|snarryhols (snarryhols) wrote in snarry_holidays,|
@ 2007-11-26 17:48:00
|Entry tags:||fic, post-dh: epilogue compliant, rated: nc-17|
Cinnamon and Dust, for her_ghost
Title: Cinnamon and Dust
Word Count: 3,100
Warnings: Deathly Hallows Spoilers, Epilogue friendly (if absolutely necessary), Non-con, Bondage
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the characters mentioned herein belong to J.K.Rowling and her respective business partners; none of which are me. I claim absolutely no copyright, and am not attempting to make any money from this in any way - not that I could, even if I wanted to.
Summary: An exploration of sex through sensation; Harry is kidnapped; everything else is revealed in time.
Cinnamon and Dust
All he could remember of the exact moment that it happened was a smell; a musty, familiar scent that reminded Harry of a life that he had long ago left behind him. It carried a memory of dust with it, the sound of footsteps, the tang of fire and something noxious cooking.
Then a deep voice rang out: "Silence," and everything went absolutely black.
Silence; yes, that was a way to explain how everything seemed to be now; all obscuring, hanging thick about him like a velvet curtain; like an empty cave when you stop moving, and the echoes of your footsteps cease; potential sound. Silence that makes you hold your breath, lest the whole world shatters at the sound of your voice.
Inertia alone told him that he was moving; and not comfortably. There was a rhythmic vibration that pounded through him with each forward lurch; familiar, though Harry wasn't entirely sure why. He was sitting down, and he didn't dare move in case he fell, unaware of which direction they were moving in. His hands moved beside him, absorbing his environment; velvet, rough when pushed against the grain, smooth and soft in the other direction. To his left was a solid piece of wood, which he brushed with his elbow before touching. It was solid, and the same rattle came through his fingertips.
The smell now included something richer and older, like books and fine furniture, with a tinge of mould. Harry tilted his head back, nostrils flaring. The familiar scent was still there, a touch of cinnamon…
Harry listened, aware that even his heart was quiet, for surely it should be rushing; pounding against his ribs with a clattering thunder. The world was absent of noise, absent of reality, and then suddenly it all rushed back at once; a screaming riot that sprang into his ears; clashing metal noises and the roar of vehicles in vacuous night-time streets.
Disturbingly, his sight had failed to return with the sound. Hyperaware, Harry heard someone beside him moving, then a ripping noise and the deep, unfamiliar cough of a man who was too close. The clatter was continuing; sounding out in time with the rattle of the vehicle beneath him. It wasn't a very familiar sound, but Harry remembered his trip to London Zoo and the tick tack of the ponies' hooves as they laboured under Dudley's weight. This, combined with the sensation, that, even though it was years ago, he still remembered from his trips up the long road to Hogwarts, was enough to enlighten him.
Having come to the conclusion that he was, for some reason, in a horse drawn carriage, Harry dared to speak, his voice sounding oddly alien. "Who's there?"
No answer. The lack of answer made him feel queasy. Harry held his breath, listening harder, in case he had simply missed it. "Tell me who's there," he demanded, trying not to be frightened. It was so difficult; he felt small and vulnerable; sensations that he was particularly familiar with that reminded him far too intimately of his childhood, locked inside his cupboard.
Harry jumped when something fell on his knee, realising that it was a hand seconds later. He pressed back into the corner of the carriage as the hand moved upwards, aware of every nuance of movement, the touch of warm fingertips on his thigh, the drumbeat of another heart from the tip of a thumb.
Hands flew down, strong fingers closed around thin wrists, and Harry held tight. There was a brief moment in which Harry thought he had control, but then, as though with ease, muscles and tendons worked under his touch and the hands sprang free. Long fingers coiled around his own wrists like snakes, and Harry's flight instinct replaced the fight. It was too late. The frail hands were strong, and although he yelled as they twisted his hands behind his back and sunk them into something, all the sound accomplished was to temporarily obliterate any other helpful noises.
Try as he might to pull his hands free, they would not move, and now his assailant's hands had returned. Harry was sure by now that it must be a man; someone who used his hands. They dragged abrasive trails up his arms - testing the restraint – tickling the inside of his elbows as he tugged hopelessly.
The clacking of horseshoes changed into a dull thud as they moved from tarmac onto compacted soil paths. Harry tried to imagine where they could be, his thoughts inevitably tugging him back to London Zoo; the beautiful Regent's Park that reached down into the heart of London. He couldn't be sure it was even London, but Harry's mind was desperately racing to keep him occupied during the moments in which the hands were not touching him.
"Please tell me…" he begged, knowing already that there would be no answer. He tried to imagine an answer, but struggled with placing a name alongside what he knew so far. The only person he could think of was Riddle; but he was dead and buried. Despite this, Harry's mind's eyes summoned him clearly against the darkness in which he was trapped.
A whisper of something brushed against his hair. Harry felt the prickle to his temple, heard the rough sound, overloud and millimetres from his ear. Suddenly the fingers coiled into place, holding him still as warm lips fell on his own.
