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being made from the use of these characters and situations; these
written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the
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authorized materials of these owners.
Animagus in One Week (Money-Back Guarantee!)
Summary: Smut. Slash. Slavery. Spankings. Silliness.
Pairing: Sirius/Remus/Harry, Lucius/Snape, implied
Notes: Written for the 2004 Merry Smutmas fest as a gift for
Ringspells. Among requested kinks included are non-con/questionable
consent and kisses, plus little tastes/implications of bondage, public
sex, and breathplay.
It was Wormtail who succeeded, in the end--succeeded where the rest
had, once again, failed him. Strange that that should have given
Voldemort surprise, yet it did.
He was not the only one. Malfoy hissed, and Snape's lips pursed so
tightly they might have possessed an event horizon. Even Nagini
awakened from her usual slumber on the finials of Voldemort's chairback
to look, and the remainder pouted or blinked their displeasure as
Wormtail made his way to the center of the hall, propelling the boy
with shoves to the small of his back, and, though the boy's wrists were
bound, stumbling almost as much as his captive stumbled.
Wormtail didn't do Intimidating Henchman well. Wormtail hardly did
Snivelling Henchman well, if it came to that--which made his capture of
Potter all the more surprising.
"On your knees before the Dark Lord, half-blood," Wormtail barked--from
him it was more of a yelp. It was also redundant, as Potter had fallen
to his knees after the shove-and-stumble. Unless Wormtail was going for
Explanation and not Command. Voldemort doubted Wormtail had planned it
to that degree.
However, it was pleasing to
hear Wormtail use that
particular epithet. Not only would none dare to comment on the Dark
Lord's own less-than-pureblooded wizard heritage--none even chose to
Voldemort gathered in the unraveled edges of his attention, wayward as
a wool jumper in a burrow of porcupines, and brought them to bear
on his captive, half-kneeling on the floor of his hall. Strange that so
many considered this mere boy Voldemort's enemy, and not simply what he
was: a nuisance. Hardly more than a child, this youth; not nearly man
enough to deserve the name of 'enemy'.
Boy-Who-Lived indeed, emphasis on the boy. Cheek still smooth, limbs
still gangly--all right, to be fair, he had caught himself on one knee
rather than falling over completely, even without the use of his hands,
so one could see that he had something of a man's strength developing.
And more coordination than those gangly limbs suggested, as well.
Long-limbed, rather. And the set of his boyish shoulders implied a lack
of fear, though, wisely, not defiance. And weren't there hints of the
man he'd soon be in his jawline? The wild splay of dark hair on his
head--shouldn't he be of the age to sport chest hair? Voldemort
wondered if it grew as thickly--
At any rate, it was ludicrous that so much emphasis should have been
placed on one boy's capture. Not that Voldemort himself wasn't
responsible for that emphasis. To have escaped him so many times, even
without the assistance of that old fool Dumbledore--it had gone beyond
not-to-be-borne all the way to death-would-be-too-kind. Better the boy
be captured like this instead of killed outright--made to suffer, made
to pay with every inch of his adolescent flesh, lithely-muscled and
toothsome as veal--
Damn, he was doing it again.
Well, it was hardly surprising. When one was a dark lord, a certain
amount of depravity was expected, even de rigueur.
All he needed to remind him of that was that soft clink of chain on
stone on either side of his chair as his pets shifted upon the floor.
Yes, despite their carefully-cultured control, they'd be beside
themselves at Potter's capture--though he knew they'd not dare to show
So certain was he of this he kept his gaze on Potter, sparing no glance
to his two pets. "Well, boy," he said, cool and smooth as vichyssoise,
"are you thinking this is just another in a long list of
confrontations? That you shall survive this one as well?" Potter didn't
reply, didn't try to rise. Looked appropriately cowed. Voldemort didn't
know if he looked quite like a man--like a boy--preparing to die, and
that was irksome, but that would change.
And he knew not to carry the thread further. One didn't toy with the
rules of Dark Lordhood: it was foolhardy to dwell too long on the
inevitability of your victim's death. Suicide to dwell on the
impossibility of your own.
A bit of solid menacing, however, was neutral territory on the list of
Dark Lord's pastimes, and didn't cross over onto the Dangerous
Harbingers table. "I contemplate your ending with fondness, you know."
