Title: Vanquished
Author: Yule Never Know
Giftee: Eriador117
Word Count: 20197
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter, (Gilderoy
Lockhart/Harry Potter), hints of Ron/Hermione, previous Harry/Ginny and implied
Greyback/OCs
Warnings: (CHAN, NON-CON,
TORTURE, hand jobs, blow jobs, spanking - see Author's Notes), biting, sensory
deprivation, consensual D/s, penetration, rimming, desk!sex, hurt/comfort,
first time, abuse of furniture and misuse of ink, slight Ginny bashing (I've
been unreasonably honest to the stereotype of British teenaged girls), EWE?!.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are
the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright
infringement is intended.
Summary: As an Auror, it's Harry's job to bring
in criminals like Fenrir Greyback. He doesn't let his personal life affect in
his work. But when his work becomes uncomfortably involved in his personal
life, Harry has to face his own fears before they consume him.
Author's Notes: Important note: this fiction contains R rated, noncon Gilderoy/Harry
where Harry is only 12 years old. In regards to Fenrir Greyback, it also
strongly implies the torture and murder of children. It is, I hope, delicately
covered, but will no doubt squick some readers. Please consider this content
before you read.
Fenrir Greyback was going to
suffer hell on earth for his crimes.
There wasn't anything more
sickening, Harry believed, than to know the criminal by name and still not be
able to bring him in. Greyback had disappeared from Hogwarts six years ago, at
some point during the final battle. His last gift had been to leave Lavender
with ribbons instead of a face and now, after all these years, he was back.
Harry wished that Ron had been right; that Greyback had just crawled off into
the forest to die, but it was a ridiculous assumption. Nothing like that ever
happened in Harry's life. The bad guy always survived.
Harry cursed Gawain Robards
for sending him to this hellhole. The Head of the Auror Department indeed...the
man was sadistic. Robards had known what Harry would find here; of course he
did! It had been the same at every crime scene, the directions to each one
faithfully owled into the Auror Department by the ever conscientious werewolf.
Greyback was playing games with the Ministry, and keeping ahead of them with
seemingly little effort.
Stepping over the severed foot
on the welcome mat and avoiding every speck of blood as though touching it
might somehow undo him, Harry descended into the damp basement. The walls
reared up to either side of him and the ceiling pressed down from overhead,
shutting him in like it had shut in Greyback's victims. His bubblehead charm
felt distinctly claustrophobic. Harry jumped over a dark patch that his Lumos
showed beneath his feet, his landing foot slipping slightly across a patch of
moss and unbalancing him. For a second he reached out towards the walls to stop
himself falling, but in that same moment Harry flinched away from the clammy
slime covering them and managed to get his feet
back underneath him. His wand clattered down the next few steps, sinking him
into semi-darkness.
Only without his wand could
Harry see the eerie light emanating from the basement. As he slowly descended
the stairs, even more careful than before and ducked to pick his wand up , Harry's eyes adjusted to the somber glow . It was
frightening to see it as the children would have seen it.
This...dungeon of suffering.
They hadn't all been dungeons.
The first time, just over two months ago, Greyback had left his calling card
summoning the Aurors to a house just outside Bath. There had been only a single
child killed there, a homeless girl left in the house of a holidaying couple.
The second time it had been a whole family, interrupted over dinner. The
parents had been killed outright, but Greyback, clearly bolder now, had
tortured the three children for almost an entire week. While the first might
have been an accident, now Greyback was in his stride. For his next trick, he had kidnapped a pair of twins returning from
private school right out from underneath their parents' noses at the train
station. He'd tortured them for almost the entire school holiday before leaving them for the Ministry to find broken like
string-less marionettes.
This, however, was a horror
beyond all horrors. Harry had suspected Greyback when he'd first seen the
article on the news; A minibus full of nine
year olds returning from their school football practice vanishes without a
trace. Muggle Britain is in a ruckus,
parents desperately trying to find their lost children. The whole world
empathises. The Auror Department had been pressed harder than ever, and on this
dreary day in August, their time had run out.
Harry could think of no worse
way to spend any night of the week, he decided, following the light deeper into
the extensive basement, his breath catching in his throat as he rounded the
corner expecting to see the children -- or parts of them.
The room was huge, like an
underground chapel. Pools of green light poured out onto patches on the floor,
illuminating piles of what seemed like rags at first glance, until Harry
noticed the blood. His stomach turned over, despite the strong anti-nausea
potion he'd taken. Dead. All of them dead, lit up like disgusting museum
exhibits. People's sons, their prides and joys, their children,
reduced to the shattered toys of a monstrous man.
Harry didn't want to go in
further, even though he knew he had to. It was his job to make sure that the scene
was safe to allow in Ministry cleanup. He was also expected to check the bodies
-- to count them and make sure there weren't any survivors. It was his job, but
Robards had clearly given it to him time and again now expecting him to fail,
for it to be enough pressure to force him to quit.
Forcing himself to take in a
ragged breath of the stale air inside his bubble, Harry stepped forward, moving
toward the first pile and kneeling down beside it. The boy had clearly been
bound right here throughout his ordeal. The chains hung limp now because
Greyback had cut off the boy's hands and feet. Harry swallowed and reached down
cautiously towards the empty stare in the wrecked face of the dead child, and
then blind white eyes swiveled in their sockets, and Harry jumped back.
Breathing. He was breathing, just slightly, and Harry's stomach rolled
again like a hurricane wave. Greyback had left him alive. It took several tried
to cast his Patronus, and even then it seemed almost vague as it cantered away
through the basement of death and up the stairs. Harry tore away from the first
child and went to the next heap, and then the next. They were all alive, just
barely, all breathing.
"First Auror on the scene Harry
Potter has been unavailable for comment. Head of the Auror Department Gawain
Robards spoke to us instead at a press conference this morning, "Mr.
Potter has been commendable, but of course, he's only doing his job; if there's
anybody that deserves your respect and help over the next few weeks especially,
its the wizards and witches of St. Mungo's, where the children have been
taken." Debate had already begun over whether the thirteen Muggle children
have any useful information about Greyback's whereabouts, and whether it would
not be kinder to obliviate them before they become conscious. The Wizengamot
are expected to vote on the waiver tomorrow morning. Head of the Magical
Creatures department Charlie Weasley stresses that Greyback's actions are not
representative of werewolves as a whole following renewed anger..."
Harry snapped his wand towards
the wireless, not only turning it off, but also knocking it clean off its
shelf. From the stove, Kreacher blinked up at Harry with his huge house elf
eyes, and then went back to stirring the porridge.
"Is Master Harry sure he
must eat porridge again?" Kreacher asked, the concern in his scratchy
voice clear. "He doesn't want to eat bacon instead?"
"No, Kreacher,"
Harry said, stubbornly. "And I order you not to buy anything that isn't on
my list." Kreacher looked crestfallen, stirring the porridge again.
"Master Regulus stopped
eating, too," Kreacher pointed out, not for the first time. The house elf
waved his hand at the fire, which went out, and then levitated the saucepan
full of porridge over to the table, putting it down in front of Harry.
Harry frowned, glancing up
towards Kreacher as the house elf moved around the table toward him. "You
may go," he said, and Kreacher's twisted ears visibly dipped in submission
before he disappeared with a crack.
Alone, Harry stared into the
thick porridge and tried not to think about work. It had been work that had put
him off his food. Suddenly, rice looked like maggots and meat like raw flesh.
His diet had grown to exclude strong flavours like cheese and fish, and things
which looked even vaguely like rot and blood and insects and body parts. The
stress didn't help on an empty stomach, but porridge was still safe to eat,
bread was fine, and sometimes he let Kreacher boil potatoes until they tasted
of nothing at all. Harry had grown used to food like this back at the
Dursleys', so he knew he could survive on it, even if he didn't thrive. He
pulled it over and began to eat, using the wooden spoon that Kreacher had been
stirring with.
Harry choked on his porridge
when the fireplace burped out a pile of letters. To be honest, he'd never get
used to not receiving owls, but ever since he'd defeated the Dark Lord, he'd
discovered that untying hundred of messages from owls every day was a scandalous
waste of his time, and had found an owl-forwarder to receive the letters for
him. It cost money, of course, but it made his life less stressful.
Although he didn't
particularly want to open his mail, Harry had been put off his food by its
arrival, so there was little point in not doing so. He gathered up the letters
and spread them out on the table, pushing the half filled saucepan out of the
way.
There were owls from a number
of people Harry didn't know the names of; Harry skimmed through these and
pushed them out of the way first, some were angry, others worried about him in
some perverse way. Harry begun through the letters with the familiar
handwriting, starting with the one written in bright green ink and flourished
writing.
I've been having great
trouble getting in contact with you for some reason. I must have sent twenty
owls and I never seem to get a reply to any of them. Poor dears must have
gotten lost along the way, obviously, as if you received them I have no doubt
that you would have eagerly replied. I hope this one gets to you.
I've booked a room at the
Leaky Cauldron just for us, from nine until ten on Friday night. I hope you'll
be able to make it. The public deserves to know how their hero is coping under
all this stress, and how Greyback's crimes have been affecting his mind. You
owe me an interview, Harry; just one interview. It's only fair, isn't it? It's
my responsibility as a reporter to discover your side of the story, and up to
you how accurate that information is.
Don't be late, I'll have a
bottle of champagne on ice for us.
Harry glared at the letter
furiously and pushed it to one side. Skeeter didn't want a reply, she wanted
him to be there on Friday, or she'd start interfering in his life again. It
wouldn't be so bad if she hadn't declared herself as an Animagus, therefore
negating Harry's power over her. Scowling, Harry opened the next letter, which
was written in more familiar writing.
Hermione's worried about
you, but you know her, she's always worried about you. It's just worse now
she's pregnant. Rose had been a right pain in the arse this week; she keeps
slipping out the hedge behind the orchard and running down to the village.
She's really adventurous, I just wish she wouldn't worry her mother like this
when she's already stretched thin. Mum says it's like when she was pregnant
with the twins.
Anyway, I just wrote to put
her at ease. You'll come to Ginny's birthday party next weekend won't you?
She's really antsy about seeing you again, so I hope you'll be able to make it,
and I promise I won't ask you what went wrong any more, I just wish you'd get
over it.
P.S. Hermione wants to know
if Kreacher's all right
Feeling a little less annoyed
over this letter than the previous one, Harry moved it out of the way to reply
to later, and reached for the last one, turning it over in his hands
thoughtfully before he opened it, his breath held in his throat.
I'm very disappointed to
hear that you might be losing faith in the Auror Department. You're needed
there, especially right now, when such terrible things are happening. As such,
I must decline your application for the position of Defence Against the Dark
Arts instructor, despite your qualifications.
I'm sorry, Harry. Albus
insists.
Headmistress Minerva
McGonagall
The porridge made a very
interesting pattern on the floor when Harry threw it off the table.
"All you have to do is
move away from the pressure, Harry. It's such a simple exercise. It hurts, so
you move away. The sooner you learn this, the better."
Harry couldn't see. The
blackness pressed in from all around him, impenetrable. It felt almost as
though it were pressing in around his mouth and nose too, not suffocating, but
close. A pain in the centre of his back persisted, but moving away from it
meant bending over, and for some reason he knew he mustn't do that, because if
he did that, something terrible would happen.
"Move away, Harry."
The voice seemed far away and distorted somehow. Harry recognised it, but
couldn't be sure who it belonged to. What he did know was that he mustn't move
away from the pain, even though it was growing, becoming excruciating now,
pressed into just a tiny spot on his back, but sending sparks of agony through
his entire body.
Harry gasped. There were tears
in his eyes, but something - a shroud, he thought - over his face was absorbing
them the moment they fell. With one last effort, Harry was forced to surrender,
moving away from the pain and bending over. He turned his head instinctively,
his face finding the smooth wood of a desk underneath it, and as his body
trembled with silent emotion, he heard the person behind him moving. Again, the
sound was distorted, so that Harry couldn't be sure where the person was in
relation to himself. Laid prone over the table, very aware of his nudity, Harry
tried to work out where he was.
"This will hurt,"
said the voice, threateningly, "but remember, Harry, you deserve this.
You've earned every one of these punishments I give you, and one day, you'll
understand. Well?"
Harry's throat felt parched.
He didn't want to answer, but the man behind him was impatient. "Right
then. You count. If you stop counting, we'll begin all over again." Harry
tensed, knowing what to expect now. His whole body tightened up in resistance
against what was coming, but when the first stroke landed hard across the back
of his knees, he yelled in pain anyway, the sound ripped out of his lungs by
the paddle.
