Despoiling Harry
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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are
not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner
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copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is
being made from the use of these characters and situations; these
written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the
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authorized materials of these owners.
And Just Plain Wrong
by Amanuensis
Summary: Voldemort has won, and Hogwarts is the Death Eaters'
twisted playground.
Pairings:
Draco/Harry, Lucius/Harry, Snape/Voldemort/Harry, lots of other evil
goings-on
Categories: Dark,
Non-con
Notes:
Written in response to a challenge for hpchan (though not submitted in
time for that fest). "NUMBER THE EIGHTY-THIRD:: Voldemort rules the
W.W. and has his very loyal D.E.'s head Hogwarts. All problem children
are disciplined in several creative ways including forcing previous
teachers or even Dumbledore (under the supervision of Lucius and
Severus) who are now magicless to mete out humiliating punishments.
Tortures to include bare bottomed spankings, feathers, wearing butt
plugs while doing mundane detentions in the nude, animagus
in animal forms torturing naughty children with their tongues and
anything
else kinky and just plain wrong. Key points: Extreme kink. Humiliation.
Rated
NC17. By: Tanya"
Thanks, Tanya! M'twisted little brain wanted something like this.
My worshipful, undying gratitude goes out to Fabula Rasa and Isis,
betas extraordinare who could command blood sacrifices for their
employment. No, really.
*****
". . .not confuse common wormwood and goat's rue. Nineteen."
Thwack.
". . .ah. . .I. . .I will not confuse common wormwood and goat's rue.
Twenty." At last.
Thwack.
". . .hh. . .I will not confuse common wormwood and goat's rue." The
text of Magical Draughts and Potions had wavered a bit -- that
would have been sodding perfect, if he'd let it fall on the very last
one-- but he'd managed to keep it balanced on his head. He had to keep
it there until Snape gave him permission to take it down.
Harry kept his eyes--watering, but unblinking-- fixed straight ahead as
he waited.
"Very well, Mr. Potter," Snape said after an interminable moment; Harry
knew he was waiting to see if that bleeding text would fall after all.
"You
may stand down."
A figure of speech: it meant he could take down the text, and consider
the session over. He tilted his head just enough to let the book slide
down and drop into his hands. He'd been in this position often enough
to have complete faith in his ability to catch the book. He'd better
have; dropping it meant another detention, for disrespect of the class
materials.
He really didn't want another twenty stripes.
Though it was far fewer than he'd been used to receiving from Snape, at
first. He'd become rather skilled at Snape's new version of detentions.
Not that they were designed to be mastered, hardly.
Snape started with twenty stripes of the birch for the infraction. The
textbook had to stay balanced on your head through the whole thing; you
had to keep count, aloud; you had to repeat the infraction aloud at
each one. If you lost
count, forgot to say what you were there for, or the book fell, you got
another
twenty.
This was cumulative.
But it wasn't limitless.
Snape would stop at one hundred strokes per detention, no matter how
many mistakes you made after you'd earned that hundred. While this was
not exactly pleasant, it was an act of mercy that no one had made him
impose; indeed, Harry often wondered if Snape hovered on the edge of too
soft for the
school's administrators, as a result.
And though Snape's rules weren't fair, they weren't insurmountable
either. Witness the twenty stripes, done and over with, that Harry had
just received. Eighty less than he'd been routinely getting when this
whole thing began six
months ago.
It had been a bitch and a half, learning, in his spare time, how to
keep a textbook balanced on his head, and keep from flinching so that
it didn't fall, no matter how painful that bloody birch was. And it
wasn't only the pain; the force of the blow on the backs of your thighs
or arse was enough to jerk you into moving, sending the book tumbling.
Even though Harry knew perfectly well that Snape wasn't using the birch
nearly as hard as he might.
Which still surprised him. He'd fancied that, when he'd started showing
improvement in his ability to follow Snape's rules, and had been
receiving
less than a hundred stripes each time, Snape would put more arm into
it,
trying to get him to fail, or at least make those blows count. But no.
Not that they weren't awful as it was. Each stroke welted, and not just
at the tip of the birch. And you weren't allowed to heal them for three
days. Snape checked daily, after each detention.
But that was the thing. Snape had explained all of this, at the
beginning. He'd told them what the rules were. And he kept to them. It
wasn't fair, no.
. .but the rules were there.
Very different from the other teachers--Harry still wouldn't call them professors
in his mind-- who had been installed at Hogwarts, six months ago. You
didn't get rules from them. You got what you got, when they decided to
give it to you. And none of them ever tried to pretend it wasn't all
about turning the place into one giant Death Eater playground, complete
with its selection of
barely-pubescent sex slaves.
There was a part of Harry that still rolled its eyes at how bloody
predictable it all was.
But Snape. . .Snape always acted as though he hadn't noticed. As if
there was nothing lewd about stripping a student naked for his
transgressions and birching his arse until it was all crimson welts.
And the way that he'd continued his curriculum as if nothing had
happened. Oh, certainly, there were few potions that the students were
permitted to brew, now. Fewer even than the number that they were
allowed to study at all.
But even if the teaching had been reduced mostly to text-learning,
Snape still
stressed the learning. You got detention for messing up what you'd been
supposed
to be memorizing; he didn't make up random shite to penalize you, like
all
the rest.
Some of the teachers didn't even give homework; they were too busy
making sure every student in their classroom was blamed for something
by the end of the class, just so they'd all have detention to serve.
Serve being the very operative word.
Harry had turned and, trying not to show that he was moving at any kind
of reduced pace because of the pain, walked over to the folded bundle
that
was his clothing. Oh, yes, that was the other thing Snape required of
them:
neatness. Disrobing before a detention required proper attention to the
laying
out of one's garments; failing to fold and stack one's clothing in a
precise pile got you another twenty. But one never forgot that after
the first time; again, a rule that you could master. Harry'd spent
hours teaching himself how to fold his robes, shirt, and trousers so
deftly they could have been set in a shop window, and he never missed
the detail of tucking his shoelaces into his shoes before leaving them.
Snape hadn't specifically said that the laces mattered, but Harry
wasn't about to risk that, now, was he?
He dressed without once giving any indication that he knew Snape was
staring at him the entire time. He even bent over to tie his shoes,
despite every instinct telling him that he should squat to do it-- you
never, ever wanted to present your arse, even clothed, to any teacher
in this school, it was like laying sugar out for ants-- and then he
picked up Magical Draughts and Potions and, cradling it against
his chest, turned to Snape and said, "May I go now, Professor?"
"Dismissed."
Another thing about Snape: no other teacher would have allowed him out
of their room without the word please on the end of that
sentence. And Harry would have made sure that he'd used it. . . if it
had been another. One that would have punished him for omitting it.
It was risky, perhaps, to choose not to use it with Snape. He might
forget, at some point, with another teacher, when it mattered. But
Harry had this. . .sense, he supposed, that Snape did not like the
insincerity of that please, completely conflicting with the
delight the other teachers took in hearing it forced from the throats
of their terrified charges.
He didn't want to annoy Snape. No.
But neither was he able to avoid being under that birch rod at least a
couple of times a week. With the reduced amount of homework he had from
other classes, Harry had done what he could to keep himself prepared
for Potions. Which hadn't
been too shabby, once he applied himself, he found. Nothing like a
little
motivation.
Yet in the end it hardly mattered. It was all so bloody complicated--
no, what was that word, convoluted, even better. There was an agenda at
this school,
to begin with. Beyond the Hogwarts Is Your Orgy agenda, just behind it
was
the Make Sure Potter Suffers agenda. And no, it wasn't his fancy, it
was
blatant, and everyone in the school knew it, from the students to the
teachers
to that slugtrail of mucus who called himself headmaster. . . right
down
to the handful of prisoners that Voldemort had insisted be kept on the
grounds.
Harry thought about those cells in the deepest section of the dungeons.
The last he'd heard, McGonagall was still alive. Moody, Hooch, and
Sinistra, the same. Lupin--well, as of two months ago, yes, and he
hadn't heard anything contrary to that. Dumbledore. . .
He was quite certain he'd know--that they'd all know--if Voldemort got
bored with Dumbledore, and decided to kill him.
So Snape did single Harry out. Not as much as other teachers did, but
enough to make sure he earned detention frequently enough to keep him
miserable. Most students were asked the ingredients in today's lesson.
The ones Snape felt were in need of detention were asked the Latin
names of each.
Of Harry, Snape would ask for the amounts. To the bloody fraction of a
dram.
Which he had taken upon himself to learn, dammit, when he saw the
pattern that was being established. But it didn't matter. The rest of
the-- convolutedness, was that even a word?-- rested with him,
actually, and in his inability to fight down this hideous protectiveness
that had grown in him, cancer-like, these past months.
That was what had earned him this particular detention. Neville,
struggling to remember the proper order of ingredients in a
spot-removal brew-- the sort
of minor healing remedy the school's administrators had determined was
acceptable
to be learned in Potions class-- and clearly about to receive detention
for
the wrong word he was about to say, or instead, for taking too long to
answer--
Neville, who couldn't balance that textbook on his head to save his
life,
or in this case, his arse-- Harry had drawn himself up and said, "The
one
with the sets of triple leaves is next, Professor." And as Snape
rounded
on him, prepared to snap at him not to answer out of turn and give him
detention,
Harry, aware that this might not be enough to keep Snape from returning
to
grilling Neville, had added, "The rue."
Snape's open mouth shut. His expression of displeasure had turned to
one mixed with incredulity. "The rue?" he said. "Is there rue
included anywhere in this mixture? Is there, Miss Granger?"
Harry had remembered the expression on Hermione's face. Snape used her
like this, all the time, as if she were the eager traitor in their
midst. It brought her close to tears, every time. "No, Professor, " she
said, almost a whisper."
"Speak up, girl."
"No, Professor," she repeated, not a whit louder, and this time Harry
thought he did see her eyes growing wet. He wanted to shake her, not
for crying, but
for deliberately disobeying Snape. What did it matter? And it wasn't as
if
her arse was ready to withstand Snape's birch rod tonight; she'd had
detention
with Lestrange last night, and the marks that sadistic woman had left
were
even worse, and only a fraction of the abuse she practiced during her
detentions
with students.
But Snape seemed done with her. His eyes flicked back to Harry. "The
triple-leaved plant, Mr. Potter, is not rue but wormwood. Common
wormwood."
"I'm sorry, Professor. I confused it with goat's rue." Harry kept his
voice, and posture, steady. (Not hard to do when you'd been practicing
keeping textbooks upright on your head.) Admitting his error while
refusing to wheedle in a way that could have been taken as excuse.
Snape didn't speak for a moment. Kept his eyes on Harry's.
Then said, "Detention, tonight, Mr. Potter."
"Yes, sir." Same tone. Harry sat.
"Now. Miss Patil. Tell me the properties of wormwood in. . ."
Harry'd seen it. Snape knew he'd miscalled the wormwood deliberately.
And yet still had left off on Neville.
Agendas, agendas.
*****
Not that far of a distance, if you could believe it, between Snape's
dungeon classroom and Gryffindor tower. It just seemed that way.
Harry took it at the fastest clip he dared.
It had occurred to him, early on, that Voldemort could have saved time
by just moving the Gryffindor wing to the dungeons in the first place,
since it was they who seemed to spend the most time being punished
there these days.
But apparently the Slytherins liked dungeons. Found them homey. Didn't
want
the Gryffindors to become too accustomed to the surroundings. Liked the
idea
of Harry and his co-victims sealed in the tower like helpless
princesses, or something.
"Potter."
Hell.
It wasn't just the voice, no, it was the drawl that gave it away:
Pot-terrrrrrr. Harry came to a stop right away, knowing it was no good.
Far too long of a distance.
Six months ago he would have turned and looked to see whether Malfoy
had Crabbe and Goyle with him, preparing himself for the fight. Six
months ago Malfoy would have needed Crabbe and Goyle to subdue him.
Malfoy'd learned much more effective methods since then. Harry was
quite sure his father was terribly proud of him.
Now Harry merely stood, still holding the textbook to his chest, as
Malfoy approached him from behind, footsteps slow and indolent as if he
had all the
time in the world. Of course, he did, didn't he? All night, at least.
It
was his privilege.
"How many this time, Potter?"
