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God Slash Us, Everyone
Summary: Harry has three visitations on Christmas Eve. Loose parody of A Christmas Carol. Don't look for anything too serious here; it's all about the smut.
Pairings: Harry/Snape, Harry/Lucius, Harry/Sirius
Notes: Written for the Merry Smutmas secret Santa smutty fic exchange for Nimori.
Sirius was dead, dead as a doornail, and yet that
changed the feel of Twelve Grimmauld Place not at all. The house had
never felt as though it had belonged to him--or, more accurately, that
Sirius had belonged to it.
Nor did it feel as if the house and Harry would have an easy time of the belonging, in either direction. The place was clean, at last, certainly--all of Mrs. Weasley's efforts had seen to that--but nothing could scour decades of history and bloodline and purebred prejudice from its walls and staircases and house-elf-wept-upon heirlooms.
Harry hated it.
But it was all he had left of Sirius, that, and his Firebolt, and the hateful shards of smashed mirror that he had not been able to part with after all.
Which is why Harry found himself declining the invitation to spend Christmas at the Burrow, or with Hermione's family, or remaining at Hogwarts for the holiday, and instead found himself standing in the middle of his inheritance on December 24th, fists on hips, grimly ignoring the cacophony of Mrs. Black's repetitive laments and trying to decide in which bedroom he would spend the night.
In the end, he returned to the one he had shared with Ron a year ago, because it was familiar and required the least thought.
"Harry Potter. Welcome, young master."
"I don't want to talk to you."
Phineas Nigellus smiled, not particularly pleasantly, from his portrait. "You needn't. But you might choose to listen if you know what's good for you."
Harry set down his bag and glared at Sirius's great-great-grandfather. He had thought--well, hoped--that the loss of the last member of the Black line might have made the former headmaster a touch more sympathetic.
Stupid of him.
Phineas took Harry's glaring silence as acquiescence, apparently. "I just thought you might like to know that you'll have three visitations tonight. And not members of that ridiculous Order, either. These will be of a more...ethereal nature."
Harry blinked. "Who?"
"That would be telling."
"You've bloody well told me this much!
Phineas was silent, still smiling. Harry's hands itched for something to throw at the portrait. "Damn you and your whole line!"
"Now, now, boy, you don't mean that. But I'll forgive you, this time. Have a pleasant sleep." The portrait frame was quickly vacated, whether for another room in the house, or for Dumbledore's office, Harry did not know, and no longer cared.
Phineas might have been making the whole thing up, in any case.
Harry learned that he was not when a quavery voice woke him from sleep, who knew how many hours later. "Harry Potter!"
Wand in hand, spectacles at hand--Harry hadn't completely discounted Nigellus's warning--Harry sat up and recognized a house-elf in the dim light filtering through the window.
But not the one that he would normally have associated with this house. Pushing his spectacles onto his face, he said, "Dobby?"
"Dobby has come to take you, sir."
"Take me where?"
"To the place that you is supposed to be being, Harry Potter sir." The house-elf reached out a hand--free of burns, cuts, or crush-marks, Harry noticed, so maybe this was real, and not a dream--and Harry took it, hesitantly, with the hand not holding his wand.
It was almost startling not to disappear in a rush of wind and mist, given the circumstances, but instead to have Dobby tug at his hand, pull him out of bed, and lead him quite mundanely across the floor to the door of the room.
But opening the door and finding himself at the head of the staircase outside Gryffindor Tower was certainly not expected.
"Dobby? Why am I--"
Dobby tugged harder. "Harry Potter must not be late!"
Harry's question fell away in favor of a new one. "What for?"
"Detention, of course. With Professor Snape."
Snape? The visitation involved Snape? The man was about as far from ethereal as you could get. Whose idea was that?
All right, so it had to be a dream after all.
Down, down, following Dobby. Down staircase after staircase, night sky darkening all windows, no one else in any of the hallways (dream. Definitely a dream) until he was standing outside the dungeon Potions classroom.
It was Dobby who knocked at the door, but before any reply came, the house-elf had snapped his fingers and disappeared.
Leaving Harry quite alone when the door opened, Snape in all his black-clad bat-like glory scowling down at him.
"Professor, I--" I don't know what I'm doing here. I didn't even go to sleep at Hogwarts. I still think this has to be a dream.
But he got none of it voiced, as Snape's hand came at him, claw-like, and curled into a grip on the front of his robes. (His robes?)
Harry found himself dragged into the classroom--fully clothed, he realized, right down to shoes.
"Were you given permission to speak?"
Harry opened his mouth to protest that one didn't usually require permission to talk at Hogwarts. Then he remembered this was Snape, dream or no, and closed his mouth.
"Over the desk, insolent boy."
His mouth fell open again, quite unbidden. "Pardon?" It came out far more strangled than usual, and not a little high-pitched.
Snape's eyes rolled so dramatically Harry thought he could hear them course along the bony sockets. "Oh, it's going to be one of those sorts of nights, is it?" he snarled, black irises fixed on Harry again. "Off with the robes. Now."