Harry thought he knew what it
meant to wake up in cold sweat, but he'd never expected this. With an effort, he
pushed the blanket off his body, laid his head back in the pillows and caught
his breath. His arousal stood sentinel now it was free of the blankets, the
cold air cooling his damp skin. Clearly Greyback's crime scenes were affecting
him in ways he couldn't have predicted, but if he was having nightmares about
that, and being aroused by it, there had
to be something horribly wrong with him. Maybe all those years of being moved
around like Dumbledore's pawn were finally getting to him after all.
Even the icy water of the
shower couldn't make the ill feeling go away, though his erection quickly
surrendered. How could he possibly imagine something so intense -- and it had
been intense, more like a memory than a dream. Harry knew the difference;
people had been messing with his mind for years, after all. Even so, nothing
like that had ever happened to him before. He'd never been
beaten. So how had any of that scene come to be in his head if it wasn't as a
direct result of what he'd been forced to see in the course of his Auror duties?
There was one other
possibility, he supposed. Greyback might have somehow found a way to get into
his mind; to put those thoughts there and undo him from the inside out. If that
was the case then Harry was defenseless. He couldn't defend against
Legilimency; all those lessons in fifth year had proven that. But the thought
of going through what those children had gone through made him feel somewhat
ill, especially if he couldn't prove it was actually happening to him.
But this was all just
theory...maybe it was a dream after all, and his imagination was just
overwhelming him? All the sights and scents of the past year were just coming
back to plague his nightmares. That wouldn't be the first time, either.
Too rattled now to go back to
sleep, Harry went over to his writing desk to pen his reply to Ron, regretting
not answering it earlier.
Sounds like you and
Hermione are in for an interesting time. How far into her pregnancy is she now?
Four months? Have you asked the Healer whether it might be twins? Your mum must
be over the moon. More babies in her house. Bet it's much easier with her
around to babysit, anyhow, no matter how much you complain about her sometimes.
Make sure you keep an eye
on Rose. The Prophet
and the Wireless don't tell you half of what's happened to those children, and
obviously I'm not going to tell you either, because I don't want Hermione to
worry about me, besides people have read my letters before. I'm going to send
Kreacher with this letter actually, so Hermione can check up on him herself.
Kreacher probably misses her, though obviously he wouldn't say so out loud, so
don't tease him about it. Make sure you keep Rose out of the way, though;
Kreacher's still mad at her for pulling his nose.
I'll come to Ginny's party,
but don't expect me to stay very long. You can tell me as often as you like how
much she misses me, but it won't change anything, Ron. It's not going to work
between us for reasons I rather hoped you might have accepted by now. Ask
Hermione about it if you're having trouble, she'll know just what to say.
I'm missing the Weasleys;
it'll be nice to see you all again and forget work for a bit.
Love to you and all the
family,
When the letter was done Harry
set it aside, glancing towards his bed. Maybe he'd try sleeping again now, and
hope nothing else came up.
Gawain Robards' booming voice
rang all the way through the Auror Department, clearly magically enhanced. In
fact, Harry would have thought it carried to the other floors in the Ministry,
if not for the soundproofing between them. A few wary looks were sent his way,
and Neville, with whom he was discussing the legality of some species of
plants, grimaced.
"Better go see the
dragon, huh?" Harry asked, shifting his weight and straightening the files
he was carrying. "See you later, Neville."
Robards' office was at the end
of the hallway, and he stood in the doorway looking imperiously down it as
Harry came closer, reminding him of Dumbledore standing at the end of the Great
Hall and watching the first years approaching. Harry thought that Dumbledore
had looked welcoming. Robards, in comparison, looked cold and condescending;
his grey hair like old sun faded carpet, with the biggest sideburns Harry had
ever seen. Despite the appearance, keen eyes followed him all the way down the
carpeted hall, reminding Harry of a particularly scraggy old owl that had been
living in Hogwarts' owlery; one that they'd always been warned not to touch.
Harry knew Robards to be one of Rufus Scrimgeour's closest supporters, and now
Scrimgeour was gone, Robards was almost impossible to work with. He seemed to
think that he ought to have been the next in line for Minister for Magic,
rather than Kingsley, who had, he said, usurped him by leapfrogging out of the
Auror Department and over his head. Harry wasn't about to tell him that
Kingsley was clearly much more suited to the job; it wouldn't have been worth
it.
"That's right, Potter.
Take your sweet time," Robards growled, his gravely voice sounding ferocious with seemingly no effort.
"Yes sir, sorry
sir," Harry muttered, crossing the threshold quickly and going towards the
chair. Robards' desk was raised a step off the ground so that he could look
down on anyone who came into him. For Harry, the effect went twice as far. He'd
never quite gotten as tall as Ron.
"Your report,
please," Robards said, opening his hand towards Harry, who passed it over.
For the next twenty minutes, Robards simply read, leaving Harry sitting
opposite him to grow more and more uncomfortable. When he was done, Robards
steepled his hands over the paper and sat up, piercing Harry with his
bird-of-prey stare.
"So," Robards
drawled, every word meticulously planned, "What do you suggest we do,
Potter?"
Harry swallowed, caught off
guard by the question. "Pardon, sir?"
"What do you suggest we
do about Greyback, Potter? You know his pattern by now. He'll take more
children, probably a whole class full of them this time, and he will torture
and rape and murder them. How do you propose we catch him before he does?"
If Harry was optimistic, he
might have suggested that a seed of fear had been planted in his chest; but the
truth was that a whole rain forest of it had just erupted into place. Robards
was struggling to get Greyback, and the public wanted results. Robards needed
to be seen to be doing something, and Harry realised that he was being made
into the scapegoat . It was as
clear as day. By not coming up with a way to stop Greyback taking more
children, Harry would be sealing his own fate. And it wouldn't be clean,
either. He'd not just lose his job, but everyone would hate him, almost as
though he had committed these atrocities himself. He wasn't sure what to say.
"What about the children
in St. Mungo's?" Robards asked, eyebrows rising impatiently. "Do you
need their testimonies to bring him in?"
Harry shook his head,
"No," he said, and swallowed again, thickly. "They shouldn't be
made to remember what he did to them. If they even survive." Two of the
children had died thiat morning from their injuries.
Robards kept his laser beam
stare on Harry for a little longer, and then leaned back. "I'm watching
your progress, Potter. You'd better start making some. Dismissed."
Somehow, just getting outside
Robards' office wasn't quite far enough.
Harry's dreams were plagued
once more by nightmares.
He was falling, on and on and
down into deep darkness. He didn't know when it stopped, but what he did know
was that there was a pain in his arm when he opened his eyes, like he'd fallen
onto it. He couldn't see; was distinctly aware of the something pressing in
over his head again, and tried to reach up and dislodge it; undone by a bolt of
blinding agony as it swept up his arm. It felt as though there were a thousand
needles digging into him all at once. Harry decided he didn't need to move his
arm after all, especially when soft laughter came from above him.
"You won't be trying that
again any time soon, will you, Harry? No...you shouldn't have made me look bad;
it wasn't very good of you, was it?" The voice was coming closer, and then
a hand fell on Harry's chest, making him recoil. "I should punish you for
that, but someone might notice. We have a moment to ourselves,
though...everyone is so busy."
Harry shuddered as the hand
moved down his body, aware of the feeling of fabric this time as it was pushed
away. The hand brushed firmly across his groin, but nothing seemed to happen.
"No, you're too young. Well, perhaps it simply requires a little
persistence." The hand tightened around his limp penis, stroking firmly,
until, after several minutes, his body began to respond. In the meantime, Harry
tried to fight the strange man off with one hand, batting at him until his arm
was pinioned back into the bedsheets.
Oh yes, there was a problem.
Something horrible was happening to him. His body had gone hot all over, and he
felt as though he desperately needed the toilet and oh,
nothing had ever felt this way before. Harry panicked. He didn't know what to
do, how to escape what the man was doing to him, or if he even wanted to. He
gulped in lungfuls of air, expelling them as pitiful cries as his body
responded in a most uncomfortable way to the rough hand as it worked up and
down over his burgeoning erection. There was panic in his chest and a
tightening in his belly and then something else happened, like his body was
falling apart in the man's hands, and something sticky and hot trickled onto
his stomach.
"Have you ever done that
before, Harry?" asked the man, and his voice sounded husky and wanton in
Harry's ear. Harry's head shook, and he whimpered softly, sinking back onto the
bed. His heart was beating frantically in his chest, his mind whirring as he
tried to work out what had happened to him. The man's hand withdrew, and then
with a start, Harry opened his eyes wide, jumping up in his own bed.
What in Merlin's name had just
happened? Oh...his bedsheets were filthy; Kreacher would be furious with him.
Harry leaned back, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He'd been
young...had never masturbated. It didn't make sense, unless it wasn't his
memory, because how could he have forgotten if that had happened to him? It
didn't make sense as a dream; it followed on from the previous one almost
smoothly. The only possible answer was that it wasn't a dream, but that only
left Legilimency, which Harry didn't want to admit was possible. Because if it
was Legilimency, it didn't leave him with many options.
For the second time in two
nights, Harry got out of bed to have a shower and write an owl. When he finally
felt clean, he retreated to his desk and settled down, sorting through his
quills until he found the one with the finest nib, then beginning to write out
his letter, having to throw away the first draft and begin again halfway
through.
I realise that this letter
is potentially undesirable. After your sacrifices for me, and the revelations
you made, I wouldn't be surprised if you never want to see me again, but I'm
sure you're aware that I wouldn't be writing this letter if it wasn't an urgent
matter.
In my fifth year at school,
you attempted to teach me Occlumency. My failure at mastering the technique
resulted in the death of my godfather, but in turn, helped me to keep one step
ahead of Voldemort during the war. Since then, I've not considered it to be
necessary, but I have misled myself.
I would rather discuss my
reasons for attempting to learn Occlumency once more in private, if you would
but give me a few hours of your time. I'd like to remind you that it was I that
dragged you out of the Shrieking Shack, and I that recognised the symptoms of
the Draught of Living Death. If it wasn't for my intervention, you'd have
suffocated when they buried you. I think after all these years, you owe me at
least dinner.
Perhaps Wednesday would be
appropriate? I can book a table at the Three Broomsticks for 7pm.
"What the hell was that
supposed to be?" Draco asked, looking flustered. A large clump of his hair
had turned distinctly purple as a result of Harry's spell, and now he looked
too comical to take seriously. When Harry burst out laughing, however, Draco
didn't take particularly kindly, casting a curse in Harry's direction, which
struck off the bottom of his shoe when he leaped out of the way.
"Missed me," Harry
responded, flicking his wand towards Draco and disarming him in his moment of
pause.
Draco stepped back, the hint
of a smile crossing his lips, and he folded his arms across his chest. At that
exact moment, Harry's foot began to ache, a steadily increasing pain pushing in
on his toenails, then encapsulated his whole foot. Harry could see it now --
his right shoe was at least a centimetre shorter than his left, and judging by
the pain, getting smaller still.
"Finite Incantatem!"
Harry said, but it didn't stop, and Draco stepped forwards, opening his hand
towards Harry expectantly. "Fine!" Harry gasped, half throwing
Draco's wand back at him, and only when his shoe returned to its previous size
did he breathe a sigh of relief.
"What the hell's got you
so distracted?" Draco asked, moving away from Potter as he helped himself
up off the ground.
Harry snorted, taking off his
shoe to make sure his toes were quite all right, wobbling comically on one foot
as he did so. "I don't come to you for therapy, you know."
"You don't think dueling
with me is therapeutic?" Draco responded, clearly trying not to laugh as
Harry wobbled on the spot.
"Well..." Harry put
his foot back down and reached up to undo one of the buttons at his throat,
turning his head back and forth to work out a crick in his neck. "Maybe a
little bit," he admitted, with a grin. Harry had to admit that dueling
with Draco every month was one of the bright spots of his life. Even though
Draco was married now, with his own son to bring up, he still seemed to need to
duel Harry, a tradition that they'd started a month after the war had ended,
when both emptied their frustrations upon each other in an effort to expel some
of the stress and energy that had been building up. When neither boy had
crumpled, both exhausted from their battle, Harry had suggested a meeting the
following month, and it had gone on like that. They'd even built up a mutual
respect for each other, and Harry had even used some of the spells and
techniques he'd learnt in dueling Draco to make him a better Auror. Hermione
had rolled her eyes at him at first, but even she noticed how much calmer Harry
always was after a duel.
