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.

Better To Curse the Darkness
by Amanuensis

Pairing: (Woo, complicated.) Harry/Lucius by way of Harry/James. Snape/Lucius implied, and there's definitely something Harry/Snape going on there.
Categories: Non-con. Chan (Harry is not quite 16).
A/N: Written for wave 1 of the pornish_pixies 2005 Fantasy Fest for ladysorka, who requested: Harry/"James" - someone (in any manner) convinces Harry they're James. Non-con and/or dub-con, chan (under 16), as kinky as you want to go. Thanks to wonderful betas cluegirl and fabularasa.


It could not be Black. There was grudging but general agreement on that.

Black should have been the ideal candidate--the one person Potter was most likely to run to, arms open; not the person most likely to be trusted but the one who could make him forget all about trust, and caution, and traps. It had worked before, had it not?

But Potter had known Black well. To masquerade as the dead Black--even for the few moments necessary--meant opening one's mouth and saying precisely the right thing, in the way Black would have said it to Potter. Not quite "password specific," as Snape put it, but more of a risk than Voldemort was willing to accept.

So when Malfoy made his proposal, it was not only seized upon--it seemed so correct that it also prompted all to agree that Malfoy should be chosen for the masquerade.

Discussion ensued, but brought them round to the same conclusion. Snape had known the man slightly better--but Snape also knew Dumbledore best of them all, and that had been planned from the first: without a letter-perfect Dumbledore to promote the deception, the plot would fail. Malfoy was smoothly capable of both deception and deed--and, newly-saved from Azkaban, was all the more dedicated to proving his use to his master.

And, too, he had a fifteen-year-old son of his own, and knew how to speak to one of those.


The loss of the prophecy--still only half-heard--had made Voldemort cautious to the point of twitching. He would not risk assassinating the boy, not until he could be sure that the second half of the prophecy did not contain some self-fulfilling babble about the boy's continued existence being necessary for the Dark Lord's success. Death, despite Voldemort's personal experience, was worrisomely final.

But he had become concerned about Potter's talents as a wizard, and that he should grow no more a threat. Bellatrix had told them, sneering, of the boy's attempt to cast the Cruciatus--a story that did not, however, prompt a sneer from Voldemort. If Potter was willing to turn to Dark Magics in his resistance against Voldemort, that sort of risk had to be stopped. Right away.

And that was when the concept of Primordio began to be discussed.

It was not unthinkable that Potter had heard of Primordio. Hardly a part of Hogwarts' curriculum, but then, even Unforgiveables had made their way into the classrooms in recent years. Potter could have been told of the darker, power-expanding magics, the not-Unforgiveables that caused no external harm, corrupted the soul of none save one's own, and thus spared their casters the condemnation of Azkaban--but were no less Dark Magic.

But none knew. All felt sure that moralistic prig Dumbledore would never have suggested any such thing to Potter--but Potter's faith in Dumbledore had been badly tested. Potter might not be so content to forsake choices Dumbledore would have him avoid, for the mere sake of his soul. Not when there was worse at stake.

Which was why Voldemort decided it was worth his minions' efforts to insure Potter never gained the power that a Primordio ritual could net him.

Which meant, if he had not already done so, the boy had to be rendered ineligible. Quickly.


The house on Privet Drive protected the boy, and Dumbledore had guards on him round the clock, should he venture out. But Snape knew that schedule, knew the potential gaps and which of the guards would be less than reliable.

There would be no portkeys. Those had detectable magic signals. Polyjuice, however, did not. Polyjuice crafted from a dead individual put the subject at the age the donor had been at death. And no Death Eater cringed at a bit of grave robbing--not for Voldemort's cause, they had better not.

If they could not enter the house on Privet Drive to get at Potter...they would have to lure him out.


Snape watched as the owl flew from his arm to Potter's window with a few powerful sweeps of its wings. It was not a Hogwarts owl; even this detail had been discussed. Though Dumbledore would be expected to use Hogwarts' postal owls for a purpose such as this, Potter hardly knew them all by sight, and the deception had only to fool him. Were the owl found and traced, it would be better for the Dark Lord and his spy if the owl's origins could not be linked too closely to Severus Snape.

The window cracked open, but Snape did not call out, not yet. Next to him, Lucius kept silent as well. The owl's message was brief--Look out of the window, Harry--and patience would reduce the risk of discovery by anyone other than Potter.