He waited until he saw the boy's Adam's apple bob once as he swallowed,
then said, "A subject that brings me warm contentment. Would you care
to guess if any of these fantasies involve an ending other than death?"
Another pause, to let that sink in, then, "No guesses? They exist, I do
concede. You might wish to begin begging for your life, if you wish
them to have any priority."
So small, the set of Potter's mouth. Was he about to beg? Too
frightened to beg? Certainly not too dignified, no. A boy, that was
all; he couldn't have any concept of dignity that needed preserving.
And that was when the voice beside his chair said, "Most noble and
generous master...could we do it for him?"
"Yes, Dark Lord, we promise to be as elaborate or desperate as pleases
you. Really." That from the other side of his chair, and spoken with a
tightness and rapidity that belied all calm.
Voldemort did not smile. It wouldn't do to let them think it would be
easy. His gaze slid down, leisurely as a toboggan on too-wet snow, to
take in the two of his pets. "Can you."
The werewolf, he thought, was the one who had spoken first. But now
their voices overlapped each other as rapidly as cheese slices laid
down upon an hors d'oeuvre plate. "Yes, lord--"
"Please don't kill him--"
"We'll promise anything--"
"--not that we haven't already promised everything--"
Begging. Sweet as purloined honey to a Dark Lord's decrepit soul. He
let them continue, reveling in every please and
every philanthropic descriptor (benevolent, merciful, wonderful) they
attached to his address, not actually believing it would influence his
--until one of them--the animagus--said, "...and the ways we'll teach
him to please you, lord!"
"You know what they say about young dogs and new tricks--actually they
say it about old dogs, but the concept's there for the reading--"
"The three of us together--together with him, with
you, won't that be more satisfying than sending him
to his death?"
"Elevating him as a martyr."
"Don't you think your throne lacks symmetry in respect to your pets, my
The question brought him up short. Which was a relief; when he'd
admitted to contemplating Potter's end, he hadn't thought he meant he
had a fetish for the boy's arse. He seized the segue. "There are two of
you, my dearest little upstarts. How much more symmetry do I need?"
"Not symmetry." He knew the werewolf would have thrown the other one a
look, had he dared. "More like balance."
"Two on either side, and one to grovel at your feet," said the
werewolf, the patience in his tone a marvel of
you-are-not-helping smoothness. "And that it should
be him, lord, doing the grovelling. Harry Potter."
"Reduced to a pet."
"And we'll teach him to please you. Imagine him begging."
Oh, they'd hit that nerve again, as precisely as if they'd been
surgeons. Imagining Potter pleading with him, or in the hands of his
other pets--pleading for release in all the permutations of that
word--there was an image that seized him as decisively as if a hand had
reached inside his robes and groped him.
Such a duty one had, keeping up the image of Dark Lord. Decadence was
expected, but so was minimization of any potential for humiliation.
Especially from one's own minions. Which meant one might command an
orgy to be staged for one's pleasure--but one simply didn't fling
oneself into the midst of it. Orgy participants had their share of
ridiculous moments, whether one was as unlovely as Wormtail or
well-formed as Malfoy.
A Dark Lord couldn't afford to have ridiculous moments.
And one had to be damned careful about taking a minion to one's bed.
Not only did they carry tales, the familiarity spilled over into public
display. Not good. Plus all that awkwardness after one told said minion
the passion was gone and the affair over--but one still had to work
with them daily. Immolation of exes was a waste of good minions, so,
one had to endure. And the exes always acted as if they expected
immolation any day. Oh, it just wasn't worth it.
But pets--ah, pets. Pets were the saving grace of one's needs, one's
desires, and one's deviant reputation. A naked or near-naked
subservient, leashed and crawling--particularly one of the same gender,
and particularly one who was once counted an enemy--nothing better to
signify one's decadence. Those could be indulged in privately, or
forced to perform publicly with each other, giving one all the
delicious benefits of the indulgence and the perverted benefits of the
display, and no embarrassing moments for a Dark Lord to endure.
And didn't he have a choice pair. Same gender and former enemies--and a
set of shapechangers. One might only change form during the full moon,
but the pleasures of werewolf sex were incomparable--well worth the
scratches, his mild allergy to the fur, and the carnivore breath. The
animagus could only change to his dog shape if Voldemort willed it, and
that made up for the times between the other's monthly shifts.