"Twenty." No point in lying, or telling him to go to hell.
"Let me see."
Harry seethed. "You've seen it before."
"And I'll see it tonight. Get them down."
It was risky to argue further. Harry dropped the text and, for the
second time tonight, unbuckled his belt and shoved both trousers and
underwear down his thighs.
One hand on Harry's hip, Malfoy tugged them down a bit further. "Only
twenty," he said, and Harry could not help the heat that rose to his
face as he felt, just by the deliberate way the blond drew that phrase
out, the careful inspection Malfoy was giving him with his eyes. "Such
a perfect little suck-up you are."
Harry didn't bother to answer.
Malfoy pinched him, hard, right over the most painful spot of one welt.
"You're getting off rather lightly these days with Snape. I'll have to
mention
that to my father." Another pinch, on another welt. Harry knew Malfoy
would
only keep doing it harder until he made noise, so he allowed a minor
one
to escape, not much more than a grunt, not enough to be a groan.
Malfoy pinched harder anyway. "You know that Weasel's with Professor
Nott tonight."
He hadn't known and he didn't try to hide it. "You're lying."
"Why should I bother? Think I have to make this stuff up?" Harry didn't
answer and Malfoy went on-- pinching him again at the same time. "When
you
went off to Snape's. Nott's turn for House Discipline. Chose the
Weasel.
I think that's because he was disappointed he couldn't have you,
Potter."
Harry suspected Malfoy might have been right.
"So I can stand here after I'm done with you and wait for him to come
this way, if I wish. He's getting quite the talented mouth, you know."
No, Harry wanted to yell, I didn't know. He's my best friend and it's
not like I would be on him to find out directly. And it's not like
we're likely to be doing any of that adolescent experimenting that
others were getting up to, before all this--we're all so far beyond
experimenting that it's not bloody likely we're ever going to want to
have sex after this. Or be able to imagine it any other way, wouldn't
that be rich.
"Or," Malfoy was saying, "you can be sweet to me, and maybe that'll be
enough for one night."
Oh, Malfoy's father would just be thrilled with his son's methods.
"Just get on with it, Malfoy."
"Oh, not like that, no. I want you to sound like you want it. Beg me,
Potter."
Harry closed his eyes. Easier this way; if Malfoy came around to the
front of him he wouldn't see his eyes rolling. This had become so
tiresome. "Please, Mal-- Draco, I want you to bugger me until I can't
walk. No one does it like you can; I'm not worthy to be your bitch."
"That's nice, Harry. A little more sincerity, though, if you please. I
can still hear the 'fuck you' all the way through."
At times like this, it was easiest to make his voice breathier. It gave
the effect Malfoy wanted. "You know I want you to ram it into me. It's
all
I'm good for. The reason I act like I hate you so is because I know I
belong under you, screaming your name, and I just want to get you mad
enough to use
me like the filthy snotrag that I am."
Malfoy hissed, his hand coming round to cup Harry's chin. "My little
bitch." He pulled Harry's face back to his, leaning over Harry's
shoulder. "Such a
hot little whore you are." His version of a kiss was to bite Harry's
lips, hard enough to make them swell. As he did, he reached his other
hand down to fondle Harry's bare genitals, working his cock to hardness
despite it all.
"I want you hard and aching for me before I take you. Make you spill
all
over the floor and then lick it up, polishing those stones clean. You
deserve
that, don't you?"
Harry knew Malfoy was getting into the frenzy stage of his arousal
where his threats weren't necessarily ones he would carry out; he just
wanted Harry's reaction to them to fuel his excitement. "Yes."
"I should make you jerk yourself off right here every night and make
you clean it up that way, shouldn't I?"
"Every night and every morning."
"You'd love that."
"I'd lick it up and then crawl to you and kiss your feet and then beg
you to let me jerk you off so that I'd have more to do."
Malfoy hissed again and his hand clutched at Harry's balls rather
painfully. Harry's eyes watered. "Yesss, in front of the entire school.
With you naked and wearing a goddamn butt plug because you're not
worthy of having my cock in you until you've earned it, you piss-poor
excuse for a slave. . ."
"And at the last minute, you'd come on my face instead, and you'd make
me wear it all day-- the come and the butt plug both." There was the
smallest possibility that Harry could get Malfoy off just with the
filthy talk, and might actually avoid the buggering tonight.
But Malfoy wasn't going to let that happen, apparently. "On your
knees," he breathed, pushing Harry down even as he unfastened his own
trousers. "Forward. Get your goddamn legs open, goddamn you." They were
kicked apart. Harry heard the small muffled noise of Malfoy spitting
into his palm, and then Malfoy was using the palmful of saliva to wet
the pucker of his arsehole. It was always inadequate, and he knew that
was why Malfoy did it that way. Nearly all of the teachers carried
vials of oil for this purpose, and he suspected Malfoy actually did
too, but he'd never use such a thing with him, no.
Just as well. A lot of those oils had been hexed with nasty side
effects for the receiver. He wasn't likely to forget those.
A finger was inserted in equally inadequate preparation, and
withdrawn, and then Malfoy's hips were against his arse and he'd
pushed into Harry's arse, panting. He'd reached beneath Harry and had
his cock in his hand again, Harry bracing himself with his fingers
splayed against the floor as Malfoy's prick reamed him open, saliva
rendering it possible but nothing like easy, even after all this time.
He was so familiar with the length of Malfoy's prick
up his arse that he could tell when it was almost completely sheathed
inside
him even before he felt the weight of Malfoy's balls wedge into the
cleft.
"You're a filthy little slut. Say it."
"I'm a filthy little slut," said Harry, satisfied it should have enough
conviction in it for Malfoy. Repetition was always easier.
"You're my little slut. Come on, Potter, don't make me do all
the work, let me hear you."
Hell. Harry said, "I'm your little slut. I'm your whore and I love to
be under you and there's nothing I like better than to have your cock
rammed into me, harder, Draco, I'm begging you to do it harder, I'm so
fucking hot for you. . ."
Harry tried to keep focused. If he did well enough Malfoy would come
faster. ". . .I want you to--ah-- come up me and then I want you to
make me suck you
off, with your hand twisting in my hair, pushing me down onto your
cock--" funny how he called it cock out loud, but it was always
Malfoy's prick in his mind--"so that I can't get away, crushing
my face against your crotch and choking me with that entire fat length
of--"
"I don't like the word fat, Potter," Malfoy snarled.
"--that huge cock of yours," he revised, annoyed to have his work
undone, "and all I can do is suck it harder, lick it faster and faster
so that I can
hope I get a chance to breathe when you're finally satisfied, and
you're choking
me, my eyes are watering, you feel a drop splash on your thigh and you
know
that I'm crying, but you still don't stop--"
Malfoy gasped like a small boy who'd just had a sticky plaster ripped
off his skin and humped frantically against Harry's back as he came,
filling Harry's
insides with wet heat. Yes, it was always the descriptions of Harry in
tears
that seemed to work.
Slumped over Harry, Malfoy seemed to be in no hurry to rise. His cock
softening, slipping free of Harry's arse, Malfoy planted a kiss that
was too deliberate to be lazy between the other boy's shoulderblades.
Harry did what he could to suppress the shudder.
At last Malfoy pushed at him, and Harry took it for a signal that
Malfoy was done with him, scooting forward and jerking up his trousers.
Mustn't forget
the textbook.
"Don't be in such a rush, Potter." Malfoy made no move to rise, nor to
do up his own clothing.
"Why, you got something else planned?" Harry said, not stopping what he
was doing. Malfoy would tell him if he really did want something else.
"It's not what I have in mind." Harry heard the emphasis on the word
I. "My father wants to see you. I'm to take you to him. Now."
Harry looked at Malfoy's hateful smile. So. Malfoy might not have had
the opportunity to wait here for Ron to pass after all.
Not that it really mattered. He'd have come up with something else.
And now Harry had to see the Headmaster.
This was shaping up to be one fucked-up night, even for him.
*****
It still bothered Harry that he could look at the man in the
Headmaster's chair and be lulled for that first second by the hair, as
pale and as long as Dumbledore's. The second after that, of course,
with its correction of what he was seeing, brought the revulsion back
full force.
"Mr. Potter." Lucius Malfoy smiled. Harry had come to know that smile,
and the dozen different versions of it. None of them held anything good
in store for him, of course.
But tonight's smile had a trace of tautness about it. Something might
actually be up, then.
"Sir." Harry made no other concession of deference toward the man. Why
worry about it, when he'd shortly be on his knees for some made-up
transgression no matter what he did?
"I understand you were serving detention with Professor Snape."
"Yes, sir."
"I should inspect his handiwork, then. Make sure you are getting what
you deserve. Come here."
Draco's presence behind Harry, leaning casually against the wall,
seemed to burn into the small of his back as Harry moved forward to the
Headmaster's chair.
Lucius Malfoy was seldom without that smile, but he was never without
that cane. Not once in all the times Harry had seen him. Just now it
was laid over
his lap, and he was stroking one manicured finger over the silver
snake's-head of it.
Bloody fetish-minded perverted fop.
Harry waited for instruction, though he knew perfectly well what
awaited him.
"Trousers down," said Malfoy senior. "On second thought, you might as
well remove everything. It'll save time, as I'm sure it will become
necessary before
this interview is done." That smile this time, the one that
showed
just a bit of teeth.
Trying to show no emotion, and in particular trying to feign
obliviousness to Draco's being there, Harry stripped to bare skin,
aware of the difference between doing this here and in Snape's
classroom. Here he dropped his clothing in a haphazard pile, no careful
coiling of his necktie, no attention paid to the position into which
his shoes fell. Any moment spent arranging anything would have had
Malfoy senior accusing him of delaying tactics.
He kept his hands at his sides when he finished and stood at attention,
too well-disciplined now to even let his fingers curl into defiant
fists,
though still unable to fight back the flush that heated his face.
"Over my lap," said Lucius Malfoy, moving the cane to rest against the
side of his chair.
Harry did as he was told, as familiar with this as mounting a
broomstick had once been, not that he'd been on a broomstick in ages:
approaching from the right side of the chair, so that the headmaster
could have at him right-handed, face down unless told otherwise, Harry
using the left arm of the chair to steady himself until he was
positioned rump-up in exactly the place Lucius Malfoy wanted him,
fingertips of his left hand coming down to join those of
his right in steadying himself against the floor. The sensations were
all
familiar, too: the headmaster's wool trousers itchy against his groin
and
stomach, the unnamable smell of the man--not of cologne or sweat but
something
almost undetectable, like a flower that had wilted in a very hot
room--the
perfect view he had of the spot where Fawkes's perch had once sat.
A finger traced over one of the welts on his arse. "And this is all
you're getting from Professor Snape. Dear, dear." Another welt touched.
"I fear Severus
is getting a bit soft. Well, I shall have a talk with the man."
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. All those rules, all his work to become capable
of meeting them in Snape's detention. They'd all be obsolete soon. It'd
probably become a mandatory hundred stripes, once Malfoy senior made
his displeasure known to Snape. Harry pressed his fingertips harder
against the floor as the
headmaster shifted a thigh, deliberately rubbing against Harry's cock.
He
wouldn't be allowed to endure this without being hard for it, he knew,
and
he cursed the surge that was already building in his groin. The
headmaster wouldn't be satisfied until Harry's erection was snug
against his thighs, stroking against the fabric of his trousers with
every blow the man gave him--
whatever instrument he'd picked out for tonight-- until he'd made a
sticky
mess of the man's pristine clothing and had to be punished for that as
well.
Lucius Malfoy picked up the snake-headed cane. "Tabula multifora."
Harry tried to keep the wince off his face, hearing the crackle as the
cane shifted itself. He didn't need to see; he had those different
spells well-memorized. Christ. That meant the paddle with the holes.
Hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, it would, especially on top of what he'd
already received tonight.
Harry felt Malfoy senior's left hand on the back of his neck. He braced
himself, but it didn't keep him from yelling when the first blow
landed.
Fuck. Malfoy wasn't giving him any concession at all.
The second landed just as hard. Harry wanted to muffle his yell against
his arm this time, but remembered not to. Already his arse was on fire;
the
need to tear his hands away from the floor and try to rub the burn away
was
nearly overwhelming. But nothing would guarantee a prolongation of the
punishment faster than to try to interfere with it.