Indeed, no sooner had the owl taken its dismissal and launched itself back into the night than the window was forced wider still, and a dark figure appeared, leaning over the sill. Snape put out his arm--Dumbledore's arm, a perfect Polyjuiced copy down to the last liver spots on the hand--and received the owl on that arm, pulling his imitation Dumbledore face into as close an expression half-grave, half-beckoning, as he thought the old man would produce.

"Harry," he called softly--a name Snape himself had never used, when speaking of, or to, the boy. "Something quite remarkable has happened." He gestured, and on cue, Lucius took the step forward that brought him next to Snape.

"Hello, Harry." A very un-Lucius thing to say, in a very un-Lucius-like voice. A younger voice, and a far more welcoming one.

Even in the dimness, and at that distance, Snape could see the open mouth on Potter.

"Come down, Harry," Snape said. Left it at that.

Potter jerked back inside and spun so quickly the curtains billowed gently towards each other, puffing out the open window. Snape allowed a look at Lucius, who was disciplined enough to give him no more than the smallest narrowing of the eyes in return. With a push, Snape dismissed the owl, and he spared it no more attention as it soared off.

The side door opened with a bang.

And Lucius Malfoy looked at Harry with James Potter's eyes, and extended James Potter's hands towards him, and exhaled as though he'd been holding a breath through fourteen long years, and repeated, "Harry."

Potter--Harry--did not rush forward. But he looked at Dumbledore--Snape--and his face held nothing wary, only stunned unbelief. Looked back at his father.

"I do not pretend to understand it either, Harry," Snape said in the careful sing-song Dumbledore would have affected. "Nevertheless, it is true." He paused. "Your father has been restored to life."

Harry took one step closer. Only one. His wand was visible in his hand, though that hand hung by his side. Malfoy, too, had learned caution from the debacle at the Ministry. He waited.

Waited until Harry came close enough to touch. Then he lifted one hand, setting the fingertips upon Harry's cheek. "My God, Harry...Let me look at you."

And look he did, as Harry looked back, eyes so wide Snape was sure they would spill at any moment. He kept his own eyes on Potter's wand, which dangled ever more loosely in his hand.

"You look like just like me when I was your age. Suppose you get that a lot, don't you? My God." Snape wanted to award Malfoy a thin smile, but of course that was out of the question. Lucius had it down splendidly: the breathless half-laugh, the wonder, the colloquial speech of James Potter. Of a James Potter somehow restored to life and seeing his near-grown son for the first time.

"Dad..." Harry breathed. Oh, it was enough to break the heart, wasn't it. Snape wondered if he should affect a hitch in his breathing, but decided it would be too much.

Lucius slid one hand up Potter's arm--the arm holding the wand. But he didn't stop to seize it, no; instead that hand traveled up to the boy's shoulder, fondly, but also as if verifying the realness of him. "Harry." Lucius's other hand, now, the fingertips on Potter's cheek, now curving to encompass all of the boy's jaw on that side. "Harry, I'm so sorry."

Potter's lips, O-ing ever so slightly. The perfect moment for Lucius to draw him into the most fatherly of embraces, pulling Harry's head to his shoulder. Snape carefully did not speak. The shade of the trees rejected moonlight's attempt to illuminate the little scene.

Still Malfoy did not try to deprive Potter of his wand. Snape wondered if Potter would try to put it away, rather than drop it--which could prove awkward when the moment came to get it from him. But he seemed to have forgotten all about it, fist loosely curled about it as it lay against his father's shoulder, his breath rapid as if trying not to lose control.

"I've missed you so. If only your mother could see you. She'd want to hold you like this." Lucius's arms tightened just that much. Snape admired his care in keeping Potter's alarm at bay until the last possible moment.

Which seemed to be upon them. Malfoy had moved his hand to cover Potter's, and gave the lax fingers just enough of a shake to dislodge the wand, which fell. That moment, there was no mistaking; Snape saw Potter stiffen in his false father's arms. But Malfoy had his hand, and the arm embracing Potter was instantly the arm pinning Potter, so that the boy's attempt to step backward, then push backward, failed him.

Snape did not go to Lucius's aid, not yet. He picked up Potter's fallen wand and threw it as far from their little assembly as he could. Potter's wand gone missing or broken would mean attention, later, and the plan was to leave Potter as little motivation as possible to report this night's events.

