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 Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to 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 interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.

And Just Plain Wrong
by Amanuensis

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."


". . .ah. . .I. . .I will not confuse common wormwood and goat's rue. Twenty." At last.


". . .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?"


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.



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.


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.


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.


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?"


Well, that was nothing new.


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. . .


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.


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?


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.


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?


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.


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


can't I can't can't take it please god don't don't please




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.


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