Despoiling Harry
Home Page Amanuensis's
Fanfiction Art/Fic Tributes
Fic
Recommendations
Amanuensis's
LiveJournal
Other
Links Email
Me
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.
God Slash Us, Everyone
by Amanuensis
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
Categories:
Parody
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 Potter?"
Dobby's voice.
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.
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."
Definitely panicking.
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.
That...oh.
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--
Tall. Oh.
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."
"What's that?"
"Turn that fucking picture to the wall."
"Too right."
"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.
-fin
.....
Home Page
Amanuensis's
Fanfiction Art/Fic Tributes
Fic
Recommendations
Amanuensis's
LiveJournal
Other
Links amanuensis1@earthlink.net