Harry choked on the next pardon that wanted to be said, which he considered fortunate, for it would have been so very much a squeak he would have wanted to scour the memory of it from his brain.
Clothed. He was clothed underneath the robes. Better to get them off and then try to figure out what Snape wanted. He was glad he had to do no more than release the catch at the chest and let them slide off, for his fingers seemed to be spellotaped together all of a sudden.
Hang on...he'd never worn shorts under his robes, had he? What in the--they were as tiny as those in his P.E. kit when he was ten. He knew the color was rising in his face, despite the fact that this clinched it was a dream, and couldn't bring himself to look at Snape. There was entirely too much of his thighs on display.
A hand clapped down upon his shoulder, and then he couldn't look at Snape at all because the man was propelling him over to the desk and then flung him face-down over it. The hand didn't let up, but pinned him there. "Willful brat. Don't try to pretend that you've forgotten every bit of discipline I've made you learn. You're deliberately provoking me."
All right, so there was no point in looking for reason here; if this wasn't a dream, it still had nothing to do with reality as he knew it.
Did that mean he should play along?
Harry decided he would, for the moment. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, hoping it was the right response.
The pressure on his shoulder eased. "You certainly will be," said Snape, but Harry thought it sounded more grumpy than angry. Presumably he'd taken the right tack.
But he yelped when a fair-sized space of flesh at the top of his thigh was pinched between an aggressive finger and thumb. Fuck, those shorts nearly left his bollocks falling out in this position.
"I think we start with ten of the strap tonight. A fair beginning for your transgressions, boy."
Ten of the what? Harry almost leaped up, but then realized that the fingers that had pinched him were now rubbing that bit of abused flesh in a tiny, soothing circle, and it was not merely the realization that that felt rather nice that stopped him--it was the fact that the touch was not only soothing, but that there was affection in it.
This was Snape. Holy fuck.
This was Snape and Harry was getting hard. Holy FUCK.
He thought he heard a chuckle. Oh, dear God, those shorts really didn't conceal anything, did they?
No, that wasn't the reason--Snape had to be chuckling because...because they were both in on this. He knew what he was doing to Harry because he meant to be doing it, and Harry was meant to know as well.
Before he could quite finish processing that idea, the fingers had left his thigh--well, now that he was facing up to it, it had never been his thigh, really, more his arsecheek--and Harry heard Snape picking up something. There was a snap, and Harry suspected that had been for his benefit. Strap, he'd said. Leather strap, then, and he was making sure that Harry knew it was about to be used.
His skin was prickling. But not with fear.
The first blow kissed his rear with a hiss and a sting, and Harry couldn't help but yelp again. But it hadn't really been all that painful. His suspicions had been right.
This was confirmed when Snape's hand came to caress the skin that had been struck, rubbing again. "So little tolerance you have tonight. Don't even try to pretend you aren't provoking me." The hand withdrew, and another stripe was laid across his arse, matching the first on the opposite side, exactly along the crease just at the top of his thigh. That too was caressed.
Harry let out his breath in a huff. It was either that or moan, and he had enough presence of mind, still, to not want to do that. Not yet.
"Impatient, are we. Well." Fingers hooked in the waist of his shorts, and Harry's hands almost left the desk--when had he taken hold of it? He had the edge in a near-death grip--as they were yanked down, baring him (and didn't he usually wear pants, under those? Not tonight, obviously) from waist to knees, and fuck, his erection was pressing so hard against the desktop he thought he'd bore right through it.
When the strap came down across his naked arse he didn't yelp this time; it was an ah sound, pure and simple, no hiding it. Some part of him recognized that without the stroking between each blow, he would not be finding this so pleasant. Though they were not particularly hard smacks, a cumulative number would be harder to tolerate; as it was, the skin seemed to be made no more than hypersensitive, eager to feel that hand move over it.
He didn't even notice when Snape got to ten. He simply heard the strap being laid down beside him, and another chuckle from Snape, and the man saying, "Making it easy for me tonight, I see. I suppose I must forgive you for that, then."
And then there was a hand on his hip, and he was being rolled over onto his back on the desk.
Still naked from the waist down. With absolutely nowhere to hide his now nearly painful hard-on.
In a perfect terror, he looked at Snape, to find him neither disgusted nor shocked but...leering. "I think you'd come if I so much as breathed on you right now, wouldn't you? Let's test that."
One of those--no, not bony hands, really, were they, more like long-fingered hands, was reaching holy FUCK reaching for his erection, skimming past the head of his cock to encircle the shaft, and Harry's breath exploded out of him in a noise that had no description, and he heard Snape say, "No, not even so much as breathe. How very prosaic." And even as Harry tried to understand what he meant he was arching off the desk, clutching at the sides with his fingers even as he sought the pressure of Snape's hand, which did not increase but certainly did not withdraw either.