Another. Crack. Harry's eyes were watering again, already.
The only saving grace was that Lucius Malfoy didn't require you to
count them.
"Draco." The headmaster spoke into the echo of the last blow. "Come
here and hold his ankles."
Even if the paddle had been barbed, Harry would not have dared to have
moved. Lucius Malfoy knew that. Harry's face was more heated than his
arse.
He felt Draco's hands on his bare calves-- which had not been spared
the welts of Snape's birch, either-- circling them, pulling them
together. He could have pulled his chin in and looked beneath the chair
to see it happening, but didn't want to risk the possibility that Draco
might be looking back at
him, leering. And then came the unmistakable weight of Draco straddling
his
ankles, pinning them between his thighs, against his crotch, as he
settled into a position, grinding into him a bit, that Harry didn't
doubt he could happily stay in all night.
Lucius hit him with the paddle again. He wasn't imagining it; the one
with the holes always did hurt more. And with the next blow Harry
realized that Draco's grip on his ankles was limiting his movement each
time; he couldn't move with it so easily, and not only did it hurt even
more that way, but he
was being driven into Lucius's lap with more force as well, his cock
being pressed against the man's legs, not merely sliding over now but
grinding into.
Fuck.
His fingers were shaking with the tension of keeping them pressed
against the floor. No, he would not take them away; he'd seen how much
worse it got when someone tried to fight, how pathetic they looked
trying to squirm away and cover their arse with their hands.
That meant that he allowed himself to yell even louder, not caring if
Draco heard; he'd like to see Malfoy try to endure something like this
quietly, the little puke. No, fuck that, he'd just like to see Malfoy
endure it, period.
It was a lot better to yell when it was someone like Malfoy-- Lucius
Malfoy, abusing his arse like this. One or two teachers would
punish you for crying but most seemed to want to hear it, and they'd
work you over harder, harder, 'til they got it. With the headmaster, as
with so many, it was best not to suck it up too bravely. Let the tears
come; the beatings might stop sooner.
Of course, sometimes the tears were the cue for the teacher to stop
that form of punishment and move onto another. Tear-wet faces and
blowjobs seemed to be a natural coupling for most of them, not unlike
Malfoy junior's earlier display.
Not that Malfoy senior was any different, either.
Crack. "Ow!"
Crack. "Fuck!" His arms were shaking now.
"Language, Mr. Potter." Crack.
There was no mistaking it: Draco was humping against his trapped
ankles, the combination of straddling Harry's legs while watching his
arse turn bright red probably sending him into ecstasy. Harry could
feel the hardness of Draco's prick through his trousers.
And his erection wasn't the only one. Every blow of the paddle forced
Harry firmly into Lucius Malfoy's lap, his cock stroking along the
matching hard length he could feel beneath him. And yes, there was
dampness too, slimed over the fabric despite all he could do. What kind
of punishment would he get for that, tonight?
"Harder." It was Draco's voice, breathy. Lucius hit him again. Harry
couldn't tell if it had been harder or not; it was already so goddamn
painful he was crying.
Again. Crack. "OW!" There was something face-saving in keeping
the yells articulate syllables, but Harry didn't know how long he'd be
able to.
Lucius kept paddling him, Draco kept grinding, and Harry stopped trying
to censor his cries, no longer caring what came out of his mouth as
long
as he was able to keep from bringing his hands up in defense. And now,
despite the pain of his blazing arse, the ache in his cock was starting
to overwhelm him. The rhythm of the blows would have brought him off,
the way they pressed his cock into Malfoy senior's lap, if they hadn't
been so fucking excruciating.
The headmaster wouldn't come yet, though, he knew. He'd save it.
The blows weren't harder but, God, they were coming faster, and that
was just as bad. Harry turned his face and bit his own arm, not trying
to muffle any cries this time-- he kept on groaning, even around the
flesh caught in his teeth-- but just wanting some other source of pain
to give him even a moment's distraction from his fight not to fling
himself at his tormentors. His cock was moving faster against that
prickly wool of the headmaster's trousers,
he was going to come after all, wasn't he, oh God, he was, his arse had
to
be beet red by now, what the hell number was the bastard on, one
hundred,
one-fifty, he no longer had any idea, fuck, he was going to break any
moment,
he was going to twist and try to gouge Lucius Malfoy's eyes out and
then
they'd body-bind him and cart him away to that wheel in the Great Hall
where
he'd once spent two days at the mercy of every teacher and student in
the
school, pinched, slapped, whipped, buggered, made to scream, made to
beg--
Draco's legs tightened around his with a painful squeeze that he felt
even through the agony of the blows on his arse, and he felt Draco
shudder against him, heard him gasp, felt the rhythmic grinding slow.
Draco was panting so hard Harry could even feel the moist breaths on
the back of his legs.
Lucius Malfoy's hand moved from the back of his neck to fist in his
hair and pull him up sharply. "Stand. Move, Draco."
Draco moved and Harry somehow managed to push himself to his feet. He
was gasping, trying to suck it up after all, trying to stifle anything
that might have been a sob, keep from rubbing his hands over his arse
like he wanted to. He wouldn't.
Draco was still on the floor, hands on the floor behind him, his usual
satisfied smirk altered a bit by the flush on his face and the panting,
parted mouth. Harry looked away from him, afraid he'd give into
temptation and kick the fucker in the face. Not a wise move, in front
of his father.
"Finite Mutatem." It was softly murmured, and the instrument in
Lucius Malfoy's hand shifted, became the snake-headed cane once again.
Harry tried to disguise his shudder, taking a step to the side,
knowing as he did that this spell did not mean that the punishment was
over.
The headmaster gave him a lazy smile. "Over the desk. End to end, and
grasp the edge."
No, Harry wanted to shout.
Instead he took the few steps to the side of the desk, and, taking a
deep breath, lay down across it, the wood digging into his hipbones as
he reached out and took hold of the opposite edge. End to end, as
instructed, not across the short length.
Lucius Malfoy stepped behind him. Harry was bracing himself to feel--
whatever it was going to be this time, the cane on his thighs, the
man's hands preparing his arsehole-- when Lucius said, "Draco, you may
go."
A disappointed noise from Draco. But nevertheless Harry could hear him
getting to his feet, murmuring, "Yes, Father. Shall I come back to get
him later?" Trying to get more without wheedling. Harry rather imagined
that Lucius Malfoy didn't take well to wheedling from his son.
"That won't be necessary."
"Bye, Potter," Draco drawled as he passed him, heading for the door.
"I'll look forward to watching you try to sit down in classes tomorrow.
Or even walk to them." A definite snigger as the door shut behind him.
Harry's torso was already sweaty, making his position on the desk even
more uncomfortable. Had he been just a bit taller, he'd have fared
better: the length of the desk matched that from his fingertips to hips
just so, and it
was a strain on Harry's calf muscles to keep his feet planted on the
floor.
"Animus."
Oh, no.
He didn't need to see the results of this one, either. Once again he
felt the touch of that metal snake-head against his arse-- despite the
spell, the
cane had not become an actual living snake-- and felt it dip, under its
own
power, hearing the tiny hiss and feeling the metal tongue of the thing
brush
between his cheeks, moving lower, and moving inward. Harry braced
himself as it hesitated not at all before entering him, the head of the
thing conveniently shaped to open him with only a push and a twist. It
was cold, the animated metal conforming to the shape it needed,
mercury-like.
It didn't seem to be made any easier tonight, even with his earlier
buggering from Draco. Harry wondered if there was any chance that
Malfoy senior, coming inside him, would trigger some kind of
two-negatives-make-a-positive chain reaction when his spunk encountered
his son's and might die of the resulting explosion. It was a pleasant
thought, even if it took Harry out with it.
The metal snake's head pushed deeper into him. Harry could swear he
could feel the tongue of the thing flicking the inside walls. Little
shudderings were taking him, despite his efforts not to give Malfoy the
satisfaction, and he pressed his face against the wood of the desk so
as to resist the urge
to turn it to one side-- he couldn't stand the idea of the man watching
his
face during this. His glasses slipped slightly down the sweaty bridge
of
his nose.
And then the metal snake did that thing where it stroked past some
point that never failed to make him gasp--he still didn't understand
how it was always there that it got to him, just that deep,
making him understand, and this was the awful thing about it all, that
maybe under other circumstances there might be people who could have
made this pleasant for him, had they chosen. It was almost too much to
be borne, that knowledge.
The sensation was fleeting. Now Harry could feel another, familiar
something that was a part of this preparation-by-animated-cane ritual
of Lucius Malfoy's: the intruder was swelling inside him, expanding its
girth within him like some mutant puff adder, particularly at the ring
of his arsehole, horribly so, making him grit his teeth at the need,
never something he could get used to, to have the thing out,
pushed out of him any way he could. . .but as he'd found, many a time,
involuntary bearing down meant the snake only seemed to get a better
feel for what it had to work against, and it was buried too deeply for
him to force it out anyway. Not that he didn't try, every time.
He heard Malfoy chuckle behind him. Able to feel, no doubt, all of
Harry's involuntary clenching about the thing as he held the end of it.
Was it his imagination, or did the snake give a particularly
enthusiastic twist inside him at just that moment?
The short-lived thought that his efforts were suddenly working told him
that Malfoy had thought he'd been sufficiently prepared and was
allowing
the snake to withdraw. The shock of near-pleasure that Harry felt as
the
snake's head slipped over that one spot was completely eclipsed by the
very
real ecstasy of having it slip entirely out of him, though he knew that
relief
would also be very short. There were days Harry wished with all his
heart
that Malfoy was more the blowjob type of pervert.
He was still trembling with the gladness of having it out of him when
he heard the headmaster murmur another spell he knew quite well, this
one followed by the appearance of hard bracelets of restraint about his
wrists that seemed to have grown out of the desktop. Harry spent an
involuntary moment testing their strength (quite inescapable; what had
he expected?) before he remembered that Malfoy almost never shackled
him down, certainly not for a buggering nor for a whipping-- that was a
fetish of some of the others, but not of the
headmaster.
Before he could even think what to think about that, though, Malfoy's
hands were on his calves, just above the ankles, pulling them apart,
and Harry heard
the restraining spell spoken again. Now the legs of the desk had grown
tight
circles about each of his ankles as well, pinning them in that spread
position.
Again, this was not something Harry was unused to, but not in Lucius
Malfoy's
usual line of light abuse. He much preferred giving his victim a chance
to
disobey, and thus incur more punishment.
Harry tried to ignore the voice of his imagination. Which had rather a
rising pitch at this moment.
The sound of a belt being threaded out of its buckle. There, at least
that was familiar enough. Not comforting, hardly, but expected.
"Now, Harry," (not "Mr. Potter" this time, Harry noted) "this can be
merely as tedious for you to endure as it always is. . .if you answer a
few questions for me."
Questions? What did Malfoy want? Harry couldn't think of a thing he
knew that Malfoy wouldn't as well.
Malfoy's fingers were resting lightly on the small of his back. "Where
is Miss Granger?"
Harry was startled by the innocuousness of it. It sounded like some non
sequitur, before the actual questioning began. "I-- she's in Gryffindor
tower,
the girl's dorm, I mean. I would guess. She didn't have detention
tonight,
I don't remember."
There was a pause, and then a slow, quiet chuckle from Malfoy. Then:
"Oh, dear, that's the tack you're going to take, is it? You sound so
sincere, dear
Harry. I could almost believe you."
Too many implications in that for Harry to process at once. The words
came rushing out of him. "Wh-- is she gone, I don't know, I'm not
lying, I'm not! I didn't think she had detention, but maybe I--or she
might not have told me or R-- I'm not making it up!" Hermione was
missing. That's what he meant; no, wait, that's what this was about,
why it wasn't just another session to
torment him, why Lucius had made Draco leave, because they didn't want
everyone
to know yet. Hermione; Hermione, where would she be? What had she done
and
not told him about-- not told him or Ron about so that they couldn't--
wouldn't--
A sigh. "No, Miss Granger is not, as you'd like us to think you
believe, serving detention tonight. Not with Professor Snape, nor any
of the Lestranges, nor my wife, nor any of the rest of the faculty.
