written before I lost the scene I had in my head. Hopefully it works for you!
Potter will kill him. Even if he survives the war, Potter will kill him - for fucking his girlfriend. ‘Broken up’ or not, it’s obvious the two are sickeningly besotted with each other, a disturbing recreation of Potter and Lily. Which makes what he’s doing all the more heinous. Lily, forgive me, he thinks, even though he’s sure she won’t. He doesn’t deserve forgiveness.
And it doesn’t matter that he’s saving their lives - they’ll likely never know, and would be even more unlikely to understand if they did know. The damned Carrows had run with tales to the Dark Lord of how soft he was getting, only assigning the ‘new trio’ detention with Rubeus Hagrid after breaking into his office and trying to steal the sword.
Amycus has sights set on being Headmaster.
MacNair had wanted to eviscerate them; he was like a mongrel with a new toy when he found a new curse to use on victims. Merlin knew it happened seldom enough - for all his sadism, he was a dim bulb. Bellatrix, on the other hand, was horribly clever and insane - a dangerous combination, but she favored one spell above all others. She had petitioned the Dark Lord to punish the students the same way she’d punished Longbottom’s parents - to Cruciate them all into drooling shells of themselves.
It would be effective, and Severus had had to offer something when the Dark Lord appeared to favor Bella’s suggestion. Something that would be horrible - something terrible, something MacNair and Bellatrix would enjoy - and yet something that would leave the students alive. And sane. And in possession of their magic. And he’d found a solution, even though it made his stomach churn. Rape.
He does what he has to, plays the role he has to, to get through this war, and ensure as many as possible survive. Ensure that Potter manages to do what he has to, because somehow all hopes are pinned on one naive, emotional, bigoted boy who can’t reliably tell friend from foe. Even after Severus has saved his miserable life multiple times.
It doesn’t matter now; what he’s doing is unforgiveable. He took Miss Weasley - Ginny, he owes her the courtesy of her name at least in his head - for himself. He owes Potter that much; he can’t be gentle with her. But he won’t be as vicious as MacNair or Lestrange.
Miss Lovegood is on the floor in front of the fireplace - so close to escape, but for MacNair’s hand tangled in her white-blond hair. She’s no longer screaming, but she no longer thrashes as MacNair leans over her and ruts between her splayed thighs. Her white skin is littered with ugly red scratches and purpling bitemarks - she’d fought and struggled wildly at first and MacNair had let her; he’d laughed and twirled his wand, too lazy to Petrify or Stun her - he liked that she’d resisted.
Severus had wanted to retch and empty the contents of his stomach when MacNair had wrestled her to the floor and positioned himself between her legs and thrust - Lovegood had begged him to help, then screamed as MacNair had penetrated. High, and shrill, and full of pain and betrayal.
As horrible as witnessing her rape is, Longbottom’s is worse. Bellatrix strips him, then ties him to a chair - hand and foot - and rides him. She has to have used a spell to arouse the boy; even Longbottom isn’t fool enough to be aroused by that crazy hag, but something about using the boy’s body - no, man’s body against him has seemed to break Neville’s mind. He shudders and moans when Bellatrix moves up and down on him wildly, but his eyes are glassy and un-seeing.
Severus can’t bear looking at Longbottom’s horror-filled face and staring eyes, so he looks down at the desk in front of him, where Ginevra Weasley is held, face-down, over his desk. The Headmaster’s desk, where he’s supposed to counsel, guide, protect his students from. Not fuck them - but he must.
Whatever it takes. Ginevra will hate him, Potter will kill him, but he doesn’t expect to survive the war anyway; it’s only a question of who will kill him first.
The lust potion is burning through his veins. It’s unpleasant, but it’s the only way he thinks he can be aroused in this situation.
Ginevra doesn’t scream when he nudges his cock between her thighs; she curses him, instead, hurling creative invective that would have impressed him at one time. He holds her face down because he is not such a monster that he can rape her face-to-face. He’s had to kill, had to do horrible things - but he still tries to cling to some of his humanity.
Her cursing becomes a strangled cry as he finds the right position and slides into her; he’s relieved to discover that she’s not a virgin - he hasn’t taken that from her, and from Potter, at least. A small point in his favor. Merlin, she’s tight - tight, and hot, and too good for something so terrible. His hips move, and again, and he lets his body and instincts take over, because it’s easier that way - the sooner he comes, the sooner he can declare them ‘punished’ and send them on their way.
Weasley manages to resume cursing him after a moment, but her words are punctuated by the snap of his hips rocking her against the desk roughly. Fuck - you, damn - you to - hell you - fucking - bastard - troll arsed - spawn of a - boggart -
And then her words falter, her breath hitches, and he’s horribly aware suddenly that the fight has gone out of her, and she’s crying as he fucks her. She’s given up, and fuck if he doesn’t feel like a beast for enjoying the way her sobs feel good - the way her body shudders and she squeezes around his cock with every sharp movement of his hips.
