Sew Me Shut


Summary: When the Dursley's finally take their abuse too far, Harry suddenly finds himself without a voice, and Voldemort suddenly finds himself with a teen that seems to be the only one who understands.

Warning: SLASH, aka BOYxBOY aka GAY. Possible spelling mistakes and such.


He had spoken out again.

Harry always forgot the number one rule in the Dursley house; no speaking. He never use to of course, but he had gotten so used to the power of simply speaking out, that he had forgotten where he was for a moment.

He would never again forget, he thought in an oddly detached way as he fingered the newly healed rigged scar on his neck. The argument had been pointless; he had been rash and hasty and he had paid the price.

A single harsh swipe was all it took for his family to take away his voice; to take away his defiance, regardless of whether or not the defiance was only an imagined one. He had been unconscious for awhile, how long he didn't really know. It could have been days and it really wouldn't have made any difference. No, it wouldn't have mattered because his family had clearly left him to die. He had already searched the house, and had found it empty. They had left, and somehow he couldn't find it in himself to care or be surprised.

Of course, he thought it was rather stupid to leave your obviously known nephew's dead body in the upstairs bedroom when you clearly ran away. It made the whole thing rather suspicious, and if it had been anyone other than Harry the police would have been finding a dead corpse in an abandoned house with clear suspects: The Dursley's.

Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on the view), Harry never said that the Dursleys were a particularly smart bunch.

But that all hardly mattered now. He felt so dull, so emotionally drained that Harry had barely moved from his spot on the bloodied floor. He had no money (that he could access), no voice, no strength, no food, and no family. And he certainly wasn't going to get any kind of support from Dumbledore considering the old wizard had shipped him off to the Dursleys right after he had witnessed his godfather's death.

Harry could feel his eyes water but knew no tears would fall. He had cried too much for them to fall so easily now. It wasn't that he was sad for Sirius death, not really. He was more upset over the possibility of someone caring for him. He knew the ex-prisoner did, but that care was established with a one-year old Harry and not with the teen he had grown to be. No, he wasn't sad for the end of the very brief relationship they had been able to establish; he was sad over the possibilities Sirius could have opened. He could have lived with him; could have gotten away from the Dursleys. He could have had some kind of support; someone to love him and show him what family really acted like.

But then again, who knew, maybe the man had been too wrapped around Dumbledore's wrinkly finger to do much for him anyway.

He sighed and winced, massaging his rigged scar and trying to lessen the discomfort that still lingered even after his magic's crude healing. If it had been done by a healer it probably would have had barley a scar, but his magic and himself had been desperate and he had been losing blood too quickly to care much about his vocal cords or scars. No, this patch job was simply directed towards saving his life and it had done just that.

His expression grew dark as he thought of his lost voice and he couldn't help the crooked smile that appeared on his face as a response. Did it really change much? He had never truly had a voice to begin with. No one ever listened to it at least, and he had never been able to make decisions involving his own life anyway. No, that had never been up to him; none of his involvement in the war had been his decision and it seemed no one really cared who made the decisions as long as he made sure to kill Voldemort.

He sighed again, more slowly this time to ensure less pain and carefully rose himself from the crimson splattered floor. He wavered and stilled himself with a hand to the wall so he could catch his breath. He couldn't remember ever being so weak and he grimaced at the thought. Breathing slowly, he trudged his way to the bathroom and peeled away his clothing. As always, he refused to look at his own body, never willing to glance at the evidence of his weakness and his family's love and climbed into the bathtub with difficulty. His eyes stayed glued to the bottom as it filled with warm water and he grimaced as it washed over his both new and odd wounds, the warmth seeping into his aching muscles.

It took awhile but he soon relaxed, leaning back and closing his eyes as he simply allowed the gentle dripping of the facet relax him. He tried not to focus on the otherwise silent home, or the tinted water.

It only reminded him of what he lost, and what he had never had to begin with.