Bellatrix Lestrange had bed-check
duty in the Gryffindor girls' dormitory, and discovered her absence."
Malfoy's
fingers had moved down to spread open the cheeks of Harry's arse. "I'm
afraid
that this will be a good deal worse than what you're used to. Unless
you'd
like to reconsider?"
"I don't know! Dammit, I don't know!" He didn't try to hide the panic
in his voice. The last thing he wanted was for Malfoy to think he was
just being stubborn.
Malfoy tch-tched. "Well, then. Or, yes, perhaps you do like it
rough. Getting a taste for it, are we, boy?" And Malfoy set the head of
his prick against Harry's recently-stretched arsehole and pushed into
him.
Completely, wholly dry. Without even the palmful of spit Malfoy junior
had allowed him.
And no--that, Harry was not accustomed to.
The evilly charmed oils were no joy, certainly, particularly the kind
that caused the recipient the most insane itching sensation for a good
number of
hours afterward, but they at least made the actual sodomy bearable-- possible,
Harry would have said.
Before this, anyway.
Malfoy seemed to be scoring the thin walls of muscle as he pushed his
way into Harry's arse, as if he would pull out and bring Harry's
innards with him. "Fuck!" yelled Harry. "I don't know, I don't know!"
It was as if the come Draco had shot into him earlier had never been;
there was nothing to ease the invasion of Lucius's prick, nothing.
And then he started thrusting.
When, minutes later, Harry's world had been reduced to a blood-black
rasp of pain and an unending babble of IdontknowIdontknowIdontknow,
he was
treated to the fresh discomfort of a hand tight in his hair, pulling
his
head up so that a voice could murmur, "I'm enjoying myself quite a lot,
boy.
You still have a choice: you can tell me what I want to know, and I'll
ride
this sweet little, tight little arse of yours until I come, and we'll
have
done with this. . . or, I can cast Sustento on myself and we
can keep
doing this for hours. I won't mind that at all."
It was one of the nights that Harry broke-- not as common as all that,
actually. He begged, quite of his own volition.
"Please, M- Headmaster, please, I swear I don't know, I swear,
she didn't tell me anything, please. . ."
The hand released his hair. Harry heard the light tick of wood on wood
as Lucius Malfoy picked up his wand from the desk.
His low moan of "No. . ." almost, but not quite, drowned out the softly
murmured spell.
For the next hour, Harry endured not only Lucius Malfoy's prick
thrusting in and out of his unlubricated arse, but also his taunts and
his interrogation. The taunts were many, and varied: how much he must
like this, to keep silent for so long, how sweet those moans and pleas
sounded to Lucius's ears, how very delicious a fuck he was,
particularly shackled down like this, and Lucius would have to make a
point of doing that more often.
The interrogation, conversely, was the same question over and over:
where is Hermione Granger.
To which Harry could do no more than respond identically: I don't know.
And appreciated just how correct Hermione had been in not telling him
anything she had planned. If her disappearance had, in fact, been
planned.
Eventually even Malfoy lost patience with prolonging his pleasure, and
ended the spell and emptied himself inside Harry, his noise of
long-delayed satisfaction nearly a bark of laughter. His withdrawal
was, as a result, marginally easier than his insertion had been.
Harry's glasses were so fogged that when he lifted
his head and tried to squint thorough them he wondered for a moment if
he
finally had been fucked blind.
The restraints were not taken away, however. Lucius murmured something
about the position being "too good to waste," and spent some additional
time abusing the backs of Harry's legs and his buttocks with his cane,
this time in its original form, adding to the earlier welts left by
Snape by laying down a ladder-like pattern of stripes from his heels to
his tailbone, paying particular attention to those that landed in the
crease just between buttock and thigh. No questions were asked during
this, however, so Harry knew this was merely a bit of savor on Lucius's
part.
Harry was aware of having been left alone, of the sound of something
being splashed into a glass, when the restraints at last gave way.
Given the choice between collapsing where he was on the desk or sliding
into a heap onto the floor next to it, Harry chose the latter, figuring
that he presented less of a target there.
His body was a thing that throbbed as one with every heartbeat, pain
peaking on the lub, receding back to barely tolerable levels on
the dub, as he lay there, breath hitching into his lungs most
painfully every fourth beat. The spicy-sweet smell of brandy--no, wait,
if it was Malfoy, that was cognac--was in the room, and the small,
cultured sips Lucius Malfoy was taking of it were the only sounds other
than Harry's breathing.
"Dismissed, Mr. Potter."
You did not stay. You did not linger when they told you you could go.
No matter what pain you were in, you got up and got the hell out while
you could.
Harry rolled to his knees and pushed himself up. The pile of his
clothing was not far off. Harry reached for his trousers first, not
even caring about the underwear.
"I do not recall telling you you were allowed to dress, boy."
Harry looked up at him.
"I think you will not be allowed to dress for an entire day. Yes, that
should work well. Why hide those marks of punishment; they should be
displayed for all to see," he smiled.
Harry felt the heat in his face. Though forcing a student to strip
publicly was hardly a new event, one had to be in real disgrace to
merit the penalty of being forced to stay completely starkers for an
entire day.
Of course, Harry's life had become one unending course of disgrace,
hadn't it?
"Bundle up your clothing and go. You'll attend your day's worth of
classes tomorrow as scheduled, clad as you are."
Eyeglasses, then. How generous. Harry didn't wait around to argue. He
pulled the clothing into his arms in one disordered wad, trying not to
let his shoes drop. . . and got the hell out.
It wasn't until he was almost all the way back at Gryffindor tower that
he realized: he'd mislaid his Potions text somewhere.
Yeah. One fucked-up night.
*****
He couldn't heal the marks the headmaster had given him, because he
couldn't heal the marks Snape had given him, not for three days.
Because healing that specifically directed would have required a wand,
and not the potions and ointments they were permitted.
Though he could probably use some of his hoard of ointment on his
abused bunghole. Lucius couldn't have done him any real damage, or the
man would have taken care of it himself-- that was part of the
unwritten rules. They didn't leave anything that could risk infection,
or serious bleeding, or crippling
injury. Those got healed right away.
The minor hurts, those you weren't required to sport, could be
subjected to healing salves and draughts that had been supplied.
Problem was, you got very little of them, and had to use them
sparingly. Though there were times when brewing them, on your own, was
possible, and none of the teachers had made any move to confiscate the
results, so presumably they didn't care.
The other problem was that the teachers had an itch to do damage to
unmarked flesh. You were sometimes better off leaving the injuries
unhealed, if you could tolerate them. Better that than having to endure
the same thing, or as near, the next day, just because a teacher
thought your unbruised bum was
an affront.
Harry dumped his armful of clothing on the floor in front of the boys'
shower, the sound of running water from within telling him there was at
least one occupant inside. It shouldn't have surprised him, even this
late at night.
A year ago it mightn't have, either. Someone returning from Quidditch
practice, too dogged to use the changing room showers near the pitch.
No longer. Harry wondered if the rumors that he'd heard were true, that
the disused Quidditch pitch was to be converted into a different kind
of arena, vaguely gladiatorial but with much baser sport in mind.
He entered the room, crossed around the divider to the bank of showers,
saw that there was indeed just one occupant, and it was Ron. Face
turned
into the spray, not even looking around as he heard someone else enter,
Ron
appeared unharmed except for the pink suck marks on his neck and
chest--his
nipples also had a slightly swollen look to them-- and Harry saw the
murky
tinge to the soapy foam that was clustered about the drain at his feet,
which
had nothing to do with the color of the soap. The oily cosmetics were
still
visible on his face, glittery bruises of blue on his eyelids, pink
make-up
on his cheeks sloughing away slowly with the beat of the water,
lip-rouge
the color of candy still vivid on his mouth. Plain soap and water took
time
to get that stuff off; a cleansing charm would have been the matter of
a
minute, had any of them still possessed a wand.
Ron blinked away water as he glanced over, after a moment, at the
newcomer; seeing that it was Harry, he said nothing, turned his face
back to the shower spray. Harry chose a shower head a few removed from
the one Ron was under and turned it on, not bothering to jump back as
it gushed over him with its initial cold shock, as he would have under
normal circumstances. The chilly water took the edge off the pain of
his welts; he'd be able to tolerate it better if he didn't make it too
hot tonight.
"Fuck."
Ron had spoken; Harry looked over. Ron was staring at the back of him.
"What the fuck did you do? Keep dropping the book deliberately?"
"It wasn't him." Harry adjusted the temperature of the spray. "Malfoy
wanted to see me." He didn't want to mention Draco just yet, knew that
Ron would know from the context he'd meant Lucius. "Have you seen
Hermione?"
Ron seemed to prickle upright with alertness at the question, hearing
the way it was asked. "She looks worse than you?"
"No, she's missing. Malfoy had me into his office to grill me about it."
"She's not in the girls' dormitory?"
"Not at bed-check, according to Malfoy, and it sounds serious enough
that I don't think she would just have rolled under her bed and still
be there giggling about it."
"Might be. Since that's what they wouldn't expect her to just be doing,
and it is Hermione after all. Well. Not giggling."
"Not giggling." The water was still too warm; Harry wanted to present
his arse to the spray but didn't know if he could tolerate the sting of
it just yet.
Ron was reaching for the face flannel, but clearly was still lost in
thought over Harry's news. "She was pretty shaken up over that last
session with the
Lestrange bitch."
"She tell you anything?"
Ron shook his head. "No. But she had a hard time sitting yesterday; she
had her robe off, at one point, and I could see the marks just above
her
socks, on the backs of her knees below the skirt."
"That couldn't have been all of it."
"I know that; 'm not stupid." Ron buried his face in the flannel and
scrubbed at the make-up residue. Harry knew that Ron knew he hadn't
just been referring to the distribution of the marks. When Ron raised
his face again (mouth still pink with lip-rouge; that stuff really was
a bitch to get off), he said, "She
really gets off on Hermione. Girls, yes, Mudblood girls, yes, but
Hermione always gets the worst of it. Parkinson talks, y'know.
Sometimes she's there; Lestrange lets her pet girls in on the detention
sometimes."
Harry pushed away the image of Hermione on her knees in front of either
Bellatrix Lestrange or Pansy Parkinson. It seemed worse, somehow, than
the
same demand from a male teacher--there seemed to be so many more ways
to
do it wrong and get punished for that. At least that was what his own
detentions
with Narcissa Malfoy had taught him.
He knew that it was common for boys to think that two girls together in
that way was sexy, but thoughts like that were another world away and
would
never have involved Bellatrix Lestrange.
"So you think that she might not have been able to take it anymore.
Just--ran off."
"Nah." Ron shut the shower spray off. "Not Hermione. If she did this,
she'd have planned."
He was probably right. Harry moved so that the cool spray was aimed at
the middle of his back; the water ran down from there in a more
comfortable stream over his sore flesh. He spread his arsecheeks with
his hands to let the water sluice along the crack, not caring if Ron
was paying attention.
Better. Not too bad, anyway. Maybe he wouldn't need to use much of the
ointment.
He heard Ron curse softly. The other boy was in front of the mirror
now, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, in a useless
attempt to get off the last of the lip paint. "Doesn't this shite ever
come off?"
"Cold cream, dear," said the mirror. "Stop using soap on your face so
hard; you'll ruin that pretty complexion of yours."
"Fucking hell." There was no emotion behind it. "Even the fucking
mirror's going all perverted on me. I didn't ask to be Nott's fantasy
of a skirt-wearing cross-dresser, did I?" The anger was starting to
build, however. "Or to have to wear the fucking skirt, blouse, and
hairbow all fucking day TOMORROW, did
I?"
"You too?"
Ron looked at Harry. "Who's making you wear a skirt?"
"No, not like that." Harry felt suddenly awkward; he hadn't been trying
to one-up Ron. "I just don't get to get dressed tomorrow."
Ron's still-pink lips twisted. "Fucker. Snape or Malfoy?"
"Malfoy, of course. What d'you think?"
Ron didn't answer. He toweled off in silence, Harry remaining under the
shower spray until his weariness began to outweigh any other aches.
"You. . .need any help?" Ron asked as Harry dried himself rather
gingerly.
"Nuh-uh. You? I've got healing salve put away if you need some."
"Keep it."