And there was another explosion of breath which matched the one at his groin, a sweet rush of anguish and fire which gripped him, twisted him about and wrung him out until his vision cleared, leaving him with the realization that he was half-stripped over Snape's desk and that Snape's come-streaked hand was still on his cock, and most shocking of all, the man was actually smiling.
"Good God, Potter, one would think you hadn't touched it since our last meeting. And I know perfectly well that can't be true. You're bloody sixteen."
Last meeting? Harry found this even harder to process than the task of sitting up. Not that he was having any success at doing that, either.
Suddenly he didn't have to; Snape had pulled him up to a sitting position. "No matter. That same youth will work in our favor. A bit more slowly, this time?"
How Snape got him across the floor, into the adjoining quarters beyond, and into the bed--Snape's bed--Harry could hardly remember. But it seemed no time at all until he was completely nude and face-down on the mattress, his arms clutching at the pillow beneath his chin, shivering as those same hands that had made him come stroked over the still-sore flesh of his arse.
"You tempting little creature, you. It would be untrue for me to deny I am any less patient, tonight." Those hands didn't merely stroke his arse, now, but had moved to his cleft, and Harry gripped the pillow harder. No, he wasn't really--he couldn't--fuck, did this mean he liked this kind of thing? His body kept right on sending him the same signals, the ones that said oh yes you do, over and over.
When Snape's hands moved away, Harry heard the sound of cloth moving on cloth. Of clothing being unfastened. Of clothing being removed. Oh fuck.
Did he want to look? Even in a dream?
The hand that returned to his cleft felt not at all dream like, though, and for just an instant he thought it had been still wet with his own ejaculate, but there was far too much of it; he was being oiled, oiled up, and the realization of what that meant hit him so hard that he thought he would lose consciousness right there.
Before he could ask himself why it hadn't made him want to jump up and flee the bed, the room, entirely, it was too late. (Or at least he'd convinced himself it was too late.) Snape's other hand was pressed into the center of his back, and something far, far too large to be believed was--oh, for heaven's sake, it was just that Snape had his oil-covered hand wrapped about it, it wasn't that big; good one, Harry. Not that the size was remotely unintimidating, still, now that he knew its real girth; he could feel the end of it resting between his cheeks as two of Snape's oiled fingers probed at him, and even as an inner voice was protesting that isn't supposed to--hey! the rest of him just seemed to melt directly into the mattress as his arsehole was opened by those two fingers, and this time he bit at the pillow, aware that the slow movement was so amazingly intense that even his recently satisfied cock was starting to take notice.
The fingers had only moved in a short distance, though, when they were joined by a thicker protrusion, and as the fingers withdrew Harry realized the head of Snape's cock was actually inside him, not all that far inside but a hell of a lot further than he had ever thought it would be--to be fair he was quite sure he hadn't ever thought about the possibility at all.
There was a push, and Harry yelled as the slickened length slid further inside him, too easily, way the hell too easily. "F-Fuck!" he said, out loud for the first time.
There was breath on the back of his neck, and with it, another push of Snape's hips and more of the cock entering his arse. "Yesss, let me hear you. Scream for me; it's no less than you deserve, you insolent whelp."
At that instant, the next push forward did something that brought Harry back to full erection instantly, and he couldn't have kept from yelping if his life had depended on it. He heard Snape chuckle again, and realized that if the man kept doing that--chuckling--he was likely to start associating that sound with a hard-on, which seemed very disturbing to him.
And then Snape started thrusting.
It was pure agony, and yet his body couldn't seem to get enough of it, pinned there inescapably, pummeled by every thrust and lost in the knowledge that he'd never realized sex was so very violent. He was crying out and his sweat felt freezing cold and yet the body moulded to his back was hot as a cauldron and he never knew quite when Snape came because he was too busy coming himself, emptying himself against the sheets that smelled of every other encounter he'd spent here, he knew that was what it was, and only later was he able to think that it was too bad that he'd missed the moment of Snape's orgasm because he'd have given anything to hear what the man sounded like at that moment.
It startled him to discover that the withdrawal hurt more than the insertion, and he found himself held tightly in Snape's arms as he shuddered and gasped for several long moments after. And that seemed the strangest moment in this entire encounter with the man.
Even more so than the lazy kiss at the corner of his mouth. "Sleep if you like. I'll wake you in time to get back to your dormitory. And Potter, you really should try to come up with something more original next time to earn detention. Even the Slytherins are getting suspicious."
Harry wanted to answer, but since he had no idea what he'd done that had been so unoriginal, it seemed safest to stay quiet.
Which meant that sleep had nothing to fight when it overtook him.
Harry sat up so fast the room spun. "Dobby?" He was back in the bed at 12 Grimmauld Place, and the house-elf was standing next to him. "Holy fuck, Dobby, what the fuck was that?"
"Dobby is thinking you is calling it sex, Harry Potter."
"I just had--I just dreamed I had sex with Snape. With Snape, Dobby. What. The. Fuck???"
"The house is having many secrets. Did Harry Potter enjoy himself?"
