Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Harry Potter Series, which solely belong to J.K. Rowling, et al, but that hasn't stopped me from writing about them.

Warning: This story contains the themes of sex, shota/chanslash, and male/male relationships, a.k.a. slash/yaoi. If any of these may offend you, then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive, then I have to say it is your own fault. This scene is of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write it as tastefully as my ability allows.

Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don't have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don't accept flames: 1) they generally include an attack on the author's character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, 2) not only are they childish, but they make the writer of them sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, 3) flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, 4) if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, 5) you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, 6) it won't do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don't I care, but I won't listen.

Oedipean Revolution


Bend my will unto an untold fortune

Find beneath my feet a thousand grains of sand

Break the bar of my fragile human existence

Free the weeping martyr I've hidden

Breathe in my soul and exhale

Forge the illusionary hopes of this world

Bleed into the womb of eternity

~Unfulfilled, Akiko Pirscher


One has to wonder, if Laius had not left his son to die in a neighboring kingdom, would the Oracle's prophecy have come true? Would Oedipus still have killed his father and married his mother? Is fate an inescapable human condition, prison? I wonder this as the bars of my own fate slam down around me. I believe in making destiny, in viciously twisting the arm of fate to fulfill my ends. Yet…it seems as though by trying to move against this sometimes malevolent mistress, one simply invites her dire predictions and a rather sticky end.

Apparently, and I do scoff at this, fate has determined that my end will be had at the hands of some young, insignificant boy. He will be the 'savior of the wizarding world' and he will be the one to defeat this epoch's greatest master of the dark arts. In his infant hands rests the incorporeal key to my everlasting destruction. Harry James Potter is destined by the capricious hand of fate to be my Paris and I his Achilles.

My first instinct is to erase this brazen creature from the Earth. A corpse is not likely to be a threat, besides the offensive stench of decay and the vermin that feast upon such things. However, is this not the very same path that lead to Laius' downfall? Even in the muggles' vaunted Bible has such an act merely contributed to the prophecy. The Pharaoh ordered the sons of the Hebrews to be thrown into the muddy waters of the Nile to die in order to circumvent the presage that one of the sons would be the downfall of his kingdom.

However, what if I did not pursue this violent, and possibly detrimental, course of action? What if, instead, I did the opposite of extirpating him? What would fate have to say then? Or is my end inevitable?


I shall play this wicked game with fate, but I will play by rules that I set down. It is time to perform something of an experiment. Time to test if the 'will to purpose' truly exists.

*          *          *

Fate watches me with calculating eyes. This entity shuffling a deck between a withered hand and a youthful hand is not the thrice crowned goddesses of fate. No, she is simply a twisted vision who enjoys a good game of chance—also known as gambling for the less cultured and obstinately ignorant.

The foolish witch, called Lily Evans and then Lily Potter during her life, lies slumped before her squalling infant. Her green eyes are cloudy with death. The strangest expression of shock stretches her face. Honestly, you would think she would have expected this even before I uttered the curse. The human will to survive more often than not leads to the most spectacular feats of denial. She was willing to sacrifice herself for her blood-heir, but that did not mean she desired death any more than I do.

Orphaned due to my malicious machinations, the infant screams till his wrinkled face is a patchwork of reds and whites. Small eyes screw up until only the thinnest slices of green can be seen. I point my wand at him. Now the moment has come.

Fate's hands still. She withdraws a card and lays it face down. One grayed eyebrow quirks up. Her youthful hand lifts a corner of the battered card in preparation for its revealing. Her withered hand taps the deck impatiently.

Laius attempted to kill his son to prevent a blood filled prophecy. Said prediction came true. Laius became his own downfall. If he had not acted in such a way, if he had kept his son…But all predictions seem to be based upon a human's need to survive, to live. Oedipus' father wanted to live. So much so that he sacrificed his only child to the elements. He loved his own existence above all else. And he died.

I lower my wand. I will not play this part in this deadly cycle. However, as I cannot kill the boy, I cannot allow Dumbledore and his ilk to take him. What to do? What will become of the son of James and Lily Potter? What will happen to my Paris?

Fate turns the card over and it is blank.

*          *          *

"Daddy?" Holding a battered gray bunny—I suspect the creature was once white—the small boy stands uncertainly in the doorway. Large green eyes watch me uncertainly behind a pair of thick glasses, which I find particularly endearing and so have made no effort to correct his vision. The silk of his pajamas whispers sweetly as he shifts his weight. At the age of thirteen, Harry Paris Riddle—yes, I changed his name—still looks no older than seven. He barely graces five feet.

"What is it, lovely?" The pretty boy casts a hesitant look at my severe guest and bites his pouting lower lip.

"I had a nightmare," the boy whispers bowing his head with delightful shame. My guest barely restrains a snort of derision. I cut him a warning look only to find his face a blank mask. Yes, Severus Snape is an artful actor. He is exquisitely talented at what he does, but he is trapped by his need to survive.

