Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: thilia
From: lilmisblack

Title: Portrait of a happy family
Characters/Pairings: Harry/Lily Luna
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: Underage –although Lily’s age isn’t specified, she’s still at Hogwarts- noncon/dubcon (depending on your point of view), first time, voyeurism, kinda.
Other Warnings/Content: Incest
Word Count: 3500
Summary/Description: A part of me wonders at the magic in the portrait, wonders just how much of us the painting is showing. I fear it knows too much. I think it sees into our very souls.
Author's Notes: I’m not sure if this is what you had in mind for this prompt, but I hope you enjoy it. Merry Kinky Kristmas!



Day One.

A single tap to the door announced the parcel. Large, wrapped in plain brown paper, no notes on it, no sign of whoever left it there. It's not unusual, even all these years after the end of the war, to find letters or parcels by the door. Especially this close to Christmas. Most of them are harmless enough, but still it pays to be careful - particularly after that incident with Albus and the love potion laced chocolates.

A few well practiced spells convince me that the parcel is safe, so I carry it into the living room and unwrap it with a flick of my wand. I can't help but smile at what I find. Magical paintings of living people are extremely rare -and expensive- and this one shows me, Ginny and the children over a dark background, standing close together, smiling and waving. We look happy.

It takes me a few minutes to find the perfect spot for it between all the Christmas decorations, but finally I decide to hang it over the fireplace. As I finish securing it to the wall I notice the background has changed to match exactly the room around it. Down the stockings on the hearth and mistletoe over the door.

I refill my cup of coffee, summon my copy of the Daily Prophet and turn one of the settees to face the painting My arm is around Ginny in the portrait, she's leaning against my shoulder, and we're both watching the children talk and laugh. It’s been a long time since we've all been together like that. With my work, Ginny being on tour for the Quidditch season, Jamie busy with his new apprenticeship and Albus and Lily at Hogwarts, it usually takes weeks of planning to get us all in the same room.

It’s nice to see us like that. The Potter family. Together.

-.-.-.-.-

Day Four

The kids have finally gone to bed. They've only been back for a day, and already I miss the quiet. I miss sitting by the fire, with a cup of coffee in my hand, and watching the portrait. Albus and Lily don’t seem overly impressed by it. I can barely keep my eyes off it.

I put every light in the house out and watch the light from the flames dance over the painting. It doesn't look quite the same as it did that first morning. The change is barely noticeable, really, it took me days to see it, and I doubt anyone not paying such close attention to it would notice. During the day it shows the five of us together, happy and smiling, just like it did at first. But when the night falls we change. The happy façade drops.

At night we stand a little further apart. We don't talk to each other so much. Our smiles seem a little more strained. Our faces look a little less happy. A part of me wonders at the magic in the portrait, wonders just how much of us the painting is showing. I fear it knows too much.

-.-.-.-.-

Day Eight

The nightmares are back. I hadn't had them in years, and now it’s been night after night after night. Back then, in the first few years after the end of the war, I'd had Ginny next to me, making me feel safe, holding me until the worse of it passed, reminding me it was over, that we were safe, that I was not alone. I don't know why I'm dreaming again, but this time she's not here with me. For the first time in many, many years, I feel alone.

My hand shakes ever so slightly when I reach for the firewhisky, and I down it fast, before I have a chance to spill it. Although the fire is on, I can barely feel the warmth. But I do like the way the flames dance over the portrait. Over the picture of me.

It's only me in it now. Ginny and the children are there during the day, of course, smiling and waving, as if nothing were wrong with the world, but every night they moved a little further away from me, until tonight I'm finally on my own, sitting in my chair, drinking firewhisky. I wonder if I really look like that, if my eyes look so empty, if my skin looks so pale. I wonder if that's why Ron and Hermione took Albus and Lily away for the weekend, if that's why they said they thought I could use some rest. As if I'll ever get some rest in this house full of ghosts and memories. Alone once more.

Then the door in the portrait opens, and my little girl walks in. And I turn around, hoping the real door will open, too. But there's no one here. I turn to watch the portrait again, watch Lily smile and walk into the room, closer to him - the me in the portrait- and take his hand. And I know, somehow I know, that if she were here now she would do the same to me. I can see the smile on her face and I know it's real. I see the other me smile at her, and somehow his eyes look less haunted. And suddenly I don't feel so alone. Lily is with me.

-.-.-.-.-

Day Eleven

I can almost sleep again. The nightmares are still there, but every time I wake up I look at the portrait, at Lily sitting next to me, holding my hand, and I know I'm not alone. I had to move the portrait to my bedroom tonight. I can't stand another night sleeping in the settee. During the day the portrait looks as it always does, and in it we're still standing in the living room. But at night the truth comes out, and the background melts into my bedroom, and everyone leaves me. And when I think I can't take any more the door will open, and Lily will come in.