Draco just wouldn't let it go;
having fetched a glass of water, he spoke again. "So what is it?"
Harry sat down on the ground,
blinking up at the other man. "I don't know yet. Have you heard from Snape
recently?"
"My godfather?"
Draco asked, his eyebrows raising doubtfully. "What do you want him for?"
Not sure whether he wanted to
bring it up here, Harry simply shrugged a shoulder. "Just waiting for his
owl. Wondered if he was out of the country, or something."
"I see..." Draco
said, but Harry wasn't sure he did.
"Are we going to get on
with this duel or not?"
Snape's owl, when it came, was
less than satisfactory. It merely said 'No', and nothing more. When Harry picked
up the envelope and turned it over, however, a golden galleon rolled out of it
and fell onto his lap. Harry picked it up, lifted it into his hand and turned
it over. It felt warm, like someone had been holding it very tightly mere
moments ago. Instinctively, Harry turned the coin back over, peering intently
down at the surface as the numbers and letters switched around to read a time
and date. Where 'One Galleon' would be written, the coin now said 'Shrieking
Shack' instead. It was brilliant using Hermione's own charm to communicate with
him. Very Snape. There was no thought in Harry's mind that it could be a hoax
or a trick, and Harry pocketed the coin, grinning.
When Tuesday morning came,
Harry tidied his desk, flustered, and then slipped out of the office, scooting
down the corridor and into the lift before Robards could spot him. From the
Atrium he travelled into Muggle London, slipping down Whitehall and jogging
down Birdcage Walk. Halfway down, he diverted around a tree, ran all the way
around it and Apparated straight to Hogsmeade
There were more families than
ever living in Hogsmeade, Harry thought, as he brushed down his robes and
reached up to run his hand through his hair in an effort at tidying it. A woman
with a pram passed - one of many - glowered as she was forced to divert around
him. Harry knew why they were here, he supposed. It
made him think of the mice in McGonagall's Transfigurations classes, where you
were supposed to turn them into matchboxes, but first you had to grab hold of
one of them. In numbers, the mice always seemed to evade capture, so the trick
had always been to get them on their own first. It was just safer in a
community. Still, it reminded him that he needed to get his job done. Bringing
down Greyback had to be his priority, no matter that his nightmares had been
continuing steadily over the last few days, interrupting his sleep.
That was why he was here
though. Harry moved away from the main high street, walking through the
residential streets behind it so he'd attract less notice. At the end, he
climbed the narrow road up to the Shrieking Shack, pushed his way through the
broken fence and ascended the overgrown path to the front door. There was
nobody around for miles, but someone was here at the shack. They'd left the
door just ajar, allowing Harry to go inside.
Harry's memories of this house
were mixed. He had discovered that he had a Godfather here, he had feared for
his life here, and he had watched Snape 'die'. Whether he liked it or not, the
crippled old building meant something to him.
"I'm here," Harry
called to the empty corridor. "I know you're here, Snape."
When Snape's voice echoed into
the corridor, Harry looked around for the source of it and frowned, irritably.
"What did I confiscate from you in sixth year and why?"
Harry tensed, digging his
nails into the soft palms of his hands. Of all the questions Snape could ask,
he had to bring up one of the things he'd done that he regretted the most.
Fine. "You confiscated my Advanced Potions textbook, because I'd used a
spell from it on Draco Malfoy and almost killed him. A spell you invented, might I add."
"Yes," Snape
drawled, coming down the stairs in front of Harry. "But the process of
inventing spells takes a lot more thought and precision than merely incanting
random words out of a book without knowing what they might do. It was
incredibly careless of you." Snape was wearing a cold smile that clearly
communicated how amused he was with Harry's discomfort.
"That was a long time
ago," Harry said, tersely. "Draco has long since forgiven me for
that."
"Has he really?"
Snape answered, meeting Harry's eyes. "Those kinds of scars don't just go away, you know."
"If you're just going to
piss me off," Harry snapped, "Then I might as well just leave. I
can't concentrate on Occluding when you're being a royal bastard, as you well
know."
"Then leave," Snape
said, waiting impassively. Harry bowed his head, a muscle twitching visibly in
his jaw as he grit his teeth together. "Well then, since you're not going
to leave, I suggest you communicate your reason for demanding this...meeting. I
understand you want to resume your Occlumency lessons, but you haven't told me
why. And yes, Potter, I have checked for bugs."
"I've been having
dreams," Harry said, having taken in a deep breath to psyche himself for
the coming effort. "Not dreams though...almost like memories. Like when
Voldemort was projecting his thoughts into my head. But they're not the same;
they're all different, and really confusing, like I'm living through them but
can't alter them. And they've been getting worse...or longer, I don't know. And
almost..." He flushed instead of ending that sentence.
Snape glared at him for a long
moment, and then moved forward, taking hold of Harry's arm. He walked him into
the other room, where a near destroyed sofa provided space for Harry to sit
down. "It's much easier if I see them," Snape said, and he lifted his
wand, making Harry visibly jump.
"Don't do that,"
Harry hissed, flustered. "I don't react well to people drawing their wands
on me without warning."
Snorting, Snape corrected the
position of his wand. "Don't resist, Potter. I merely want to establish
whether my intervention is necessary or not. Trust me, I want to be in your
mind as little as possible."
"And I want you in my mind as little as possible, thanks."
Harry was panicking. He wasn't
sure he wanted Snape in his head, rampaging through those very intimate dreams,
mocking him, but there really was no choice. Snape had to know, otherwise he
wouldn't believe that there was something wrong. He tried to prepare himself
for the invasion, coiling his fingers around the rusty springs that were
sticking out from the cushions of the sofa.
"Just relax," Snape
murmured, and then images began to leap to the front of Harry's mind.
He was dueling with Draco,
who'd summoned a huge stone snake, which had reared up out of the ground,
scattering tiles and earth in its wake. He and Harry had agreed never to use
the spell again after the huge snake managed to crush most of his right arm.
Lifting a tiny baby into his arms,
Harry looked down into its beautiful brown eyes and
smiled. Glancing at Hermione, laid out in the hospital bed, he couldn't help
but feel fatherly and proud. His goddaughter. But Rose was much more than that;
Harry and Hermione and Ron, they would always be inseparable.
Now he was walking through
familiar apple trees, and he came across a red head leaned over a gravestone
surrounded by flowers. George Weasley looked up at him, the expression of loss
obvious on his face. They hadn't spoken then, and they hadn't spoken since.
Last year, George had moved to Brazil permanently, still inconsolable after the
loss of his twin.
He was walking down a long
corridor, towards a door, and just as he reached towards the handle the door
vanished again, leaving nothing. The darkness was pressing in on him, thick and
unyielding, and that voice, distorted by the cloth, said "That was quite a
stunt you pulled back there, Harry. Do you have something to tell me?"
"No, sir," Harry
said, as Snape focused on the memory, drawing it out of him.
"So you don't want to
inform me of any other dubious talents you have?" asked the man, and an
arm slowly slipped around Harry's throat, tightening just slightly.
"No, sir," Harry
said, clearly. "I don't have any other talents."
"I don't believe
you," said the man, whoever it was. The man pushed Harry so that he
crumpled to his knees on the floor. "I think you're going to be good at
this." The hard stone under his knees hurt, but not as much as the hand
tightening on the back of his neck, which made him whimper in pain. Harry
reached up to try and push the hand away, but the voice said "No,"
and Harry lowered his hands, trying to catch his breath and feed the furious
beast that was flapping around his stomach.
"Open you mouth, Harry,
as wide as you could. Don't bite down. If you bite, I will punish you most
severely, do you understand?"
Harry did as he was told, but
he didn't know why. Open his mouth? Was the man looking at his teeth? What was
going on? Harry knew he should try and run away, but he couldn't see, and he
didn't even know where he was. What if this man was one of Voldemort's? Ready
to kill him in an instant? He tried to swallow without closing his mouth, and
jumped as something brushed against his lower lip.
"It's just my
thumb," the man said, reaching inside Harry's mouth and stroking it across
his tongue. "You see? I told you not to bite, I'm checking that you won't.
You know how to obey, don't you, Harry?" Harry nodded, ever so slightly,
staying still as the man's hand explored the inside of his mouth, pushing right
back against the back of his throat so that Harry wanted to gag and bite down,
but even so, Harry forced himself not to move his jaw.
"Now, I'm going to put
something else into your mouth, Harry. Remember my orders."
What rolled across his tongue
now was thick and heavy, and it tasted like salt and copper. Harry had tasted
his own come -- the man had made him -- but this taste, and this intense,
blinding smell, was more than he was used to. It made his eyes water, but he
didn't close his mouth, even though he wanted to more than ever.
It would have been fine if the
man had stayed still, but instead he began to move, rubbing himself up and down
through Harry's lips and over his tongue.
Harry didn't know what to do.
When he tried to pull away, the hand on the back of his neck tightened, holding
him in place. On and on it went, seemingly forever, and Harry's lips hurt from
the movement, tears were running down his face, and he swallowed fitfully to
try to keep himself from drowning in his own saliva. The man stopped, and Harry
thought it was all over, until he drove roughly into his mouth again,
ejaculation spurting hot and thick down his tortured throat.
As Harry swallowed again, the
man drew back, leaving him to gasp desperately for air, and Snape drew back
too, his wand hand shaking slightly as he stared at Harry across the small room
in the Shrieking Shack.
"That's not Legilimency,
Potter," he said, firmly. "That's memory. When did you do this?"
Harry didn't know how to
respond. He'd never seen that memory
before! He couldn't look at Snape either. What had happened before...it had
been harmless; just masturbation, sometimes rubbing up against each other. He'd
never...he'd never done that with a man
in his life, so why could he still taste the come on his lips? How did he know
what it felt like to have an erection pounding into his mouth?
Despite mulling over an
answer, Harry didn't know what to tell Snape, or even if he could. He felt
filthy. How could it be a memory? He hadn't done any of those things! Oh, he'd
often regretted not having someone he felt comfortable enough to share himself
with, but he'd suspected that someone would come along one day who was just
right, and he just had to wait until then. Years had passed, and the right
person never came. But who had it been? If this was a memory...who had done
this to him? Harry lifted his hands up to his eyes, digging his nails into the
top of his cheeks and staring out over them, sightlessly. He'd been taken
advantage of -- the memories blocked or altered, and he didn't know who'd done
it, or when, or why he didn't feel particularly bad about such a horrible
thing. He didn't know what to feel!
Snape was looking at him
piercingly, Harry realised, when he straightened up and dropped his hands.
Black eyes bored into him from the other side of the room. He was waiting,
Harry suddenly observed, for an answer to his question.
Having licked his lips
nervously, Harry tried to respond.
"I've never done those
things before," he finally said, and his voice sounded distant even to his
own ears. Snape stepped closer, as though he needed to to hear his reply.
"You clearly have,"
Snape said, delicately. "I saw it."
"It's not my
memory!" Harry cried . "How can it be
my memory? I've never done those things, alright? Someone...someone put them
there. Greyback put them there, to undermine my investigation. I never did
those things."
"Potter, a simple
Obliviation could remove those memories...someone who was talented in memory
spells might have a...a keyword that they used to bring them all back; to build
on controlling you, as they were clearly trying to do. We need to know what
kind of control they have over you, Potter. It could put other people in
serious danger."
"But I didn't...I don't
have those memories because it didn't happen to me! Those things didn't happen!"
"We'll need to look at
more memories for clues as to who we're dealing with," Snape said.
"Perhaps then we'll be able to establish the keyword."
Harry's jaw tightened,
furiously, "I'm doing no such thing. I don't want to see any more of those
things. I won't be undermined like that!"
Snape's wand was up before
Harry could respond to it, and he cried out softly as he was dragged back into
his memories, Snape scanning through the previous encounters, as well as
pushing for anything else that might be inside Harry's head. Another scene swam
into view after a considerable amount of pressure, and Harry found himself on
his back in something very soft -- a bed. His vision was clouded again, and
someone was moving over him, robes pooling over and around his body as a much
larger one sank into place over him. Harry could smell the man; familiar by
now, feel his skin brushing against his own, and he whimpered as a velvety
erection brushed up the inside of his thigh, impossibly large against him.