Especially when Voldemort set him to buggering his companion while in
that shape. Prime entertainment for his hall; canine bestiality was so
Wasn't that enough for a Dark Lord? Enough for him?
Could a Dark Lord ever have too many pets?
He looked back at Potter. Felt his cock harden that much further.
But he still couldn't make it easy for them. "You believe he can be
broken so easily, do you, my sweet ones? I've no wish to waste my time
beating the defiance out of him. The two of you have quite spoiled me,
you know." It was true. When the werewolf had come to him of his own
will, begging his secrets to retrieve the animagus from the dimension
beyond the Veil and promising his lifelong service in exchange, it had
been too good to refuse--so easy a thing for him to provide in return
for his own pet werewolf. And then to use his hold over the werewolf to
gain the same promise from the newly-resurrected animagus Black...one
didn't get to be Dark Lord without learning to wring every last drop of
blood from one's bargains.
"Give us a week, my lord."
"A week. We promise."
"You believe you can have him subservient in a week?" It was pleasant
that they believed it, but looking at the small set of Potter's
mouth--Potter's quite sweetly pink mouth, as long as he was
acknowledging it--Voldemort could not have the same confidence.
"Not only subservient, but eager."
"A proper little slut."
He thought he heard the smallest choking sound from the werewolf before
he said, "Not only obeying your wishes, but anticipating them."
Pygmalion complexes, the both of them. Well, they were desperate; he
couldn't blame them. "You promise so much," he said in the lightly
chiding tone that meant he was looking for even more abasement.
"My lord--in a week we can teach him to be an animagus."
He hadn't been prepared for that. "Was that--hyperbole?"
"Completely serious, most sublime lord."
"What we said about symmetry--"
"--the three of us for your pets--"
"If you think," he said, separating each word carefully--more dignified
(and effective) than raising one's voice, for a Dark Lord--so that they
fell silent, abashed, "that you can use him against me, my precious
babes, recall how easily I control you, Black. Animagus form or no." It
was true that he had nothing to fear from an animagus. Yet he could not
help sensing something ulterior.
The protests were vehement, all nos and
nothing of the kinds and one forgive us for
causing you any measure of mistrust; punish us as you will
that particularly pleased him.
"Only for you to have everything you desire in a pet, most magnificent
What would Potter's animagus form be--canine, vulpine, feline?
Something completely unexpected, such as an insect or sea creature? It
mattered not; were Potter to take the form of a poisonous creature or
even a deadly virus, Voldemort would still be invulnerable to any
attack from an animagus.
Which was why he couldn't think what his pets might be playing at.
He looked at Potter, imagining him as a bristly hedgehog. Or a
The slight fuzzing of his vision as more blood rushed away from his
brain gave him all the answer he needed.
"I suppose--" he had to swallow against a dry throat, but concealed it
as a pause--"that it would be a pity not to allow you to try. Very
well, the whelp will be at your disposal. For one week. And I shall
"My lord." Sullen-faced Malfoy did not step forward, but drew attention
to himself with the deliberate pitch of his voice. Voldemort suspected
him of studying more of the secrets of Dark Lordhood than he let on.
"Do you think--"
There was an un-Malfoy-like throat-catch on the k,
and the smallest of movements, and he stopped.
Voldemort watched the odd picture Malfoy made, and noted Snape standing
behind him. Had Snape just...pinched the man?
"Forgive me, my lord. If you intend to allow your unworthy servants the
same privilege of observation, we will be told if we've earned such a
Certainly that hadn't been what Malfoy planned to say originally. But
whatever protests he'd choked off, his sycophantic substitution was
Ah, Malfoy. Sometimes his rules about not bedding minions just seemed
He allowed himself a smile at the man to appease the rush of wistful
lust, and turned his gaze back to Potter, transforming the easy smile
to a sneer of adamantine cruelty, like gold turned to lead in some
alchemist's experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong. "So your fleshly
life may be spared, boy. Though not your familiar one. What say
you--will you be a willing pupil in the art of what will please me?
Especially at the hands of those who once cherished you in a
The boy didn't answer. But he'd grown flushed during the discussion of
the disposition of his fate. Flushed, and the small set of his mouth
had changed to an open-mouthed oval. It should have been unattractively
gaping and fish-lipped, but it wasn't.
Feng shui. Honestly. Whatever those two little fabricators on either
side of his chair wanted to call it, the prospect of three pets sounded
"What were you about to do? Ask for the brat yourself?"