I was alone all my life. I was alone as a child, and in many ways I was alone at Hogwarts. I never knew how to let others in, not really. I learnt to pretend, I learnt to smile, and I learned to hope it would somehow become real. I always thought when I had a family of my own things would change. For a long time I thought they had. I had a loving wife, and wonderful children, and I was needed, and I was wanted. But life gets in the way, and I rarely see my wife, and my children have grown up, and one day I didn't feel wanted or needed any more. And it's only now, as I watch myself in the portrait, that I see this. That I let myself acknowledge the truth this painting shows me. Because now I understand what the portrait shows: truth, ripped from the deepest, most secretive of places in our minds. This portrait shows our souls.

-.-.-.-.-

Day Twelve

During the day I smile and talk, and try to act as if nothing is wrong. Just like the version of me in the portrait does. And if I’m a little more reckless at work, a little less hesitant about using magic, no one seems to notice. What is the point of having all this power if I don't use it? I have been holding myself back, controlling everything I do for too long. I can see it now.

I meet my old friends for lunch, or dinner, or drinks as I normally would. I hear them talk about their lives, their families, and all I feel is empty. I don’t have what they have, I never will. Even surrounded by so many people, I’m alone. I take the children to visit Jamie, take them shopping, take them to parks. And I do my best to keep that smile on my face, to pretend nothing is wrong. But every once in a while the mask will fall, and my eyes will go vacant. And all those thoughts, those fears of being alone again will come back to torment me, until I feel my sanity start to slip away. And then Lily's hand will curl into mine, and she will smile up at me, my little girl, who is not so little any more, but still wants me, still needs me. The only one that smiles at me with a real smile. The one that is there when I need her. And for as long as she's there my eyes will shine, and my smile will be real. Because if she’s around, I'm not alone.

I lie in bed at night with the lights on, so I can watch the portrait, my eyes fixed on the painted bedroom door, waiting for Lily to come. Tonight I notice all the empty bottles on the bedroom floor. I'm surprised to find they're an exact replica of the empty bottles around my bed. Once I would’ve cared, but not any more. I’m done holding back. If drinking helps with the nightmares, if it helps keep me sane, if it keeps the pain away, why shouldn’t I use it?

Tonight, when the image of Lily walks into the bedroom the other me smiles and pats the bed beside him. And she smiles back, and her cheeks flush, and there’s the faintest hint of hesitation as she sits on the covers, then lies down. She lies on her side, as does the me in the portrait, facing her. Holding her hand. She smiles, and he smiles, and moves a little closer and closes his eyes. He falls asleep. He looks finally at peace.

-.-.-.-.-

Day Fourteen

I know I shouldn’t be watching her, not like this, but I can’t help it. My eyes wander to wherever she is, taking in the shine in her hair, the gleam in her eyes, the quirk of her lips when she smiles. Her touch is soft, and gentle, and I seek it without even realising. I hold her hand, I stroke her arm, touch her cheeks. I’ve seen him do it, the me in the portrait, I’ve seen the way they – we – look together, and I can’t help but long for it, too. Because I know the painting shows what I really want, even when my mind tries to deny it, and it shows me how happy I can be when I give in.

Lily looks a lot like Ginny did when she was her age, but there’s something different about her, too, a tenderness Ginny never had. I never felt needed with Ginny, but now I do. And a part of me knows it’s wrong, but still I need it, I want it, and I’ve seen her in the painting, I know she wants it, too. I know she wants me to touch her the way the me in the portrait does, I know she wants me to kiss her, to show her just how much I love her. I saw it in the painting last night. Saw the way she reacted to his touch, her chest heaving, her hands shaking as she reached for him. I saw her close her eyes when their lips met. I saw her body flush, shiver at his every touch.

-.-.-.-.-


Day Fifteen

It might be the firewhisky that gives me the courage I need, or perhaps I simply can’t control myself any more. I go to her bedroom, pull her into my arms, and bring her back here. To my bedroom. To the portrait. She holds on to me, barely awake, buries her face into my neck, and I’m so hard my entire body trembles.

I sit her on the chest of drawers, her legs on either side of my hips, her back to the painting, and I see the other me do the same. He’s the one copying my actions now. Because finally it’s me that’s doing what we both want.

I brush my lips against Lily’s, and her eyes flutter open for a brief second. I don’t think she knows what’s happening, not yet. I kiss her again, and this time her eyes open, and she tilts her head back, confusion clear on her face.

“Daddy?” she mutters, her young innocent eyes search mine, and somehow I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am the first man to do this, the first one to kiss her, the first one to touch her. I will soon be the first one inside her.

I mutter sweet reassurances as my lips trail down her neck, and I can feel her confusion, her hesitation. When her hands move to my chest, in a soft attempt to push me away, I move her arms behind her back, hold her there as I kiss her again. Her body arches back as she tries to free her hands, and I can feel her chest rub against mine, feel her small breasts through the thin layer of clothes as she moves, as her breathing comes faster.

A whispered word and silk wraps around her wrists, holding her in place so I can touch more of her. I slide my hands up her thighs, pushing her nightdress up, and I feel her try to close her legs, but all she manages is to tighten them around me.

