InsaneJournal

Valentinus Is a Bastard

1. The First Time Is Always the Sweetest

“Up, boy! I told you to get up!”

Harry Potter wakes up in his cupboard below the stairs. His aunt’s shrieking voice serves, as always, as his alarm clock. Sleepily, he gets up and dresses, trying not to bang his head on the low ceiling. He does not yet know that this will be the worst Valentine’s Day in his life. So far.

He shuffles into the too-bright kitchen, where his aunt is frying bacon. Harry never gets bacon. He stole a strip from his uncle’s plate once, when he was too immersed in his paper to notice. That is why he knows it tastes pretty much the same as it smells: salty and fatty.

The piece of toast on Harry’s plate is already cold. It is also very brown.

“You should have come when I called you. It’s your fault if it’s cold now.”

Harry shoots a covert, angry look at his aunt. He dreams of what he would say to that old hag if only he dared. This is how he keeps himself sane in this house. This, and dreaming of being swept away from here, into a different world. A world where he would be somebody.

“Eat quickly, boy. After breakfast you’ll go to Mrs Figg’s. We have plans.”

His uncle bustles into the kitchen, already tucking a napkin under his collar.

As if it takes Harry more than a few bites to finish his feeble breakfast. That useless lump and his even more useless son will be pigging out on the bacon long after he’s finished.

 

                                                                 ***

 

Mrs Figg’s house is dusty, stuffy and it smells of cats. A pretty good description of the house’s owner as well. Harry has nothing against cats, or little old ladies, in principle, but spending an entire day in the company of both is less than appealing.

“Come in, Harry, come in!”

Mrs Figg’s voice is wheezy and her every sentence seems to end in an exclamation. Especially today.

“I have some of that fruitcake you like so much! Would you like juice with that?!”

The old bat sounds as if she’s finally lost it for good. The juice is surprisingly nice, though.

“Oh, it’s pumpkin juice! You’ve probably never had it before! It’s not something your Aunt or Uncle would buy!”

Harry can’t resist asking why not. She does not seem to mind.

“Because it’s from our world, Harry! Not theirs!”

Our world? Harry knows he has to ask for a better explanation. Knows this should get his full and immediate attention. But it’s so hard to concentrate, suddenly. Suddenly, all he can do is yawn and it takes a real effort just to keep his eyes open.

“Not to worry, Harry! It’s perfectly fine! Just a teensy drop of Sleeping Draught, that’s all!”

 

                                                                 ***

“Harry! Harry, wake up, you have a visitor!” Mrs Figg shakes him gently.

“You have given the boy too much, you miserable Squib. I told you I wanted him docile, not asleep.”

The cold, drawling voice cuts through Harry’s sleepy mind and fills him with inexplicable dread.

“This is just a dream, Harry! Just a dream!”

Do people sound that breathless, that close to tears, in dreams? Maybe they do. In nightmares.

“So this is The-Boy-Who-Lived. This is the boy who vanquished the Dark Lord. How splendid.”

The cold voice is definitely the stuff of nightmares. It wraps around Harry, tightening his chest, lifting up the hairs on his neck, making him wish fervently that he was still dreaming of flying.

“But that Muggle attire is most unflattering. Does no one buy decent clothes for the little wonder?”

“His Aunt and Uncle provide for him, Mr Malfoy, sir! He is to have no contact with the Wizarding World until he goes to Hogwarts, sir! Dumbledore’s orders, sir!”

“Dumbledore’s orders indeed. And yet I am here. By your permission, Squib.”

“No one must ever know, Mr Malfoy, sir! I would get into such trouble!”

The voices wash over Harry, every sentence so full of unfamiliar words they could as well speak a foreign language. He curls up as small as he can. They can’t possibly be talking of him. If he’s very small and very quiet maybe they will go away. If this is the world he wanted to be whisked into, he will no longer dream. He wishes he was back in his cupboard.

“Let me look at my… merchandise, then.”

“Get up, Harry.”

