lunalelle (lunalelle) wrote in hpdesmutathon, @ 2008-05-04 21:00:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | bellatrix, fic, harry potter |
FIC: Broken (Bellatrix/Harry) for melusinahp
Title: Broken
Recipient: melusinahp
Rating: NC-17/adult
Pairing/Warnings: Bella/Harry (with a smattering of Harry/Draco), sexual torture, dubcon, post-DH semi-plausible AU
Word count: 3685 words
Summary: He'd given the blond boy his trust despite everyone else's warnings.
He'd given the blond boy his trust despite everyone else's warnings. He'd given the arrogant son of a confirmed Death Eater his trust and his love, and look where it'd got him.
He'd given that quick-talking, double-crossing son of a bitch his love and his voice against the crowd that hated him, and look where he was now.
It was an old joke-- a Muggle joke, ironically-- that all dungeons looked the same.
Harry would have to ask his captors if that was true, assuming they'd talk to him beyond a few insults and a kick in the teeth.
It had to have been a sleeping draught, slipped into his tea before bed. Every Tuesday for months, he claimed to meet with a couple of Muggle friends he used for news and couldn't bring anyone else along because they'd spook off.
The truth was this: he met Draco Malfoy at a barely respectable pub in Knockturn, had a few rounds, then went off together to a little flat off the Ministry radar. The War had left Harry filled with rage and Draco filled with guilt, even with the truth between them.
So they fed off each other, shagging the pain out of each other, and it worked better than before... aside from hiding it from absolutely everyone else.
Last night, Draco had been strange. Distant. More arrogant than he had been in a while. Harry had reckoned it for a row with his mother over his father; how exiling the man was worse that sending him back to Azkaban or killing him, and Draco's refusal to give up on him. That was the only subject Draco could never talk about in the little flat.
Harry didn't ask, either; it was the same way Draco never asked if Harry missed Sirius.
It had to have been that last cup of tea. Draco was more self-sufficient as an adult than he'd been as a teenager, and Harry had laughed at him for it tasting off for the first time in years. They'd still kissed, and snogged, and shagged until Harry's back threatened to give out. He'd rolled over in bed, laid his hand across the paler-skinned back of his lover, and fallen asleep.
He'd woken up here. He was shackled, foggy headed, and definitely in a dungeon.
Draco sold him out.
Hearing the click of feminine shoes on old stones, he tensed against the chains binding his arms behind him. After the War, there was only one woman left to the dissolved Death Eaters, and Alecto Carrow had a more masculine walk than Walden MacNair. Narcissa Malfoy had saved his life, and if her son-- even if she was furious about the secret affair-- had betrayed him, she wouldn't have gone to this kind of trouble.
That left few options, and mostly dead ones.
The thick wood door opened, and Harry braced himself. He thought of Draco, and wondered if the blond felt bad for once again playing Judas. He thought of the friends he'd snuck away from, and of the lies he'd stacked up. He was his own Judas, at this rate.
His stomach threatened to empty its contents down his shirt when he spotted the unmistakable form of a past enemy in front of him. He thought of Andromeda Tonks, and how he'd drawn his wand on her once for looking so much like the woman before him. He thought of Teddy, and the parents the boy would never know.
Trying to not feel sixteen again, he found his voice long enough to get out a witty remark before he got knocked out. "Afterlife's got better spas than London, Lestrange."
Her laugh-- as unnerving as it was before-- matched her smile, and as if fulfilling his mental request, Bellatrix Lestrange kicked him in the head with shoes valued at his monthly Ministry income.
-*-*-
He woke up in the same room, but immediately felt that the shackles were off. Struggling instinctively, feeling for his wand and not finding it, he got another feminine, spine-tingling laugh. Trying to move away, he felt his ankle jerk out from under him, and he nearly fell on his face. The chain connected to his leg ended in a thick metal plate in the wall, with no likely hope of yanking it out.
A huff, and Harry sat back against the stone wall and faced his captor. He'd survived the War. He was making a life for himself. He could talk back to a bitch of a ghost. "You're awfully alive for being shoved through the veil."
Walking closer to him, kneeling just outside his reach, Bellatrix licked her lips. "Oh, you'd be surprised what decades of dark magic can teach you. If someone can split bits of soul into horcruxes-- like you were once upon a lifetime-- a return ticket from the veil is not so difficult." Her voice was clearer than he'd last heard it; either it was a trick of the dungeon, or his imagination running away from him. Not that it mattered. "You're not much of a celebrity anymore, Potter. Shame. You were always very good for the press, always good for a dramatic picture with that scar of yours."