"Don't be obtuse."
"There aren't many other angles I can contort into,
when you're tied in this position."
"Oh, aren't you the wit. I'll have you know this St. Andrew's cross has
been in the family for generations."
"And bears the stain of generations of Malfoy spunk on every inch of
wood, no doubt. What an appetizing thought."
"I don't hear you complaining. You've buggered at least two of them."
"Correction. I never had the pleasure with your son. Well, not that
pleasure. He has such a clever mouth, we never really got past--"
"The hell you didn't. I know Draco's entire catalogue of expressions,
and well-fucked features prominently whenever he
appears after one of your visits."
"Think what you like. I'm sure it arouses you."
"Doesn't it madden you, to think I require fantasies to arouse me while
you're balls-deep in my arse?"
"Lucius, if you want to be whipped, there are subtler ways of asking."
"As if you'd know anything about subtle. He saw that pinch, you idiot."
"You ought to be grateful. What were you thinking, starting to question
"How could I do otherwise? He's mad, letting the boy live!"
"Oh, blessed fuck, don't pull out now--!"
"I am--oof, Merlin, the denial I put myself through for you--coming
around to face you for this. Yes, he's mad. We knew this when the Dark
Mark was still fresh and bleeding on our skins. He's also mad enough to
Crucio your slender arse for suggesting he's made a
poor decision. You knew perfectly well you weren't going to change his
mind--you just wanted to make sure everyone present will be saying
Lucius was right when the whole thing ends in
disaster. Your pride will get you killed, dear heart."
"Those two pets of his have far more than keeping the boy alive on
their minds. How can he not see it?"
"He does see it. What's madder is that he thinks himself invulnerable
to it. Pride's a disease."
"So is his bloody animagus fetish. If they succeed in teaching him
"They won't. I need more oil."
"...Why do you say that?"
"Because I'm coming in again and don't savor friction burns."
"Answer me. Why are you so sure?"
"I'll keep some secrets to myself, thank you very much."
"Such as whether you've buggered my son?"
"If you like, next time I'll let you come watch and find out."
"Merlin, Severus. I do love you."
Naked, though not yet collared, Potter was delivered to the
well-furnished cell that functioned as playroom--and, when Voldemort's
pets were neither in use nor on display, their prison.
Black and the werewolf he kept chained to his chair until he judged
business for the day to be at an end. (To be honest, he declared three
sets of issues to have insufficient detail for him to bother with--just
so that he could make an even hastier end to things.)
"I give you a crucial hour before I allow you a week, my dear lambs,"
he said as he allowed the two to re-enter the playroom's confines,
where Potter crouched on the floor, as far away from the door, the pile
of pillows, and the magic-shielded cabinet of sextoys as he could
manage--a weird sort of triangulation that put him left of the room's
center and looking like Adam unexpectedly dropped from the ceiling of
the Sistine Chapel. "One hour before I return to see just what sort of
experts in training you shall be. Shed your tears and your protests
now, Potter--one hour hence, you'll be denied any such concession. On
pain of death, mind. Of course, if you've decided you prefer death, by
all means, greet me upon my return with pleas and sobbing--I'm likely
to find that sweet enough to grant you a painless death in return."
Allowing his glance to linger only a moment longer--indeed, Potter did
have that adolescent dusting of dark chest hair, especially around his
nipples; he hoped he wouldn't have to execute him after all--he turned
and left, locking and spelling the door.
He didn't really think he'd find Potter pleading. And an hour later, he
But what he did find, he hadn't expected either.
None of the three looked up as Voldemort entered, not even Potter. Who
was kneeling on the floor with the other two on either side of him,
similarly kneeling, with one of them--Black--kissing Potter with tongue
so deep it looked as if Potter were the victim of some gruesome alien
symbiote take-over. Behind him, the werewolf had his arms about the
boy, kissing and biting the back of his neck in nothing so gentle as a
And Potter's hands were fisted in Black's hair in a manner that was as
far from protest as one could imagine.
In an hour?
His pets must have been very persuasive. Or perhaps Black hadn't
exaggerated when he'd used the word slut.
Kreacher had never mentioned the boy's relationship with his godfather
ran this deep.