The answer told Harry nothing; Ron might have meant that Nott had let
him off with only mouth service tonight--and Harry wasn't about to ask
for details--or it might have meant that Ron knew Harry would be
requiring more of the stuff before long. And that was certainly no lie.
*****
Ron's skirt was lavender, which would have been bad enough, but it had
white ruffles all around the edge as well. And it wasn't just the
blouse and hairbow (also white), but white ankle socks and frilly
white knickers in addition. The other boys would have done Ron the
decency of turning their backs while he put on the hateful clothing,
but Professor Nott himself had come for morning inspection, at least a
quarter of an hour earlier than usual, leaving them all scrambling to
make beds quickly and neatly enough to avoid punishment, and requiring
them to stop and watch as Ron, his face red as his hair, was forced to
proceed from bare skin to frilly knickers to girlish outerclothes and
at last to hairbow in a kind of cruelly reversed striptease, to the
accompanied appreciative taunts of Nott.
Harry found it ironic that his bed was the only one Nott could not find
fault with, because Harry had not had to waste any time on dressing
this
morning. Which didn't mean that Nott mightn't pretend to, anyway, just
so
he could assign punishment as he had the others, but Nott seemed to be
in
too much of a good humor over his continued torment of Ron. They were
forced
to watch as Nott tipped up Ron's chin with a syrupy drawl of "Give us a
kiss,
pretty one," and proceeded to slobber all over him, one hand under the
lavender skirt, fondling him through the lacy material until Ron
whimpered with the humiliation. That earned him a snapping of the
elastic against his bum, but Nott let him go after that.
There were catcalls, in the Great Hall, for both Ron and him: none from
the Gryffindors, but not exclusively from the Slytherins alone. Well,
no,
that wasn't strictly fair. The actual catcalls did originate from the
Slytherins; there were, however, little stutters of laughter, hands
clapped over mouths to stifle some of them, from Ravenclaw and
Hufflepuff students. Though many looked as hollowly sickened over it as
Ron and Harry's housemates uniformly did.
The Slytherins-against-the-rest mentality was breaking down--he could
feel it, daily. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff should have been
united, as the Death Eaters' favored children were all in Slytherin,
and even the Slytherin children of non-Death Eater parents had known to
fall in step with the others, for their own good. But the school's new
ruling body had been devious about that, insuring that their twist on
the house points system would
set up a barrier to that kind of alliance. No house cup rode on the
point
system any longer; instead, the house in the lead at the end of each
month--
always Slytherin-- got the privilege of one day of servitude from the
members
of the house with the lowest number of points. A no-holds-barred
servitude.
Those houses that fell in the middle escaped that particular
humiliation, and there was quite a healthy wish to avoid the low end of
the extreme. So, still competition. Still a division.
Thus, the relieved amusement of some of the members of the other two
houses. One day it would no longer be just from it-isn't-me relief,
Harry knew. That sort of thing grew out of control like Devil's Snare.
Draco Malfoy did not catcall. No, the intense, knowing stares, the
looks that said I'll be having more of that were far more of a
dig than open
jeers. Though Malfoy did make a point of passing close enough to Ron in
the
Great Hall to say, "There's a bet on, Weasley: cotton or satin? I'm
sure
we'll find out by the end of the day, if you don't have the nerve to
tell
us."
"Fuck you, Malfoy."
"I'll take that as a 'no,' then. Fine. We can wait until some professor
gives in to the urge to bare that cute little bum of yours and spank
it.
Ta, Weasley."
But in Potions, even the Slytherins did not dare to keep at it. Though
Harry knew Malfoy had never actually received a detention from
Snape--precious few
of the Slytherins ever had--they knew there was still a code by which
they
were expected to abide in his class, and maintain respect for his
authority. Others, like Nott and Rookwood, might turn a blind eye to
the antics of the Slytherins, but Snape would not tolerate that, and it
was understood. Narcissa Malfoy was like that as well, which made
sense, given that she was Professor of Deportment.
Another irony of the day was that Harry did not have to go through the
embarrassing process of dropping trou to prove to Snape that he was
still sporting the marks of the previous night's detention--all he had
to do was stand. But of
course, there was the matter of the textbook that he could not produce.
.
.which earned him yet another detention for tonight.
Just great. Not like he hadn't seen that one coming.
And he didn't need the Slytherins taunting him in Deportment; Narcissa
Malfoy was quite capable of doing that all by herself. While she
acknowledged that he would have been in far worse trouble for not
coming to class at all, he was given fifteen strokes of her
ever-present riding crop for his "shameful state of deshabille"
and required to spend the entire class kneeling in front of her desk in
impossibly perfect posture, a little flick of the crop under his chin
or at the base of his spine whenever she was walking by
him and noticed anything had slumped a little. He got detention for it,
of
course--which he could look forward to on an evening later in the week,
Snape
having already secured his presence in detention tonight.
She didn't precisely ignore Ron, but comparatively, he might not even
have been there. She only wrinkled her nose at him, called him "a
disgrace," and went on with the rest of class.
Defense Against the Dark Arts (he and the others had privately renamed
it Detention With the Dark Arts, since it was a humiliating enough
class even if you didn't get extra punishment) was no worse than usual.
Another hour of having all three professors whip triple-strength
Imperius Curses at the students, which none of them could hope to
withstand, not even him, and forcing them to crawl, disrobe, beg for
abuse, lick their professors' boots (or worse), and then call them all
worthless, talentless scum for not having made any improvement in their
ability to resist such curses. They all got their share of paddlings
and the like at the end of that class. Ron, as predicted by Malfoy,
got his that day, following Rookwood's command--inspired by Ron's
get-up--
that he dance like a ballerina for them. Ron's clumsy attempts to
obey--Harry
wasn't sure if it would have been easier to watch if Ron had really had
any
dancing skills-- were followed by a bare-bottomed spanking, which,
though
the Slytherin students weren't there to see it, of course, would
probably
fish the answer about the material of Ron's knickers out of one of the
teachers
later-- if they hadn't already gotten it from Nott.
As Harry understood it, the Slytherin session of that class was not all
that different in principle--they were still being taught to try to
throw
off dark curses and the like, just with something resembling a fairer
chance. And the teachers would often require the one under Imperio
to obey one of his fellow students, trying, as Harry understood it, to
create an even
greater atmosphere of competition--kill and eat the weak, as Hermione
had
put it.
Hermione. What the hell had happened to her?
Her absence was felt most strongly in Charms. Charms-- the one class
where they were actually allowed wands. Not one for each of them, no,
but just a
few, distributed at the start of the class for them to share for
today's lesson,
and meticulously collected and examined at the end to insure that no
one
had tried to substitute a fake and sneak off with one of the genuine
ones.
Harry could not even imagine how bad the punishment would be if someone
tried
that. Even to think that one could manage it under Bellatrix
Lestrange's hateful,
watchful eyes.
Even though Charms class was now limited to the most minor, harmless of
spells--scouring charms, healing magic, and the like--all of them had
been
suspicious that they were being allowed to touch wands at all under the
school's
new agenda. Hermione, of course, had been the one to come up with the
answer
that seemed to ring true above all others, though it had taken her a
couple
of weeks.
"How do we feel," she had said, "getting that wand back in our hands?
We feel relief, don't we? Like it's going to be okay, as long as they
give us this much, as long as they give us this one hour a day to feel
like wizards again." She had paused, not for effect, but because the
thought was so genuinely awful to her that it took strength to say it
aloud. "They're making sure they
stifle any chance we have to achieve wandless magic. All that
baby-magic that
manifested to show that we were wizards in the first place. We don't do
it
anymore, do we, since we got our wands and came to Hogwarts--I mean, we
didn't,
before. . .all this. We can't, because the wand is our focus now. It's
our
crutch--and now it's our curse."
Harry suspected that it was Hermione's absence that was making
Professor Lestrange a touch surly that day; usually she took great glee
in correcting them and assigning punishments. Parvati Patil, instead,
was called up to serve
for all the abuse Hermione usually received. Bellatrix hexed her upside
down
so that her robes fell over her face, and, with Parvati unable to see
what
was going to happen, sent randomly placed Insectivora jinxes to
crawl
over and bite at her exposed skin. It didn't help that Parvati's hatred
of
crawling things was even worse than Ron's; they could hear her
squealing
and sobbing through the muffling robes the entire time. Bellatrix gave
her
detention for "being a missish little crybaby, and tonight I'll make
sure
you have plenty to cry over."
She had taken one look at Harry when he came in and her heavy-lidded
eyes had widened just a bit in satisfaction. "Oh, look at you," she had
laughed. "The boy hero even wears nudity like he's posing for a
life-drawing class. You might have just come from the bath, for all
that you look disgraced." Her wand had traced a little circle in the
air, and she had said, "Monile ferinum." A constriction
was suddenly about Harry's neck; he involuntarily lifted one hand to
touch it, and found a collar of metal and leather, with a leash
attached. The leather strap of the collar was spiked, though not in
the way that he was accustomed to seeing on the black-clad,
mohawk-haired teenagers that Aunt Petunia had always referred to as
"those dreadful punks." This had the spikes on the inside, aimed at his
throat. He learned the purpose of that when Professor Lestrange grabbed
the end of the leash and jerked; the back and sides of his neck stung
with the pressure of the spikes which were not particularly
sharp-ended, but would, he knew, break the skin if she
pulled hard enough. And Bellatrix Lestrange was exactly the sort who
would
pull hard enough.
He had gone forward with that jerk, taking a step as the leash and the
spikes commanded him to, and then, as she pulled downward on the leash,
sank to his
knees, obeying that unspoken command as well. He heard her laugh as he
hit
the floor, and then the leash was swinging loosely from the collar, as
she'd
let go of it. "There," she said, "that dirties you up nicely. Crawl to
your
seat, Mr. Potter, and don't be too hasty about it; you're a delight to
watch
on your hands and knees."
Overall, it could have gone much worse. No, the worst part of the day
was when he entered the Great Hall in the early evening.
And saw that they had found Hermione.
It wasn't the wheel, though; they had her in the cage. The cage was
still bad enough; it was too short and narrow for there to be any spot
to which you could retreat. Hands could always reach you through the
bars no matter where you were in it. And yet, since you weren't bound,
you kept trying to get away.
Hermione was no exception, even knowing this.
Harry stopped short when he saw. There were not so many Slytherin
students clustered about the cage that he could not see its occupant,
could not see her trying to crawl away from the hands that crept
through the bars, could not see how her hair was sticking to her face,
from tears or sweat. Or from any other wetness; he didn't want to think
too hard about that.
She wasn't wearing any clothing, of course. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy
were both standing nearby, with Bellatrix Lestrange actually pressed
against the side of the cage, leering. "Oh, so my favorite little
Mudblood is back," she
said with such evil sweetness. "I quite missed you today. I'll have to
think
of something extra special to make up for it."
Harry wanted to run to the cage, to seize Bellatrix Lestrange by the
robes and by the hair and bloody her face with his bare hands. To hell
with wands.
The collar and leash she'd conjured were still at his neck. It was the
feeling of that leash, lying against his bare torso, which stopped him;
not in fear of her, though, but because of how very defenseless he was,
today in particular, without even the barrier of clothing to give him
the smallest pretense of dignity. The idea of any kind of
confrontation--hell, the idea of even walking over there, all eyes on
him--had his throat tightening.
"Fucking sons of bitches," Ron breathed at his side, and Harry was
aware that Ron was still at his side, had not run up there either.
Thinking the same things as Harry, he was.
Setting his shoulders as if he was preparing to march into the wind,
Harry started walking between the two rows of tables on either side of
him towards the cage. He did not look to see if Ron was following. He
couldn't blame Ron
if he wasn't.
Hell, he wasn't sure if he was even doing the right thing.
He went to the side of the cage opposite Bellatrix Lestrange. He didn't
try to push anyone out of the way, just waited until the Slytherin
student--a younger boy whose name he didn't remember, but who he
recalled, perversely, was circumcised--got bored and moved away.
Harry stepped up to the cage. "Hermione."
She hadn't seen him until that moment. Draco Malfoy--of course he was
there--laughed, "Hello, Granger, your champion's here. And he's got the
nicest arse, as we can all see."