"Still am a good picture, not that you'd know."
"Pretty Potter," she cooed. She made as if to touch him, just as he leapt out to grab at her. The chain rattled, mocking him as he sat down again to glare. "Still a boy. A pretty little... murderer. That's twice now, Potter. Twice plus a few markers I've been itching to cash in since that broom chase."
Harry furrowed his brow, thinking back. Everything was going wrong back then. He had been so gobsmacked by Dumbledore's death that everything after it for a year was hard to keep sorted
Then again, judging by the dark eyes sizing him up for a meal, making a mockery of killing her comrades was unwise. She really did look better than that last battle and the years before; oh, Azkaban still had its marks on her, but there was strength where there was once desperation. The psychotic break Hermione had been made victim of was gone, replaced with the sociopath that his parents had probably encountered.
He rattled the chain intentionally, testing her. "You killed Sirius. You killed Tonks. Why should I care that one of your stinky friends snuffed it?"
The breeze across his face was his only clue to his faux pas. Bellatrix was on him, pinning him down with a knee embedded in his crotch and a hand around his throat. Her thick black hair fell around her face, tickling his forehead. He started to kick, to try to get a handhold on her, but the knee dug deep enough into his crotch that he feared castration.
Yet, she was warm. Alluringly warm like Draco was, that welcome heat taking the chill out of his battered and healed bones. His body reacted naturally to it, totally against his will, more hopeful than his brain about the moment.
Bellatrix's snarl, however, took some of the allure out of it. "One of those 'stinky friends' was my husband, you filthy mudblood! Twenty-seven years we'd been married, and he was the only one that kept me from going out in the night and slitting the children's throats of the people that wanted to tear down the pureblood world! Twenty-seven years that Azkaban couldn't break, and your fucking children friends, your holier-than-thou Order, they knock him off his broom and he falls. Falls! No dark arts to defy gravity, no spell fast enough! And you want to compare my fucking cousin to that?"
The hand at his throat held down a little harder, and Harry wheezed. His vision was starting to go black, and it was sheer will and grim curiosity about the lucid rant keeping him conscious. "You had two years with him? I've got twenty-five more on you, little boy green eyes. I LOVED him. Did you love Sirius?"
The pressure on his throat eased-- her free hand slammed down his attempt to pull the shirt collar away-- and he was shaken a little.
Bellatrix's voice broke some, finally. "Did you?!"
Harry tried to shift himself away from her knee and failed. "Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes!"
She leant down, her face inches from his. Her voice was a hiss that sent chills up his spine. "Then say it."
"I loved him."
She dug her knee in so hard he yelped. "Again."
"I loved him!"
A laugh, and Bellatrix took her hand completely off his throat. Allowing him to rub the red marks she left behind, she balanced herself on all fours to linger above him, even taking away her knee.
Panting, the angry ache in his balls telling him how much they disliked being used for his mental torture, Harry realised just how different his view of his enemy was. Even braced above him, her gown was clinging to her frame, definitely red silk against her pale skin. The skirt was pooled around his legs, graceful and softer than anything he'd seen up close before, darker than blood against his khaki trousers.
And for a woman that was classmates with Molly Weasley, his partial view of her breasts was anything but shabby. Better than most, and he knew that she'd probably banked on that her entire life. Bellatrix showed her years, but only in her scars, her views on society, and age lines that could also have been created by Azkaban.
He swallowed and felt the pain that would turn into a bruise soon on the side of his throat. "Why am I here?"
She laughed softly again, and reached fingers to touch his cheek. When he froze, she tutted him and shifted to sit on his lap. His whimpers made her lick her lips. Taking one of his free hands by the wrist and sniffing it, she smiled. "There aren't many of us left. No direction or real leader, either. I found the last of the useful tossers and got them to take up again-- well, who says 'no' to a cat o' nine tails-- and while we're still mostly unknown, I wanted a little payback. I'm starting with you."
Harry didn't nod. Part of him felt like he deserved it no matter how much he hated the woman pinning him down, no matter how much he hated the whole putrid lot of them and wished for some random beast to come and eat them. He wanted Bellatrix Lestrange dead from the moment he had first heard her name. He wanted her in bloody pieces for killing Sirius, for bringing down misery and pain on his friends every chance she got.