Fascinated, Voldemort moved to the divan to recline and watch. Black
finally withdrew his tongue from its esophageal probing and let the boy
breathe, setting smaller, nipping kisses upon his lower lip--Voldemort
noted that it was already puffy; it must have been one hell of an
interesting hour--that Potter panted into, hands still tangled in his
godfather's hair. At last Black gave him up to the werewolf, who had
moved one hand under the boy's chin and was turning him to face him.
His kiss didn't seem to involve quite as much tongue but was no less
intense, as he covered Potter's lips with his own and closed them down,
slowly, clinging like the leaflets of a mollusk that had decided to
take up residence for a while. Potter moaned and transferred his hands
to the werewolf's shoulders, splay-fingered and clutching.
Pedophiles, the whole lot of that Hogwarts staff. He'd always known
Snape wasn't the only one.
The werewolf's hands ran down the sides of Potter's torso, stroking,
returning light fingertips back upwards to caress those hair-dusted
nipples. Ah, he liked those too. At the boy's moan, he bent his head
and began to apply his tongue to one, licking the fawn-colored circle
as though trying to lift a cough pastille off Potter's chest. The boy
moaned louder, arched his back so that Black, behind him, couldn't
possibly resist curving his hands over Potter's shoulders, and didn't.
He pressed his face into the small of the boy's back in a slow
full-faced kiss that made Potter arch further and his shoulderblades
stand out like a fallen angel's severed wing stumps.
It dismayed Voldemort a little, to think that Potter's youth, seated
between his other pets, was the perfect offset to their experience.
He'd prided himself on having toys that possessed qualities other than
virginal greenness--which any ten Dark Lords worth their salt could
procure, needing no more effort than would a common street pervert with
a handful of peppermints. The werewolf and the animagus had always
seemed cleverer, wiser choices than mere quantities of nubile
carnality. But now here was Potter, turning it all upside down and
leaving such theory helpless to defend itself, like some outraged
turtle set upon by spiteful boys.
As the werewolf's hands moved down to Potter's hips, curling about the
tops of his buttocks and drawing him in even closer, Voldemort savored
his view of the boy's cock, trembling at the top of its arc in a way
that suggested it wished to gain even greater heights. The tip was
already bedewed with wetness, and already those clear trickles were
beginning to break free, seep their way down the underside of the boy's
shaft like raindrops searching for a way back to the sea.
Voldemort's own cock was hard as diamond beneath his robes, and more
than moist, but he could not bring himself to denude that
Potter-sandwich of either of its sides just yet; the scene was far too
delicious. Nor would he try to join in; he wanted a trained pet of
Potter, and he would have it. Let Black and the werewolf have their
week. They were certainly earning it.
It went without saying that he would not be reduced to self-pleasuring
in front of his pets. One didn't become a Dark Lord without at least
that measure of control.
So, hands quite easily resting not upon his own
groin, he watched as the werewolf brought Potter's cock closer and
closer to his own, until the shafts just brushed and Potter sucked in a
breath. At that point, the werewolf hooked his hands under Potter's
thighs and pulled the boy forward onto his lap, thighs open and draped
over his, the pouch of his balls settling and plumping against the
werewolf's own like a fig ready to burst. Both cocks were thrust into
the air, crossed against each other lightly like rapiers paused in
Potter cried out, trying to spread his legs even further and press
harder against the man's groin. Behind him, Black slid his hands about
to cup the boy's pectorals, his mouth moving to where he could catch
Potter's earlobe in his teeth and murmur, "No...not yet." Those hands
pulled Potter backward, unbalanced him like a newborn foal and left him
with no other support but the animagus's chest, angled helplessly
off-kilter and making the greedy stance of Potter's cock even more
prominent, as it rose mid-point between them like some neutral
territory flag mocking an otherwise razed landscape.
Black bent his head over Potter's and kissed the boy again,
upside-down, giving both of them the opportunity to suck rapaciously at
the other's lower lip at the same time. The werewolf was moving his
hands under the swell of Potter's buttocks, squeezing, parting them,
hands shifting so that Voldemort knew his fingers were questing along
the spreading cleft between. Potter's cock gave another jump, as if
spring-loaded, and he babbled something unintelligible but no doubt
obscene into Black's mouth. Black's answering chuckle was unobscured,
for all that he did not release Potter's mouth for it.