Harry found it surprisingly easy to ignore him. Hermione was panting a
little, in the manner of a snared animal, and once she'd seen him she'd
ducked back down into the obscurity of her hair. Miserable to have him
see her like this. Hell. He should have stayed back.
But then he saw her look back, eyes even wider than they had been, if
possible. They gave the smallest of flicks down his body, and when she
looked back up,
she was biting her lip. He gave her a minute mouth twitch and eye-roll,
trying
to say It's no big deal with that short communication.
Which was good, because it seemed all they had time for. Zabini had
taken hold of Hermione's hair and tugged her head back towards him,
watching to see if she'd fall back to that side of the cage, or resist;
maybe he'd pull hard enough to tear the handful out. Harry saw Hermione
wince in pain as Zabini
held her pinned against the bars that way. Malfoy reached a hand inside
to
stroke up Hermione's calf, insidiously gentle about it. When his hand
moved
above her knee, heading up the inside of her thigh, she kicked him
away,
rewarded for it with a sharper tug on her hair from Zabini.
It wasn't even necessary for Harry to choke down his rage, fight to
keep his fists at his sides; such instincts had almost completely left
him. No, he had to be more clever than that.
"Funny, I always thought it was the thrill of the chase that turned you
two on," said Harry. "From here, it looks like you're itching to strip
off
and get in there and give us all a show."
"I know precisely what you're doing, Potter, don't think I don't," said
Malfoy, not taking his eyes from Hermione.
Yes, but he was responding to it anyway. "Just chalk it up to
jealousy. I thought I was enough for you, most days."
Malfoy turned and gave him a look. Excellent. "I think I might be
hearing a promise. Am I, Potter?"
"If you'd like it to be. I suppose it could also be a dare, now that I
think of it."
Both Zabini and Malfoy were looking at him now--and the adult Malfoys
were watching the exchange as well. Harry knew that Draco wouldn't leap
on him outright, not with professors right there; he'd have to find a
more clandestine moment--or an approved one--to molest Harry in the way
he wanted.
"Let go, Blaise." Draco didn't look at him when he said it; Harry was,
instead, the witness to Zabini's moue of disappointment. But he
complied, and Hermione slumped against the cage bars as her hair was
released.
Zabini came around the cage to join Draco, who had already moved to
stand before Harry. "I want you to remember this," Draco said to Harry
softly. "Remember
what you said, and that it actually made me leave her be. Think about
how
I'm going to want to collect, for that." And he pushed past Harry,
Zabini
following, and returned to the Slytherin table.
Hermione had moved away from her sole remaining tormentor, Bellatrix
Lestrange, who was only murmuring sibilant obscenities at her, her
hands remaining outside the cage. ". . .decorate that smooth young
flesh of yours with every steel pin I have, and perhaps we'll just
leave the ones in your nipples in place this time, hmm? You look so
sweet, howling the way you do when I thread those through, knowing I
won't heal them unless you're very, very good with your tongue after. .
."
Harry pushed the noises away mentally and reached inside to touch
Hermione's hand, careful not to touch any other part of her, fearing
she might flinch. "I'm fuck-all of a champion," he said, hushed. "I'm
sorry."
Hermione shook her head, and he was glad of that response, knowing it
for forgiveness. He could hear Professor Lestrange laughing, and knew
it was at
the picture the two of them made, but he was determined not to listen.
He let go of Hermione's hand with a short mush of syllables that he
hoped she understood was, "Wait a minute, I'll be right back," and
turned and went to the nearest of the tables; it was the Slytherin
table, and this didn't disturb him in the least. He took the closest
unclaimed goblet he could find, next to a water pitcher, was grateful
to see it had already been filled, and
took the few steps back. They could fucking well give him detention for
this
one, or take points, or whatever they chose, he didn't care.
But he still avoided the eyes of the adults as he thrust the water
goblet in at Hermione, who grabbed at it before it could be taken from
her or perhaps knocked out of her hands by one of the students who were
returning, one by one, to grin and grope at her. She sucked down the
water so quickly Harry berated himself for not having brought the whole
pitcher.
"Look at that, " Bellatrix's laughter pealed. "How sweet. Esmeralda and
Quasimodo reversed, they are. All we need is a goat to dance."
"And all the heroes die at the end of that tale," said Narcissa Malfoy.
"How apropos."
Acting as though she hadn't heard, Hermione pushed the goblet back into
his hand. "Go," she whispered. "Before. . ."
Before it gets worse, Harry knew she meant. Didn't matter. Damage was
done. Damage was done before he even came up here; he was their agenda,
after all, wasn't he?
He looked for Ron. Had he followed? Oh, bollocks. Having ceased and
desisted on Hermione, Draco and Zabini had turned on him, instead. They
couldn't do anything to him, outright, but there they were,
before and behind Ron, both smiling, glancing back in the direction of
the cage, Draco saying something Harry was too far away to catch. But
he could guess. It would involve the words "Mudblood slut," probably,
and be designed to see if they could get Ron to haul off and aim a
punch at them. Harry thought Ron was not likely to fall for it, but he
knew how tempting the fantasy of Draco Malfoy with a broken nose was.
"Headmaster. . ." said Professor Lestrange, drawing Harry's attention
back, "we do need to determine what punishment the little runaway is
going to receive for her troubles. I'm very happy to volunteer, you
know."
"Of course you are, Bella." Lucius Malfoy, hands folded over the head
of his walking stick, smiled in a way that did not reach his eyes. "But
I've already decided. It didn't require much thought. It's the full
moon tomorrow, is it not?"
Harry barely heard the slow inhale of breath from Professor Lestrange.
His insides had turned to water. No. No, they couldn't mean that. That
Ravenclaw girl had almost died because of that, three months back.
"Oh, Lucius, we haven't done that in months. That's perfect."
"We need to make an example, do we not? And Potter--" Harry felt the
water inside him freeze-- "since you have such an interest in her
welfare, you can
help."
*****
He needed to do something. Bugger that. He needed to find someone who
could do something.
He'd never gone so quickly to one of Snape's detentions before.
Snape.
Who had rules for his detentions. Rules and limits, which none of the
others seemed to have.
Who sometimes knew that Harry was trying to manipulate him away from
the other students. . .and let him.
Who might, just might, be here because there was no other choice. No
reason for him to want to be anywhere but on the winning side. Not,
unlike the others, because he relished it.
Let him have guessed right. Let this work.
Harry made himself pause at the door and knock, as was required. Though
when he heard the response of "Enter," he pushed through the door with
a
haste that Snape certainly would have thought of as unseemly.
Snape was not waiting for him behind his desk. Later, Harry thought
that that should have told him something right away, but he was too
rushed, in straits too desperate to pay much attention. Too wrapped up
in his thoughts of Let this work to wonder why Snape was sitting
in the chair opposite the door tonight.
He didn't wait to be told to approach, had no need to wait to be told
to disrobe--unless Snape was planning to magic away that collar and
leash. He crossed the room to the black-clad Potions Master.
Dropped to his knees in front of him.
Didn't dare to touch him, not quite yet. "Professor Snape. Please. I'll
do anything you want. I mean anything. Tonight or whenever, as long as
you
want." He rose up higher on his knees, starting to reach out, whether
to
clutch at the man's robes or move to the trouser buttons under the
robes
in unspoken promise, he didn't know yet. "I don't know any other way to
make
it stop. I need your--"
He saw the blow coming, braced himself for it but did not try to avoid
it as Snape's arm rose, across his chest, and his hand descended.
It was hard enough to lay him out on the floor, glasses askew on his
face. But Harry still registered: Back-handed. Only back-handed.
The chuckle did not come from Snape.
Of that he was quite sure. Even though the sound came from behind him,
he might have been disoriented from the blow, and mistaking the
direction. No, what made him so certain was that Snape would never have
made that sound.
The chuckle became a mellifluous syllable, the words following it
precisely enunciated, belying the youthful tone of the voice. "My,
Severus, perhaps Malfoy was wrong about you being a bit soft. Do all
your detainees beg so earnestly for respite from your methods? Your
routines must be quite dreadful after all."
Harry lay on the floor, not daring to rise, not daring to look. Malfoy
had been damned quick about making that report.
"Please do go on," Voldemort continued. "This is already starting out
quite well."
There was a hand in his hair; Snape had seized a fistful of it and was
pulling Harry upright, to his knees again. Harry tried not to whimper.
Not in front of Snape and not in front of Voldemort.
"You are presumptuous, Mr. Potter. Shameless, even." He could hear the
unconcealed disgust in Snape's voice. "I thought you knew better than
that."
Was this some double meaning of Snape's? Had Harry been right, then;
that Snape did this because he must, and, if not for Voldemort's
presence, might he have listened to Harry's entreaty? Listened, at
least?
What did it matter, now.
"Stand, and go bend over my desk. At once."
As he rose to comply, Harry thought that he might have been right after
all. It was the At once; Snape would never, after all these
months,
have thought to need those additional words to make him obey.
He bent over the desk as instructed, mindful of the leash so that he
did not catch it between himself and the desktop in a way that it might
pull its
spikes against his neck. But as he turned his head to lay his cheek
down upon
the desk, he realized he'd miscalculated: he had a clear view of
Voldemort, relaxed in the chair on the side of the room near the door.
Their eyes met; Harry knew that to turn his head now would be to admit
that he was turning away so as not to have to see him, or not to have
Voldemort be able to see his face. That, he couldn't concede.
For a time, whenever he had seen that face, his brain had supplied the
word Tom before any other. Voldemort looked only a little older
than when he had seen him as a young man in the ghost world of a diary,
or that blurry-edged figure in the Chamber. But none of his followers
would have dared call him that any longer, and so it had become
automatic now for Harry to think of this black-haired figure, who
looked not much older than a senior-level Hogwarts student, by his
preferred form of address.
In contrast to Snape, Voldemort affected robes of deepest green, but so
close to black it almost made no difference in this lighting. Nothing
covered
his head but the hood of his robes, though he was pushing it back just
now,
no doubt to see better.
Harry refused to let himself close his eyes.
Snape's footsteps had never been so loud, so echoing in that room.
Harry heard him moving around the other side of the desk. In this
position he couldn't see what Snape was fetching. Would it be the
birch, as usual? Snape might have put him in this position remembering
that Harry didn't have his Potions text.
But he didn't think that was the reason.
Sound of the latch on the cupboard being opened. Something was being
removed. Harry willed himself to know whether it was the birch rod by
sound alone, but if willing made things so, he wouldn't be bent over
Snape's desk to begin with.
Nor would Voldemort be watching him with such pleasure on his too-young
face. As he saw the Dark Lord's smile deepen just a trace, Harry got
the
feeling that what Snape had taken out of that cupboard must be bad
indeed.
"Would it please you to see him restrained, my lord?"
It could have been a warning to him that yes, indeed, it was going to
be bad. Or it might simply have been Snape's knowledge of Voldemort's
kinks.
"No, Severus, I think I would enjoy seeing if the little half-blood can
keep himself properly still while he's chastised. You do add additional
punishment if he cannot, don't you?"
"Quite."
Well, that was nothing new.
CRACK.
But that was, he realized in that horrible moment just as the pain
began to blossom.
Oh, dear God, Snape had cut him to the bone. Sliced him open with
something bladed--no. No, the sound. Snape had a fucking whip
in his hand. Oh, sweet fucking Christ.
All instinct to shield himself with his hands was completely squelched.
He'd find blood; he'd feel how the cut really did go down to the bone;
the
whip would descend on his hands and slice his fingers off and dear God,
he
didn't want to lose his fingers on top of all this. . .
CRACK.
His chest ached; he realized it was the lack of air that had come at
the end of his scream. He'd screamed that time and the pain was so
great he hadn't even realized he was screaming.
CRACK.
So little pause between the blows. Was that mercy, or did Snape intend
to inflict so many that he couldn't be troubled to take longer?
CRACK.
When this one came, Harry hadn't been done with the scream from the
last. He didn't have Voldemort's face to watch anymore, though; he was
staring straight
ahead now, not even resting his chin on the desk for fear that his
shudderings
would mean his jaw would break against it, afraid to even blink because
an
instant of lost sight might mean that he had died of this.
CRACK.
Snape was shredding him. Trying to take the skin off his arse a cut at
a time. If that was so, why weren't his legs already wet with blood?