"I'm sorry about your
friend," said the man, "but now that Quidditch is cancelled, I have
you all to myself."
Harry gasped as the man
brushed up against him again, reaching down to close Harry's entire erection in
just one smooth hand. "It's almost the end of term. We'll have to finish
our training, in case the school gets closed. That would be such a shame,
wouldn't it, considering how I've been looking
forward to this."
Now the man was moving against
him, pulling on Harry's penis in time with his movements. The scene was just
building towards its climax when Snape retreated. Harry's hands had slipped on
the springs of the sofa during the process, and a deep gash crossed the palm of
his left hand. He closed the hand tightly and sank the rest of the way down to
his knees on the dusty floor.
For once, Snape seemed to be
speechless, looking at Harry in what he took to be horror. Whatever he'd
discovered, Harry didn't know, and Snape turned and moved towards the door,
forcing Harry to speak up to stop him.
"Please," he said.
"I need to know."
"Lockhart, Potter,"
said Snape, his voice remarkably funereal now. "It was Lockhart."
After a bitter shouting match
with Snape during which the man had ordered him to leave, Harry finally
began to understand that no matter how hard he tried to deny it, those memories
were inside his head. He didn't want to remember them; to do so would be to
admit that Lockhart had locked them away in the first place. Somehow this case
with Greyback had pierced whatever charm had been placed on him, the cracks
appearing from the break and spreading out so that memories could seep through
unhindered, or so Snape theorised.
Harry wished that he could ask
Lockhart, demand that he tell him the truth: admit what he had done to him and
then pay for it. Unfortunately, Lockhart's condition had never improved; the
chances were that Harry knew more about what had happened between them than
Lockhart would ever be able to recall. And Harry certainly couldn't make him
pay for it, after all there was no greater punishment, as far as he was
concerned.
Still...it made him feel
incredibly frustrated, and the worst part of it had to be having Snape
patiently explaining these unhappy truths to him over the dusty wreck of sofa
that separated them.
"You were supposed to be
looking after me," Harry said, both hands gripped around his knees,
glowering at a hole in the shredded wallpaper just behind Snape's shoulder.
"How did you manage to miss that?"
"How else do you miss
something that's right in front of your eyes?" Snape drawled in response.
"How many years did you spend believing that magic did not exist, Potter,
when you were performing it all the time?"
"That's different,"
Harry protested, daring to meet Snape's eyes for the briefest second so that he
could glare fiercely at him.
"No, Potter, it's
asphodel to wormwood. You did not know, so you did not see. All that time you
walked around with your head buried in the dirt, unaware that you were the
famous Boy Who Lived; hero to cretins..."
Harry wished he felt like
responding to that; if he didn't feel so wretchedly sorry for himself, he might
have gone so far as to teach Snape some of the interrogation techniques he'd
learnt in the Auror Department over the last few years. Instead he sat up a
little straighter and clenched his teeth.
"How do I make them
disappear?" Harry said, firmly.
Snape's expression was one of
surprise, mingled with the slightest bit of disgust. "No matter how
terrible those memories are, Potter, if you try to remove them, you will begin
a never ending spiral from which you cannot recover."
"And what the hell is that
supposed to mean?" Harry's vitriol was back, and he rose up off the sofa
and stepped towards Snape, his hands beginning to shake as he curled them into
fists.
"Imagine you remove the
memories as they appear. Removing memories is like-er...like Muggle surgery. It
doesn't just remove the memory, it damages what is around it. That's not the
worst bit. Wizard minds are resilient, but wizard hearts are not. You withdraw
eight memories. A month later you wake with nightmares about the night you
faced the Dark Lord, and over the next few weeks you remove all the memories
you had of your dead friends. George Weasley, for instance. Now you don't know
where he is, as far as you're concerned he's just disappeared, and it confuses
you. You remove every memory you have of Weasley so you don't have to remember
him at all. Do you see where I am going with this, Potter?"
"But I wouldn't!"
Harry griped. "I..."
Snape's chilly expression made
Harry hesitate. It would be so easy to want to forget those things. If not
George, then a hundred different moments: Dumbledore lying dead at the bottom
of the tower... He had to look away, ashamed.
"Yes," Snape said,
his voice almost malicious. "You see?"
"What do you suggest
then?" Harry mumbled, miserably.
"I suggest you brick over
them," Snape's expression was blank. "Though you can't destroy the
ugly monstrosity, you can at least cover it up. Choose one of your ridiculous
fangirls and cover it up. Ginny Weasley always seemed to be attached to you by
the groin, did she not?" Snape waved his hand and Harry decided not to
remonstrate on the topic of his sexuality. "Please," Snape went on,
"whatever you decide, keep it to yourself. Now are you quite done? Believe
it or not, I actually have work to do."
A frantic owl had batted
itself stupid on his window by the time he got home and decorated his
windowsill like an ugly plant, unconscious with its feathers all askew. Harry
lifted the animal inside and found it a cage to sit in, and then fished in his freezer
for a few frozen mice. Only when they were
defrosting in a sink full of hot water did Harry untie the letter from its leg
and open it. It was from Molly Weasley, and couldn't possibly be urgent; the
Weasleys had always owned slightly mad owls, after all.
Just as Harry made it to the
door and pulled it open, another owl flew in surrounded by plumes of smoke,
pecking at him ferociously. It stopped just long enough to let Harry untie its
leg, then flew away as the howler burst open in Harry's hand and yelled.
"Harry Potter! Where are
you?!" in Molly's booming voice.
Slamming the door behind him
and making one quick check to make sure that none of his Muggle neighbours were
around, Harry Apparated straight onto the front path in front of the Weasleys’
house, breaking into a run at the sound of raised voices inside, and banging on
the door.
"I'm here!" he
gasped, as the door was ripped open and swung clean off its hinges. "I'm
here."
Another owl hit him on the
back of the head, and when he'd landed on his back on the Weasleys’ doormat, it
screeched and landed on his chest, presenting a Ministry sealed letter toward
him.
Frowning, Harry took the
letter.
It is with the greatest
regret that we must remove you from the Auror Department. Your gross
dereliction of duty in the capture of the fugitive Fenrir Greyback is only one
part of the disappointment that the Ministry has had in your appointment. We
can no longer afford to have such an incapable Auror serving, and cannot
substantiate your paycheck when you are not producing adequate results.
Wishing you luck in any
future employment,
Harry scrunched the letter up
and pushed the owl back into the air, climbing back to his feet.
"Fired," he said, out loud. "They fired
me."
But nobody was listening.
Hermione, in tears, threw herself into Harry's arms and wept into his shoulder.
Harry looked up at Ron for explanation, and found him looking defiant but also
terrified, in that way that Harry had known so well back when they were
fighting Voldemort.
"Rose is gone," Ron
said, in a voice thick with emotion. "She must have gone down to the
orchard again." Hermione burst out into fresh sobs while Ron frowned and
ploughed on. "It's Greyback, isn't it?"
Harry frowned, shaking his
head. "You can't be sure," he said. "She might...she's probably
just wandered off." He reached up and stroked Hermione's hair
reassuringly. "Come on, I mean...Greyback wouldn't dare come near so many
wizards. It'd be suicide."
"It's...the...full
moon...Saturday" Hermione warbled, finally having upturned her face to
look at Harry. She was red, her eyes swollen and wet, her frizzled fringe stuck
fast to her forehead with tears.
Harry bit his lip. He didn't
want to believe it. He'd held Rose in her arms when she was a baby, let her
pull his fingers as hard as she liked, and made her laugh when he waggled his
eyebrows. He'd taught her how to fly. And now she was gone? Worse still, could
she have been taken by Greyback?
Images of what Harry had seen
and endured flickered through his mind. There was Greyback, a bristling and enormous
werewolf, his bright yellow eyes gleaming. Then there was what he had left
behind, so many dead children, and now these most recent ones: worse than dead.
Harry knew how helpless they must have felt because Lockhart had seen to that
all those years ago. Being touched by a strange man, not knowing if what was
happening was right or wrong, but not being able to fight it either way. His
face paled to a fading ash as he let those fears bubble to the surface.
Harry wasn't sure what to do.
He reached up and wrapped his arms tightly around Hermione's shoulders, holding
her close against his chest as he tried to contain himself. He wasn't used to
feeling afraid; he had faced Voldemort over and over again, but so much of what
had come with the memories that had returned involved feeling horribly afraid.
His vision obstructed, his hearing obscured...he didn't want that to happen to
Rose.
Hermione's reaction to him was
to give a huge wail and start to cry again, clinging tightly to him as though
for life.
"We'll find her,"
Harry said, softly, trying to battle the emotion in his own voice. "Even
if I have to do the work of ten Aurors."
"No you won't, Mr.
Potter," Robards' voice boomed from the open door behind him. "This
is Auror business, and you will be no part of it. You are ordered to stand down
and leave Greyback to us."
Harry turned on the spot,
putting himself between his friends and the grizzled Auror. His last breath had
hitched painfully in his chest, and thanks to Hermione he was trying to fight
off tears. "I'm not an Auror any more, so you can't give me orders."
"If you'd rather be in
Azkaban," Robards growled, "I'd be happy to transport you there
myself."
The moment between them roared
with unspoken anger born from fear, which Harry reigned in. He didn't need to
go to Azkaban right now, he needed to find Rose Weasley; free her from the
clutches of the beast. He had a deadline to meet. How could Robards even
consider forcing him not to look for her?
"What about Ron and
Hermione?" he said. "Are they allowed to look for their daughter?"
"No," Robards
snapped, imperiously. "They'll remain here and wait for news from the
Ministry. No, Mr. Weasley. You will stay
here with your wife. Interfere with our operation and I'll have the whole
lot of you put under house arrest until your daughter is found."
Harry bristled, tossing his
head to one side irritably, like a horse, but Robards didn't leave him long
enough to argue, instead sweeping out in a swish of robes and dragging the
hanging door shut behind him. It was a blessing that he’d left, Harry thought,
because seconds after the door shut, Arthur shot a jet of sparks at the
retreating Auror.
"I need to go and see
someone," Harry said, turning on the spot to face his friends. "They
might be able to help. Ron...Robards is right." When his friend looked
ready to protest, Harry pressed on. "No, listen to me -- Hermione needs
you right now. The Aurors will sweep this whole area top to bottom, which is
all you could have done. You know me, okay? I brought Ginny home safe, didn't
I? If anyone can do this, it'll be me."
He kissed Ron and Hermione
gently on the forehead, then turned back to the door, pulling it back into its
hinges with a flick of his wand, "I'll be back later, okay? Right now is
the only time we have."
Outside, Harry closed the door
again, shutting in the sound of Hermione's renewed sobbing, and Molly's frantic
reassurances. He Apparated straight back home to write an owl.
His breathing was heavy. He
could feel it rushing in and out of his lungs, but he could barely hear it.
There were sounds all around, crying, screaming, and sometimes a long, low howl
would ring in the air around him. Was it his crying? He wasn't sure. Something
touched his leg, something vaguely hard, like calloused fingertips, and then
the fingertips turned into sharp claws which gouged down across his skin.
Harry heard himself cry out
this time, and then there was a tongue rolling across his thigh, licking away
the blood as it seeped through the wound.
His vision swam back into
focus. Blue eyes looked down at him from underneath waves of blond hair,
horribly blank, and then Lockhart began to twist in front of his eyes, eyes
going green like his own and then yellowing. Fenrir laughed; Harry could even
smell his breath, the suffocating rank odour of flesh and death, then Fenrir
was changing into a huge grey wolf, and the source of the howling was explained.
"Oh Rose," said the
wolf, in a human voice, "nobody's coming to save you now, are they?"
The sweat that soaked Harry's
body when he woke this time was distinctly cold, and for once Harry was
grateful that he hadn't been aroused by the sickening dream. It was almost
morning...he must have snatched a scant few hours sleep after Snape's owl had
come in last night ordering him in no uncertain terms to do so. Luckily for
Harry's sake, it had come with a sleeping potion; very thoughtful considering
the night he'd had. Well, there was no harm in waking up now, was there? He
could get started.
Halfway through his gulped
breakfast, the owl from the Daily Prophet landed his subscription on the
table, and Harry spat Wizard Whirls all over the headline. Quickly he pushed
them away with one hand and lifted up the sodden paper to stare at the writing
underneath a flushing photograph of him dancing at the Victory Ball.
Rita Skeeter's revealing interview with
one ex-lover of The-Boy-Who-Lived! Pages 3-10 .