"Come here." Obediently the boy pads across the thick pile of the carpet and climbs up onto my lap. "Now tell me about your dream." I have found that Harry's soporific wanderings have a disconcertingly accurate connection to reality, most of the time.

"It was scary." He burrows against my chest, warm fingers slipping beneath the cloth of my shirt. "I dreamt I was alone. You weren't there." Murmuring soothing words, I rub his back gently.

"Now, lovely, you know I wouldn't leave you." He nods against my chest.

"But you have."

"And I've always come back." Slipping a finger beneath his chin, I tilt his head up. His eyes shine with unshed tears behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "Always." With reverent delicacy I kiss his pink lips. A soft sigh tickles the inside of my mouth as he acquiesces with such pretty haste. As always, he tastes of chocolate and innocence. He is truly an endless fount of purity. Mewling, he presses into me as I slide a hand up his inner thigh.

"Daddy…" A choked sob abandons his perfect mouth as I break the kiss. He pushes his face against my neck and whimpers. With deliberate slowness I stroke the burgeoning erection hidden by the thin pajama bottoms.

I watch Severus' face carefully while the boy begs and pleads and writhes under my hand. He shows no emotion on the harsh planes and angles of his countenance, but the dark fires in his eyes tell me all I care to know. He is repulsed by what he sees, what I am doing to this pretty little boy who calls me 'daddy', but he is also inexorably drawn to the sight. I daresay he can quite clearly picture himself coaxing whispered screams from Harry's lovely kiss-darkened mouth. He wants to be the one sliding a hand down the boy's pants to play with the heated, turgid flesh.

I have been tempted in the past to allow one of my followers a brief interlude with the child. Watching someone else tease and take him is something of an erotic fantasy of mine. Unfortunately for everyone involved, I am a possessive bastard—quite literally as well.

The boy's thin hips jerk spasmodically against my moving hand. Small, perfect teeth sink into the flesh of my shoulder as he attempts to muffle his cries. The plastic eyes of the bunny dig into my chest along with his small fingers. His body arches upward, held stiff in strangely ecstatic parody of rigor mortis, and then his wet seed drenches my hand. He slumps, boneless, in my lap. Carefully I remove my hand from his pajama bottoms. He looks up at me with those brilliant green eyes, glasses askew upon his delicately feminine face.

With obedient relish he licks clean my proffered hand. That small pink tongue dips in and out of his mouth as he reclaims his essence. Severus' dark eyes flicker between this innocent action and my face. There is no need to describe the state of my own arousal. I suspect his is most discomfiting.

"You should go back to bed, lovely," I tell the boy lazily sucking upon my cleaned fingers. He releases the digit under his ministration and seems on the verge of objecting; no doubt he feels himself quite ready to stay up and listen to us grown ups.

"Yes, daddy." He kisses my chin and slides off my lap. His bare feet make no sound as they hit the floor.

"Don't forget to say goodbye to your Uncle Severus." The boy blinks at me and nods. Severus almost manages to conceal the grimace of distaste. He has never quite approved of my calling my followers 'Uncle-this-or-that' in regards to Harry, my pretty little Paris.

*          *          *

I can taste the pulse of my heart in my mouth as the pretty boy approaches me. My master does not share him, much to the unhappiness of many of his followers, but he does seem to enjoy offering these tantalizing and twisted tastes of the child. These obscenely innocent kisses are both a privilege and a punishment, of which I have suffered many times.

In my mind I know he is thirteen, but he looks no older than seven; he acts no older than seven. I have inquired of my lord if the boy's mind is sound. He has assured me that it is. I cannot help but doubt that as this all-too innocent creature drags a much loved gray rabbit by its tattered ear. Sometimes I even find myself doubting my lord's sanity, though I've never dared to question him on that. Such an act is suicide and I very much want to live.

His green eyes pierce me. He's smiling with a blend of uncertainty and afterglow. His round cheeks still retain the pink of arousal. He is a sight and my lord knows this. The dark-haired devil smiles ever so slightly.

The small hand fisted about the bunny's ear rests on my knee. It looks ethereally pale against the darkness of my slacks. He has not seen the sun often. My lord prefers to keep him indoors during the day to protect his complexion, or so he claims. The other hand is on my other knee. Without looking away he crawls onto my lap, hands digging into my flesh. Sharp knees stab into me and I restrain a flinch.

Those pink lips, reddened from my master's dark kisses, claim my mouth. Green eyes evanesce behind a screen of translucently white lids and sooty lashes. The very essence of innocence spills across me on bittersweet tides. My fingers itch to touch the smooth flesh, but that is forbidden. All I am allowed is the taste of the child's small lips against mine and the barest brush of a wet tongue at the threshold of my own mouth. This debauched angel has no right to taste of chocolate and moonlight and laughter. His moves are artless and oh-so enticing.

He pulls back and is all soft, unconcerned smiles.

"Good night, Uncle Sev'us," the boy murmurs sweetly. He destroys my name with guileless cheer. From his pink lips it sounds like 'Save Us.' If only I could…


O generations of men, how I

count you as equal with those who live

not at all!

~Oedipus Rex, Sophocles