Potter cried out once as Lucius twisted him about in his arms, but then Lucius had a hand over the boy's mouth and was bearing him down to the damp grass. "Harry, we're in danger. You have to trust me," he said in James Potter's urgent husk, and once again Snape had to grant Lucius his due as Harry froze, not for any great length of time but enough to allow Lucius to stretch him out on the ground and settle his own weight upon Harry's back.

"Stop fighting me, Harry." The repetition of the boy's name did more, Snape fancied, to create a sense of conspiracy than the soft urgency of Lucius's tone. Potter did quiet again, for a moment, but mmmphed against Lucius's palm and fought to get his trapped arms out from underneath him, one hand scrabbling in the grass as if trying to locate his dropped wand.

"Sssh, it's all right," Lucius soothed, even as he shifted his weight, pinning the boy's legs with his own. Harry was not about to be soothed, and the sounds muffled by Lucius's hand were short, panicked protests, as Lucius's free hand worked between them, hooking the waist of Harry's too-large trousers and dragging them down by inches.

Snape folded his arms and watched.

He would not aid Malfoy unless Lucius was at risk of losing control of Harry, of which there did not appear to be a danger yet. Nor would he speak anything out of character if avoidable. Harry was not to know who had played the roles of his father and mentor tonight--but more, he was to be left without confirmation that his attackers had used Polyjuice, to be left to wonder if something else had gone terribly wrong with his most trusted guardian.

Not that he mightn't come to the more obvious conclusion, but the more frightened they left him to speak to those he trusted, the better. Though fear would only be the half of it. Unbearable humiliation--that, Voldemort had hoped, would serve them far better.

Malfoy seemed to have things in hand. Potter's trousers had been pulled down a sufficient distance, baring him from waist to knees, and there they served to entangle him, hindering any independent movement of his legs. Potter had an arm free and flailing, but couldn't get any leverage to do anything with it--even less so when Lucius took his hand from Potter's mouth and instead shoved the boy's face down into the dirt. No pretense now. Snape stared at the pale strip of Potter's exposed hip and thigh and did not bother to deny the stirrings of arousal he felt at the sight of it, nor those as he watched the jerky, rising movements of Lucius's hips as he interposed his free hand between their two bodies, fumbling with the placket of his own trousers.

It wouldn't take much longer.

Though the preparations for the Primordio ritual were tediously specific--requiring potions and spells, conjurations and ceremonies--this portion of the ritual was simple in its needs. It was only required to be one's first sexual coupling, with another person, gender not specified. It did not matter if one was giver or recipient--and, though penetration had to occur and orgasm had to be achieved by at least one party, it was not required for both.

Rendering Potter ineligible to use his own virginity in a Primordio ritual was laughably simple--it had been getting past all the layers of protection on the boy that had necessitated such preparation.

Malfoy had not laughed when Snape had offered to brew him a dose of Priapus for the mission--he would not have dared to laugh, before Voldemort, over something so crucial. But he had only said, "That will not be necessary. You have my assurance, my lord." And he had smiled the smallest of smiles which said, in as genteelly Malfoy a way as could be said, that he would enjoy the night's work.

Potter's cries, deadened by the dirt against--probably in--his mouth, were desperate--deliciously plaintive, if Snape were to be honest. And why should he not be? He'd never had the opportunity to hear Potter plead so, the arrogant little beast. Snape was pleased to find that Dumbledore's ancient body had no infirmities of that nature; Snape's arousal was pleasantly tangible beneath his robes, heat and the faintest beginnings of sweat and a healthy, if not necessarily impressive, erection rising at his groin.

He would not feel anything but pleasure at the sight of Potter debauched. It was unlikely he'd ever be such a witness to it again, so, he would not waste it.

Nor would he waste the added visual satisfaction of seeing James Potter performing such a deed. Lucius had his own trousers open, his hand between them, and Snape knew he had his cock, James's cock, in hand, pre-slicked with the charmed oil Snape himself had prepared. The oil was there for Potter's sake as well as Malfoy's; if Potter was so physically damaged by the rape that he was forced to seek treatment--whether magical or Muggle--then the possibility that shame might keep Potter quiet would evaporate.