: You are awfully silent tonight, Master. :

The shadowed man said nothing in response, only continued to peer out of the window with a blank expression on his youthful face.

His mind was occupied with thoughts of the Potter boy, though his thoughts rarely were missing the boy these days. He had a connection with the boy, this was undeniable. But the true origins of such a connection, and the extent to it were an unknown factor for the Dark Lord, and he so did loathe mysteries.

He knew he could send something similar to visions to the boy, as he had been experimenting with it only a few weeks ago. Of course, it had been a rather successful trial that had led to the scorned Black heir's death. That hadn't really been planned, and he had been rather irked at Bellatrix's lack of thought and her loss of sanity. Of course, she never really was particularly sane, but at least before Azkaban she had been able to follow a damned order. Now she simply cackled about, shooting killing curses every which way and he found himself spending more time shooting Crucio's at her than giving orders.

He sighed, rubbing at his temple as his eyes caught his reflection on the glass window. He couldn't even find it in himself to be proud of his appearance, even with considering how much of a difference it was from his other disgusting form. It had worked rather wonderfully for the first few months after his resurrection, considering his little followers were so frightened by the ungodly appearance that they tripped over themselves to do his bidding. But rationally he knew he couldn't go on with his appearance resembling a deformed humanoid snake. It may have struck fear into those that followed him, but it wouldn't do for him to appear to his political allies looking less-than human. Of course, he could simply ignore the gatherings with his potential and current allies internationally, but that would strain the contracts and cause them to doubt their workings with him. So no, he could not go on in such a form. To solve the problem, he had had Severus create a potion that would revert him back to his twenty-five year body. It had worked rather brilliantly as well.

His brown hair flowed down to his chin in elegant waves, framing his sharp and handsome face. His skin was pale and unblemished, his eyes staying the eerie crimson they had become after the resurrection. While his original color had been a pale blue, he was happy with the change. No reminder of his parents was a good reminder.

He sighed again, looking dispassionately at the wine glass clutched in his pale hand. He had been rather lost in thoughts of a possible raid on Diagon Alley when a rather sharp pain made its way to the front of his mind. His grip grew tight until the fragile glass broke in his hand, the liquid running in small rivers along his fingers as he glared at the window.

Unfortunately, it had been yet another side effect of the resurrection; the strengthening of the bond between him and golden boy that was. Though he didn't know why the brat was in so much pain he did his best to push the sharp headache to the back of his mind. While this usually worked (and he had done it many times in these last few months) it didn't this time and he found himself clenching his jaw as the pain grew. He hissed in annoyance and summoned a bottle of pain reliever to him before gulping it down in one. It dulled the sharpness, but the pain was still present and that fact made him both annoyed and intrigued.

He had taken an extra strength potion, and if the pain was still prominent then that meant the boy was in three times the pain. He wondered, not for the first time, what the damn boy was doing. He sighed, sending a pulse of magic into his wand so as to summon a Death Eater to gather the boy wonder.

He had a feeling he was going to regret this, he thought as he summoned another glass of wine to his hand.


For once in a long while his night had been relatively silent.

While there were a few of his snakes still residing in the castle, none had found the need to seek him out as of yet so for now he had some peace. Dumbledore had been suspiciously quiet as well. He had become so used to the old man's hovering that it felt even more silent in his personal rooms.

He loved it.

Of course, he knew that the silence would never last.

So, with an urge to get some work done on the potion he was developing, set to work with a quill and a leather bound book, writing down possible combinations of the most recently discovered potions ingredients. He had been making wonderful progress too, when his arm burned as if it was on fire.

With a hiss of pain and a sigh of helplessness, he gathered his dark as night robed and placed his silver mask upon his tired face.

And with an echoing crack, he was gone.



Severus tensed as he appeared before the Dark Lord, and he stiffly knelt to the hard floor. He screwed his eyes shut, forcing his body to not shudder in fear as the Dark Lord's low voice called him and his magic hummed through the air in angry and annoyed waves. He sank lower to the ground, forcing his mind to shut down and his face to be blank of all emotions. Emotions wouldn't do in front of The Dark Lord. They were unacceptable, and punishable by death. Or worse, torture.