Harry had to admit that he was overwhelmed. The sensation of being kissed, without any prior warning was both exciting and frightening at once. Lips were soft, dry and imperfect. A chin touched against his own, and a nose fell parallel. He was on fire in all the places in which they touched - but as a breath gusted heated wet and cinnamon scent across his face, and a wet tongue touched, unfamiliar against his dry lips - Harry resisted.
"Don't!" he yelped, pulling his head back abruptly and receiving a sharp tug on his short hair from his attacker; the man that could possibly look like Riddle. The kiss didn't return. Harry felt the tense silence fall between them, punctuated only by hoof beats. "I'm not a part of that world any more!" he cried, hysterical. "Can 't you just leave me alone? I'm not who you think I am…" There was a sound that could have been laughter, which was stifled promptly, and Harry sobbed, tossing his head back fruitlessly.
Something rustled, like velvet on velvet, and a puff of wind burst upon his cheek. A slithering touch whispered across his knee, then fell away. Harry was not sure what was happening, his nerves were frayed, his senses straining for any hint of what was happening in the small space.
So intense was the feeling of suspense, that when a hand finally returned to touch him at the throat, he jumped, tugging at his arms painfully. There were in fact two hands, which Harry could not resist against as they moved down across his chest, unbuttoning his shirt. The fear inside his belly was wound tight, coiled like an elastic band. He could feel it twisting, pulling his insides with it.
"You can't do this!" he yelled. There was nothing so frightening as this ordeal so far; he was being attacked, sexually, by someone that he could neither see nor defend against, and he should have been able to fight. He needed to fight. He felt so utterly helpless, held in place as smiling lips fell onto his throat, moving torturously across his collar bone.
Harry tried to bite, but got a mouthful of hair instead. It slipped from his mouth before he could tighten his grip, and pain blossomed across his cheek. He'd been hit, and had bitten down on his lower lip, so that blood poured free, filling his mouth and nose with the scent and taste of copper.
The tongue returned to his chest, making him gasp and tug away again. Now the head was too far down to reach with his teeth. Defenceless, Harry could only suffer as the tongue worked down, flickering out over his nipples, making him gasp in disgusted pleasure.
"This is wrong," Harry told the invisible person, but knew that he would get no response. Already there were hands at his waist, buttons being undone. Harry kicked out, but found nothing in his way, and only managed to dislodge himself from the edge of the carriage seat, so that he sank down onto his elbows. He was not quite tall enough to find himself sitting on the floor, and instead was forced into balancing his weight on his ankles against the irregular movement of the vehicle.
There was a sound across from him, like something dropping down, and then his legs were being lifted up by the trousers, and he was falling out of them, hanging painfully from his arms when his weight was released abruptly.
Before he could resist, there was hot skin moving against him on all sides, legs inside his legs, hands moving up over the contours of his body as though possessing. Harry could feel hair bristling the wrong way against his own, and at this moment, more than ever, Harry was aware that this was a man. There was a man underneath him, supporting him back against the chair; hot and wet with sweat that filled his nostrils. That scent was there again: dust and caverns and potions and blood, but overwhelming that, the smell of intense arousal – not things that Harry could put to any face in particular. Nobody had ever smelled like that, he was sure of it.
"Please," Harry begged, his last hope shattering as he spoke. "I haven't…I don't…" He knew it would fail the moment he opened his mouth, and it was at this moment that he realised that he couldn't cry; just as he truly wanted to. There was something wrong with his eyes. This, perhaps more than anything else, frightened him. He began to thrash against the chair in sheer desperation, terrified at last, his veneer fading away.
His fighting did nothing except inform him, brutally, that his attacker was also incredibly naked, and incredibly aroused. Harry turned his head back and forth, as though he could throw his sight back into action. The blindness was perhaps the worst thing of this ordeal. He thought that perhaps, if he could just escape that, then there was a chance, a thin slither though it might be, that he could break free of the entire situation.
There was no effect, and now wet fingers crawled across one suspended buttock. Harry clenched, fiercely, resisting as pointy shoulders dug into the tendons under his knees, forcing his knees higher, taking his weight, and forcing his back to arch, head pinioned against the seat of the carriage. His defences weakened enough for one slick, probing finger to pierce his body, wriggling into him; unnatural and alien.
Harry panted – resisted – tried to force out the intruder. Wrong. He was being molested. Would it have been easier on him if he could see? Identify his abuser? Foolishly, Harry believed it could, somehow, but try as he might, there was no way to stop it. Another finger pressed with some difficulty in beside the first, and Harry yelled at imaginary pain, wishing it would hurt more than it did.
Neither did begging work. His words fell out of him, making him breathless, more frightened, but nothing made his attacker speak or stop.
Soft fingertips trailed across his jaw. Another kiss stole away his pleading, forced him to concentrate on breathing; and Harry's befuddled mind struggled to picture the man in front of him, in an effort to anticipate where hands and lips might touch him next. As he exhaled, a third finger invaded him, and Harry twisted in shock, his ankle coming into contact with soft flesh – the bottom of the man's back, perhaps. There was no way to be sure.