She can’t give up - not now, not with Longbottom gazing vacantly at nothing while Bellatrix screams out her orgasm, not when Lovegood has been beaten into submission, blood smearing her skin where MacNair’s teeth have bitten too deeply - and blood on her thighs, too; either MacNair was needlessly violent in raping her, or she was a virgin.
His conscience stabs him, and it takes all his willpower to keep moving, keep thrusting into the tight grasping heat of Ginevra’s body which feels so good even though he wants to vomit. Instead, he braces his hands so he can lean over and purr into her ear, “Giving up so soon, Miss Weasley? So content to just - take it? I could impregnate you right now - you could be heavy with my child when Potter returns for you. And he will - his little ploy to break up with you fooled no-one, much less the Dark Lord. Will you tell him how meekly you spread your legs for my cock?”
The words are like poison, they make him burn with shame - or it could be that he feels tension coiling in his groin. He’s almost there, so close to being done with this horrible farce, and it’s made easier when Weasley thrashes beneath him. She almost manages to elbow his nose, but her body tightens in all kinds of delightful ways, and she’s already so tight and hot, so young and nubile -
He tangles one hand in her long red hair, so like Lily’s, and pins her to the desk, pounds into her with a snarl that becomes a shout as she writhes and shrieks at him, revived by his poisonous words into something sounding like a banshee. And then, thank Merlin, he’s coming - grinding against her as he spills himself, legs trembling and face slack with pleasure.
She seems to realize it’s over too, and she shudders and makes a sound like a dying animal, and then she tries to twist away, while he’s still coming down from his orgasm.
It would have worked - it almost did work, except the pleasure is purely physical - his mind is crawling with shame and self-loathing - and he manages to drag her back over his desk by her hair and spank her - one hard slap across her white shapely backside, and she sobs and clutches at her hair. “Please,” she begs, “you’ve - you’ve had your fun, let m-me go.”
His handprint blooms red on her bum, and he can see semen beginning a slow seep from between her folds. His seed. He swallows back bile, and tries to keep a severe, harsh expression on his face. “It would be such a shame if you stopped fighting, Ginevra,” he says mockingly, but he hopes - somehow - the message in his words, both now and earlier, somehow reach her through the hate she must feel towards him. “I would hate to bore my colleagues.”
He tightens his fingers in her hair, but this time, he shoves her off his desk, and she sprawls in a tangle of limbs near Luna. “Now, as - pregnancies are forbidden at Hogwarts, Miss Weasley, you will escort your two friends to the Hospital Wing and ask the Matron for a potion to ensure there are no - unwanted offspring. And let me be clear -”
He doesn’t mean to say it. He really doesn’t. But there’s a desperate, needy, lonely part of him that yearns for absolution and forgiveness. “Should I ever again catch you stealing or trespassing where you are not allowed, I will not be as lenient as I was this time. Had dear Bella and MacNair had their way, you would never again leave this room. Am I understood?”
But there’s no understanding in their eyes - not in the smoldering hate in Ginevra’s eyes, or the teary pain in Lovegood’s eyes, or the blank staring horror in Longbottom’s eyes. Understanding his words, but not his meaning.
“Bella, off him already. If you’ve permanently broken him, you can rake the manure in the greenhouses,” he snarls, “he’s an imbecile but he was good for something, at least!”
Bellatrix sneers and blows him a kiss, but they leave through the Floo - finally - and then he just has to deal with the trio. Except his head is pounding, and he’s still standing there with his cock hanging out of his trousers, and he badly - desperately - needs to expel the contents of his stomach.
“Well? Get out of here,” he tells them harshly. He has to be cruel; he can’t be kind. He doesn’t dare. It would break him, and he doesn’t dare break, not yet. He sneers at them coldly as he tucks himself back into his trousers and straightens his clothing nonchalantly as if he rapes his students every day. “You’re bleeding on the carpet, Miss Lovegood. And take your drooling friend with you, unless he wishes to become a permanent statue in the greenhouses.”
Lovegood whimpers and limps as she stands. It takes both her and Ginevra together to pull Longbottom to his feet; once up, he follows them mechanically as they tug on his hands, shooting hateful and painful glances his way.
And then finally - sweet, merciful Merlin, finally, they are gone, and he can grasp his wand and throw up privacy and silencing spells and ward spells until nothing can get in or out.
When it’s as safe as he can make it, he collapses into a chair. Not - not the headmaster’s chair. He doesn’t deserve that seat; he’s a monster, a rapist.
He sits in the squashy chair Bellatrix had raped Neville in, and hunches over and buries his face in his hands. His cock is still hard and aching from the potion, the room smells like sex, and before he can stop his breath hitches, and then he sobs once. Just once; he’s an agent, a spy; he’s not allowed to have weaknesses, not allowed to break down and fall apart. Too much depends on him, but sometimes he slips when it’s too much to bear, if he's alone.
A moment goes by, and another, and another, a cascade of whispering seconds and minutes marching by, and then he straightens, eyes red but face dry of tears.
Potter will kill him. He’s sure of it now; someday, Potter will find him, and kill him, but that day is not today.