Harry stared. Then: "Go away, Dobby." He started to shiver.
"Dobby cannot go until Harry Potter answers."
"Harry Potter is going to tear Dobby's ears off if he doesn't go. What the fuck kind of question is that? Is that what sex is supposed to be like--all sneaking around and calling it something else and--"
"Ah, Harry Potter is having what they call preconceived notions. Harry Potter will be having more of those challenged later. Good night, Harry Potter." Poof. Dobby was gone.
Harry knew he could be a stubborn git, but even he knew when it was time to admit he had been wrong. He was getting out of 12 Grimmauld Place now and going back to Hogwarts. Or the Burrow, or the bloody Dursleys if he had to, but he wasn't staying for more of this. The encounter--dream, dammit, call it a dream--with Snape had not lacked its interesting discoveries, but he wasn't sticking around to find out what was planned next.
But his feet had barely touched the floor when a voice said, "Nice pyjamas, Potter."
He almost fell. The moonlight was less strong now, but it only took a little to pick out that nearly-colorless hair.
And that pointed face. "Malfoy?" Where the hell had his wand gone, dammit?
"Did Weasley's mum knit those for you as well? No, if she had, they'd have little snitches all over them, wouldn't they."
"I'm not going anywhere with you, Malfoy, so you can just forget it."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you know how these things go already, do you? Obviously you only think you do. You'll have no choice, you know."
"The hell I won't."
Draco shrugged artlessly. "Try it and see."
Reluctant to turn his back, but still having no idea where his wand was, Harry spent a moment staring before he dashed for the door. It wouldn't open. Not as if it were locked, but as if it were sealed. He kicked it once, not thinking that it would work, but out of frustration.
"Going to try the window next? It'll be exactly the same."
"I hate this house. Hate it, hate it, hate it."
"Oh, but it's got such history."
"It's got portraits of nasty people and disgusting stuffed house-elf heads and it doesn't have--"
"Yes?" prompted Draco.
"Forget it. Where are we going?"
"Take my hand and find out."
"I'll go with you. I'm not touching you, though."
"Suit yourself." Draco walked forward and opened the door effortlessly. "After you."
Harry scowled, unable to think of a insult that wouldn't sound childish, and pushed past Draco through the door.
He immediately wished he'd fought a little more.
Voldemort in a dark, curtained room, lit by candles; he'd seen this room before. And he knew those masks, and those robes, could name the men and women behind each.
Harry turned; Draco was directly behind him, caught his arms. "Don't worry, they can't see you."
More to make Draco stop touching him than because he was reassured, Harry turned back, noting without much surprise that he was in his Hogwarts robes again. It looked like some kind of ritual was taking place. The Death Eaters had formed a half-circle with Voldemort's chair facing it, and one had come forward. Harry saw two white forms on either side of the Death Eater, and realized that they were children, a boy and a girl, both looking terrified. This didn't look good.
There was a sudden pressure between his shoulderblades, and Harry abruptly found himself pushed forward, stumbling on the uneven stone floor so that he ended up bumping the arm of the nearest Death Eater.
The half-circle parted quite abruptly, and Harry felt no more than three heartbeats--three very fast heartbeats--go by before someone hissed, "Harry Potter!"
Absurdly, all he could think to do was to turn back to Draco and accuse, "You said they couldn't see us!"
Another artless shrug. "I lied. Bye, Potter." As suddenly as a house-elf, he disappeared.
Leaving Harry no more time to be indignant over the deceit, as hands were quickly laid on him and he was dragged to the center of the circle.
"How did he get here?" yelled someone.
"Is it not obvious?" Voldemort's high, thin voice cut above the others. "The fool thought to infiltrate our hiding place by himself. So very typical for him." At least two Death Eaters had hold of Harry, and no amount of struggling was getting him anywhere. "How very fortunate for us."
Dream, thought Harry. It's another dream. Whatever happens, I don't have to panic.
"Should we kill him, my lord?"
Dream, Harry reminded himself again.
"Have a care, Rookwood. We still do not know what part he is to play in the prophecy. Perhaps it would be wisest to keep him as a hostage."
"My lord--" this from the Death Eater at the center, who was releasing the two children, "you were saying that you would let me name my own reward for recent services." He was removing his mask, but Harry had already recognized the voice. "Would this be an inappropriate time?"
Okay, thought Harry, looking at Lucius Malfoy's predatory smile, maybe I'll panic after all.
Voldemort smiled in return. "Lucius, my beloved lecher."
Malfoy's shrug had all the elegance his son's had not. "I do try my best, my lord."
"If I give him to you, will you promise me he will be quite broken?"
"Broken, and quite delighted with his lot. I beg your trust in this."
Voldemort folded his arms. "Take him, my loyal servant."
Malfoy had his wand to hand. "Mobilicorpus."
The two Death Eaters holding Harry fell away as the spell took him. As if on an invisible leash, he was pulled, quite immobile, across the room towards Malfoy, who was already backing towards a door.
