Despoiling Harry

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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is being made from the use of these characters and situations; these written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.

Hypocritic Oath
by Amanuensis

Summary: Harry's not well. Neither is Snape.
Pairing: Snape/Harry
Categories: Dark, Non-con.
Kinks/Warnings: Non-con. Prostitution. Voyeurism by way of third-party OMC. Sloppy seconds.
Notes: For the Pornish Pixies Fantasy Fest request made by [info]snapesdarkling -- "snarry. rentboy harry. sev drugs and keeps him in a hidden location. very dom sev."
Thanks to betas [info]shaggirl, [info]florahart, and [info]fabularasa.


He gave the potion to the boy last night.

"Have you washed this morning?"


It's starting as one of the boy's better days, then. Sometimes he's not functional enough to do that for himself.

Severus gives him breakfast. Harry's always functional enough to eat, and possibly to forage in the kitchen to get himself fed, but cooking is beyond him. Especially in the mornings.

"Where am I going today?"

The same question, every day.

"You're not. You'll have a visitor."

Harry seems to absorb this news, as though it is familiar but he's not sure why. He eats another piece of toast and asks no further questions.

The house has four bedrooms. One for him. One for Harry. One that he's converted into a storeroom. He doesn't need as much storage space as he once did--there are only a few potions he makes regularly. One in particular.

One bedroom for business.

Severus is very, very careful about the screening process. He knows he would get the most money from those few uncovered former Death Eaters still at large. But criminals are the worst risk. He would be giving them information to trade, if they were ever caught. And they would trade it.

And Severus is not as careful as he should be about the frequency of their moves. Unplottable charms notwithstanding, shifting location is further assurance for staying hidden. But they have been in this particular house for almost a year. Because it is convenient, isolated. Because it has four bedrooms.

So, no Death Eaters. But it does not matter. There is a great enough host of unsavory wizards--not criminals as such, but disreputable sorts--that can be found if one desires to find them. Ones who have money. Ones with enough money to grow jaded, and seek out ever more novel pleasures.

There are Muggles who fit that description as well. Severus does not scorn their type, nor their currency. What dissatisfies him, when he does allow them to indulge in the business he plies, is that they do not appreciate the enormity of their deed the way a wizard does.

A wizard knows, when he goes into that fourth bedroom, where Severus's commodity of trade waits for him, what he is desecrating.

Today's client is a man of middle years, older than Severus himself, he thinks. His robes are not the royal blue color he favored when he and Severus had their initial meeting. What he wears today is darker, subdued, though no less fine. Even his plumed hat has been exchanged for one less showy. For a man like this, these details scream "I am up to no good" as loudly as if they had been embroidered onto his expensive vestments.

He is soft about the middle as rich men are, and his hair is thin, but carries himself in as stately a fashion as if he were Adonis himself. He is used to being treated as if he is so, because of his wealth.

He's perfect for Severus's needs.

The client sets the pouch on the dining table. It clinks satisfactorily. Severus does not pick it up to count the galleons; he never does. It would be insulting to this class of patron, just as the idea of shortchanging the merchant would be abhorrent to them.

"You'll not let me take him with me?" the client says, too careful to allow his nose to wrinkle at the smallness, the meagerness of the house. But Severus can see it twitching all the same. "Only for the time allotted, of course. And additional compensation." Severus's silence prompts him to repeat himself. "Won't you let me take him with me?"

Severus allows himself to smile. "Would you?"

The man's lips purse. "So mysterious. It certainly adds credibility to your claim." He twists a ring on his hand idly. "What proof have I that it's him?"

"I don't offer proof. I guarantee satisfaction."

The lips do not unpurse. Severus continues: "When you leave here, you will have the reward of thinking it was either him or an impostor so like him that it will make not the least difference to you. But the situation is as I have promised."

"Not running a Polyjuice brothel, then, are you?" It's said with humor, but is a challenge nonetheless.