Potter's hands were scrabbling at his sides, clutching at random
pillows beneath and alongside him as if searching for the one he
suspected contained a time bomb. Black sought those hands with his, and
did not break the kiss until he had them. Drawing Potter's arms above
his head with a quick pull, Black chuckled again as the werewolf,
unable to resist the helpless playing field of Potter's torso, laid his
fingertips at the boy's throat and drew them down lightly, questing
into his exposed armpits and along his belly so that Potter twitched
and gasped, unsuccessfully pulling at his trapped wrists. His cock
drooled ever more wetness down its crimson shaft, responding to the
stimulus that hadn't even come anywhere near it, like a weather change
to the flap of a far-off butterfly's wings.
At last the werewolf's hands made their way to the boy's legs again,
this time to his ankles, seizing them and pushing back so firmly that
the boy's heels pressed into his buttocks, knees doubled and
wide-spread. Voldemort could see the splay of Potter's arsecleft now,
puckered flesh wantonly kissing the air. The werewolf shifted his hips
where he knelt, allowing the tip of his own leaking cock to graze that
pulsing little heart, teasing it as it tried to open for him of its own
will like some flower awakening to sunlight.
But the werewolf pulled away, and said, "Hands and knees, Harry." On
cue, Black released the boy's wrists, and to his credit, Potter only
wasted a moment processing the command before he scrambled to obey. And
it was a scramble. Voldemort allowed a hint of satisfaction to show
about his lips; his pets certainly were not disappointing him.
"Arse high." This from Black to Potter, who responded by pushing his
arse up and sinking his face down to the backs of his hands. Black gave
Potter's arse a healthy smack with one hand, which got a stuttered
sound out of the boy--but didn't make him change position. "Good," said
Black, and smacked him again, three times, four. Hard enough to leave
red handprints in their wake.
Potter moaned--and then said, "More. I can take it."
Even as Voldemort had to suppress the urge to press his cock against
the divan's surface a little harder, the werewolf had seized a handful
of the boy's hair--but to get his attention, not to draw his head up.
"It's your duty to take it. Never use that phrase with your master." He
released Potter's hair just as quickly. "Better not spare him, Padfoot."
The animagus's lips twisted into something that could not quite be
called a grin. He looked over at Voldemort--the first time any of them
had done so since his entrance. "Most dread lord. If I may be allowed
the use of one of the paddles?"
Voldemort did grin, and gestured in the direction of the warded
cabinet. Black crossed to it--on hands and knees, of course; Voldemort
had not given him permission to rise in his presence--and took what the
cabinet allowed him: a leather affair with tiny metal teeth over its
surface. As Black crossed back, Voldemort was sure he heard Potter's
breathing becoming even louder.
Potter's nervy attempt to take every bit of punishment without protest
made Voldemort's blood sing. The boy kept his position, fists balling,
toes curling as the spanking went on, and on, until Potter's arse was
scarlet flecked with spots of deeper scarlet, and he was shouting his
misery into the backs of his hands, feet not merely curled but drumming
against the floor in his effort not to move away. Voldemort made no
attempt to call a halt; indeed, Black stopped long before the whelp's
limits had been exceeded, in his opinion.
But the animagus finally set the paddle down, pressed his lips and
tongue to Potter's rump as he licked away what he could of the burn,
and then parted the boy's buttocks again and licked a wet trail along
that tender cleft from balls to tailbone, as carefully as if he were
painting the equator along a globe.
Potter's head came up with a shout, just as Black extended his tongue
again and pressed it directly into the crinkled opening of his anus,
beginning to tongue-fuck that sweetly pulsing muscle which gripped back
as desperately as a Christmastime shopper fighting for the last Furby
in the county. Voldemort knew the depths that tongue could achieve.
Potter would be coming in seconds.
The werewolf would not be denied his participation in Potter's orgasm,
however, and, lifting the boy's shoulders, slid beneath him to bring
his mouth to Potter's jutting cock. Not to suck, but to extend his own
tongue and scoop up the end of the sticky organ on the flat of it,
holding it there ever so teasingly as Potter groaned and keened and
yes, pleaded. By the power of Black's tongue in his arse alone, Potter
shook like a seizure and came, erupting onto the werewolf's ready
tongue, which held him there as contentedly as a niffler gorged on doxy
eggs, until the erection at last began to wilt. Then the tongue went
into action, licking and caressing the too-sensitive organ until Potter
sobbed his surrender, and tried to push the two men away from him
without success, writhing on the pillows like a still-living insect
with a pin through its vitals.