The voice sounds softer, silkier, now that it addresses Harry. Dangerously soft, like a teddybear filled with razors. There is only one response to that voice: obey. Harry forces himself to stand up although all his limbs feel strangely heavy and his head is spinning.

“Look at me, Harry.”

He looks up towards the source of that voice, reluctant but determined. Whatever he sees must be less terrifying than what he imagines.

It isn’t. The man is dressed in a black cloak and wears his hair long, like the knights in a movie he once saw on TV. But no knight has ever sneered down at a young boy as contemptuously. His cold eyes capture Harry’s. He drowns into the abyss of those eyes for a moment, down, down into a grey, crushing oblivion, where he sees himself mirrored, small and insignificant, hardly existing at all.

The eye-contact breaks as this frightening man raises an exquisite, pale, long-fingered hand to brush back a stray lock of white-blond hair, apparently enjoying Harry’s attention. The gesture is almost flirtatious; on anyone else it would look feminine and silly, but on this man it only looks threatening. Then the hand extends towards him, making Harry start backwards a little. The man chuckles.

“You have every reason to fear me, Harry. In fact, you are not nearly frightened enough, but we shall soon change that. In the meantime, you can call me Uncle Lucius.”

Harry shivers at the threat, delivered in that aristocratic drawl. Only very important people in the news speak like that. He tries to summon the courage to ask why the man is here and how he knows Harry’s name, but he has always been taught not to ask questions. Besides, it is very difficult to concentrate. He feels so warm and sleepy and comfortable and that is all wrong. Surely there is nothing comforting about this man. Something strange and terrible is going on here but his body keeps telling him he’s warm and safe.

The man called Uncle Lucius, although Harry is sure that he is not really his relative, more like an enemy, confuses his thoughts further by reaching towards him again. This time the hand grips his wrist and pulls him closer. Much too close. Harry is not used to being close to anyone and he knows that touch is never good. Touch means he’s going to be hurt; punched by Dudley or thrown into his cupboard by Uncle Vernon. He tries to fight the warm dizziness and wonders what this man wants of him. The cold eyes measure him up and down, making him feel as if he had no clothes on.

A polished wooden stick appears in the man’s free hand. Muttering something, he waves it towards Harry and suddenly he is, indeed, naked. Harry glances around him, mushily wondering where his clothes can possibly have disappeared to. Instinctively his hand flies to cover his genitals, but it is pushed aside.

“Don’t be shy, Harry. I am going to see it anyway. I am even going to touch it and a lot more besides.” The horrible man chuckles at Harry’s bewilderment. “I Vanished your clothes. I take it that was the first spell you have seen, but believe me, it will not be the last.” He notices Harry’s eyes flicker towards the wooden object he is still holding. “This is my wand, Harry. You will get one too, next autumn when you go to school.”

Harry tries desperately to focus on the man’s words, although they make no sense. Why would he need a wand, whatever that is, at school? And did the man really say spell? As in a magic spell? This is terribly important, if only he could focus on it.

“You are a wizard, Harry. As am I, although you will never quite reach my level, being a half-blood.”

A choked noise distracts Harry before he can form any of the questions Uncle Lucius’ strange pronouncement gives rise to. He had almost forgotten Mrs Figg.

“Please, sir! They can detect all magic used close to the boy, sir! We are in terrible trouble now, sir!”

Uncle Lucius turns towards the old bat with a sneer even uglier than the one he graced Harry with. “Do calm down, Squib. Do you really presume that I am not aware of the fact that the boy is monitored? That I have come unprepared?” He lets go of Harry’s wrist and waves the hand in Mrs Figg’s direction. There is a golden ring with a deep-red stone in his middle finger. “This is a Blood Diamond. It hides my magic from all those I wish to hide it from. I am not stupid, Squib. Now please shut up. You’re distracting Harry.”

With that, the man focuses on Harry once again. Harry knows he should be terrified and on some level he really is, but he is also pleasurably drowsy. The man’s eyes on him feel almost like a caress and he just feels so good that it is profoundly wrong. His bones seem to be turning into liquid and he desperately wishes that there was something to sit on. The edge of Mrs Figg’s dingy coffee table bumps into the back of his thighs and he sits down, too relieved to even wonder how the table is so close, when it was on the other side of the room just a second ago.