"The boy's hair is as rare a commodity as the boy himself. If I were, I should still charge the prices that I set you." During this, Severus has not raised his voice, not shown the slightest impatience. "But it is him."

At last the purse leaves the client's mouth, and a smile replaces it. "Satisfaction, then, will be...quite satisfying, my good man."

Severus nods. "Second door on your left," he says, without gesturing.

The man takes a step, then stops. "Is it necessary for me to mention that I would be most displeased if surveillance charms were in evidence? Or out of evidence, but present?"

"You are welcome to cast an Imperturbable on the room, if you wish."

The man hesitates--not, Severus knows, because he doesn't have his wand or because he can't cast an Imperturbable Charm, but because he is rightly wondering if that is reassurance enough--and then nods.

He turns, walks down the hall, and into the second door on the left.

Snape goes into the first door on the right. The Omniobservo charm placed on the other room is an obscure one, and completely unaffected by Imperturbables. Snape sits down, touches the inkwell on his desk to activate the charm, and sits back to observe as a transparent bubble with silver-touched edges swells in midair, an image of the other room--and its events--contained within it.

Harry is wearing the robe Severus provided for him--red, with gold trim, of course--and nothing else, and is still in the bewildered first stages of the meeting. The client is sizing him up, and there's no purse to his lips now--he's pleased. The smiling unguardedly, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue sort of pleased.

He comes closer to Harry, reaches out, and pulls the glasses off the boy with a delicacy that does not startle Harry, only leaves him blinking. At the same time, he pushes aside the messy black hair on the boy's forehead with a little finger. His smile does not deepen, but he's seen it.

Ah, now, here it comes. The confused stammer of words. "I'm sorry--" Harry says, "--I don't--who are--" Severus likes this part a great deal.

"Ssh," says the man. "Let's get to know each other better, shall we? Aren't you lovely."

He's not. He's an underfed whelp still in his teens, whose growth spurt was not kind to him in its paltriness, and if the skin is pale, the eyes large, and the mouth softly pink, those are things that only a parent or a pedophile would call lovely.

Severus knows just how the man feels.

Now he's coaxing Harry out of that robe--no, wait, he's only opening it. Wants him to leave it on for the moment. This is where Harry's distress increases; his hands go to the man's, but a word of "Now, now, that wouldn't be friendly, would it?" makes him hesitate, and his hands are pushed aside easily, where they stay, helplessly open and making tiny fumbling gestures at his sides.

Severus tells all clients about his merchandise's condition, but leaves it up to them as to how they wish to handle him. Soothingly, as this man favors, is a popular method. Others use force; not that it is required, but they like to do so. A few, more creative clients have invented fantasies that are easy to impress upon Harry: that they are disciplinarians, and Harry might win kindness by complying; that they are Healers, come to examine him. The one who convinced Harry he was his long-lost lover was terribly sweet.

It takes little effort for the man to maneuver Harry onto the bed, still wearing the robe. He parts it, laying it to either side to display the boy's nudity, and tells Harry not to worry, he'll take care of him, that he should just lie still. Harry does, though his hands are still making those motions as if wanting something to clutch.

The man's own robes come off unhurriedly; he takes the time to fold them and his undergarments over the back of the sole chair in the room. Then he joins Harry on the bed, middle-aged body not quite as plump or unfit as his softness implied--only a bit pudgy--but still a mockery next to the youthfulness of Harry. It's shameful. Base. Severus exults.

Harry cringes instinctively as the nude man bends over him and sets a hand on his chest, but more soothing falsehoods are murmured, and though Harry does not relax--he's breathing fast, limbs tense--he stays still. The man brings his face to Harry's chest, smooth but for the dark curls that ring his nipples, and begins to tongue one of those nipples, pausing now and then to murmur further lulling and affectionate things. Harry's face is a sight, even at this alone: eyes wide, lower lip pulled between the teeth, nostrils flaring with his breaths. Severus doesn't know where to look; it's all so delightful.