Snape told himself not to think of him as Lucius, but keep remembering James, James Potter doing this to his own son. It was easy, watching Lucius in James's skin: James's black hair falling into his eyes in that wind-tousled way that used to infuriate Snape--and which Harry Potter just had to sport as well, oh, yes. James's eyeglasses reflecting what bits of moonlight could make it through the trees; James's lips drawn back from James's white teeth, enough of a brightness to catch light and reveal the truly James-like sneer Harry'd never believed his father could display. Take that, Potter.

Potter--Harry--was screeching into the ground now, for all the good that it was doing him. None, likely; the earth smothered it, making it sound no louder than a small night animal complaining at encroachment into its territory. Malfoy had lifted his--James's face back, eyes half-closed in concentration as he aligned his cock with the boy's entrance, too smooth-faced to put the lie to any observer that he had not done similar villainy in the past, or found it other than satisfying.

Snape heard Harry choke as Malfoy's hips pushed forward, and again, and then his hand came away and settled at the boy's bare hip as he began thrusting. Snape had to press his lips together not to sigh in contentment. Harry gagged and huffed against the ground with every movement, and James Potter's body shoved them forward as one, again and again, while Snape curled his fists at his sides and watched, not even wanting to blink for fear of missing even a half-second of the exquisite display. Malf--James's hand was fisting in the hair on the back of Harry's head, tighter, yes, tighter, and the obscene sound of James's breath coming ever faster, louder as he fucked his son literally into the dirt, riding him toward climax. Potter, would you say to him, Dad, please, don't, if you could? Would you call him that? Harder, goddamn you, Lucius, fuck him harder...

Malfoy let out his breath in an ahhhhhh that, even in orgasm, carried not a note of phonated sound. One had to respect such discipline. A shudder, during which he pressed hard against Potter, and another, and then he let his weight drop hard over the boy. Potter lay like the dead beneath him.

Two heartbeats, and Malfoy was rising to his knees, withdrawing from Potter's arse with an easy motion, his hand still pressing down on the boy's skull. He paused long enough to do up his trousers, fixing Snape's eyes with his own and sharing the cue that had them both nodding in unison--

--and then pulled away from Potter, both of them turning to go, Snape noting that Potter still did not rise or make any movement other than a feeble shift of one hand. Neither he nor Lucius ran, but they moved swiftly, out of the yard, down the street, and did not look at each other to question again until they were several streets away--at which point Lucius turned his head, caught the same look in Snape's eyes that again prompted their concurrent nod--

--and apparated away.

They did not reappear in Voldemort's sanctuary, but in one of the agreed-upon safehouses, where anyone trying to follow the signal of apparation would meet with a dead end. Malfoy folded his arms and relaxed against a table; Snape did not.

After a moment, Lucius said, "Anything?"

"No," said Snape. "Not a whisper of observation. If any saw us, then they let the boy be violated rather than reveal themselves. Which is doubtful."

"Which is doubtful." A slow smile crept onto James Potter's sham face. "Did you enjoy watching, Severus?"

Snape took his time replying, pretending to be more interested in Dumbledore's too-long fingernails. "You know I did."

Lucius stepped closer. "Shall we do something about that, then?" He took the hand that appeared to have Snape's interest and began tracing the palm with one of his own fingers, still smiling. "Shall I meet you tonight after the debriefing, and let you remember the sight to its fullest?"

Snape did not quite smile. "Letting the Polyjuice wear off would be preferable, yes."


The following night, Snape had a meeting with Dumbledore. He drank Dumbledore's tea, ate his chocolate biscuits, and kept his conversation impassive. During their discussion, Dumbledore's concerns for Harry were limited to the boy's grieving for his godfather, and nothing more newsworthy.

The following night was Snape's night for guard duty on Privet Drive.

Though contact with Potter was not always part of the Order's routine, when guarding Potter--it was regular for Lupin, rare for Snape--he was to make it part of tonight's, on orders from Voldemort. Sound the boy out, see if he had made any move towards reporting the assault.

Snape apparated into the house without causing so much as a twinge in the wards.

Potter was on his bed. The boy sat up quickly at his entrance, and almost as quickly flopped back down when he saw it was Snape. Neither of them spoke for a time.

At last Snape said, "Are you well?" He was aware he was probably the only person who could say that to Potter, knowing exactly what was meant by it, and not receive an incredulous look.

Potter took his time answering and did not look at Snape. "You fucking knew."

Snape stayed silent. Potter kept on: "You fucking knew they were going to use my dad and you didn't tell me. You fucking knew."

Snape considered whether silence or a lie would serve him better.