“Oh, that was quite impressive for an untrained wizard, Harry. You will be quite good when you grow up.” Uncle Lucius sounds honestly impressed and Harry smiles up at him tentatively. Perhaps this would not be so bad, after all. But the ice returns to the man’s eyes and voice almost instantly. “However, you will not sit unless I tell you to do so. The Sleeping Draught is making you a bit too lazy for my taste. Why don’t you dance some of it off…” He waves his wand and utters something Harry does not catch. The coffee table is gone and Harry’s legs begin to jerk uncontrollably, like he is doing a dance he does not know the steps of to a tune he does not hear.

With his head spinning and legs completely beyond his control, Harry desperately tries to stay upright. For a while, he manages it out of sheer spite, but then his left leg slips and he falls down on his bottom. He must look ridiculous sitting on the floor with legs swinging this way and that. A low malicious chuckle from Uncle Lucius confirms this observation.

“Have you learned your lesson yet, Harry? With me, you have no control even over your own body. I can do whatever I want to you and you are powerless to stop me.” The words bore through Harry’s hazy mind and ring so true that he finds himself nodding without consciously meaning to. Uncle Lucius flicks his wand again and Harry’s legs still, leaving him to curl into an undignified heap at the man’s feet.

Harry’s eyelids feel so heavy and his mind seems to be shifting into somewhere else. He barely hears it when the man utters something else in that strange language that makes magic happen. For a moment he thinks he’s only imagining that his body becomes weightless so that he is lifted off the floor to float in midair. It feels like he is flying and when he opens his eyes he realises that that is indeed what is happening. It feels so good that he smiles. Until he feels a hand on his bare chest. Oh God, he had forgotten that he is naked and vulnerable and in the company of a man who had said that he should be afraid. The absolute certainty that he is going to be hurt by this Uncle Lucius cuts through the fluffy cotton his mind seems to be filled with and makes him shiver anew.

Uncle Lucius smiles at the renewed fear in Harry’s eyes as he slides his hand across his

chest and belly. When it becomes apparent where the man is going, Harry tries to twist away from the touch, but it is hard to control his own movements when the air offers no purchase. When the hand wraps around his prick and pulls him closer it feels so wrong, so violating, that a tear spills from Harry’s eye. It is instantly wiped away with a corner of Mrs Figg’s cat-smelling shawl. The thought of that old bat witnessing Harry’s shame is just too much to bear, so he looks pleadingly into Uncle Lucius’ cold eyes, desperately wishing for him to understand and send the woman away. To his surprise, there is a flash of understanding amongst the steely indifference.

“Your presence is no longer required, Squib,” he says in a dismissive tone, without breaking eye-contact with Harry.

“But…but we agreed, sir!” She sounds even more distressed than she has before. “I want to make sure Harry is not hurt…”

“You can do nothing to protect the boy, whether you are here or not, you stupid hag. Harry knows this and would prefer to be alone with me. Isn’t that right, Harry?” Uncle Lucius seems to be reading Harry’s mind right through his eyes. Harry nods enthusiastically.

To Harry’s intense relief he hears Mrs Figg shuffle out of the room in her pathetic carpet slippers. His relief turns to dread, however, when a cruel smile spreads on Uncle Lucius’ lips. “You are getting much too comfortable, boy. Let’s see what it takes to shake you out of that potion-induced euphoria.”

The man finally lets go of Harry’s prick and lifts his wand. Except that it is no longer a wand. Somehow it has turned into a small knife with a curved blade and jewelled silver handle in the shape of a serpent. Slowly the man lifts it to Harry’s chest and slices a long, shallow cut almost from nipple to nipple. The knife is so sharp that it hardly stings at first, but the sight of Harry’s own blood, so red against his white skin, makes him whimper in protest.