Her lower lip trembles and her eyes water, and she whispers ‘Daddy’ once again, and my cock jumps at the word. I move my hands around her and pull her forward, until her arse rests at the very edge, and then I grind my hips against her, because I want her to feel what she does to me, want her to know how much I love her, how much I need her. I want her to know I desire her as much as she does me. Even if she doesn’t know what she wants yet.

She squirms against me, and I can’t be sure if she’s trying to move closer or further away. Either way I keep her hips flush against mine and I kiss her. She tries to twist her head, break the kiss, and I bite her lip in warning. She whimpers, and my legs buckle at the sound. I want to hear it again. I want to hear her pain, her fear, and then I want to take it away. I want her to understand. To give in. I want to make her mine.

“Daddy, please,” she cries, although I’m not sure what she’s asking of me. I don’t think I care, anymore.

I wrap my hand around her hair and pull, making her look at me, making her lean back so I can watch her. My other hand moves up her arm, to her shoulder, slides one strap down and then the other, until her nightdress rolls down. Her breasts are small, her skin so soft, so young. I take one of her nipples into my mouth and smile when I hear her whimper again. I move my hands to her hips next, slide her nightdress up to reveal plain white knickers, far sexier than anything I’ve seen before. She’s so young, so innocent. There’s so much to show her, to teach her.

She squirms again, harder, when I pull the knickers down, and when I spread her legs further apart and step back to watch her, my little girl, she begs me not to. Tears fall over flushed cheeks, and I hope she will never lose that look of surprise, of wonder. She doesn’t really understand what I’m doing, but I know she can feel my need, feel how much I want her, how much I love her.

She calls to me again, such a simple word, ‘Daddy,’ I can barely believe the effect it has on me. But as much as I love to hear it, her voice is much too loud, and it’s Christmas Eve, and there are too many people sleeping in the house. I can’t risk anyone hearing us. They wouldn’t understand. A simple spell silences her words. Easier, faster magic than silencing the entire room, less noticeable. I will plan ahead next time. When we are alone. I want to hear her every sound, her every word.

I pull my trousers and pants down, just far enough to free my cock, and I groan as it slides against her flesh. I push her legs as far apart as I can and watch my cock move back and forth over her. Her lips spread around me, and even though she’s not wet my pre-come is enough to ease the way. I can’t remember ever being so hard. So full of need. So out of control.

But she still struggles, she still can’t accept what I’m doing, still doesn’t understand she wants this, too. It takes all of my willpower to step away from her, even if it’s only for a second. I flip her over, bend her over the chest of drawers. Her feet can’t reach the floor. I press myself against her back and curse at the feeling. I don’t know how much longer I can last. I slide my fingers around her, spread her open, coat them with my own pre-come and slip them inside her body. My movements are hurried, almost desperate, but I try my best not to hurt her. She’s my little girl.

I want her to understand what I need, why I’m doing this, I want her to see what I see. I bury my free hand in her hair and yank, and her lips part in a silent scream and my hips buck at the sight.

“Look at it,” I whisper into her ear, as I pull her by the hair, make her see the painting. Our other selves are in the same position as we are, but in the portrait Lily’s eyes are shining not with tears but with arousal, as the other me prepares her. I rock against Lily’s arse and move my fingers inside her and watch her watch the portrait. The other Lily is looking at her now, and smiling, her hands aren’t tied, they’re reaching behind her to pull the other me closer. And her lips are moving, and I know she’s asking for more, I know she’s asking the other me to fuck her. Soon my Lily will be like her, soon she will crave me like I crave her. She will say those words to me, and I will do whatever she asks.

Then I notice Lily isn’t struggling any more. She’s stopped moving, too focused on the images in the portrait to do anything else. Her lips are parted, her cheeks flushed, her eyes hooded. She’s starting to see the truth in the painting.

I can almost feel her scream as I finally thrust inside her. I’m too far gone to be gentle. I will make it better next time. She shakes under me, but her eyes never leave the painting. The other Harry’s hips are moving fast, his muscles rippling at the force behind every thrust, and I do the same, burying myself so deep inside her. Her body contracts around me, so small, so tight. So innocent.

As I move I finally feel her moisture easing the way, feel her muscles pulling me in. Feel her hips move against me. Her body is asking for more, so I give it to her.

My thrusts are hard, and fast, and uncontrolled. Just like the Harry in the painting, I take her with everything I have, and finally she accepts me. I’m holding on to her hips so hard I know there will be bruises tomorrow, but I don’t care. In fact, I want to mark her body. I want her to know she’s mine.

I can feel her muscles tensing around me, and I move my hand to her front, pulling her lips further apart, teasing her clit with my thumb, and finally I feel her give in completely, I feel her coming undone around me, and there is nothing I can do to hold back. I am lost.

I rock into her harder than before, riding our orgasms until I can’t move any more. And as I lean forward, as I rest my chest against her back, as I try to catch my breath, groaning every time her inner muscles squeeze my softening cock in aftershocks, I notice something different in the portrait. The bedroom door is ajar. And on the other side, eyes wide and cock in hand, stands Albus. I smile. I knew my boy wouldn’t leave me alone. I knew he needed me, too. I just have to make him see it.