The man does not tire of this activity for some time, but eventually he turns his attention to Harry's cock. It's quiescent right now, almost curled, and the man takes it in his fingers with an attitude as though he has just picked up a caviar tin, seen the label, and found it to be extremely fine. This is when one of Harry's hands comes down to circle the man's wrist, and it takes several words from the man, not only lulling but chiding, before Harry releases it.

It is a leisurely inspection the man takes now, as if there might be identifying marks on the length of Harry's cock, but Severus knows the man is simply a connoisseur enjoying himself. He handles it gently, appreciatively, one hand stroking it as if it is a trembling pet, until Harry gasps and the length begins to stiffen in the man's hand. For this, the man lilts encouraging words at Harry, calling him dear boy, and dear young man, and pretty thing.

But not Harry, and not Boy-Who-Lived.

When Harry is fully erect, the man lets the tender piece of flesh alone, and instead captures Harry's right hand with his. He guides it to his own cock, which has grown erect during his exploration of Harry, wraps it about the hard shaft, and tells Harry to stroke it, to squeeze--not too firmly, now. Which is a short-lived song; soon he is urging Harry to stroke harder, harder still. Harry swallows and lets out a little moan, trying to do as he is told, his left hand going unconsciously to his own hard cock to see whether that will alleviate his own needful feelings; when the man sees, he takes Harry's left hand away, telling him he mustn't have that just yet.

Severus watches as, denied, Harry's left hand curls into a fist by his side. It's beautiful.

The man has Harry sit up, then coaxes him to his hands and knees on the bed, stripping the robe off him at last. Harry is shaking in this position, and the man takes his time, providing many gentling strokes over Harry's entire body, and those same soothing murmurs, until Harry is braced in that position and understands he is not to move from it. His thighs are nudged apart, more, more, until the vulnerable prick and balls are on generous display, crimson and dampened with his own seepage. The man teases them with a skilled fingertip, questing backwards to the peach-split arsecleft, pressing against the puckered skin, calming Harry with quiet endearments when he lifts his head and bleats his distress.

An array of jars sit on the bedside table: all labeled, but all containing essentially the same thing. The man selects one, uses its contents to grease Harry's cleft and his own cock.

When the cock touches his arsehole, Harry stiffens. Then he cries out, and then, understandably, no amount of gentle urging will make him stay in place; he collapses, but the man falls on him with his own weight, half-sheathed within him, moving his hips forward to impale him fully and hold him in place. Harry wails. He does not turn and fight, does not think to do harm to the man, but scrabbles at the bedclothes with his hands, beginning to plead, to sob, made still but not quiet at last by the momentary halt of the man's movement, and his hands on his shoulders, and his softly encouraging words.

The cries redouble when he starts thrusting, but the man has his weight on his hands, pinning Harry's shoulders, and Harry endures as he is raped, the action obscured from Severus's vision by the man's body, but no less satisfying. Harry is pummeled by the thrusts, clutching at the bedclothes and lifting his head to cry out, then ducking back down again to bury his face against the bed. A rhythm is set before long, and Harry instinctively learns to ride it to avoid worse abuse, as the man fucks his way into a little piece of sordid history, joining the list of men who have fucked Harry Potter, a stretched grin on the man's face that becomes a grimace, and at last a shout as he comes, collapsing that pudgy bulk of his onto the boy a third his age, fingers biting into Harry's shoulders as he spends his connoisseur's semen into his dearly-bought whore.

Severus has not touched himself throughout this entire display. He does not now. He rises, goes to pour himself firewhiskey.

It is only an interlude. The client paid for the full afternoon.

Severus does not allow the boy to wash, after. He wraps him in a robe--plain white, this one--sits him at the kitchen table and gives him another meal.