The room he was taken into looked not much different from the one he had left: stone, candles, dimness.
Except for that large x-shaped structure.
To which Lucius was directing his helpless body.
Not good not good not good. Dream. Have to keep thinking that.
It was his saving thought, even as his clothing was stripped away and he was bound to the x at wrists, waist, and ankles. Only then was the immobility of the spell ended, and none of Harry's struggling did him any good from then on.
Well, it amused Lucius Malfoy. Harry wasn't sure if that was good or not. Surely Lucius amused was better than Lucius angered.
Malfoy was smiling. "Too late to lament your actions now, dear boy."
It hadn't been his idea, he wanted to yell.
"Would you like to beg for mercy? Or, better, swear allegiance to the Dark Lord?" Malfoy's tone had a lightly teasing ring.
"'S it going to do me any good?" Harry would have liked to snarl it, but it came out raspy. At least it hadn't been a squeak.
Lucius didn't answer him. He didn't stop smiling either. One hand lifted, he moved closer to Harry, who couldn't help pulling at the restraints again. Lucius set his open palm on Harry's midsection, not looking at what he was doing but keeping his eyes on Harry's instead. Harry felt frozen in that gaze, unable to look away, convinced that at any moment that hand would flare white-hot and char him, or shoot bolts of agony throughout his body, or, even simpler, move a mere handspan downwards and try to twist his genitals off entirely.
So when the hand slid lightly upwards instead, flickering over the hairs on his sternum in a barely-felt way, it was unexpected enough to make him flinch. Then the hand shifted to one side, and was cupping the left side of his chest, palm over the muscle and his thumb making the lightest possible circles about his nipple--Harry sucked in a single breath in a series of rapid-fire little gasps.
Lucius's other hand touched him under the chin, and this almost made him stop shivering. He still hadn't taken his eyes away, and for some reason this let Harry be less frightened, even though he knew that made no sense.
Both of Lucius's hands moved now, touching Harry on both shoulders, and then they began to move slowly down both sides of his body, fingertips the only thing that touched him at all, and so lightly he thought they weren't touching skin at all, only the fine little hairs that covered it.
Lucius's eyes had left his at last, and he was looking at what he was doing now. That got Harry squirming almost as much as the touch did: the man's careful gaze traveling over his nudity, examining each place on his body not merely down to the body part but to every inch of flesh that comprised it. His neck was touched, stroked from jawline to collarbone in a slow trail that took half a minute or more. The underside of his arm was traced, and had it been even a fraction more firmly it would have tickled.
Nothing, nothing but touch and gaze, both trailing over him so carefully that he had no choice but to feel it. Feel it and respond to it. He was shuddering.
Any minute now, he tried to tell himself. Any minute now Lucius would stop what he was doing and start with the pain. Cruciatus, or plain physical torture. He couldn't get pulled into this, he couldn't.
His body didn't seem to want to listen.
Nothing was rushed, nothing was ignored. Lucius hadn't even touched his cock yet, and Harry was already sporting an erection that seemed to grow even harder with every touch on his skin, no matter distant that touch was from his groin. Son of a bitch, no. He hated the man. How was this happening?
When he heard himself moan, it only made him want to moan louder in humiliation. But of course if he did that, Lucius would take it the wrong way, and that would humiliate him further, and then...
The humiliation was nothing to compare to when Lucius brushed his mouth over Harry's and Harry discovered he was no less aroused. More, if possible.
That was of course when Lucius stopped using his hands alone to touch Harry and began to use his mouth as well. Again, the slow exploration, lip and fingertip and tonguetip, and Harry heard the sounds that were coming out of his mouth now, and couldn't even reach the horror that should have been there to hear himself doing that, it just wouldn't come. What there was was the ache and the shaking and him beginning to sweat, and there, the sensation of a tongue leaving wetness over one nipple, and the light blow of breath over it, cold and like something sharp had grazed it, and then a mouth, teeth closing upon it, fuck, he was going to come and Lucius still hadn't even got anywhere near his cock.
Whiny little moans were coming from his throat every time he was bitten, teeth worrying his shoulder, his throat, his chest, all the way down to the insides of his thighs, and yet it was nothing like what he would have called pain, it was just one level of intensity beyond what had been going on before, and the way Lucius pieced it out so carefully left him wanting only more of it. Was he leaving marks? Harry didn't care.
His hip was being kissed when Harry felt a palm cup his scrotum, making him whimper, making him try to arch his hips to push more firmly into that hand, but Lucius was having none of it. The touch retreated, but returned after a moment, and none of Harry's movements had any influence on how long it stayed, or what it did. When the fingers of that hand stroked against his perineum, Harry heard a voice that sounded nothing like his saying "Please..."
Malfoy was even too well-disciplined to chuckle out loud at his pleading, Harry realized.
When Lucius finally did give Harry what he wanted, however, it was no light fleeting touch. A hand wrapped itself completely around Harry's girth and stroked him from base to cockhead in one slow gripping movement, and Harry would have screamed if he had been able to breathe. But the Lucius's hand did leave him, and Harry did scream after all, exploding in a "Fuck!" of protest that Malfoy still didn't laugh at him for.