Yet now she was sitting on him, and all he could think of was Draco, and how he'd forgiven his blond classmate. All he could think, as she deliberately re-settled herself for a more generous sit atop his crotch, was that he was stained, and all his anger at the Death Eaters spattered back on him.
"Kill me," he managed, hiding the inner turmoil for the moment and hoping his cock would respect the decision, "or let me go."
"No. I want you broken-- well, more broken than you were before." She shifted a little, making him twitch, using years of experience against his lack thereof. "I want to see you, Harry Potter, broken like me." A little grind of her hips, and she licked the palm of the hand she held captive. "I want you to go home to your idyllic little life after this, and see how hollow it is."
Harry bit his lip and tried to not shudder. He failed utterly. "No."
A thumb against his captive palm, she grasped his other hand with hers and leant down. The view she offered down her dress made him inhale a sharp breath. He missed her vicious smile. "You've never touched anything female but girls that don't know their quim from a quill. That's why men get you off better; oh, I know about Draco, and I know you two have been at each other's trouser buttons for years." A shift of her hips earned a grunt. "It's all right-- why limit yourself? Your world has rules. Your world thinks punishment and pain are bad, and to be feared. I'll tell you a secret: they're not."
He thought of all the years he spent fighting Voldemort. Of his friends, and their family, and Sirius. Of Tonks, and Remus, and Mad-Eye. Of Dumbledore and how he tried to help.
But he couldn't recall their voices. All he could hear was the rushing of his blood in his ears, and the new pain of his cock as it got harder, pressed against Bellatrix fucking Lestrange's crotch. "You lie."
"I tell the truth, and doesn't it ache? Ache like your prick, I imagine, ache to be let out and feel the air. Better yet, to feel me."
"No." He closed his eyes, wishing to wake up. To be back in that cute little flat that Draco had no talent in decorating, and drinking another cup of tea. "I like who I am."
"The Boy Who Lived? The Hero of Hogwarts? The orphan boy who made a despot and his minions look daft and the Ministry of Magic even worse?" Releasing his wrists, she slid her dress out from underneath her legs and shoved it back. "Where's the love? Where's the passion? I only see pain and suffering. Why?"
His thoughts cleared enough to spit the name out properly. "Voldemort brought you lot pain too."
"And we loved every moment. We begged for it. It was the only thing that kept us alive." She rolled her hips against him, shaking her head at the disparity between his mind and body. "Tell me to undo your trousers."
"No."
"Tell me." She laid across his chest and let her face brush against his, her hair a black curtain around them. "The great Harry Potter, coming off in one of his sworn enemies? Make it rough. Try to make me yield. Invent a story in your head to make it a tale of danger and misadventure in the halls of Hogwarts as you're fucking me."
"What," he spat, feeling his control slip, "do you know about me?" He was angry and still just as desperate to escape, but his body ached. It was Tuesday; the blood went elsewhere besides the head. Until this point, it hadn't been a problem.
His inner voice screamed at him that he was not so pure as he was trying to think himself. He felt more alive at that stupid flat with Draco than with anyone else. He'd thought it was that he was meant to be shite with women; now, maybe, with the pain of either an orgasm or pissing his pants getting unbearable, it was about the power. "How do you know what I need?"
"Reach down," her voice dipped into a soothing tone, surreal given her history, "and feel how wet you've made me, and hard you are. You're not a boy anymore, and I'm dead. I'm a ghost, come to show you the other side of the War. What you were denied." She put her hand on his crotch, feeling heat and definition under cloth. "You never had a choice. Make it now."
So many friends were dead. Others were broken to the point of being strangers. The rest refused to talk about the War, no matter how much Harry needed it.
Draco betrayed him to this. Bellatrix was giving him a choice. There was only one chain holding him down, and he'd gotten out of worse situations.
Power. Emotions. Pain that doubled as catharsis. He had missed them. He craved them. "Undo the bloody trousers yourself."
She laughed, a little closer to the mad sound he was used to, and curled fingers around the button. A deft twist and pull and she had fingers-- so warm, not like home-- on him, on his skin, and he bit the inside of his cheek to stay quiet.
A caress down his cock, and she had him out. The air stung, colder than the cloth, but then her fingers were stroking him, working him with clear practice, her thumb along his tip.
Harry hissed, trying to keep his thoughts about him, but keened as the head of his cock slid through her lips. Wet and hot-- silky, he thought to himself-- his nerves tingled, and with no further warning his head was pushing against her opening.