Rita Skeeter's interview with who? Harry hadn't exactly had a huge number
of girlfriends, and he'd never dated a man. How could there possibly be a
revealing interview then? After all, nobody would be interested that he'd once
made a girl cry at a tea shop when he was fifteen, and there was just no way
that Ginny would give an interview to Skeeter!
Except she had. The interview
must have been taken months ago, around Christmas time when Harry had come to
the Burrow. On Christmas night, Ginny had caught him upstairs and pushed him
into the attic, disrupting the ghoul as she crawled over him, touching and
stroking. Harry had been certain she wanted to 'turn him straight', which was a
ridiculous notion if ever there was one. After Harry had blatantly
denied her and even sent his Patronus cantering through the door to fetch Ron,
Ginny had been furious.
It shouldn't surprise him that
she had taken this kind of revenge, but it did hurt. As much as Harry knew that
Ginny wasn't the right girl for him, she was still his ex-girlfriend, and the
simple fact was that even if he couldn't love her romantically, he still adored
her. Or had until last Christmas. This stunt though...it was a low blow; the
kind of thing he'd have expected someone like Draco to do, and the very fact
that he could trust Draco more than Ginny was horrendously disappointing, like
being bitten by a dog that you loved.
Skeeter's interview detailed
everything about him, from his life in school through to his defeat of
Voldemort. It erroneously listed Hermione as one of his ex-girlfriends, but
after detailing all the intricacies of his relationship with Ginny; how he had
not ever been intimate with her despite their longstanding relationship, how he
had not even been aroused by her when she had tried to give him a Christmas
present, it revealed the biggest blow of all: Harry Potter was gay. The next
two page spread was titled Harry Botter in huge print, and had a number of
attractive well known wizards on one quarter of the page winking and glaring
out of the paper, under which were vague assessments of how good a lover they'd
make for him. In amongst them was a singer from the Weird Sisters, Dumbledore,
Malfoy and a few obscure wizards that Harry was less familiar with. Beaming
from the corner, however, was Gilderoy Lockhart, under which it said: Lockhart's the perfect match; both are eccentric
liars with a hero complex, and Lockhart might even groom Harry into shape.
It wouldn't have been so bad
if it had just been the photo, or even, like one of the other wizards, it had
said that he was incompatible. The word 'groom' however, made him feel
violently sick.
Having emptied his stomach of
Wizard Whirls, Harry returned to the newspaper and turned back to the front,
trying to reread it with as much detachment as possible and sipped from a glass
of cold milk, trying to make himself feel better. How could Ginny sell him to
the Prophet this way? Didn't she have any conscience? He shouldn't be on
the front page anyway! They should have written about how poor Rose had been
taken from Greyback, how everyone should be looking for her. That had been
relegated to page eleven, and even then the article began " Harry Potter is in disgrace today..."
Harry read everything even
vaguely pertinent and closed the paper, dropping his head into his hands as he
tried to take it all in. Just as he rose to clean his glass, he was disturbed
by a discreet knock on the door, and went to let whoever it was in, surprised
to see Snape.
"You're early," he
said, startled.
"I thought I'd get here
before the newspapers do, Potter. What we do not want is the Prophet
tracking our movements so that the Aurors don't have to." Snape closed the
door behind him and came closer, pulling a Bertie Bott’s packet out of his coat
pocket and presenting it to Harry.
"No thanks," Harry
said, "I'm really not hungry."
Snape snarled, pushing the box
into his palm. "Just hold onto it, Potter."
There was a sickening swirling
sensation, and then he and Snape were being dumped deep in the Forbidden
Forest. Harry knew where they were because he could see the castle rising
through the trees beyond them. The ground beneath their feet was steep,
descending into a gully... How far into the forest had they come?
"That's an illegal
portkey," Harry pointed out.
"Is it?" Snape
asked, dryly. "I'd have never noticed."
Snape began to lead the way
through the trees ahead of him, clearly knowing which way he was going. Harry
followed, folding his arms across his chest as they trudged across fallen
branches and skirted around large patches of brambles, which might have
shredded Snape's black robes. Harry, of course, had dressed in jeans and a
t-shirt, eminently more practical as far as walking through the forest went, if
not particularly warm; he hadn't exactly expected to be dragged through a
Scottish forest so early in the morning, otherwise he might have come prepared.
"Lupin was not the first
werewolf to be evicted from the Wizarding World, Potter; he may be dead, but
there are others who are quite capable of locating Greyback."
"And you know them
because...?"
"Because the Dark Lord
sent me looking for werewolves once before, Potter."
"Oh," was Harry's
response, as he looked down at his feet, pretending to be paying attention to
not tripping over his own toes.
The forest was alive with
noise, but the silence between Harry and Snape was persistent. As they trudged
on through the trees, Harry became aware that they weren't alone, although how
he couldn't be sure. Whoever it was was remarkably silent, only making his
steps when Harry or Snape did, so that the sound of their footsteps through the
leaf litter and fallen branches went unnoticed.
"We're being
followed," Harry whispered, catching up with Snape.
"I realise that, Potter.
Why do you think we were making so much noise?" Harry frowned -- in
comparison to Snape he'd been noisy, but even he'd been trying to not break too
many twigs lest he attract unwanted attention.
Harry decided not to say
anything, for as he crept closer to Snape a dog emerged from the bushes just
ahead of them. It's thick grey fur was matted and dirty. One of the dog's eyes
was white with blindness, the other crystal blue. With hackles raised and lips
drawn back into a ferocious snarl, it closed the distance that Snape and Harry
had left between them. Harry moved around behind Snape, who although he had
gone deathly pale at the sight of the dog, also seemed to be rooted to the spot like a tree.
"Would you rather leave, Potter?" Snape
asked him, glancing askance towards Harry as he stiffened his shoulders and
swallowed. "I didn't think so."
From the bushes came another rustle, an equally
grizzled looking man followed out behind the old dog and flanked by two more,
one brown and another, clearly younger and grey coated. Harry was aware that
they were hardly alone; the forest was examining them from every angle, bright
eyes picked out amongst the burnished leaves. Harry bit his lip, waiting for
something to happen, or someone to speak, and finally the stranger conceded.
"I warned you not to come back without good
new, Severus," he said. His voice sounded parched; it belonged to a man
much older than Harry would have believed him to be.
"And I bring you good news, Mario; the Dark
Lord has been defeated."
The man called Mario eyed Snape warily, then waved
his hand. "What do I care about your Lords and Dark Lords? What about
werewolves? Have things changed for us?"
Snape's face twisted into a frown. "Things
should be better with Kingsley as Minister, but there is trouble...that's why I
came to see you."
"You need to find Greyback," Mario said,
piercingly. "I can't help you this time."
Harry glanced towards Snape, sure that the man
would demand that the werewolf help them, shake him -- maybe even torture him
-- but Snape only shrugged and turned around. "Very well. Come along,
Potter."
Furious, Harry turned towards the werewolf, his
hands curling into fists. "We can't just leave! You have to help us!"
The old dog between them growled deeply, the sound echoed from the nearby
bushes.
"Is that so?" asked Mario, with a
certain laziness in his tone. "And who exactly are you?"
"Harry Potter," Harry said, sharply.
He didn't exactly expect to be laughed at: well,
howled at, really. The man - and some of his dogs - howled with laughter. The
young white dog rolled onto its back, as though unable to contain himself, and
then it all came to a stop. Even Snape was regarding Harry with a certain
amusement twinkling in his eye, like a bright coin at the bottom of a dark
pool.
"Why don't you come with us, Harry
Potter?" said Mario, "We'll show you how the other half live. And
Severus...you come too. Spend the night."
"We really c..." Harry tried to
interject, but a silent spell from Snape caught him off guard, sticking his
tongue to the roof of his mouth. Harry gagged, shooting a furious glare towards
the other man, well aware of what he had done. When Snape shook his head, Harry
dropped his eyes, bitterly angry.
They trudged through fallen leaves for what seemed
like miles, climbing up steep paths that Mario and the dogs seemed to find
effortless, but which even Snape seemed to have trouble climbing, then
scrambling down the other side, using trees as their only prevention against
simply falling into the gullies.
As they dropped down into one of the gullies,
Harry glanced back, taking in the vision of almost fifty dogs moving down out
of the trees into the pebble bottomed river which they were now being led up.
Harry went between the driest parts of the river bank, trying to avoid getting
his feet wet, because his trainers would just let it straight in. Snape,
however, had hitched his robes up slightly, and was now skimming over the water
as though he hadn't noticed the change in footing.
When Harry looked back up, they had rounded a bend
in the river, and to the left and right of it were green spaces wound into the
trees. Small fires burned warningly at the outskirts of what seemed to be a
tiny village. The buildings were of wood and hide, which had been built around
the bottom of huge fir trees. They were circular in shape, and the doors were
at waist height, with a single skin hanging down to conceal the inhabitants.
"You will sleep here," Mario said,
moving towards one small hut in the centre of the village. "And you will
eat with us tonight. Tomorrow you will leave us be and ask no more questions
about Greyback."
Harry glared at Snape, working his lips for a
moment before making a frustrated noise deep in his throat. When they had been
ushered inside the tent, Harry was relieved to have command of his tongue
returned to him.
"Bastard," he hissed.
"I much prefer you silent, Potter; if you
continue that way, I'll be happy to return you to your previous state..."
Snape's wand raised infinitesimally, and Harry scowled and looked away.
"We can't stay here," he said, after a
moment, picking at his shirt. "We have to get Greyback. He's out there
with Rose right now, Snape." He shot a lacerating glance towards him,
wanting to jump across and shake him or something to get him to understand.
Snape, however, just looked back impassively.
"This is the only way, Potter. If we have Mario's help, we can track
Fenrir down in an instant. Without him, we will never find your Weaslette.
Which would you prefer?"
"Did you know this was going to happen?"
Harry said, stubbornly. "Because you could have just damn well told me.
I'd have brought my toothbrush. Honestly...you're as bad as Dumbledore."
"Thank you."
Harry looked up, meeting Snape's eyes across the
hut and scowling. "What's that supposed to mean?
"It means 'Thank you for the compliment',
Potter. Dumbledore manipulated you masterfully. I just wish I had half his
ability." Harry caught it this time: an edge of sarcasm to Snape's tone
and a slight quirk of his eyebrows to accent particular words. Snarling, he
determined to ignore Snape for as long as possible, folding his arms across his
chest.
Their hosts did not leave them long to enjoy their
mutual silence. Within a few minutes, a low music had begun to play, and a big
black dog had come into their hut. For a moment, Harry thought that he'd seen
Snape flinch out of the corner of his eye, but then they were being led out of
the tent and he let it slip from his mind. Outside the hut there were dogs
everywhere, of every colour. There were even puppies bounding and playing in
amongst the feet of the older animals. Harry watched for a few moment, then was
pushed in the centre of the back by Snape, forcing him to warily make his way
through the tangle of fur toward the river.
At the river's edge sat Mario, playing a strange
instrument that Harry didn't recognise. He thought it looked a bit like a
bassoon. Watching the last night of the proms with Uncle Vernon and Aunt
Petunia singing along in horribly tuneless voices had had
few highlights, but sometimes the music had been nice. This music was more than
nice; it was magical. There was just something about it. Somehow it used the
rustle of the leaves in the wind and the gush of running water as other
instruments in a symphony of sound, bringing it all together. Harry listened, enraptured, finding himself drawn down towards Mario, kneeling
on the grass beside him and looking down into the water, getting closer and closer...
Snape's hand on his shoulder stopped him toppling
off the bank, pulling him back up so that Harry realised where he was.
"But..." he said, "We just..."
"Fascinating, isn't it. Even <i>you</i>
can't resist the music."
"And how are you doing it?" Harry asked,
dropping his hands onto his hips angrily.
"How am I doing it, Potter? I've used
Muffliato on myself. It makes the compulsion easier to resist."
Harry scowled and drew his wand, casting a similar
charm on himself. "But why?" he asked. Snape either didn't hear him,
or didn't care to. He was looking around again now, and Harry climbed to his
feet to get a better look around the camp, trying to count how many dogs there
were or perhaps find another person.
As the music went on, a few dogs went in and out
of one of the huts a few times, carrying out fruit and dried up flakes of fish
in their mouths, and arranging them on a solid piece of stone that stood out
like a platform from the bank of the river.
When the last dog was done, the music stopped, and
Mario smiled at his companions. "Thank you. Now, it is time to eat."
