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The corridor was colder than usual, even for spring. The air clung to Severus’s skin like icewater, soaking through his clothes, numbing his arms and legs as if warning him to turn back. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His feet moved like they no longer belonged to him, each step echoing too loud against the stone floor.
The door ahead was cracked open.
He could already sense him inside.
Lucius.
Severus stepped in slowly, shoulders tense, breath shallow. The torchlight inside flickered along the polished floor, casting long shadows that twisted like tendrils. Lucius stood near the window, hands folded behind his back, as though he had been standing there forever—waiting.
“You took your time,” Lucius said without turning around. His voice was smooth, but laced with something biting. Disapproval. Mockery.
“I…” Severus started, voice too thin, too hoarse.
Lucius turned. His eyes—cold, sharp, and alight with something Severus couldn’t name—locked onto him immediately. “You what? Got lost? Changed your mind?” He stepped forward. “That would be unfortunate.”
Severus felt his back stiffen as Lucius approached. His fingers twitched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He could smell the sharp, metallic scent of the older boy’s cologne, like steel and winter. His instincts screamed for him to run.
Lucius stopped inches away. “Still afraid,” he murmured. “Even after all this time.”
“I’m not—” Severus’s voice cracked. He swallowed hard, humiliated by the tremble in his tone.
“Oh, but you are.” Lucius leaned in, his breath ghosting over Severus’s cheek. “And that’s what makes this so… delicious.”
Severus tried to step back, but Lucius caught his chin in one hand, tilting his face upward, forcing their eyes to meet. His grip was iron beneath the polished elegance of his fingers.
“You think I don’t know what runs through your head every time we’re alone?” Lucius whispered. “That war in you. That little boy screaming to run, while the rest of you just... waits. Stays.”
Severus couldn’t breathe.
“You hate me,” Lucius said flatly. “But not as much as you hate yourself.”
His thumb brushed Severus’s lower lip, slow, calculated. “Because you keep coming back.”
Severus flinched, the shame coiling tighter in his gut. His voice was barely audible. “Please… don’t…”
Lucius tilted his head slightly. “Don’t what? Don’t remind you that no matter how much you squirm or deny or lie to yourself... part of you wants this?”
A sharp breath hitched in Severus’s throat.
“You’re not here because I made you come,” Lucius hissed. “You’re here because deep down, you need someone to decide for you. To control what you don’t know how to hold.”
Lucius released his jaw abruptly, and Severus stumbled slightly, eyes wide and burning. He didn’t fall—but only just.
“Good boy,” Lucius said with a cold smile, watching him like a predator testing the limits of his prey. “Now be still. And listen. Because you’re mine, Severus. And there’s nothing you can do to change that.”
Lucius forcefully kissed Severus. He bruised his lips with the amount of force.
Severus didn’t know how he got back to the dungeons.
His limbs moved on autopilot, legs numb and wooden as he sank onto the cold stone floor of his dormitory. The door clicked shut behind him, muffling the world outside, but nothing could drown out the voice that still echoed in his ears.
"You're mine."
He shivered. Not from the chill, but from the memory—Lucius’s fingers on his skin, the weight of those words, the sheer dominance that left him feeling like a hollowed-out shell. Like something stolen.
He curled in on himself, back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. His robes were still twisted from where Lucius had grabbed him—creased, rumpled, marked. He could smell the remnants of cologne, and it made bile rise in his throat. His lips were bruised. Almost red.
Aleast his robes were put back on. He didn't want to look at his body. He didn't wanna look at himself. He felt disgusted of his own body. He felt tainted.
Why didn’t I stop him?
He had every chance. Every single chance to walk away, to tell someone, to fight.
But he didn’t.
His fists clenched, trembling as his nails dug into the sides of his palms.
Because a part of me didn’t want to.
The thought sent a jolt of revulsion through him. He shoved it down, buried it under layers of shame and fear. He wasn’t like that. He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t—
A strangled sound escaped his throat. It wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite a scream—just raw, broken noise.
He wanted to scrub his skin raw. He wanted to rip the memory from his mind, to burn it out with fire or acid or time.
"You keep coming back."
That truth stung worst of all.
Because no matter how much he told himself it was manipulation, that Lucius had twisted everything—some sick, calculating game—Severus still went.
Still let it happen.
Still couldn’t stop thinking about it.
His eyes stung, but he refused to let the tears fall. Not here. Not now.
Instead, he sat there in the silence, legs trembling, heart hollow, and soul full of splinters.
And in the back of his mind, the voice whispered again.
"Good boy."