They hadn't even fucked the boy yet, or forced Potter to attend to
either of them, yet Voldemort could wait no longer. "Black," he said,
annoyed that it came out hoarser than he intended. "Accompany me to my
Black left Potter's side at once, bent his head as he waited by the
divan so that Voldemort might affix the leash to his collar if he
desired. Voldemort wasn't sure he could wait that long.
"Wolf. You may stay here with him. Tomorrow morning I expect to see him
bearing fresh marks from that paddle."
To Potter he said nothing. Potter had been given his instructions; he
would not repeat them. Nor would he praise the brat; hardly.
Though as he and the animagus made their way to his quarters, he found
himself resisting the urge to caper.
"Look, it happens to all of us sometime."
"It doesn't happen to me, you arse."
"Obviously it does. Unless you're going to tell me you're polyjuiced
and are someone else presently failing to achieve an erection."
"May your bollocks be caught in a Chinese fingertrap, Severus."
"Not as if you haven't tried. Do stop fretting. You were moody before
we even came here; what's bothering you?"
"You're usually eager as a house-elf with a load of washing-up on
"Yes, well, this is hardly a usual Wednesday, is it?"
"Meaning our afternoon's entertainment is usually preceded by another
form of entertainment, if memory hasn't failed you."
"Ah. Lupin and the cur."
"I look forward to Wednesdays, damn it all. That Voldemort should have
pre-empted their Wednesday performance because they're training that
"Are you saying that you require the public ruttings of those two
before you can spring wood? Because I don't believe it."
"Don't speak rubbish. It is simply the principle which has me furious."
"You're just going to have to sublimate your fury. Or orgasm won't be
on your day's schedule either."
"As if I'm not trying."
"Not trying hard enough. Think of what they're doing to the boy."
"Training him to suck cock...on his knees..."
"Staying on his knees while one of them ejaculates into his eyes..."
"Spreading his arse with his own hands while one of them prepares to
stuff the entire uncut thickness of his prick inside..."
"Making him beg, 'Yes, I'm a worthless boycunt who lives to be fucked
up the arse...'"
"Or in the mouth, until he's taking it down his throat and can't even
breathe and his vision goes black and sparkles as he chokes, wondering
if they'll come before he dies, and one of them playing with his prick
at the same time so that he comes just before they finally let him have
his breath back..."
"Now you've got it."
"Why, so I have. You wouldn't like to lick this a bit, just to make
sure it decides to stay around?"
"As if you had any doubts."
"Thank you, Severus. Much more entertaining than envisioning them
engaged in pointless animagus lessons."
"Mnf. Pointless indeed."
"...You keep saying that like you know something."
"Do you want me to talk, or do you want me to lick?"
"As if you had any doubts. Oh, lovely, yes, right
It was the blurriest week Voldemort had ever experienced.
He couldn't be with the three of them all the time--a Dark Lord had
responsibilities--but every moment he could spare to observe Potter's
progress left him vertiginous as a Muggle on a broomflight. It got so
he didn't even want to make use of all that clever training Black and
the werewolf had had--cock into mouth, or into arse, and that was about
all Voldemort was good for, after observing one of those sessions.
And wasn't Potter the promising little pet.
By the second day Voldemort knew he hadn't a fantasy that would go
unfulfilled. Potter took to obedient cock-sucking like there was a
World Cup riding on the outcome, and his arse proved so easy to break
in, that, by the end of the week, all one would need was a bit of
humidity in the air to slide inside him to the hilt, slick and
effortless as a spoon into jam.
Even that couldn't compare to hearing the boy speak. The subservient
filth the boy let spill from his mouth without even a moment's
prompting--Voldemort had once heard a diatribe of his that began with
Please, master, and finished with until my
entire body is one pornographic folio of lash marks, oozing not blood
but spunk from all that you've deposited inside me and every last
trickle of it spelling Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort--and
nearly declared the week over right then, weak-kneed and on the verge
of shoving his cock inside that splendid mouth to try its other skills.
One thing held him back.
"You've...decided not to bother with the animagus teachings, then?" he
said to the werewolf a half-hour later, as he recovered from his hasty
and violent orgasm between the wolf's thighs (not having been able to
wait to even penetrate him, this time). In all the moments he'd spent
in the boy's presence, nothing so mundane and non-sexual had been in
"Oh, no, my lord. I mean, yes, lord, he's making good headway."