CRACK.
His hands. If he could just exert a tight enough grip, he could get his
nails embedded deeply enough into the desk so that he wouldn't be able
to
pull his hands free and try to escape.
CRACK.
It wasn't a scream this time. He was begging. A rush of sounds without
pause, mindless moan of oh god please stop stop it I swear to god
I'll do anything you want please
CRACK.
can't I can't can't take it please god don't don't please
CRACK.
noooo
CRACK.
Laughter, soft, but he could hear it even above his own litany of
pleas. Voldemort's.
No more came. Snape had stopped. No, he was just pausing to make him
think it was over. Had to be.
A hand, fisted painfully in his hair again. "Turn over."
Harry couldn't do it. Hadn't the power to move. Snape was going to use
that thing on the front of his body. His stomach. His cock.
The hand pulled. Harry moved. His limp arms couldn't help him at all;
he somehow used the muscles in his back and abdomen to roll with the
movement of the hand in his hair--
His arse contacted the edge of the desk. The cry jerked out of him as
if the sound itself had been the thing that had been leashed. He
couldn't separate one fiery line of pain from the others, but was
startled not to be slipping on the desk; there had to have been blood.
It couldn't have been so painful without cutting into him. Couldn't
have been.
He saw the whip in Snape's hand. Fuck, it was thick. And Snape
was--oh, God, Snape was putting it down, setting it back on a shelf in
that cupboard. Relief flooded over Harry in a way that it should not;
there was no reason to think that Snape wouldn't bring out something
worse.
He came away from it with a jar. "Bring your knees up."
Harry set his eyes on the ceiling and did as instructed, wondering why
this tightened his throat so. It was not as if he was unaccustomed to
this. But Snape never fucked him. Every stroke of the birch that he
usually administered was like being fucked by him, yes, in its
deliberateness, in the way it was prefaced by the requirement for
perfect posture, perfect repetition, accurate counting of each stroke.
Snape beat you like he would have fucked you, Harry had always thought.
But it was the first time he would actually have the man's cock inside
him, and it was this change of the rules that threw him off so, left
him gasping like some virgin.
Though Malfoy--the headmaster--had told him that that was a good deal
of his appeal. That he could get him to react like a virgin every
single time. Harry had tried to quash that, whatever it was, but being
unable to identify what it was that Malfoy had seen, had (he supposed)
been unsuccessful.
He heard the jar being opened.
He wouldn't know if the contents would have that awful after-effect
until, well, after. Best not to worry about it now.
Blunt fingers touched him, parted his arsecheeks. Slickened ones probed
at him.
He had to look.
It was a mistake. Snape wasn't looking at what he was doing; his eyes
were on Harry's face. They were awful eyes. If the man had smiled,
evilly pleased at what he was doing in that dreadful way that Voldemort
was pleased, it would
have made things easier; but Snape's expression was nothing like that.
No,
it was just that same look of distasteful impassivity he always got
from him,
that look that was identical whether he was watching Harry disrobe for
a
birching or just displeased with the inadequacy of one of his answers
in class.
It was somehow more hideous, that Snape couldn't be bothered to dredge
up
some smugness or even hatred for him, doing this.
Harry did his best to be obedient. He was silent as the fingers pushed
into his arsehole. He certainly had enough experience to be accustomed
to staying still for this, not even whimpering as Snape stretched him.
Even as his arse came into momentary contact with the desk's surface,
the wounds (welts? He still didn't know) torturing him each time they
touched, or each time Snape's hands brushed over one, he kept the
sounds to gasps only.
Snape's hair fell into his eyes as he continued to stretch Harry, up to
four fingers now, it felt like. The man didn't even look like he'd
broken
a sweat, using the whip on him. Wasn't sweating now.
Still feeling the fingers inside him, Harry saw, heard Snape's other
hand tugging at his clothing as he freed himself. Harry knew he'd never
seen Snape's cock before. He'd have remembered that. Couldn't remember
anyone telling him
that they'd been forced to service the man that way.
He had the feeling he'd be seeing a lot more of it in the future.
Snape's fingers slid free of his arsehole and both of his hands hooked
around Harry's thighs and pulled, dragging him that much closer to the
edge of the desk. Harry's hands were cupped around his shins to hold
his knees back in the position ordered, and the combined forces pulled
his heels back all the way to contact his raw bum, startling a hiss out
of him. Snape gave no indication he'd noticed, but Harry heard
Voldemort's chuckle, followed by a humorous murmur of, "Use him hard,
Severus. I want to hear the boy scream again."
Robes parted, trousers open--Harry couldn't tell if the man was wearing
pants or not-- Snape had his hand curved about the underside of his
cock,
stroking it to a greater engorgement until it had assumed that jutting
angle
from his body of its own will, foreskin peeling itself back from the
tip,
and stayed in position as Snape set his hands on the insides of Harry's
thighs, pushing back still further so that his arsecheeks parted
themselves for that cock, the head of which settled between them with a
move of Snape's hips. As the head pushed against him, into him, the
burn of it increasing as more of it began to disappear inside him,
Harry dragged his gaze back to the ceiling, telling himself that if he
did not look he would endure this better.
Snape pulled Harry's hands off his shins and spread his arms out to
either side, trapping them with his own hands, and then thrust into
him, hard, hard enough to sink into his arse the rest of the way. Harry
choked as though it
was going into his throat. It was awful when they tried to fuck him
this way,
face to face, trying to achieve the same depth they could get when he
was
on his hands and knees and at an easier angle for it.
And Snape's face wasn't too far from his; he could see it, at the
periphery of his vision, would see it, if he just looked. Worse than
knowing a basilisk was after you, it was--seeing those eyes in a mirror
wouldn't make it any less awful.
Snape's weight on his wrists shifted, and he was pulling out. Halfway,
and then he thrust back into Harry. But Harry knew not to fight it,
knew to bear down for the thrust so as not to feel he was about to be
ripped apart, knew to try to pull his hips even further backwards for
it. None of this meant he wasn't on the verge of crying out, of begging
him to stop anyway.
Oh, that was right. Voldemort had said he wanted to hear him scream.
Harry wasn't stupid. After resisting for a couple more of those
thrusts, he allowed himself to break down, to wail, to give voice to
the sound of pain
that cost him so much to hold back, and equally much to allow its
freedom. He let it become a sob on the next one, turning his face to
the side, eyes squeezed shut.
But he didn't beg. No. Snape would have expected him to be able to take
this, after all these months, without begging. He didn't know why it
was
important for him to keep that back, but the idea that he didn't want
to
piss off Snape any more than necessary was still very strongly placed.
He felt breath near the side of his face, and then the oily strands of
Snape's hair touched him, and then there were teeth on his exposed
neck, which froze him--the bat image that he associated with Snape
would always be there--and a bite, and the pressure of a mouth,
sucking. Harry kept his eyes shut.
Snape left five more such brands on his throat, above and below the
collar, and Harry thought he heard the Dark Lord sigh in a lewdly
pleased way. He was also aware of the smell which clung to Snape, like
the fumes of a candle that someone has just extinguished, burnt and
unappetizing. He'd not been close enough to detect it, ever before.
He wanted to moan with the ugliness of everything that was happening,
and so he did, knowing Voldemort was waiting to hear such moans, might
instruct Snape to be harsher if Harry didn't provide. Snape's thrusts
inside him did not seem to be speeding up, much to his distress. Even
if something worse was planned for him, after this, he wanted Snape to
come and he wanted this done with. The bites on his throat had gotten
to him in a way that he couldn't have predicted.
He was startled when the withdrawal did come, as a result. Snape
released his wrists and Harry felt him move away entirely, had opened
his eyes and was blinking at him stupidly as Snape said, "On the floor.
On your knees."
Snape's cock still jutted from the open folds in his clothing, still
hard and shining with the wetness of the lubrication he'd used. (And
whatever else.
Harry tried not to think about that.) He had his arms folded on his
chest;
of course he did, God forbid he should be less than his usual
foreboding self
even with his prick exposed. Even his expression was still the same.
Slowly Harry unfolded himself and sank to the floor, careful of his
arse, remembering not to settle back on it but staying upright on his
knees.
Which was correct, for that was what Snape wanted. One hand came
forward, plucked Harry's glasses off of his face. "Suck."
Harry swallowed against a reflexive gag. Though he hated it when they
made him perform fellatio after buggering him, he tried to console
himself that at least it was his own arse Snape's prick had been up.
Wasn't always the case.
He leaned forward, mouth open, took the spongy head, ringed in by its
foreskin, into his mouth and pressed his tongue against the divot in
the underside. Once or twice that technique had made Draco Malfoy come
on the spot, and rarely
failed to get at least some reaction from his various tormentors. He
thought
he could detect a shudder from Snape, though the man was clearly not
yet
on the verge of coming.
Carefully--ignoring the taste as best as he could--he pulled more of
the shaft's length into his mouth, uncertain how much tooth to use.
Always better to start off with none, and gently introduce it later.
Even if that too sometimes got them off quite quickly.
"Use your hands to pleasure me, as well," Snape said.
Harry knew better than to ask for clarification. His hands lifted,
stroked the base of the shaft as he took more of the cock's length in
his mouth, reached
beneath to cup the balls in his hand, tweak the loose skin of the
ballsac,
careful not to pinch. Rubbed the perineum with a finger, then two,
registered
that Snape was spreading his stance slightly, and traced back further,
into
the crack of his arse, not quite all the way to the puckered hole,
Snape
didn't have his legs quite wide enough for that, all the time caressing
the
underside of the man's cock with his tongue, exerting stronger pressure
with
the ring of his lips as they moved back and forth along the length.
He hated that he'd become good at this. Even if it was saving his life.
He allowed his teeth to make one small graze over the cockhead,
pressing a fingertip a little deeper against the perineum at the same
time. Snape hissed
in a way that told him he'd gotten that right. Concentrating on the
head,
careful to keep the teeth to a minimum, and using his fingers
rhythmically, he soon had Snape's hand in his hair again, holding him
in place as Snape fucked his mouth, Harry careful to keep the pressure
of his tongue firmly snaking up and down the bottom of the shaft with
each thrust.
He had the minute satisfaction of getting a groan out of the man when
Snape finally pulled him off and ejaculated directly into his eyes,
making him gasp,
shut his eyes reflexively and wait, unhappily, as Snape finished
coming, drips
of his come making their way down his cheeks like heavy tears. The grip
in
his hair was painfully tight.
But it was released at last, and Harry knelt there, blinking, not
daring to wipe his face. The stuff would glue his eyelashes together if
he wasn't allowed to wash it off soon.
"Would you like to have him, my lord?"
Well. It wasn't as if he couldn't have predicted that was coming.
"I've been quite looking forward to it, yes." He heard Voldemort's
footsteps as he rose and approached. "In fact, I would like you to join
me. Take a revivifying
potion, and then put him over that desk of yours again."
Harry heard Snape murmur something deferentially agreeing, and moved
away. No longer caring if they were watching, Harry swiped at his eyes
with the back of his hand. He doubted their plans for him would be the
least altered by that gesture.
A hand gripped his upper arm, hauled him to his feet. Snape had a vial
of something in his other hand, though it was still stoppered. "Face up
or face down, my lord?"
"Just as you had him when you whipped him. Though I think we'll
restrain him, this time."
Harry was not commanded. Instead, Snape shoved him against the desk,
edge biting into his hipbones. Harry tried to keep the leash from
catching. "Wrists and ankles, I presume?"
"Yes. Let me. I have something specific in mind."
Snape stepped back--Harry could hear him opening the vial--and then
Voldemort was at the end of the desk near Harry's head, was plucking
that leash out from under him and drawing it down the edge of the desk.
A gesture of his wand, and Harry was tethered, the spikes of the collar
pressing just a little uncomfortably on the back of his neck, ready to
dig in more painfully should Harry raise his head or try to move
backward.
His view of Voldemort was made slightly blurry by the loss of his
glasses, but Harry knew the man was smiling as he drew Harry's arms out
in much the same position they had been in before, when Snape had
pinned him, and magicked restraints similar to the collar about them,
fixing his wrists to the desk with spiked bands of leather, which also
invited pain if he tried to pull against them.