Uncle Lucius chuckles and cuts him again. When he bends his head to lick the bloody cut, Harry tries to dodge but the man has him by the shoulder and there’s nowhere to go, floating in the air as he is. The licking stings more than the cuts and feels much too intimate. Harry is lost in repulsion, too weak and dizzy to fight or even beg for mercy. His blood flows red, red, staining his whole body, dripping onto the carpet and the horrible man just smiles at him with blood-stained lips and hurts him more. Harry shuts his eyes tight, willing himself not to cry. He has learned long ago that not only does it not help, but usually just makes the bullies try harder.

When Harry is sure he will pass out from the sensations, or maybe blood-loss, Uncle Lucius suddenly pulls his face closer, close enough for their lips to meet. Startled, Harry tries to pull back but the man has a hand on the back of his head and keeps him in place. His lips are gently teased apart and a tongue explores every inch of his mouth before tangling with his own. So this is how kissing feels like. Harry has wondered about that ever since he saw a man and a woman do it on TV. Under different circumstances it might have actually felt nice but he tastes the metallic tang of blood from the man’s mouth and seriously thinks he may be sick.

Finally Uncle Lucius breaks the kiss and Harry notices with relief that the knife is a wand again. As the man touches the fresh cuts with it, they knit together and vanish, like they had never happened. It tickles a bit and Harry squirms, which earns him a slap across the face. “Be still if you want me to Heal these,” Uncle Lucius orders sharply. “Unless you would rather keep them as souvenirs.” Harry stills instantly. No, he really does not want any souvenirs from this encounter.

All of it is just too much. Harry has never felt this helpless. And still, underneath the nausea caused by watching his own blood flow so freely, there is the nice warm feeling from before. The conflicting sensations are just too much. Harry’s resolve crumbles and he begins to cry. Not just silent, dignified tears but great wracking sobs he is unable to hold back. Adding to his bewilderment, Uncle Lucius embraces him gently, whispering soothing words in his ear. “There, there, it’s all over now. Shush, my little one. It wasn’t so bad, now was it?” Harry is so desperately in need of comfort that he surrenders into the embrace, the first one he remembers ever getting. He even wraps his arms and legs around the man to burrow closer. He is a little embarrassed about it, but the touch just feels so good that gradually his sobs subside.

At first Harry is only dimly aware of the hands sliding lower on his body. When they reach his arse he is jolted back into the harsh reality. With his legs wrapped around the man’s waist it is very easy for Uncle Lucius to slide a finger down the crack of Harry’s arse. The wand follows the finger, leaving a trail of slippery wetness in its wake. “There are better lubricants than the Lubricatus can produce,” Uncle Lucius whispers in a voice full of malice. “But I don’t think it worth it to waste them on you. You are hardly even worthy of this.” Harry winces at the cruel words and attempts to untangle himself from the evil man but he won’t let him go. A finger begins to circle his puckered opening.

This can’t be happening, Harry thinks as the finger slowly breaches him. People don’t do this to each other. At least two men don’t, let alone a man and a little boy. But the violating sensation in his arse proves otherwise. It doesn’t hurt exactly, but it feels profoundly wrong, like he needs to go to the toilet but instead of stuff coming out there’s stuff going in. When Uncle Lucius adds another finger it does hurt and he struggles harder but all that does is bury the fingers deeper. He panics and his inner muscle cramps around the fingers. The man lets out a little groan and then tells Harry to relax and push back. When he does so, the fingers do indeed slide in and out of him a bit more easily. 

When the fingers withdraw at last, Harry could cry out of sheer relief. That relief turns to fresh dread when Uncle Lucius reaches between their bodies and begins to unbutton his clothes. Soon he has uncovered a hard cock with its head already glistening with moisture. Harry finds himself unable to look away. He has never seen a grown man’s cock before and it looks intimidatingly large, certainly a lot bigger than two fingers. There is no way it can ever fit inside him without serious internal damage.