"Is he." Voldemort wanted to ask when in Merlin's name they'd found the
time, but was too muzzy-headed to pursue it.
And at last the week was over.
He had no intention of making it easy for Potter; not after all
that. Before his entire gathering of Death
Eaters--they really had been patient, missing out on so much of the
usual displays of his pets--he first led Black and the werewolf into
the hall, and then Potter crawled forward of his own volition, collared
and head bowed.
"Well, my pet." He curled his fingers over the arms of his chair, giddy
as a boy on glue-fumes after assembling model brooms. "Tell me--and all
who can hear you--whom you belong to. Whom you live to serve."
Raising his head just enough to allow him to do the perfect
look-up-from-beneath-his-lashes glance, Potter said, "You, my dearest
Lord Voldemort. Voldemort, whom I am rapturous to serve with my flesh
and my obedience..."
And he did go on. And on and on, until Voldemort decided
fuck it, just once, he was going to indulge himself
with his pet in front of everyone who cared to watch, and bedamned to
the rules of Dark Lordhood.
"...and whom I would like to delight with an additional skill that he
has not yet witnessed, much less tasted. My animagus form, if you will
let me show you, most divine Lord Voldemort."
Voldemort felt his mouth open--only slightly; it would be observed as
delight, not surprise, fortunately. Had the boy--had his pets--done it?
"Show me, then." he said, gesturing to allow the change.
Potter did not get to his feet, of course, but his upper body rose
slightly--and suddenly he was thinning, arms at his sides, blending
with his sides, legs fusing together and curling until--until what lay
on the floor before Voldemort was a coiled cobra.
Voldemort felt his eyes widen in eagerness. A snake! Oh, didn't he have
a thousand and one perverted fetishes he might share with a snake
animagus. The prospects were--
Movement from above his chair. Nagini, curled in her usual position
about the top of the chairback, had slithered down to the floor so
quickly he hadn't even time to say her name.
The female cobra was facing the snake, hisses of speech coming so
rapidly Voldemort hadn't time to translate--and then she wasn't facing
him at all, she had entwined herself with Potter's animagus form, so
closely that a casual observer would think there was but one snake
there. And it seemed to him that one snake darted forward, back to the
chair, to him--
I cannot be harmed by an animagus, Voldemort thought
without concern, even as he willed Potter back into his human form.
And Potter did resume human form, still on the floor before him--as the
second snake still dove at his throat, fangs bared.
Nagini, you treacherous bitch, was his last thought
on this earth.
"You said he'd never become an animagus," Lucius accused.
"On the contrary." Snape examined his nails, for all the world as if
Potter were not pushing the corpse of Voldemort off of his throne and
fondly stroking the cobra coiled about his shoulders. "Your memory's as
faulty as a Pensieve with a crack, Lucius. What I said was, Black and
Lupin would never succeed in teaching him to be an animagus. The boy's
been a snake animagus for two years."
"And you didn't bother telling anyone?!"
"Oh, come. You know perfectly well Voldemort was headed for defeat. Far
better to play both sides. Don't worry, Lucius, I'm sure another plea
of Imperius influence and a hefty bribe to the Ministry will get you
off yet again."
"Always the man with the answers, aren't you, Snivellus?" Sirius was
standing upright for the first time in many months, wincing as he did.
"Fuck, these fucking calluses on my knees are never going to fade.
Harry, get down from there," he added, as Harry leaned back on the
throne, crossing his legs at the knee.
"But I sort of like the view," said Harry, looking about, eyes
"Harry, don't even think it," Remus said. "Dark Lordhood can only lead
to a bad end."
"Allow me." Snape stepped forward. "Potter, get down off that chair
this minute or there will be no sex with either your godfather or Lupin
again. A Dark Lord can't assimilate his former rival's pets; it's
Harry pouted. Lucius sotto voce'd at Snape, "It does not the hell say
Equally quietly, Snape muttered, "We have to get to him
before he reads the handbook, dolt."
"Oh, well, in that case." Nimble as a...very nimble thing, Harry
descended from the chair. "But Nagini's insisting on being included in
the sex, Sirius, Remus. I did promise her she'd be my consort, after
"Ew, het," Lucius grimaced.
"Hedwig's going to be awfully jealous," Harry added thoughtfully.
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