But that mouth was at his ear now, licking the outer shell of it lightly and then murmuring in a quite breathy whisper: "Not yet, oh, not nearly yet."
There was a pause, and then Harry felt something move over his tricep that rasped ever so gently as it did so, something that managed to be sharp and soothing all at the same time, Lucius let him see it, when he turned his head to do so: the man had pulled on a glove that seemed to be of dark velvet, and as Harry was thinking he'd thought "velvet glove" just a figure of speech, the tiny spikes in the palm and fingers of the glove caught the light, and then they were on him again, Lucius had the spike-covered gloves on both hands and they were moving everywhere, everywhere they'd gone before, at the same cruelly slow pace, shoulders sides chest and when Lucius circled Harry's nipples with his fingers and began to increase the pressure with every circle, Harry started up a litany of "Fuck, fuck, fuck..." but it still wasn't protest; Harry couldn't have said what it was exactly but it wasn't protest.
It wasn't protest when his nipples were captured between the barbed thumb and forefinger of each hand and squeezed; it wasn't protest when his arsecheeks were stroked and clutched at, and it wasn't protest when his balls were cupped once more in those hands, velvet and spikes trying to drive him insane trying to deal with both sensations at once. And when a gloved hand laid one fingertip against his anus and pressed, not into but against, but not gently either, Harry screamed something that made no articulate sense but couldn't have been taken for anything but need.
When Lucius was done with the gloves, he took them off and conjured a rose, whose petals were open and bursting and whose stem was covered in thorns that were as long as Harry's thumbtip.
When Lucius was done with the rose, he produced a riding crop.
When he was finished with the riding crop, he summoned a box that contained a dozen animated malachite scarabs.
The ring that he slid about Harry's testicles and the base of his cock looked to be made of gold, and it too had magical properties.
When he began to fuck Harry's arsehole with his fingers, cock ring tightening and relaxing with every thrust, Harry no longer cared that Lucius was an enemy.
When he used the last of the scarabs to work Harry's foreskin while he fucked Harry in earnest, Harry no longer remembered.
And when Harry found himself lying on the floor unrestrained, his skin throbbing at a faster pace than his heartbeat, his aching cock lying soft and sticky on his thigh, a not-painful constraint around his throat that he dimly remembered was a leather collar that Lucius had put on him before releasing him from the x-shaped structure, and the toe of Lucius's boot being pushed under his cheek as Lucius instructed him to kiss it...his only thought was that he was just too exhausted to refuse.
Harry never knew if he kissed it or not.
This time, when he woke in the bed, it was with a scream.
Draco, leaning against the edge of the bed, grimaced and put his hand to the ear nearest Harry. "Ow."
Harry clutched the bedclothes to his chest, gasping. "Fuck." Soon his vocabulary would consist solely of that word, it seemed.
"Had a nice time, Potter? No, don't answer that. I'm supposed to find out what you think you learned from this, but given that you were shagging my father, I'd appreciate if you didn't bother me with the details."
"What. The fuck. Is going. On?!"
Another shrug. The entire Malfoy clan spoke in them, apparently. "It's the house that's doing this. I'm just its agent. So. Any difference between this vision and your first?"
"I'm supposed to compare them? The sex? That's some kind of bloody lesson?"
"Well, the house seems to think so. You might want to figure out what it is before your third visitation." Draco straightened up, waggled his fingers in farewell. "See you." Harry took a swipe at the space where he had disappeared, too late to connect.
Well. Trying to flee hadn't worked earlier.
Fuck it. He was still going to try.
The door opened.
Harry stared. There was light, coming from the hallway beyond, but no one was there.
And then the hooded, cloaked figure appeared in the doorway.
Any last remnants of arousal that Harry had had from the last vision fled completely. There was a Dementor in the room with him. A Dementor.
And yet, there was none of the sensation he associated with Dementors. No cold rush of air, no sucking terror-filled feeling.
And its hands were hidden.
Dementor or no, it wanted Harry to come with it. And doubtless would not leave until he did.
"I'm not afraid of you," said Harry, not sure if it was true or not, but wanting to say it all the same.
It was true, though, at least partly. What was there for the Dementor to take? It seemed that all his thoughts had been sad ones, this year.
"Don't tell me I'm supposed to have sex with you," he said, hoping it sounded as ridiculous as it seemed.
The Dementor did nothing but glide backwards, a short distance. Beckoning him.
Harry made himself rise from the bed, not out of any wish to have it over this time, but of a need to show this house that it would not defeat him.
The Dementor made no move to take his hand as he stepped into the hallway.
In fact, it wasn't the hallway that he stepped into.
It looked very like Voldemort's throne room, what with the chair, and the tapestries and the stone walls, but there was more light than there had been, and the colors were warmer. Red, though more of a scarlet-red than the orangey-red of Gryffindor colors.