This stage fascinates Severus as well. Harry's bewilderment is abetted by hurt, by a distress that cannot find release in tears or shouts; he cannot yet process the idea of betrayal, but it radiates from him as a tangible thing, fairly dancing off Severus's skin. Shoulders indrawn, eyes so lost, he sits at the table and puts the food into his mouth slowly. Severus watches, taking in the pink suck marks on the boy's neck, and the puffiness of his lips, imagining the slow purple blossoming of bruises on his hips in perfect finger-mark patterns. Those should be vivid by tonight.

After Harry eats, Severus tells him to go to bed, and rest. This too is obeyed, though the potion has been in his system for the better part of twenty-four hours; the pattern has been set for obedience, by the day's events.

Which is why Harry also does not try to fight, only making the most token of protests, when Severus comes into his room to fuck him a short time later.

This time there are no screams, no howls. The boy knows what to expect, now. This time there is only his labored breathing, his whimpers, the gasps he makes when Severus sets his mouth free after a long kiss. Severus leaves his saliva over every inch of the boy, licking him, his skin from forehead to toes, and his hair, and the membranous opening of his anus, and the inner ridges of his ears and the surfaces of his eyes, so completely it is as if it's part of a magic ritual that requires him to leave not a bit uncovered, to ward off evil. Harry is not Achilles, and this will not protect him--though Severus, caught up in this defilement, fancies his spittle might well be as impure an ichor as the waters of the River of the Dead.

Severus fucks him slowly, watching his cock move in and out of the boy's anus: what he could not watch before. The sight is almost better than the sensation. Almost. Harry is doubled over on his back, legs pushed back and held by Severus's hands, which are creating more finger-bruises at the backs of the boy's knees. Harry gasps, emits the occasional whispered please, something that he could not give voice to earlier in the day. Severus cherishes each repetition of the word.

Though he does not stop, of course.

Harry's cock is only half-hard during the fucking, and Severus thinks it all the sweeter, this indecisive arousal. His hand forms a fist about Harry's cock, and works him to full hardness, treasuring every drop of clear leakage that he sees beading at the tip. This transforms Harry's face as well, the distress altered by a wrinkle about the boy's brow and eyes, the mouth's O a bit more round. And in the voice, there is a new note that makes a harmony of the sound of the word please.

Severus comes to those notes, that dual-meaninged plea, and in the mingled contentment and melancholy of the minutes after, lies between Harry's spread legs and suckles his cock, gathering up those precious drops of arousal, not stopping until he has the full measure of the boy's outpouring in his mouth, and the sounds of his orgasmic cries in his ears.

Soon after, he rises, leaving the boy curled and trembling in the bedclothes, and goes to prepare the potion.

By the time it is done, it is necessary. He enters the boy's bedroom again, goblet in hand, to find Harry sitting up, darting looks about the room like an owl, focusing on Severus with nothing closer than the seventh cousin to recognition in his eyes. "Pro...professor," he gets out. Some days he gets as far as Snape, others, not. "Where...I don't--what's happening? W-where am I?"

He starts to push back the bedclothes to get up, realizes that he's naked beneath them, and also realizes that that's an unseemly thing to be. Adam could never have blushed so.

"It's all right, Harry," he says. "The war is over. It's a long story. Drink this; it'll help. I'll explain."

Harry stares at the goblet, in the moment of uncertainty if he should drink.

One day, thinks Severus, he will not. One day he will say no, and Severus will insist, and Harry will dash it from his hand, and push past him and flee the house, and though Severus will have his wand and the greater advantage of the situation, Harry will still manage to get away, get away from Severus at last, and cheers will go up that the Boy Who Lived has been found alive, because that is how fate provides, not for boy heroes, but against men like Severus, who are owed mightily by that bitch fate, owed and owed and owed and never, ever repaid fairly for their sufferings.

Harry takes the goblet.

"Where am I going today?"

"You're not. You'll have a visitor."

And Harry considers this, and eats his toast.


Despoiling Harry

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