… These thoughts weren't exactly helping him, were they?

Quickly shoving the thoughts away, he lowered his head slowly, his forehead barely touching the cold floor below him.

"Milord." he said simply, waiting for further instructions, or approval to speak.

There was a brief pause, and Severus forced himself to calm. He hadn't done anything to warrant his anger, or at least he thought he hadn't. He played the spy perfectly, gained the children's trust accordingly, made allies willingly, and created potions efficiently. Everything that was asked of him he did, without protest or backtalk. It was rather pathetic of course, but he'd rather live, and his self preservation often kicked up when asked to do something for the Dark Lord.

He briefly remembered when the Dark Lord had asked Severus rather than demanded, and when he confided in Severus rather than silenced. But, with a rather violent push of his shields, Severus thought of those memories no more. Because that was no longer the Dark Lord. The one before him was the man he had evolved into, and he found himself unable to compare the two.

He no longer knew this man, and with that final thought, he focused once more.

"I have a new mission for you, my servant."

Severus immediately froze, slowly lifting his head. He blanched. The Dark Lord had a glint in his eyes. It was of annoyance, but there was an underlining of determination and anxiety. He ignored his findings, knowing such feelings of worry would never be present in the thing before him. The man he once knew was no more.

So, he simply did the one thing he had taught himself to do long ago. The one thing he knew to do to avoid physical pain.

"Yes, Milord. What is it you ask of your faithful servant?"


Fantastic. Fate was a total bitch, wasn't it?

Now, one may ask why Severus Snape was cursing in such a colorful way. Well, really, it wasn't too hard to understand. His Lord gave him a mission. A bloody wonderful mission at that.

Capture Harry Potter.

'Sure, why not! Let me just walk right in and have my body mangled from the wards. And while I'm at it, run in front of the many Albus-obsessed gits watching their precious golden boy and flash my dark mark at them!'

Sighing, he gathered himself once again. Slowing backing into a shadow cast by an old tree, he watched with black-as-night eyes, scanning the area.

One, two, three….three wizards guarding the boy.

He felt his eyebrow rise a bit. The wizards were not even order members either. Did Albus truly think that they could stop anyone like himself or The Dark Lord from just taking the boy? Ah, wait a minute… four. But the fourth watcher didn't even count as anything! The woman was a damned squib.

Snorting lightly, he crouched low, silently gliding along the shadows of the sidewalk, and around the trees, black eyes darting to and fro each figure for any sign of movement. He narrowed his eyes at the loudly snoring man crouched by the fence and poorly hidden in the bushes. Yeah, no one was going to catch him he thought rather blankly, almost not believing the old coot would really send these people out to watch the Potter boy.

He sighed silently and made his way slowly to the house, carefully making his way to the wards. He stopped silently near tthe side of the house, right outside of the wards set in place. Crouching down to kneel on the ground and ignoring the dirt smearing onto his robes, he lowered his hand slowly, lying palm down to the ground. Words spilled from his lips in rapid, soft murmurs and he watched with careful eyes as small sparks of light shot out of his hand and slithered on the ground taking the shape of a small snakes as they swiftly and silently made their way to the barrier before ramming into the ward. His eyes scanned the premise once again, surprisingly disappointed to find no one actually noticed the small intrusion before looking back at the progress his magic had made with the wards.

He blinked, his eyes focusing on the ward once more. His eyes widened before going back to his normal narrowed gaze. He had broken the ward already but... How? He knew there was a great amount of magic in the wards, and that the ward itself was working, the magic itself just wasn't portesting his invasion llike he had thought it would. It was practically letting him break them!

Calling back the small light shaped snakes, he felt as they returned and seeped into his hands and closed his eyes briefly, trying to identify the ward. His eyes shot open, eyeing the ward with a critical eye. A sacrifice ward? How in the world...?

