By Bernice

Inspired by McKay's "In A Delicate Way".  You must read this fic first to understand Devotion
Pairing: Snape/Voldemort
Date: 25 March 2002


He loved Lord Voldemort.

He had no choice.

Voldemort knew when someone lied. He knew when one of his Death Eaters was disloyal. The only way to survive was to love him truly, honestly, deeply. And Snape did. With all of his heart he knelt at his Lord's feet and loved him.

His eyes misted over with adoration at a touch, a gesture, a word. The Lord put his fingers in Snape's mouth and Snape suckled like a babe at the breast, the sour taste of death nothing but pure ambrosia to his palate. Voldemort's tongue forked and flickered against his own, and he'd groan, overwhelmed by the serpent's kiss. He'd lift his robe and spread his legs and take the lord unto himself, an ecstasy upon him as he writhed and thrashed, impaled by power and lust, desire and ambition, all that was dark and beautiful in the living embodiment of the house of Slytherin.

Then he'd go back to Hogwarts, the Lord's touch still branding his skin, the Lord's seed still held within, and betray all his secrets to Dumbledore. The forked tongue would be his own as he divulged all of the secrets so trustingly given over to him. Dumbledore, soft and smiling, the benign face, twinkling eyes and sweets that disguised a core of steel, who demanded the deception and gave no love in return. No love like that given by Voldemort. Only tolerance, second chances stained with death, vague promises of absolution.

And after that, when Snape slunk down to his dungeons he'd touch himself, and remember the Lord's touch, now stained by vile untruths and the feelings of revulsion and self-loathing he could not allow expression at any other time. He remembered the agonies of being pierced by fangs, scratched by sharp claw-like nails, he remembered the slithering inside of soft warm dry scales; scales that caught against delicate membranes. He remembered the Lord's amusement at the new 'toy' Snape had presented for his pleasure. He remembered how the Lord had taken the first taste of virginal blood, laughing cruelly at Snape's hiss of pain as he accepted Snape's gift of love, and Snape found his climax again, alone on his dark sheets.

In the cool morning he didn't know of which he was more ashamed, his love of the Lord, which was true and pure when they were together, or his betrayal, when he knew that if he had remained loyal, Voldemort now would rule the world, both of them side-by-side, King and consort. He often had no clear vision of why he kept up the deception and came back to Dumbledore, with his mouth dripping venom night after night, but only knew that this was the way it had to be. He had no choice.

The offering he'd made to Voldemort the night before ached, still, when it should no longer even exist, and he dragged himself once again to Madam Pomfrey, for yet another round of humiliation and discomfort.

"Congratulations, Professor, you're pregnant."

He put his hand over his stomach. Was it his imagination, or did a serpent already squirm in his belly?

He loved the child.

He had no choice.


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