They ate, Harry listening to Snape and the
werewolf's conversation about the ethics of the Wolfsbane potion. Bored to
tears, Harry chewed on the dried, tough flakes of fish and tried to imagine
what it'd be like to live this way every day for years. This was what their
culture of fear had given to werewolves... Dying was probably a happier fate
for his friend Remus than to live this way, shunned by everyone.
Harry supposed it was better than it looked. Mario
had routine and friends to look after and live with, and a whole forest for his
playground. Yes, it could have been worse.
After dinner there was more music, and the longer
it played, the sleepier Harry felt. It got cold fast, and Harry curled up,
stoically ignoring the chill. When it was too much and his shaking became
obvious, it was a shock to feel Snape's heavy robes slip down over his
shoulders like a great blanket, not quite drowning him. The ghost of Snape's
warmth lingered in the folds of the fabric and Harry pulled then closer around
himself, barely aware of anything except for the warble of the background music
and the hypnotic dancing of the shadow dogs in the firelight. The smell of
Snape was oddly comforting: his robes smelt of liquorice and midnight, and
Harry let his eyes drop closed.
The trees towering around them seemed to be
closing in, thick around the edges of the clearing. Deep seated fear forced him
to acknowledge that there was something there, something dark and terrifying
just beyond the thick grey trunks. The full moon cast everything into an eerie
light, making the leaf covered floor mottled like camouflage gear. Out of that
a shape came to life, yellow eyes burning with an intense fire directed
straight toward Harry.
The grey werewolf's shape was blurred around the
edges, but as it came closer it became sharp and real. As Harry took a step
back, the wolf turned his head to one side, pointed ears pricking up at a new
rustling in the trees. Out of them stepped seven year old Rose Weasley, wrapped
in a long red cloak with a hood pulled up over her head. She smiled at Harry
then began to skip towards him, and only then did Greyback pounce.
Instinctively, Harry moved forward, desperate to protect
Rose from the sharp teeth and ravaging claws of the werewolf, but Greyback only
turned on him, pushed him to the ground and pinned him in place. Everything
went horribly black.
"Wake up, Harry." It was Lockhart's
voice, or rather, the voice Harry had come to know as Lockhart's. Harry didn't
need to wake up; he was already awake, and Lockhart was leant over him,
horribly hot, pushing something hard into the bottom of his thigh.
"No," Harry said, pitifully, but he
didn't know how to fight Lockhart, the man was so very strong.
"Oh, but it's time, Harry. It's time I taught
you our last lesson. Things are getting out of hand. Your friend
Granger...well...I can't stay here much longer if everyone's getting attacked,
can I?"
Harry gasped and twisted, trying to get out from
underneath the larger man. He didn't know what the last lesson was but he
didn't want to learn it. Lockhart was moving his hips, and Harry could feel his
erection through the thin fabric of his pyjama bottoms. Something wet and warm
soaked through, clinging to his skin, and Harry whimpered.
"No, please," he cried. "Please
don't."
There was a huge snore from somewhere near them,
and Lockhart stopped, sitting up and looking around nervously. "You are
going to have to be quieter than that, Harry. You don't want to wake anyone up,
do you?" A moment later, Lockhart was forcing something into his mouth;
judging by the taste of it, it was one of his old socks, and it made Harry all
the more desperate to escape. He screamed around it, tried to shout out to Ron
or Neville, and then by sheer fluke, tried to bring his knees up to his chest
to protect himself.
As Lockhart fell off him, trying not to make a
sound, Harry was barely aware of anything except that he was free. He reached
up and yanked the sock out of his mouth, but as he called out, Lockhart's
squeaky voice said "Oblivi--Obli--" and then everything went black.
Strong arms were wrapped around his chest, holding
him tight, and Harry struggled fitfully, trying to get out of them.
"No!" he yelled, and the arms let him go. Harry turned in the
darkness onto his hands and knees, ready to fight back or protect himself, and
a bright beacon of light appeared in front of him, blinding Harry for a few
seconds. When everything settled again, Snape's face looked at him wearily from
the other side of the hut, illuminated by he light from his wand.
"You were dreaming again, Potter. You were
going to hurt yourself with all that kicking. Or me."
Harry slowly uncoiled from his battle ready
position, his shoulders dropping, and then sinking down onto his knees. "I
couldn't wake up. It was Lockhart again..."
"Tell me what happened," Snape said,
patiently.
"He was...I think he was trying to...you
know...do it. He said it was our last lesson."
"Trying?"
"I kneed him in the balls."
The response was clearly one Snape hadn't
expected, because there was a slight flicker of shock that crossed his
expression, and then he made a sound that reminded Harry of a vixen cry as he
choked down laughter. "Really," Snape said, as he regained control.
"That's something none of us would have minded doing to him at the
time."
Harry bubbled with laughter too now. He felt it
rising inside of him like a shaken bottle of fizzy pop and had to let it out.
As he laughed, Snape looked on at him cautiously, his lips pursed together. For
an optimistic moment, Harry thought that he might be trying not to laugh too.
"Do you think you can sleep now?" Snape
asked, dropping his wand slightly. When Harry nodded, the light went out.
"No!" Harry said, into the darkness.
"No," and he fumbled for his wand, only content when his lumos lit
the space again, his chest rising and falling.
"What is it, Potter?"
"Can't sleep in the dark," Harry said,
meekly.
"Since when?" Snape drawled.
"I thought you grew up in the dark, Potter."
"Did I? Well...yeah. I just... look, this is
new for me too."
Snape summoned a cauldron flame, lighting the
inside of the hut with a green light that cast him into an ominous hue. Harry
thought the colour suited Snape, it made him look more frightening than he
already was. As Harry watched, Snape began to look through his pockets for
something, clearly taking out tiny things and looking through them. Harry
watched, fascinated, hoping Snape had something like an oil lamp in there. He
didn't expect him to resize what looked like a long strip of black fabric.
"Er..." Harry said, nervously.
"What's that?"
"A blindfold, Potter."
Harry swallowed. "Which you just happen to
carry with you everywhere because...?"
Snape's eyes met Harry's across the hut, and he
smirked, the green flicker of the flame alive in his black eyes. "Why do
you think?"
Relieved that the green light didn't illuminate
his blush, Harry shifted uncomfortably, pulling Snape's robes slightly closer around
himself. "But what's it for?"
"Teaching, Potter. I will not allow a <i>grown Auror</i> to be afraid of the dark. It would be
disastrous. It could get us killed."
Now Harry swallowed again, tilting his head back.
"But I don't want..."
"Your permission, Potter," Snape
demanded. "I need your permission. Lockhart did not ask for it, but I am.
You must trust me."
"But that's just the thing," Harry said,
quickly. "I'm not sure I do."
"Then perhaps," Snape hissed. "It
is time to learn. Your permission, Potter."
Harry let long seconds pass between them as he
struggled with himself, and then slowly he nodded his head.
"Very good." Snape said, and moved
closer, coiling the fabric around his hands, then reaching up to brush it
against Harry's cheek. Instinctively, Harry flinched away, and Snape touched
the blindfold to the other side of Harry's face, still not covering his eyes
with it. When Snape guided the fabric down across Harry's face, the reaction
was instant; Harry jumped clean back, and Snape sank down again, looking
impatient.
"You are not cooperating, Potter. Part of
trust means that you must control yourself, control your fears despite
everything, and believe that I would not let any harm come to you. This is just
a piece of cloth, Potter. It is not going to hurt you. The dark will not hurt
you, because <i>I</i> am here. Do you
understand?"
Harry hesitated, then nodded slowly and came
closer, despite the shaking that started in his hands and crawled all the way
up his arms. "Better," Snape drawled, and then he lifted the fabric
again. This time when it came down over his eyes, Harry only flinched, forcing
himself to hold still as Snape pulled the blindfold into place behind his head.
Underneath everything was terrifyingly dark, like it was in the dreams, and
Harry tried to gather his senses, shaking uncontrollably.
Snape's voice cut through the silence. "How
do you feel?"
"Horrible," Harry said, honestly. He
looked up toward the sound of Snape's voice. "It's horrible."
"For now, perhaps. There may be a time when
you like it, Potter."
Harry dug his nails into his knees so that he
didn't try to reach up and undo the blindfold. He could practically feel
Snape's eyes boring into him. "You can't call me Potter," Harry said,
out loud. "Lockhart always called me Harry."
"And you expect me to comply to your
standards, Potter?"
"If you want to help," Harry snapped,
his nerves frayed as he blinked into the darkness, "And you're just not
being a voyeuristic git, then I suggest you give it a try. Otherwise we'll just
give up this little exercise right now."
Snape's reply was delayed, Harry thought, as
though he was mulling it over. It made him want to reach up all the more, tear
away the blindfold and declare that enough was enough. Then Snape said
"I'm happy to stop whenever you like, Potter. But if you really want my
help, I suggest you do not spurn me. There are no second chances. If you tell
me to stop, then that's it. We will not commence this exercise."
Harry lowered his head and bit his lip, all
thoughts of ending the exercise drifting away. Snape was right. He didn't have
to do this, but Harry really needed it. He couldn't go on this way.
"Good," Snape hissed. "Now then, if
I am going to call you Harry, then you are going to call me Master
Severus."
"Master Severus?!" Harry
laughed, fitfully. "You're full of yourself, aren't you?"
"No, Potter. I am attempting to force you to
relinquish control of yourself; to trust in me entirely. The title is more help
to you than to me."
"But you get your rocks off on it anyway,
huh?" Harry asked, dubiously. "Oh come on, I can't possibly call you
that!" Somehow he was beginning to calm down. Arguing with Snape was just
comfortable and familiar.
Snape snorted loud enough for Harry to hear.
"As you wish, Potter."
Harry shifted uncomfortably, not knowing what to
say. Snape seemed to decide to be quiet too, and so the silence between them
heavily rolled on. When something in the darkness brushed against his leg,
Harry jumped, batting at it, and knocked his head against the wooden wall of
the hut. As he lay stunned, Snape's hand fell on his chest. "Quite the
display, Potter. Have you learnt your lesson?"
"Lesson?!" Harry snapped. "That
wasn't a lesson! That was scaring me half to death!"
"It was a lesson in trust, Potter,"
Snape replied, his tone bored. He pulled his hand away. "You and I are the
only ones in this cabin. I will not let anyone touch you but myself. You must
trust that when something brushes against you, it can only be things I have
permitted to touch you. For instance, imagine you are at the Weasley's house.
Rose has come to see you in the night because she's afraid of the dark. She
reaches up and touches you and you try to run her through with your Firebolt.
Is that right, Harry?"
Shaking his head, Harry said "No, I trust the
Weasleys. I know nothing could harm me there."
"Then trust me, Potter. I am not Lockhart. I
have no desire to rape or hurt you, Potter."
"Oh that makes me feel a million times
better. Not."
"Insufferable brat," Snape said, and
touched Harry's cheek, making him jump again, and once more bang his head
against the wooden wall.
"Don't do that!" Harry hissed.
"Why not? Did it hurt, Potter?"
Angrily, Harry pushed out at where Snape should
be, but couldn't find him with his hands. "Of course it hurt!" he
yelled.
"Only because you flinched. Control
yourself."
Snape's hand again fell on Harry, this time on his
thigh, and Harry jumped once more, catching his elbow this time. He howled in
pain and wrapped his other hand around it. "This is stupid!"
"Then don't flinch," Snape hissed, his
hand moving down across Harry's knee. When the leg pulled away, Snape moved
closer, one arm curling around Harry's back, one hand placed squarely on his
jaw. Harry shook, inclined to pull away from the hold; to resist, but stilled
by sheer determination. The scent of Snape so close was intoxicating in a way
far more frightening than the darkness pressing in on him.
"Very good," Snape told him. "Very
good indeed."
"Git," Harry hissed, turning his head
away from the hand on his cheek. He could feel his skin burning against Snape's
cold hands, and as a reaction to his proximity felt his cock twitch hopefully.
A sick feeling at the bit of his stomach followed this sensation. How could he
possibly be aroused by this? Now? And as if that wasn't enough, it was <i>Snape</i>.
Snape released him, and Harry brought his knees up
to his chest, sullenly glowering at the inside of the blindfold.
"Is there a problem, Potter?" Snape
asked, after a moment.
"No," Harry said. "I just don't
like being touched, that's all. Are we done yet?"