There was only one person in the room, and Harry recognized him immediately.
He wasn't likely to forget Wormtail.
Though Pettigrew looked...much less haggard, now. He looked comfortable in his skin, that was the impression that Harry got, and he had an attitude of quiet confidence that he hadn't before.
Wormtail inclined his head towards Harry. "My lord."
He knew it was silly, but he couldn't help glancing behind him to make sure. No, there was no one else in the room but for him and the Dementor. What was he supposed to say to that?
"I assume you were thinking of retiring. Your preference tonight?"
Harry stared. If it was a vision, what did it matter if he gave the right response or not? Or even if he failed to respond at all?
"The Mudblood girl has been healed after last night's activities, as you requested. She will be prepared for you if you desire. Or perhaps you wished Ronald to attend you tonight? It has been several days. He must be quite on edge this time, wondering if you have tired of him." Wormtail smiled. "Certainly he would be eager to please, in that case. He may fear your affection but his knowledge of what happens to your discards is worse."
No. Wormtail wasn't really saying all this to him, was he? No version of himself would ever come to this. Wouldn't.
Harry saw Wormtail's mouth go suddenly slack as his whole expression changed. "Oh, but what am I thinking? Forgive me, my lord. I completely forgot that it is the full moon tonight. Naturally you are eager for a session with your muzzled werewolf." Another smile. "He should have been administered the Wolfsbane earlier today. I shall make sure, and see to the harnessing myself. Fifteen minutes at the most." He turned to go.
"No!" Harry shouted.
Wormtail turned back. "My lord? What distresses you? Have I over-anticipated your wishes? Truly I--"
"What are you saying to me? That I--why the hell am I talking to you?" Harry rounded on the Dementor, silently keeping its position a distance behind him. "What are you supposed to be showing me? Am I supposed to be on the other end of things this time?"
No response. Harry didn't look to see if Wormtail was puzzled but advanced on the Dementor. "You think I'm going into this one because--because it's a role I'm supposed to play? Because I want to get back my own? Because I'm supposed to find out how fun this sort of thing can be? Fuck, no, I'm not going through the motions on this!" He wiped spit from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Fuck you and fuck this house and fuck all of it!"
The light in the room dimmed. Dimmed to complete darkness. Harry suddenly felt much less confident, being blind with a Dementor in his vicinity.
But if he was here as a new Dark Lord, he would have his wand on him, wouldn't he? The visions before had clothed him to fit the role, each time, so--
It was there, at his waist. "Lumos!" Harry cried.
What the wand lit did not seem to be something that had been in the room before. In fact, Harry didn't seem to be in a room at all. Spongy texture beneath his shoes told him he was outdoors, on grass.
The light from his wand was illuminating a square structure, as long as Harry was--
One of those sepulchre-shaped monuments. Harry was in a graveyard.
At the periphery of his wand light, he could see headstones, but clearly it was the sepulchre that he was meant to look at. Someone had gone to a lot of effort and expense to create the thing. All pale marble and curvy edges and flourishes and it was sitting all by itself in a position that--
Ah. Of course.
Harry felt odd. He thought it should have scared him, shook him at least, to read his own name on the thing, but it seemed so very...predictable that he simply couldn't be arsed.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Harry didn't realize he'd spoken the words aloud until he heard them echo.
"What the fuck is this whole night supposed to mean?" Nothing answered him. "Am I supposed to figure out how I'm wired before I die a fucking virgin? What the fuck is that?"
He laughed out loud, hoping the Dementor could hear him. "My fucking grave. Is that all you've got to show me?...It doesn't mean anything, you know. I already know that everyone dies. Me included. And you know what?" He raised his voice, knowing that he wanted not only the Dementor to hear, but whatever was behind this, whatever consciousness dwelt in 12 Grimmauld Place and had forced him through this perverted night. "I'm not scared of it. There are worse things than death! D'you know what death means? Death means I fucking get to see Sirius again! The last of your bloody line, the fucking only one of you who I cared about--" His voice broke. He didn't want it to break. He didn't want to look weak.
Something was behind him. The Dementor.
Which had human hands, and was lifting the hood of its cloak away.
"That's what I've been trying to tell the sons-of-bitches, " said Sirius. "Christ, I'm so sorry, Harry."
Experience won over emotion, even after all that. Harry did not move. "Oh, this is so fucking not funny."
"Harry. It's the only real thing in all this."
Harry realized they were no longer in the graveyard, but standing in the bedroom of 12 Grimmauld Place. Sirius's hands were on his arms. "I told them no. I would never have done that to you, never. They wouldn't listen. Said they had a duty to get the last of the line back in corporeal form, if there was any way to do it."
Experience could only give him so much caution. It was Sirius. It sounded and smelled and felt like him in a way that nothing could fake. It was the cruelest thing anyone could have done to him, to make him see this.
Harry was clinging back. "No. No, don't do this. I can't--I can't see you and lose you, all over--"
"I'm not leaving. You won."