His eyes widened a bit before he shook the reaction away, telling himself to think of it latter. He had a mission to finish and complete after-all. He slowly reached for his wand in his holster on his left forearm and took it out, casting the strongest silencing charm he knew. Slipping it back into place, he closed his eyes.

And without a sound, he disappeared.



He wondered if he would ever get use to such silence, such lifelessness. He figured he wouldn't. But at the same time, he knew he wouldn't ever get use to the emotions playing and taunting him with their mere presence within his mind.

Anger. Well, that one was a usual.

Annoyance. Yes, he knew this one just as well. It's practically impossible to not know its familiar head-ache inducing presence when you have followers known as Death Eaters. Of just Bellatrix. Yeah, definitely Bellatrix.

Anxiousness. Not something he was particularly unfamiliar with, but something he definitely was annoyed with.

Concern... He cut off his own thoughts with an aggravated sneer.

They were all rather strong emotions and he found himself highly annoyed by their presence. Growling lightly, he rose his glass quickly to meet his lips and tilted the clear wine glass back, closing his eyes as the sweet taste of red wine flowed down his throat. He opened them, his eyes gleaming as he gazed at the remaining swishing liquid. He found himself comparing it to blood, and he couldn't find it in himself to tear his gaze away from the crystal glass and the crimson liquid that rippled at the bottom. It looked so much like blood, like his eyes.

Unwillingly a picture of blood, seeping from a lightening bolt scar and trailing down a youthful face into defiant green eyes entered his mind.

He snapped out of his odd thoughts as a strong but hesitant knock sounded on his door. He waved at the door fluidly, and watched as the door slammed open, revealing the bleeding form of his follower. He couldn't keep his eyebrow from rising in question.

Severus grimaced, surprising Voldemort. The man usually did his best to keep a blank mask in place, so he must be in pain.

"Any problemsss?" he asked in an almost mocking way, a light hissing tone tainting his voice. Such a tone he saved exclusively for his followers. It kept the fear from receding, and it kept their loyalty in check. Severus shivered, but he briefly wondered if it was because of his obvious blood loss or because of his tone.

"N-no Milord." he softly, his voice cracking in pain.

His eyes narrowed in on the small form in his arms. The boy was bleeding as well, or at least was at some point. He could smell it, the iron and metallically smell of blood floated in the air and a small hiss from his familiar confirmed the thought. His skin was a sickly pale, shinning in the dim moonlight that light portions of the darkened room. But the first thing he noticed was the jagged scar along his throat and his eyes narrowed dangerously before continuing with his observations.

Onyx hair fanned over his forehead hiding his famous scar from view and lightly swayed as the potions master struggled to hold him, the tips brushing against his shoulders. Lips slightly open to gain air, and black long lashes brushing against his flawless but pale face. His expression wasn't a peaceful one, or at least not really. He looked guarded in his sleep, and the Dark Lord briefly wondered why the boy seemed more aware and tense in his sleep than in consciousness.

He wasn't beautiful, not really. He was far to sickly looking and the jagged scar along his throat far too ugly for the teen to be classified as beautiful or handsome. But somehow the Dark Lord found himself thinking that the boy wonder had a sort of beauty only ones with a past such as his own could understand. He represented pain and suffering, but a fire and will to survive.

He clenched his jaw at his annoying thoughts and quickly waved Severus away after he took the small form away from him. He ignored the low bow that the other man gave him before limping out of his room. He waved his hand toward the door, not talking his eyes away from the form in his arms as if shut quickly but softly.

He walked gracefully to his large bed, placing the boy on the silk sheets. He gazed at the form for a long while, simply watching as the boy stayed deathly still. It was only when light began to peak through the dark black drapes along the window did he brake from his intense staring.

He cursed his own actions as he stiffly rose and left the room quickly, his thoughts whirling with plans, possibilities, and visions of a black-haired teen.


Just a note: Light-lovers beware, bashing included.


edited: 1/1/15