Snape didn't reply. There was a rustle of cloth
and then something cold touched his throat and Harry jumped once more. When his
head hit the wooden wall, he bit into his lip accidentally, the gush of blood
filling his mouth. "Ow," he said, and then sucked at the wound,
whimpering.
"Idiot, that wouldn't have happened if you
were ready to finish this exercise."
When the cold something touched him again, Harry
simply let it, still sucking mournfully at his lip. The chill object slid
around his throat like cold hands, and a horrible memory that Harry had
repressed appeared before his eyes; Peter Pettigrew choking himself with his
own silver hand. He gagged, and then the cold stopped moving around his throat
and was just there, solid.
"What is that?" Harry asked, nervously.
"A collar, Potter."
"Which you just happen to carry around with
you?!" Harry asked, giving in to a fresh flower of hysteria that was
blooming in his thundering heart. "What the hell do you think you're doing
putting a collar on me?!"
Snape's seemed unimpressed as he replied. "What
the <i>hell</i> do you <i>think</i>
I'm doing, Potter? I am teaching you. Does a student tell his Professor how to
brew potions? No. Then you will accept what I do to you, Potter. This is a
lesson in trust, and you must trust me. I do nothing without meaning. If I have
to tell you again, I will be disappointed."
"But..." Harry warbled, then with a
swallow which felt strange against the metal collar, he said, "But you'll
take it off, right?"
"I will decide on that later, Potter,
depending on your progress."
Decide on it later... Harry scoffed, sitting up
slightly and glaring in what he thought was Snape's direction. "You're
loving this, aren't you?"
"I might be enjoying myself somewhat,"
Snape drawled.
"What is your problem?" Harry asked,
spitefully. "I mean...this...this isn't normal. Is it a Death Eater thing?
Can you lot just not enjoy yourself unless you have toys and stuff?"
Snape's dark laughter was eerie. For a moment,
Harry wondered whether he were not sharing the tent with someone else, because
he'd never heard Snape laugh like that. "Potter, many people enjoy this
kind of sexual activity. Even seemingly normal people unlike myself. You should
ask your friend Weasley whether he has tried it. With <i>his</i>
wife, I have no doubt."
"Ron and Hermione?" Harry asked,
stunned. "No. They wouldn't."
"Are you so sure?" Snape asked, and
suddenly Harry his doubts. Snape pressed on, "Granger would make quite a
dominant character in bed, Potter, and I'm <i>sure</i>
she'd enjoy tying up Weasley."
"That's disgusting," Harry snapped.
"You don't know them. How can you say that kind of thing?"
There was no answer to that question. The silence
between them became more and more distinct, and then suddenly Snape moved up
behind him, wrapped an arm around his chest and pulled him back against his own
body. Harry didn't have time to flinch, because Snape's other hand went
straight down to his crotch, and Harry bucked back against his chest instead.
Snape's voice in his ear was low and sultry. Harry
could feel the heat of his breath steaming against his own burning skin.
"I can tell a submissive when I see one, Potter. Your friend Weasley for
certain. You too. You may not like the idea now, but you would warm to it. Your
whole demeanour tells me, Potter; the way you live your life trying to be
braver than you are."
"You said..." Harry gasped, but Snape's
hand cut him off, squeezing his penis, so that Harry fell limp in the other
man's arms.
"I am helping you, Potter. You must find
someone suitable to help you with the rest. When you choose a partner, be sure
that you trust him; that he will not go too far, or break the rules. Do not let
him hurt you. There are some unpleasant characters out there, Potter, and with that
newspaper article released this morning, there will be many more setting their
sights on you. You will be a conquest to them, but you need a companion; a
master. Do you understand me? You are damaged goods, Potter. You must be
nursed, not used."
The arm wrapped tightly around him uncoiled, and
as Snape let go and put space between them, Harry was left with only his
erection pulsing against his thigh. He grimaced, dropping his head again as he
tried to catch his breath.
When Snape touched him again, Harry didn't even
flinch. The hand retreated. Another touched his shoulder. Nothing. Even when
Snape's hand brushed against his arousal a few minutes later, Harry didn't
respond. He was exhausted, and Snape finally reached up and peeled away the
blindfold.
"Goodnight, Potter," he said, retreating
to his side of the hut.
"Hang on," Harry said, cautiously.
"The collar?"
"I've decided you should wear it a little
longer," Snape drawled, stretching out on the dirt floor. "To remind
you of our lesson."
Harry frowned and curled his knees to his chest,
watching as Snape put the fire out and they were plunged into darkness again.
He breathed in, then out, then slowly lay down, half expecting Snape to touch
him again, but also wanting him to, somehow.
* * * * *
"Thank you, Mario, you won't regret
this."
Harry had gotten to know Mario quite well over the
last few days. He'd told him all about Remus, and about his godson Teddy, who
was now growing up with his grandmother Andromeda. Mario,
in secret apparently, had sent out dogs to find Greyback's trail, and this
morning, one of them had come back successful, ready to track Greyback. A small
team of dogs were going with them, but Mario was staying behind because of the
full moon.
The two wizards were anxious. If it took them more
than a day to find Greyback, it would be too late; they were cutting it far too
short, as far as Harry was concerned, but Mario had promised him that it would
be fine. The rain they'd had recently meant that the tracks had to be fresh, it
only made sense that Greyback had brought Rose all the way home to the forest
for the full moon. It was a werewolf's prerogative to change new members of the
pack in familiar surroundings, Mario said, knowingly.
Despite setting off in the early morning, the walk
seemed to go on forever. On and on they travelled, following the dogs through
the undergrowth, and Harry became very aware that they were moving toward the
south. Half way through the day, however, they turned sharply toward the
school, and Snape picked up the pace, calling to Harry. "He knows we're on
the trail," he told him. "Come on, Potter."
As it got later in the afternoon, Harry began to
get more and more nervous. The sun was ebbing low, and the moon would be rising
soon. With it, all Rose's chances would be gone. They had to get to Greyback
now, before it was too late.
The trail, however, went cold at the edge of the
swollen Black Lake.
Harry looked bleakly out over the water, hoping
for something -- a glimpse of Greyback, perhaps. Or maybe a huge sign that said
"This way!" There was nothing. No possible way to follow when he had
taken Rose across water. Except perhaps... "Scout the perimeter," he
said. "Let's pick up the trail again. He has to have come out of the
water."
The dogs set off again, running around the outside
of the lake, but it was Harry who found the smell first. Wet dog scent that
wafted up from the damp, trodden grass, and footprints that led straight toward
the Whomping Willow. By the time they found it, the last traces of sunlight
were disappearing over the horizon.
When Snape reached him, his eyes seemed drawn inexorably towards the shadowy tree, and Harry could see by his
expression that there was going to be a problem with this.
"I'm not going in there," Snape said,
point blank.
"We need to save Rose," Harry pressed,
crossing the space to the other man and placing his hand on his shoulder.
"She's in there, Snape, and I need your help."
Snape shook his head, and Harry frowned, not sure what
to do. "It's dangerous," Snape hissed. "Don't you understand,
Potter? That building wants to kill me. Lupin, then Black, then the Dark
Lord...I will not go in there again."
"Coward," Harry murmured, and Snape's
sharp black eyes swam back to him.
"How can you call me a coward for fearing
death, Potter?"
Harry scowled. "I've faced death, Snape. I
died. There's nothing <i>to</i> be afraid of. And
that house is just a house, and we have to save Rose. You have to help me,
Snape. You have to trust me."
"Trust you? Trust <i>you</i>?!"
Snape opened his mouth to explain why he would not, but Harry tapped the collar
at his throat.
"I trust you, don't I? Don't you think you
should do the same?"
"That's entirely..."
Harry interrupted, bitterly. "It's not
entirely different, Snape, and I'm done discussing this. Now are you going to
make me drag you in there, or are you coming?" He gave him his most
unyielding glare, and Snape inclined his head ever so slightly. Together, they
moved toward the Whomping Willow, drawing their wands. Together they paralysed
the tree, and Harry seized Snape's hand and led the way down into the black
tunnel and stopped, Snape bumping into the back of him.
"Yes, Potter. It's dark."
"I just..." Harry said. "Just
<i>once</i>. Please call me Harry? If it's the last thing you do
before we die..."
"And you'll call me Master Severus, Potter? I
don't think so."
"Just Harry, Snape...please."
"Harry." There was a pause, filled by
the sound of a heavy breath, and then. "Harry, for Merlin's sake light your
wand."
Harry lit his wand, just as a second rattling
breath roared down the corridor, followed by a girl's scream. He broke into a
run, yelling out as loud as he could, determined to get Greyback's attention so
that he would leave Rose alone. At the end of the corridor, something fell
through the trapdoor, and then slowly began to heave itself upright. It was
Greyback the man -- but barely -- he was changing before Harry's very eyes, and
as Harry backed up, he became aware that he was entirely alone.
"So much for trusting you, you bastard!"
Harry snapped, panicking. Fenrir dropped heavily onto his hands and knees, his
fingers sunk into the dark earth, long claws growing from the ends of them. The
wolf's body shivered as it morphed, thick grey fur almost pouring out of him
grotesquely. Greyback the wolf turned bright yellow eyes on him and sniffed,
coming closer. The werewolf shook his great head, and Harry took a step back
down the tunnel away from the animal.
"Regroup, Potter!" Snape yelled, and
Harry ran back toward him, relieved to hear his voice, Greyback's roaring
breaths getting closer and closer. He could hear the wolf, almost feel his
breath hot on the back of his throat, and as he approached Snape he saw him
looking up the tunnel behind him, clearly paralysed with fear in the light from
his wand. As he ran past Snape, an animal scream tore through the air behind
him, and he threw himself down to the ground out of instinct.
When he wasn't ripped apart Harry slowly rolled
over and sat up. Snape was leaning against the wall of the corridor, his arms
wrapped around his knees which he'd pulled to his chest. A foot in front of
him, a great chasm had been ripped in the floor, and Harry approached it
nervously, looking down to see Greyback at the bottom of it. He hoped the wolf
was dead and not unconscious; it'd be better for him if that was the case.
Despite his strong urge to
collapse against the wall as Snape had done, Harry forced himself to go back to
Snape's side, kneeling beside him and touching his hand to Snape's forehead.
His skin was hot, his hair oily against his fingertips, but Snape uncurled at
the gentle touch, his black eyes meeting Harry's.
"It's okay," he said. "I think he's
dead. We need to get Rose. Come on, Snape. Come on."
It took a great deal of effort to lift Snape up
off the ground, but as he leaned against Harry and they began their way back
toward the tunnel entrance, Harry was suddenly aware of something. He'd chosen.
He knew who he needed to help him fight his own demons, and perhaps Snape had
known all along.
* * * * *
Rose Weasley had been frightened, but was very
much alive. She didn't talk for hours after her rescue, but when George Weasley
burst through the doors looking flustered and spotted her standing beside
Harry, she said "It's okay, silly," and laughed at him. Only then did
she explain that she hadn't been awake for most of the time, and when she was,
she was being carried across the countryside by an enormous man. She didn't know
where they were going, but Harry was relieved that that was all that it had
been. A mediwitch had later confirmed that Rose seemed fine, except for not
having eaten in days.
Harry stayed away after they were reunited;
Hermione was in raptures of tears which Ron typically blamed on the pregnancy,
but it was obvious that they were exhuberant to have their daughter back. It
didn't seem to be an appropriate moment to ask if they enjoyed sex games,
especially after Molly's comment that she liked Harry's new jewellery.
The Auror Department had been grateful for
Greyback, even if he was dead. There would be no trial, but there was one less
danger out there to face. Robards was fired, and Kingsley reinstated Harry in a
heartbeat. The new position, he said, would be far less exciting, but at least
Kingsley could trust Harry to do it better.
Conspicuously, Ginny went with George when he
returned to South America. Harry didn't say goodbye. In fact he wished George
luck; personally, he couldn't imagine living with her.
* * * * *
After a hectic fortnight, Harry found himself
sitting at his writing desk, a half penned letter scrunched up in his fist and
a fresh sheet of paper sitting in front of him. He was trying to write to
Snape, but the inspiration wouldn't come, no matter how long he stared at the
blank paper. His other hand trailed thoughtfully back and forth across the
silver collar at his throat, as though it could somehow help. His first letter
had sounded like a school-girl had written it, rather than a grown man of
twenty seven, and he knew he needed this letter to be perfect. But it didn't
write itself. Harry pushed his pot of ink away and dropped his head into his
hands.