Harry felt something thud against his sternum, from the inside. As if someone had run something blunt-tipped through his back. "What?" he said, and it sounded very far away.
Sirius was crouched over just that much so that he could be eye-to-eye with Harry. "There are rules. Always rules. Three trials of temptation. If you come through them unswayed, you have the power to overcome anything, even death. They knew. Knew it would be you. Knew they could keep to the rules but you would still ask for me in the end, even if you didn't know you were asking. I'm sorry. I couldn't stop them. I never, never would have let you go through that, Harry, Christ, you have to believe--"
"Sirius." He was lightheaded. He was going to start laughing like some madman. Why couldn't he say anything else?
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Sirius, stop apologizing to the boy." Phineas Nigellus was examining his nails as if his great-great grandsons came back from the dead on a daily basis. "He's quite delighted to see you, you fool."
"And you!" Sirius rounded on the portrait. "Who the bloody FUCK decided Snivellus was going to get his greasy prick on Harry? You sick fucking twisted piece of--"
"Sirius!" It came out without any difficulty at all. Sirius looked back at him, cut-off in mid-rant. "Shut up." And Harry leaped on him, arms around his neck and mouth pressed to his so fiercely it was almost a bite.
Sirius only spluttered for a moment. After that, it was a kiss, plain and undeniable.
Not a word was necessary. It was there, all of it, in that kiss. Every cry of bliss, every promise to never be parted again, every shout of thanks to whatever powers there were.
And as for tears...Harry was too overjoyed for tears.
And still riding too close to the edge of disbelief for him to waste one second more on missed opportunities.
"I'm sor--" Sirius started to say as soon as Harry let him have his mouth back.
"If you try to apologize one more time you stupid git then I won't do THIS," Harry hissed, and kissed him again and pushed one hand inside Sirius's robes, quite deliberately trying to get him too startled to fight until it was too late.
The startled part certainly worked. "Mmph!" mmphed Sirius, who, it was pleasant to discover, wasn't wearing anything beneath them, so Harry was able to get a handful of anything he pleased.
Which responded quite nicely, it turned out. Harry slid his hand from base to the head of Sirius's cock in a manner not very different from the one that had been done to him not all that long ago. And that thought bothered him not at all.
Certainly not after Sirius's reaction, which was to grow even harder in his hand as his hands tightened on Harry's arms in a near-painful grip. "Oh, Christ. Harry."
Harry recognized that strangled sound. He smiled. It felt like the first real smile in half a year. "If you say one word in protest I'll have to kill you."
"N-not right. You're too--"
"That's it. Death." Harry had the words out before Sirius could say the word "young," and to keep him from trying to phrase it again, he'd sunk to his knees and pushed his way into Sirius's robes and swirled his tongue about the pulsing length of Sirius's cock, not thinking about who might have shown him this or if he was doing it right or anything else but that if he didn't get to make Sirius make all the noises he wanted him to make right NOW then he was going to turn Dark Lord after all and Sirius would be responsible for that so he'd better damn well let him.
He heard more words of protest, but there were satisfying gasps between each of them, and then there was a hand in his hair, clutching at him but making no attempt to pull him away. Oh good. Fate of the world preserved, and all that.
He lifted a hand and cupped Sirius's balls, stroking and squeezing alternately, careful not to hurt him, but quite happy to both intensify and prolong this. "Fuck," he heard Sirius say, and he could have sworn that the k was a syllable in itself, lasting at least half a minute.
Harry paused in licking just long enough to wet one forefinger with his mouth, and the moment when he sucked as much of Sirius's length into his mouth as he could, he also slid that finger backwards, into his cleft, contacting the puckered opening and pushing inside without a moment's thought about whether or not he should. Given that the sound Sirius made was accompanied by a tightening of his hands in Harry's hair, Harry was glad he hadn't wasted time thinking.
Just a little deeper--there. That was what had felt so intense when each of his--
Something wet and not at all unpleasant-tasting filled his mouth suddenly, and Sirius howled like bloody Padfoot. Harry moaned himself, to hear it. He didn't pull away, but kept his mouth about the cock as it pulsed, twitched, and slowly softened.
When he did take his mouth away those hands in his hair loosened, obviously because Sirius didn't want to hurt him as he fell backwards, the backs of his knees contacting the edge of the bed which of course meant that he collapsed onto its surface.
Sirius gasped for several long moments as Harry climbed up next to him. "You little fiend," he said at last. "I thought you'd never done this before!"
"Hadn't, before tonight." He hid his smile against the rumpled bedclothes. "Hadn't done that before just now."
"It's going to be a bit before I can ravish you properly. You evil-minded little shite." But his hand reached out to twine his fingers with Harry's, as if their hands would fuse and never separate.
Harry leaned over him. "Do one thing first."
"Turn that fucking picture to the wall."
"I BEG your p--" was all Phineas Nigellus had time to say before the wall muffled the rest of it. Harry, laying back on the bed, grinned and opened his arms as Sirius fell into his embrace.
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