It did not surprise him when his ankles were treated in the same
way--though Voldemort spread his legs wide against the front of the
desk, with his feet almost off the floor entirely. The strain on his
thighs was too much to bear for long without relaxing against the
bands, and the spikes needled into him
each time he was forced to. Harry's cock and scrotum lay exposed
between his
spread legs, despite the efforts of his balls to crawl back into the
safety
of his body.
"Did you wish his mouth or his arse, my lord?"
"Oh, his arse, Severus. I wish both of us to have his arse. Since you
have prepared it so well for us."
A tiny pause. "Yes, my lord."
Why had he paused? What--oh. Oh, no. They couldn't.
They were.
"I think we'll gag him. I'm quite sure he'll want to scream and beg
this time, and I would enjoy him being unable to."
Voldemort came back around to the back of the desk, crouched slightly,
and lifted Harry's chin with two fingers. The spikes on his collar bit
in a fraction. Voldemort had a handkerchief of brighter green silk, and
this he unfurled with a flick, and pushed a corner of it into Harry's
mouth. "Lift your tongue," he instructed, sounding as gentle and
patient as a parent telling a toddler to lift his arms, so that his
jumper might be taken off. "Otherwise I fear you could swallow the end
of this and choke, and that would be so distressing, wouldn't it, Harry
Potter."
Shaking, Harry did as he was told. Voldemort tucked the corner under
Harry's tongue, and then fed the rest of it into Harry's mouth, tucking
it in with great care until it filled his mouth in a thick ball of
fabric, Harry's cheeks bulging around it, his throat spasming behind it
as it prodded his gag reflex in a way that forced him to pant through
his nose almost frantically.
"Oh, that's nice. Let me see. . ." Voldemort took his hands away,
traced a shape in the air with them, gestured with his wand, and
shortly held a block
of something solid in his hands, something that had created itself in
midair
and which he now tucked between Harry's chin and the desk. It was just
high
enough to keep Harry staring straight ahead, unable to duck his face
down,
and long and thick enough to ensure he could not turn his head far
enough
to knock it away.
Voldemort petted his hair fondly. "There, Severus, that's a fitting
touch, isn't it? Later, we can watch this in a pensieve and simply
watch his face through the whole thing, if we choose."
"And then we might watch him as he's forced to watch that, my lord."
"Oh, Severus, you're good. I knew Malfoy was being overly
suspicious." Voldemort returned to the front of the desk, and Harry,
cut off from all sight
except that before him and just to the sides, was back to tactile and
sound
cues.
He didn't even dare to moan. The way it made his palate thrum, he was
afraid it would trigger another round of gagging, and he had no idea if
the two men
would realize if he had retched and choked until he stopped breathing.
And
perhaps then it would be too late.
"Where did you put that jar--ah, here it is. I presume it has one of
the usual delayed effects?"
"Yes, my lord. It acts only on the rectal membranes, though. And I have
the countercharm if there is any inadvertent contact."
"Excellent. Well, better give him another dose of it. I do admire the
precision of your work with the whip, by the way. Each one of these
welts is spaced so. . .artistically."
Welts, then.
Fingers spread him again. The oil Snape was using dripped copiously
along his crack, was pushed within as the fingers worked the ring of
muscle open, three, four fingers, and now the tips of all five fingers
on one hand steepled together, twisting, opening him as if his insides
would fall out into the palm cupped below the fingertips. Harry
groaned, and gagged.
"Do you fear you will break in two, boy?" Voldemort purred. "Would you
beg for mercy if you could? Listen to him breathing, Severus. It's
exquisite."
The fingers did not leave him yet, but Harry felt the soft-hard
bluntness of a cock press against his opening, and then the sensation
was duplicated, the heads of two cocks pushing against his anus,
squeezing in side by side as one by one, the fingers that had been
tenting him open departed, slipping out as the two cockheads pushed
inside, one slightly before the other, but the other sliding forward to
make up the distance. A sound came from one of
them, both of them, but he had no way of telling, now, which was which,
and
then a thrust and one was in deeper, deeper still, and there was a
sound as
of two bodies pressed together making an adjustment and both cocks were
now
forcing their way in further, and Harry howled, or it would have been a
howl
had his mouth been unobstructed, and the balled-up silk grazed the back
of
his throat but was too big to be swallowed and growing too sodden for
him
to fear an end of it would slip down and choke him, but that wasn't
right,
it wasn't a fear any longer, it would have been a mercy, an end.
He knew Voldemort was right, he was going to be torn in two by them,
not knowing how they could be pushing into him like this, deeper,
deeper still, when it had to be impossible, there just wasn't enough
room for them to stand that close. It had to be wizardry that was
allowing it, had to be, the image, God, the image of Snape and
Voldemort entwined with each other as they fucked him together, it was
worse imagining it than it probably was to see, though if they made
good their threat, he'd be getting to see it ever so vividly in the
near future. . .
"Fondle him. I want him to enjoy this, the little slut," panted the
Dark Lord.
A hand--two hands touched his cock, half-hard from reflex, and stroked
it, pulling back the foreskin, squeezing him at the root. He sucked in
a breath, saliva that he couldn't swallow almost getting pulled down
the wrong way, and felt his own blood betray him as well, filling him,
causing his erection to swell in the men's hands, the tip of his cock
already seeping wetness onto
those fingers.
"Make him come."
One hand squeezed his shaft, began to stroke it in well-oiled fingers,
the other continued to play about his cockhead, drawing the foreskin
back and forth, then using a fingernail to splay open the slit, making
him scream into
the gag again. He was going to come, there was no way to stop it--at
some
point, no wish to stop it, of course--even as they stuffed him full of
their
cocks and choked him with that gag and he could feel their bodies
pushing
against his arse, making the welts sing with pain each time they were
touched,
and five sets of spikes dug their way into the bones of his wrists and
ankles
and the skin on the back of his neck and his face was streaming with
tears
so that it was getting harder to breathe through his nose now as he
sniffled
water and mucus into the pool at the base of his throat just to take a
breath--
He came, and even as orgasm exploded in his head he wailed that it did
not even have the kindness to let him black out.
He felt every thrust inflicted on him by Snape and by Voldemort, until
the two of them came as well, groaning, hissing their pleasure as his
insides filled with the heat of their ejaculate, and they took their
time withdrawing, oh, of course they did.
Nor was Voldemort quick to free him from the restraints. Harry lingered
there while the Dark Lord did a more thorough inspection of the whip
marks
on his buttocks, asking Snape how he'd gotten such a good effect, and
Snape
explaining that it was the weighted tip that mattered.
Though it was Snape who removed the soaking-wet ball of handkerchief
from Harry's mouth as soon as he had come, withdrawn, and done up his
clothing.
*****
Harry did not refuse Ron's offer of help, that night. Ron used the
ointment on each of the whip marks, despite Harry's protests that he
had to wear them for three days, Ron cursing Snape in a choked voice as
he applied the thinnest layer of ointment possible, so as to take the
edge off the pain but not allow them to heal fully. And Harry later
found out that the lubricating oil's after-effect
was, predictably, a dreadful itch. The ointment didn't help much for
that.
Neither Ron nor Harry spoke of tomorrow night.
*****
He'd not seen the room before. Reminded him of a smokestack, it did, a
great stone smokestack. Or perhaps like being at the bottom of a giant
well. The cover let in none of the night sky, not yet, though Harry had
no doubt that the assembled wizards would have magicked a cloudless
night for tonight's entertainment.
Hermione was still naked, of course, and so was he--well, not still,
in his case; Malfoy had ordered him stripped again, tonight, for this.
Wanted a lewd little ritual of it, Harry didn't doubt.
For Harry, it was nothing even approaching lewd. Despite Voldemort's
Death Eater ranks clustered at the periphery of the circular room,
despite Hermione chained naked and spread-eagled on the stone slab at
its center, Harry's own
bare skin brought him no blushes. He was icy. Even the sweat in his
armpits was a chilling fear-slickness.
Hermione's survival depended on his not botching this.
Even Voldemort had stayed to watch. This sort of entertainment was "too
rare a pleasure to miss," he'd murmured to Snape, at the conclusion of
last
night's abuse.
"Give it to the boy, Severus." It was Malfoy speaking. "The moon should
be in position momentarily."
Harry made himself take a step, and another--he had no delaying tactics
in mind, knew it would be useless--until he was standing before Snape,
who
extended a hand from the folds of his robes and held out a jar.
Harry could have looked up at Snape's face. Could have looked to see if
there was anything there, anything of the secret communication he had
thought
to divine last night. He did not think it would be anything so easily
read
as sympathy, no, not amongst this company. But--something, the hint
that
only he could find, in those eyes, that said, you have no choice. Nor
have
I any choice.
He'd thought it might have been there, once.
He didn't look.
And he would never try to look for it again in his lifetime.
He took the jar and made himself cross the short distance back to the
stone slab, and Hermione. There, he stopped, looking at her face,
simply unable to move.
"Harry," she said in the most raspy of whispers. "You have to."
I know. I know I do, he thought. It isn't even what they're making me
do. This is the part that they're letting me do.
He told himself that, and yet he still couldn't move.
"You have to," she repeated, her eyes fixed on him, lifting her head.
"I'm glad it's you. I trust you. You'll do it right. I know you will."
Holy fuck. She was trying to give him courage.
And now his face did flush with a shame that still had nothing to do
with lewdness. He reached out with a shaking hand, touched Hermione's
cheek, and then pushed his lips to her forehead awkwardly.
"I won't mess it up."
What she said in reply was almost lost in the choke in her throat, but
he got it.
He opened the jar, set it on the stone, just by her side, and dipped
his fingers in the oil. His hands were still shaking. Setting his
fingertips on
Hermione's collarbones, he began to stroke it over her skin, telling
himself that it didn't matter if his hands shook, as long as he got it
right, as long
as he didn't miss anything. Every odorous area on her body. Armpits.
Breasts.
Belly. Cunt. Arse. Palms. Feet. Those were the important places. Scalp
and
hair, as well. The student who had had to do this for the Ravenclaw
girl
had missed that, and the wrongness of that smell--too much human,
still, under
that of a female wolf in heat--had driven the werewolf into a frenzy.
If he did this right, Lupin would only rape her. Not bite. Not kill.
When it was done, as thoroughly as he could make it--torchlight
glinting on her skin, her hair limp and heavy with the oil--he saw
Malfoy's hand lift, opposite, gesturing Harry to him. They would make
him watch; he'd been told that. From behind the protective ward they'd
erect after Lupin had been brought in, he would wait with them, and be
made to watch.
And it occurred to him not to go.
To refuse. To tell Malfoy, tell Voldemort, tell them all to bring in
the werewolf, raise their ward, and drag open the cover that would
expose the room to the night sky, and the full moon--and leave him
there, there in the center of the room with Hermione, both of them
reeking of female wolf musk--but Harry, insufficiently so.
Harry, Lupin would savage.
And at that moment it seemed the better alternative.
He would remember that moment, later. Those very, very few years later,
when he had completed the seven-year term of Hogwarts--a term that he
had
come to call, simply, "education," and with a straight face--and was
kneeling on the dais in the Great Hall, Voldemort above him deciding if
he would allow him to be bought by one of his Death Eaters as slave on
a permanent, personal basis, or would decide to keep him for his own
select collection, Harry would recall the night of Hermione's rape by
werewolf as the first moment, in all this, when he thought that he
would rather die than go on. It would not be a memory he would cling
to; he would, in fact, try to push it away. Wanting to die was too much
like wanting to give in. It was a loss of the will, and too much,
indeed, like being broken.
No. He would not seek his own death. Not tonight.
And he could at least do the courtesy of not making Lupin responsible
for it. Or making Hermione watch.
He made himself cross to Malfoy. Was drawn into his lap, Malfoy's hands
already tweaking at him.
Endured it as they dragged in Lupin, who still had will enough to curse
and struggle, but whose sets of chained manacles would be precisely the
wrong shape to hold a wolf's paws captive, after the change.
The crackle of the ward being raised preceded, by a moment, the
grinding of stone on stone as the ceiling cover slid away, and a round,
silver moon cast its beams into the room.
Lasting even longer in Harry's memory than the howls of the wolf or the
noises Hermione tried so vainly to suppress, was the clatter of the
chains
falling to the stone floor.
-fin
.....
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