"Want more, little boy green eyes? You want it all?"
He hissed again, arching his hips up, jarring against her hand. "Murdering bitch."
Bellatrix laughed. "I'll take that as a yes."
He cried out as he sunk into her to the hilt, her sigh of pleasure lost in his noise. His blood was so hot now, her weight against him, surrounding him. He couldn't help it anymore, so close to climax, forcing what little movement he could get in his pinned position. "Murdering bloody slag. Ah-- Merlin!"
"This," she rolled her hips and slid her hand under her, fingers playing on his sensitive spots, "is passion. Your foaming hate for me, all your pent-up anger they can't handle. That feeling, deep in your gut, the knot that makes your bollocks hard enough to burst." She rocked up, allowing him to thrust mindlessly back into her, his hands balled into fists. "Burst. I dare you. Make me drip with your juice. Make me cry for more."
"You-- cocksucking-- aah-- miserable-- evil bitch." Everything hurt, and he was loving it. Draco couldn't do this-- anatomy was cruel sometimes-- and the red hair he loved to play with at home belonged to a doe compared to the panther ravaging his cock. "You're cracked-- ooh, there, there-- and nothing but a-- vicious old whore!"
Bellatrix shook her head, enjoying the angry enemy underneath her. It'd been a long time since she'd been shagged so mindlessly, so angrily, and it made her miss it. She'd have to thank Draco for the opportunity, if the boy wouldn't use it as a reason to sulk in a corner. Of all of the fallen, she was alive again; she found a way out of the veil and as long as she stayed invisible and used others for her needs, she wasn't at risk of dying a death she couldn't cheat her way out of.
Draco knew. Draco helped. Draco would be thanked, even if he called her some of the same names Harry was currently using.
A roll of hips and tightening of her inner muscles-- something Rodolphus had always loved-- and she listened to the gasping cries as silly little Harry Potter came inside her. Milking him off, the shudder of his whole body quaint, she stared at the distance in his green eyes. She thought of her dead husband that she never had the chance to mourn fully, and how he'd laugh himself off the settee to know she conned Potter into a shag.
How Voldemort, were he still alive, would tell her to use this newfound advantage to destroy the boy. She'd do it anyways, just to know she'd broken him. "Poor Potter. Can't live in their world, can't live in mine. You try to call yourself a hero, but me? I know I am evil. I am a murderer. I revel in it." She chuckled and arched up, letting him slip out. He wasn't a generously proportioned male, but the sated cock now lying along his thigh had felt good. Touching him gently, little shivers taking his body, she watched him watching her with a resigned anger. He wasn't fighting. He wasn't trying to get away. The chain didn't rattle.
He hadn't broken mentally, but the rift was there, and it had grown with his taste of her body.
Shifting off him to sit next to him, hand on his thigh, she leant close to his face and waited until she had his attention. "You are no saint, and you have killed my kind. You consort with my kind, and your body feels pleasure for it. You are stained, and there is no cure for that."
A pause, and she kissed him on the lips, lingering long enough to feel the shift in his throat that was the swallowing down of a sob. "Think of me when you're inside your ginger doe, and she will never complain. Give her children, but know that you will spend their lives looking for my kind while you worry that your transgression will lead them to us willingly." She laughed softly, almost fondly. "That they will bear the same craving for passion. And they will."
"Nutter," Harry got out, trying to not cry. She was right. Bellatrix Lestrange-- scourge of the magical world and one of the worst villains of her time after her Lord and Master-- was right. He'd meet Draco again next Tuesday. They'd fall on each other, desperate for touch, and Harry would enjoy it. The poisoned tea would be forgotten and forgiven.
"You have killed my kind, and your punishment, Harry Potter, is to know that you are not so different from us. From me." Bellatrix stood up, smoothing down the red dress and stretching her back. "You will be haunted by that, and you will seek out your ghosts in Draco; when he is not enough, you will drive yourself mad trying to find me."
A snort, and Harry yanked against the chain since she'd pinned him to the floor. "Bollocks."
"And if you can accomplish that without destroying your Ministry job, you will not return as the same person. Not as the brave little boy turned man that saved the magical world with his little friends. Never again." She snorted at his defiant look, waiting until he sat up again and had adjusted his trousers.
Another kick to the head-- she spared him the heel of her shoe this time-- and he collapsed to the floor in a heap. "Never again."
-*-*-