"You knew and you didn't tell me so that I'd be sure to pick the answer you wanted. You fucking bastard."

Neither silence nor a lie, he decided. "And you had been, shall we say, expecting someone different?"

Potter almost surged off the bed. "I thought it was going to be Sirius!"

"Ah, and that would have been better, then? Sirius Black assaulting his beloved godson somehow was the deciding factor, then, Potter?" It was not easy, keeping the sneer off his face. Better to cow Potter with neither silence nor a lie but with his own dark and shameful secrets, and need neither confessions nor lies. A sneer would give the show away.

On cue, Potter turned away. Snape heard him gasping, as if punched in the stomach. Best to push on while he had the boy distracted. "You took the potion."

"Yes." It was almost a yell.

"Before and after."


"And the incantation--"

Potter rounded on him. "Yes! I know you think I'm a right idiot but I wasn't going to fuck this up! Not with--" He stopped.

It didn't need to be said. Snape pressed on. "And has it worked?"

Potter did not so much tear his gaze away as let it be slowly ripped, until he was looking at some point in air, away from Snape. He swallowed. "I can't...I can't say for sure. The decree against underage--"

Snape waved a hand in I know, go on dismissal. "Yes."

Potter swallowed again. "But...but something's there. I can feel it. It's not just the--the thing--" Potter's limited vocabulary would not allow the boy to come up with anything more concrete, to describe the dark entity that now would have its hooks in a tiny corner of his soul. "It's more. The power. I see that candle--" he jerked his chin towards a half-melted candle upon his bedside table, sitting beside a lone framed picture that had been turned face-down, and a photo album-- "and I know that I could light it."

Snape arched an eyebrow. "That's all?"

Potter looked at him without humor or even annoyance, from under the fringe of his hair. "Without a wand."

Snape did not allow himself even an ah. He too could show discipline.

But he folded his arms, and gave Potter a slow nod. "The results of a successful Primordio are not easily predictable. So little documentation, unsurprisingly."

"Yeah. You said that. So did it fucking work?"

Snape gave him another nod. "It would sound so."

Though he remained upright, Potter seemed to crumple from the inside. The predator within Snape--the predator who hated Potter--wanted to surge in sexual arousal again at that sight, but Snape quelled it, thinking how Potter could fight back now, were any to lay a hand on him again. Potter might very well blow out the wall of his room, the first time he tried to light that candle wandlessly. He did not say this, for he knew Potter knew it.

"Who was it?"

Snape looked up, momentarily unprepared for the question.

"Who was J--who was my father?"

Snape noted the boy had made himself say those two words firmly. "Malfoy."

"You swear?" The boy's look was murderous.

Snape did let himself smile, now. "I kept my word, Potter. It was not I who fucked you. You were quite vehement on that condition." But I did fuck Lucius Malfoy that night and think about you sobbing under him, he did not say.

"I'd better not find out anything different."

"You will not. Not find out anything different that's true, at any rate."

"I hate you so fucking much." The boy's voice broke. Snape savored it.

And, because the opportunity was too good to resist, he said, "Oh, Mr. Potter, I am so very aware of that. I haven't forgotten your words. That when I told you what was planned, and what your options were, you chose to allow Voldemort's minion to rape you, and for me to foil him by preparing you for the Primordio ritual after all...not simply for the power it would gain you, not simply because you knew it was an opportunity your too-protective Dumbledore would never allow you, but because otherwise I would warn Dumbledore and make sure the attack on you never came to pass. And this would leave Voldemort wondering where the spy in his midst was, and put me at risk...and because you hate me so much that you would rather do this than, what was it? 'Owe you anything for the littlest fucking goddamn second.' Yes, I'm sure that was it."

And, completely free to do so, Snape smiled, and smiled, and smiled.

"Get. The fuck. Out."

Snape resisted the urge to raise a tut-tutting finger, knowing it would only infuriate the boy further. "Decree Against Underage Sorcery, Mr. Potter, do be careful. You don't want to be expelled from Hogwarts at this juncture, I'm sure. Though what there is left for Hogwarts to teach you, I can't say I'm sure. Do have some surprises for me when you return, will you? Dumbledore means for us to resume our Occlumency lessons, and a challenge would be quite the pleasure. Good evening, Mr. Potter."

He was gone before he'd even finished the last syllable. If Potter set the bloody house on fire, that was none of his concern.



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