Title: Nothing a Good Imperius Wouldn't Solve

Author: afterthree

Rating: R, for mature themes

Summary: "Snape has nearly gotten used to dealing with the darkness creeping sullenly through the back of his head." The tempting of Severus Snape.

Author's Note: Um…. It's not the darkest piece of fanfic you'll ever read, but it's definitely not fluffy stuff. Written for omniocular's January Challenge, prompt #86, he Imperius Curse.

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It's Rabastan who says it, but the who isn't the part that stays with him because any of them might have said it; it's just Rabastan who happens to say it first.

It's nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve.

Snape won't remember who brought it up or who started it. Someone caught him staring at the back of her head or noticed his white-knuckled grip on the bottle of butterbeer as bloody fucking Potter lent over to touch her shoulder and whisper into her ear.

Christ, not fucking Evans again–

– won't even look at him now–

– Snape's muddy fancy–

– Potter's latest conquest–

– look at him twitch to get under the Head Mudblood's skirt–

And then Rabastan, smirking lewdly and peering over his shoulder at her as she gets up and follows Potter out, hand in bloody fucking hand: It's nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve, you know.

They laugh serrated Slytherin laughs Snape only half-hears, too distracted by the simultaneous feeling of his stomach lurching in disgust and his heart pounding enthusiastically in his chest as a voice in the back of his head asks why, why, why he'd never thought of it before.

It is nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve.

Rabastan's words follow him the rest of the day, clinging and whispering darkly at dinner whenever he dares to sneak a glance at her from across the Great Hall. He tracks her voice, his ears filtering the breathy sound of her laughter from the chaotic thrum of dinner chatter, his brain amplifying it until she is the only thing he can hear.

Well. Her, and the silky smooth sound of his own voice whispering it's nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve.

There is something bitter in his mouth, but whether it's adrenalin or bile he can't tell, and he has never been more conscious of the powerful weight of his wand in his pocket.

Snape practices the curse that night on mice in the courtyard, becoming thoroughly and intimately familiar with the warm tingle of it in his arm as he orders the mice one by one into the eager clutches of the caretaker's cat. There is a thrill in mastering another creature this completely, in making it do something so entirely contrary to its nature, that greatly satisfies him; with one simple word it walks passively to its death under his command, and it is impossible just then to stop him from thinking about what other things the Imperius curse might be useful for.

He thinks about power, and about wealth. About walking into Gringotts and being escorted into the vault of his choosing.

He thinks for a long while about vengeance on those who have embarrassed and hurt him the most: Black … his father … Potter.

It's all nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve.

He tries very hard not to think about Lily Evans, and nearly succeeds.

He doesn't succeed late that night in bed when he's drifting in the space between two states of consciousness. It's not terribly unusual for him to think of her as he falls asleep – he often dreams of pale skin offset by red curls, of soft hands and giddy whispers and his name on her lips – but this time her bright green eyes are blank-gray and the voice in his ear is tinted with a dull monotone.

In the morning he wakes to an uneasy hollowness in his chest and a hard-on that makes him wince. He tries to will it away, but his seventeen year old body will not be defeated by something as flimsy as will he locks himself in the dorm bathroom and does what he has to, trying not to remember the way she looked past him as if he wasn't even there – as if she wasn't there.

It doesn't work. Not until with a frustrated cry he surrenders himself to the thought he's been trying to avoid thinking, to it's nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve, and then it's as easy as breathing to finish.

Avery is banging on the door to be let in, and Snape presses his forehead against the cool stone wall, trying to steady himself. Shame sinks into his stomach, and he throws up what little supper he'd managed to eat the night before.

Weeks pass and the words linger, ruining every sight or sound of her, every mention of her name or implication of her person. Everywhere she is, the hiss of nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve goes with her, and Snape does his best to avoid her wherever possible, if only to escape that slippery, suggestive voice.

It is worst during Potions, when he must endure a long hour of her at the same work table. He is close enough to count the freckles on her cheeks and smell the clean honeysuckle scent of her soap. He is keenly aware of her every move and his fingers twitch against the smooth, polished wood of a wand he has difficulty putting down.

She catches him sometimes, looks up and for a moment sees the dark, predatory shine of his eye before he turns back to peeling or cutting or skinning. He feels her draw further away from him then, pulling the space between them apart at the seams, and all he can think during those times is it's nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve.

His dreams have become the devil's playthings; he is either unable or – worse yet – unwilling to stop them. Snape has spent hours practicing the Imperius curse on the rodents and rabbits on the grounds, and more time than that in his sleep. The warm tickle of it skimming down his arm he comes to associate with another kind of warm slide, and the vacant, empty expression he sees behind his eyelids is often more vivid than the deep frowns that are all she offers him in class. His stomach grows used to daily servings of odium and ceases to trouble him, which only troubles him more.

The year continues, and so does it's nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve. It is after exams, when all that's left of the last days of youth are a few unfilled and lazy summer afternoons, and Snape has nearly gotten used to dealing with the darkness creeping sullenly through the back of his head.

He finds her quite by accident, late one night as she patrols a deserted corridor near the astronomy tower. The castle is sleeping, and Snape is immediately aware of their isolation in a way that both repulses and excites him. His hand darts on its own to his pocket and his wand inside it, holding it with the same white-knuckled grip he once held a butterbeer bottle.

She is studying a painting and hasn't seen him, doesn't even know he's there. The word he so desperately aches to use eases up into the back of his throat, pulled by the rough, eager call of nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve … Imperius wouldn't solve … Imperius … He can taste the word on his tongue, can practically feel the warmth dripping down his wand arm from the sheer intent alone, and for a split second he wonders if it's even possible to cast a non-verbal Unforgivable.

She turns, then, just as he's almost completely lost to his demons, and he is frozen, immobile with the word as yet unsaid. Lily's eyes flicker from surprise to annoyance to suspicion; her fingers brush the pocket where her own wand is stored, as an animal sensing a moment of fight or flight.

Lily speaks, her voice laced tightly with apprehension: "What do you want, Severus?"

He falters, confronted by her stern face and piercing eyes that so sharply contrast the images of her he's been entertaining these long months, and a sickly sweet voice carefully reminds him that it's nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve.

The old nausea stirs in his stomach and takes him by surprise, a gut reaction to the thought of those bright, lively eyes darkened into mindless submission. The word trickles back into the depths of his gut under her stare, and the wand feels too heavy for his fingers to hold; his eyes widen with the weight of what he's almost done, of where he's nearly gone.

Snape flees. Runs as far and as fast as he can from her and the reflection of himself that sickens him, out the castle doors and down into the grounds to the lake. Rather than freshen him, the thick, hot summer air presses him in at all sides until he's forced to stop by the lake, gasping and clutching his chest.

And still – still – in the midst of his deepest moment of disgust and mortification, some small, detestable, contaminated piece of him still mutters regretfully: it's nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve, you know.

He retches like he did after that first night, shuddering and shaking helplessly. It would be easier, he thinks, if it really were nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve, if this thing in his chest could be so easily dealt with and cast aside like the expressionless shadow of his dreams. Simpler, and cleaner, and easy.

But it's not, and it never will be, nothing a good Imperius wouldn't solve.

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