If only he had an address or something, he could
go and find Snape and say these things in person. Or rather <i>show</i> them to him. It was impossible to communicate all
the things he wanted in mere words, but he knew that Snape would understand
them if he could just demonstrate it.
Harry picked up the quill again and pulled the ink
closer, and as he put the nib onto the paper, a knock sounded at the door. The
ink blotted in a moment of distraction, and Harry stood up, dropping the quill
with a clatter and going over to open the door.
"Speak of the devil," he said, looking
up at Snape. "What are you doing here?
"I discovered that I had forgotten to do
something," Severus answered. "I would like my
collar back, if you don't mind."
Frowning, Harry reached up to touch it.
"Oh," he said. "Is that all?"
Stepping into the house, Snape toed the door shut
behind him, his piercing gaze unyielding, fixed on Harry. "Do you want
that to be all, Potter?"
"Harry," Harry pressed.
"Severus," Severus drawled.
"I don't think I can," Harry admitted,
looking up at the other man. "It's...not that simple."
"No? Then perhaps I should..."
Harry stepped forward to stop Snape as he turned
back toward the door, curling a hand around his sleeve. "Wait...that
is...I think I could get used to it. Maybe not now...but I could start."
A flicker of a smile crossed Snape's face, and
Harry caught it this time and smiled back despite himself. "Very
well," Snape drawled, allowing himself to be steered back into the flat.
"Is there something you want to ask me, Potter?"
"Harry," Harry laughed. "Yes,
there's something I want to ask you. I want to ask you..." He took a
steadying breath, then let go of Snape and put some space between them, sitting
on the edge of his desk. If he kept touching Snape, he was going to end up
throwing himself at him. "I want to ask you whether you'd help me. Guide
me. Um...and do stuff."
"'Stuff', Mister Potter?"
"Don't you Mister Potter me!" Harry
said, shocked. "Stuff! You know exactly what kind of stuff I'm talking
about, you stubborn, sadistic..."
"Go on," Snape purred, coming closer
now, so that Harry could see something dangerous in the gleam of his eye. The
rest of his words died on his lips instantly. "I see," Snape said
instead, "You have nothing to say to me, then?"
Snape stopped when he reached the desk, one hand
coming up to brush across Harry's shoulder as though dusting it, and then Snape
was leaning down towards him. They bumped noses before they actually kissed.
Snape tasted of liquorice, Harry thought, and as
they pressed urgently together Harry lost himself in his mouth, in the
persistent movement of Snape's lips against his own, and then the possessive
thrust as their tongues clashed. He could barely breathe, could do little else
but clutch at Snape's shoulders to stop himself simply falling into the desk as
the rough kiss claimed every inch of his mouth.
When Snape withdrew, Harry sank back onto his
elbows, feeling distinctly light headed. Something had happened just then, but
his mind was having trouble catching up. Snape had kissed him -- oh, was
kissing him again. Harry moaned, because this time the kiss was drifting,
kisses turning into the sharp brush of teeth across his jaw. The biting got
harder as it went down, pausing only to pass over the collar before biting
again, harder still. This time Snape didn't let go, and Harry gasped as the
teeth sank in further, as a wet tongue tortured the captured flesh. The very
sensation sent crashing waves of desire through him, and before Snape pulled
away, Harry felt his cock stiffen, pressing desperately against the unyielding
material of his underwear.
Harry reached up to touch the wound as Snape drew
away, gasping as the cool air caressed the sensitive bruise. "What was
that for?" he asked, flustered.
"Foreplay, Potter."
"This is..." Harry sucked on his tongue,
then met Snape's eyes. "Isn't this a bit sudden?"
Snape snorted. "I've been waiting weeks for
this, Potter. None of this is sudden to me. Do you want to back out?"
Harry shook his head, hesitantly. "You have to trust me," Snape went
on. "I know what I'm doing, so you simply obey. I know that's hard for you
to do, Potter..."
"No," Harry said, nervously, "I can
obey orders." He bit his lip, sitting up again to look at Snape
challengingly.
"Very well," Snape answered. A few
seconds were all he needed to decide on his course of action. "Remove your
clothes, Potter. All of them."
"I...now I <i>know</i>
this is sudden."
"I knew you couldn't obey orders," Snape
chided. "You're simply not capable of it, Potter. You've never been good
at doing what you're..." Snape trailed off. Harry had already ripped off
his shirt and thrown it to the floor, trying to be as fast as he could so that
he didn't get nervous. His trousers were on the way down too. Only the
underwear remained, but as Harry reached toward it, Snape reached out and
touched the back of his hand. "Allow me."
Snape's long fingers started at Harry's waistband,
but despite Harry's suspicions, they instead climbed up the length of his
waist, tickling, looking for any kind of reaction from Harry, who gasped as
they brushed across each of his ribs in turn.
"That's s-s-soo-oh..." It was so hard
thinking words, let alone pronouncing them. Snape's fingers were winding their
way up his chest, and now his lips began to follow the same path they had
taken, only they went straight for the most sensitive places that the fingers
had discovered. Snape kissed, then nibbled across the flesh, and every graze of
his teeth felt like heaven.
"Is there a problem, Harry?" Snape
asked, drawing a response of fluttered eyelashes. Harry whimpered, trying to
get his mind somehow around a spoken response, but instead shook his head.
Snape smirked, brought his hand down under Harry's thigh and pulled him up.
Something sharp stabbed him in the thigh, and he yelped, reaching under him
frantically to pull the eagle feather quill out and toss it aside.
With a loud humph, Snape resumed, leaning down to
take one nipple between his teeth while his hands crept down, making light work
of Harry's underwear while he was distracted. He tossed them away carelessly,
letting go of the bruised nipple to work his way down over the young man's
chest, drawing whimpering gasps from him as he inched down towards his groin.
"Do you want me to stop?" Snape asked,
stroking in small circles at the top of Harry's thigh. "Do you trust me,
Harry?"
"Trust you to...to do what?" Harry
asked, with great effort.
"It doesn't matter what if you trust me,
Harry. I want to do things that Lockhart never did with you. I want to erase
him. Do you trust me to do that with you -- for you?"
"Only if you keep calling me Harry,"
Harry murmured, dropping his head back onto the desk again and looking
imploringly up at Snape. "I want you," he said. "I don't want to
talk about Lockhart right now."
Snape nodded, slowly, and leant down, brushing a
kiss to the head of Harry's penis, lovingly. "Very well. Turn over,
Harry...just like..." Snape guided Harry into place against the desk, his
arousal just below the edge, so that it touched the hard surface of the wood.
His arse was presented off the edge of the desk provocatively, and Harry held
his breath for what would happen next, shocked when Snape's teeth grazed across
the base of his spine, tongue and lips moving down the length of his tailbone.
Snape lifted his legs, his hand came up underneath him to grip the table to either
side...
"Wh--" Harry was cut off by his own
gargled cry as Snape's mouth closed around his anus; Snape's
tongue flicked out, pressing hard against a spot just behind his balls that
made Harry scream, and then the tongue was pushing into him, wriggling and
twisting in a way that made Harry writhe against the tabletop too. It felt
horrible and wonderful at the same time; disgusting but perfect, and Harry
clawed at the wood, scratched deep gouges into the veneer, and fell limp as
Snape pulled away all too soon.
"Stay there, Potter," Snape murmured,
but Harry was too dazed to move, let alone think about which name Snape was
using. Harry didn't know where Snape went, but when he came back again he was
naked, and sipping from a glass in one hand.
"Firewhiskey, Potter. Do you want some?"
Harry shook his head infinitesimally, shifting on
the desk to look up at Snape. "Do I have to stay here much longer?"
he asked, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, making it hard to talk.
"Not too much longer," Snape told him,
putting the glass down on the desk once he'd emptied it. When something wet
brushed against Harry's arse this time, he was sure it wasn't Snape's tongue.
Whatever it was was cold, but not too cold, hard, but not too hard, and like
the tongue it pushed into him, making him gasp as it broached the ring of
muscle.
"What is..." Oh, it didn't matter what
it was. Harry shuddered, his body protesting against this new invader as it
moved inside of him. Snape was right; it wasn't like anything Harry had felt
before, wasn't like anything Lockhart had done to him. Somehow Harry had
expected sex to hurt more...especially the first time. Wasn't that what all the
books said?
When Snape added another finger beside the first,
he felt like a bit of a fool. They were so <i>thick</i> and
<i>hard</i>, already stretching the sensitive skin so that
it ached. How could anything bigger fit inside, let alone move? Severus seemed
to be able to move his fingers though. They glid, back and forth, sending
searing shreds of friction to burn at his every nerve ending.
"D-d..." Harry stopped, not sure he
trusted himself to speak without gasping pathetically. Severus' fingers twisted
inside of him, going deeper, and Harry caught his whimper as it rose into his
throat -- just barely.
"What was that?" Severus asked, and
Harry gasped as his other hand moved up between Harry's legs underneath the one
that was buried inside of him. The palm brushed firmly across his balls; the
fingers wound firmly around his arousal, pushing it up against the smooth
surface of the desk above.
"F-fuck."
"Such appalling language," Snape
remarked, dryly, and then he leant down, tongue flicking out to the back of
Harry's ear. "I shall expect to hear much more of it."
Oh Godric! Snape's voice sent ripples straight to
his cock. Harry twisted up, pushed his hips into the desk and into that
wonderful hand. The table jumped -- the ink pot wobbled -- and Harry groaned,
his head spinning. He was aware of pushing back onto Snape's fingers again, and
then another was pushing into him, drawing a cry of shocked pain from his lips
that simply fell apart into a moan as Snape palmed at his arousal once more. He
felt so violated -- thrown hither and thither between agony and pain, disgust
and bliss. It was <i>wonderful</i>.
"I think you're ready," Snape said, and
his fingers were uncurling, slipping out, slipping away. Now Harry did whimper
out loud, relieved that he'd put those silencing spells up after all... The
walls were way too thin for this kind of...oh Merlin. That was Snape's erection.
Definitely this time. Harry was sure it had to be; one of Snape's hands had
moved down to grip his hip, and Snape's penis was pushing urgently up against
his tortured body -- pushing <i>into</i> him.
"Relax, Potter."
How could he possibly relax? Harry felt the pain
boiling and overflowing like hot water from a kettle. He choked out a gasp as
Snape broached the tight ring of muscle and then...then it just <i>slid</i>
into place inside of him, as though it <i>belonged</i>
there. The pain was still there, but now the worst was over, it was ebbing away
to nothing. Harry tried to catch his breath and Snape let him, both hands
moving up and down Harry's back, rubbing at the tension in his shoulders,
tickling gently at his ribs, sifting through his hair.
.
They lay there for what seemed like hours, Severus
just <i>resting</i> inside of him as though it were the most
natural thing in the universe to do, and then as Harry groaned in frustration,
Snape began to move, and the hours crashed down into mere seconds.
His whole body felt as though it were alive again;
more alive than it had ever been. Snape's fingers pressed tattoos into his
chest, his erection sliding up deep inside of him until Harry was sure it
should break something, and then drawing almost all the way back out again,
stopping just short of slipping free.
Harry bucked, a desperate moan falling from his
lips as he pushed Snape back into him. He moved forward again, thrusting hard
against the table so that it slid a few inches forward.
This time, the ink well stood no chance. It fell
over, ink pouring across the desk and over Harry's hand. It ran down across the
wood toward them, and Harry felt it slithering underneath his chest before it
spiralled down each of his legs to the floor. The sensation almost drove him
wild alone, but then Snape thrust into him harder than he had before, threw
caution away as he pounded into him almost recklessly. It was too much for
Harry -- like some anti-Crucio had filled him up, set every nerve ending into a
freefall of blinding pleasure as he came. The tabletop was all that resisted
him.
Harry bucked and twitched, but Severus did not
still even when Harry sank bonelessly down against the polished wood, heart
roaring ahead of Snape's frenzied thrusts and the thump-creak of the tablelegs
across the floor.
As Harry lay dazed, Severus orgasmed too, hips
jutting eratically as he thundered through his climax. Together, soaked in ink,
they looked out the window at the blur of lights in the flats opposite. The
table wasn't normally this close, but then, it wasn't normally sex-propelled
either. A green bug took flight from the windowsill, and Harry let Snape roll
him over onto his back, ignoring it in favour of the attention.
"Is this what you meant by 'stuff',
Harry?"
"You could say that."