He fell to whispering; gentle and pleading, his voice drowned out by the thunder of iron on stone and creaking wheels. There was no way to fight this, no way to resist against such intimate torture. Invading digits twisted and writhed impossibly within him. Harry could feel each distinctly, knew that if only he could see…
"Just stop," he said, voice barely audible even unto himself. "Just stop, please. You don't have to do this…"
As though these words had been taken to heart, the fingers withdrew. For a breathless heartbeat, perhaps longer, Harry was sure he would be released now; his attacker had decided that humiliation was enough. Before he'd even breathed again, however, there was something else pressing against him, blunt and wide and wet. Harry cried out in instant horror, resisting against the intrusion too late; recognising what was happening just too late.
His cry of 'stop' became an unrecognisable scream before it had even reached his lips. No, not a scream, because it didn't hurt; not in the same way that Cruciatus hurt. It was pain, yes, but somehow muted, and then instantly torturous the moment Harry twisted underneath his attacker. Spasms of agony leapt up his spine, making him arch back, head hitting the hard wood panelling behind his seat.
There was someone inside him. Someone raping him. Harry's head was clearing; he could feel his heart pumping around the intruding member; another heartbeat against his own and utterly alien to it; hot breath that fell on his throat, fingers that dug into his thigh just above his knees, bruising and firm. The clitter-clatter of hooves seemed so far away, a mere sound alongside so much sensation. And when the other man moved…
Friction - The sensation of something enormous and hard, driving up inside his tender body. Harry sobbed, weakly, struggling against it, wanting it to hurt more, because the idea of it being painless made it worse.
Painless; it wasn't even that. The thrill of pleasure that burned through him when…something happened… Harry wasn' t sure what it was; it felt like something inside of him was set on fire. Harry hated himself the moment he made the noise – the moment that the tiny little moan fell from his throat. Another thrust wrung a similar noise from him, a tortured sob of pleasure. Harry struggled again; it was all he could do to fight when it felt so wonderful.
It shouldn't be allowed. Harry knew it was wrong to feel this way, knew he should be horrified or hurting. Why did he have to like it? "Let me go," he urged, pathetically. It was obvious he wasn't going to be released. His begging interspersed with moans. Moans echoed groans. Someone else's voice, gravely and deep, rolling out deep sounds of pleasure, unrecognisable against the clattering hooves.
Harry sobbed as it built into a crescendo of noise, drowning him out, building a picture of sound and feeling around him until he could almost but not quite see the man positioned above him…in him.
And the pleasure. There was no way to forbid that searing sensation that crawled up through him, tendrils of heat pumped out into his extremities by the ferocious thunder of his heart. It filled his chest up until he rose, crying out into the suddenly warm air, his chest touching against another; hot and flat and bristled, before sticky seed ruined the sensation entirely.
In a haze, Harry felt his faceless attacker bring himself to completion, bold thrusts tearing up his insides painlessly, as though he were in suspended animation, unable to feel anything. Moments later, the man sank down onto him, and spoke, and for a split second Harry didn't recognise his voice.
"I believe you will find that the Dark Lord's curse is now broken, Potter."
The shock took a moment to set in.
Snape. Fucking Snape. Harry gasped as all of a sudden the light rushed back into blinkered eyes, the vision of pale skin and dark hair above him. His own knobbly knees drawn up towards his chest, come sticky on Snape's abdomen where Harry had soiled him, dark eyes drawn towards green.
Snape. Who was dead. But clearly not very dead at all. Who had raped him.
There were no words to express just how he felt. No possible explanation. Harry wished that he was still blind. Wished he didn't know. Somehow it would have been easier than seeing him. His heartbeat rose to a crescendo in his chest, his breath coming faster and shorter. Harry's sides ached, heart burning like a hot coal in his chest, eyes streaming.
He turned his eyes away, sobbing, and the tears came to his stinging eyes. It hurt; blinding agony. Not just where Snape was ensconced inside of him, but everywhere else too. His head swam, and he found himself asking, desperately, his words almost unintelligible; "Why?"
Severus retreated, his motions still gentle. Harry did not resist even as he was freed, as warm arms wrapped abandoned robes around him like swaddling cloths, and a firm chest supported him. He wanted to move, but found he could not, his chest constricted, binding him in place. It was all he could do to cry into Snape's chest like a child.
"You've always wanted a family, Potter. The curse would have stopped you. Every relationship destined to fail." Long fingered, calloused hands stroked back through tear-wet strands of hair, but Harry did not look up, merely pressed closer into the darkness, wishing that he could disappear – wishing, particularly, that Snape would go away; die properly like he should have done the first time. He didn't want to know, yet the dark voice carried on, explaining himself, condoning his actions. If Harry could care, he simply wouldn't, but right now he was lost. It was an effort to even hear Snape speak at all.
"I broke the curse," Severus told, "Because you didn't know who I was, you were simply not in a relationship with me at all. It had to be this way."
Harry let out a broken sob, crying harder. It didn't matter what Snape did. Nothing could undo this. Nothing could make this right. Severus seemed to decide that this was the case too. With great care he settled Harry back into the seat, and redressed in the rattling carriage.
With his eyes closed, Harry heard only the pop of disapparition; but what remained long after Snape was gone; a smell that lingered even when his first child was born, was the scent of dust and flame and noxious potions, bubbling.