Smiling at Harry’s distress, Uncle Lucius strokes himself a few times, spreading the lubricant there too. Then he lifts Harry a little, so that the deceptively soft cockhead nudges his opening. Panic finally pierces the dreamlike state Harry is in and he flails desperately, trying to push himself away. But Uncle Lucius has a firm hold of his buttocks. There is nowhere to escape as the man pulls Harry down onto his cock in one quick, harsh movement.

The pain is intolerable, like being torn in half. It makes his vision blur and forces a throat-tearing scream from his lips. Through the searing agony, Harry experiences a small flash of triumph as his flailing hand connects with Uncle Lucius’ face. At least he managed to hurt that monster even a little. The triumph is short-lived, though, because with Harry firmly rooted on his cock Uncle Lucius can let go of Harry’s arse to deliver a stinging slap on his face. “You will regret that, boy,” he hisses and grips Harry by the hips, moving him sharply up and down, making the pain in Harry’s arse bloom again. It hurts so much that Harry instantly goes limp, all new-found resistance gone.

“That’s better, Harry. Stop fighting me and it will be easier.” Uncle Lucius’ voice is again that deceptively soft, almost caressing, whisper. “Just let it happen. You can’t fight me. If you try again, you will discover that I haven’t even begun hurting you yet.”

Harry finds it impossible to imagine anything Uncle Lucius could do to him that would hurt more than this, but he certainly has no desire to find out if he can make good on his threat. Somehow he suspects that he can. So he hangs limply in the man’s grip, letting him use his body as he pleases. He is lifted up and pressed back down in a slow rhythm, the large organ tearing him apart with every movement. As the torture goes on, he closes his eyes and tries to find that earlier disoriented and strangely pleasurable state of mind with little success.

After an eternity in hell Uncle Lucius groans and presses Harry down hard. He feels the man’s cock pulse deep inside him before he is pushed away. The spent cock leaving his torn arse hurts almost as much as the insertion did and he whimpers pitifully. The man utters something that sounds like ‘finite’ and the air no longer supports Harry and neither do Uncle Lucius’ arms. Hitting the floor sends another jolt of pain through his abused arse. He curls up on the floor, unable to stop himself from crying and welcomes the empty darkness that swallows up his consciousness.

He comes to when Uncle Lucius prods him with his foot. “Welcome to the Wizarding world, Harry. Is it living up to your expectations?” Harry looks up, disbelieving, into a cold sneer. This man makes the Dursleys seem like the most loving and caring people in the world.

He extends a hand towards Harry, much like one would to a dog. There is something brown on his fingers. “It is Valentine’s Day, after all. I believe bringing one’s date some chocolate is quite appropriate.” Date? If this is what happens on a date, Harry can’t believe anyone would ever go on one voluntarily. But then again, he has always wanted to taste chocolate, seeing as Dudley gobs down about five pounds of it every day. Tentatively, he reaches for the man’s hand, but it is quickly pulled out of his reach. “No, Harry. I want you to suck it from my fingers, like the little slut you are.”

Harry is sorely tempted to bite as the fingers are thrust back under his nose. The bastard seems completely unaffected by what has just happened. There is no flush on his pale cheeks, not a single hair is out of place and he has rearranged and probably magically cleaned his clothing so that there is no trace of Harry’s blood on him. He isn’t even out of breath. Whereas Harry is lying on the floor naked and shaking, his face blotched with tears and blood –and probably something else Harry refuses to think about- is dribbling from his arse. No one has ever been fair to Harry, but this is so far beyond anything even Dudley could come up with that Harry’s brain just shuts down.

Wincing as movement sends a fresh flash of agony through his insides, Harry gets up on his knees and sucks the offered fingers. The chocolate tastes like nothing he has ever tried before, sweet and rich and creamy. But it melts away too quickly, leaving Harry to realise his humiliation; he is actually kneeling before Uncle Lucius and sucking his fingers exactly like the slut he was claimed to be. At that moment, Harry vows to himself to never ever eat chocolate again.

“Very nice,” the monster purrs, thrusting two fingers in and out of Harry’s mouth in a way that very much reminds Harry of what he did to his arse earlier. “Your mouth has a lot of potential I am definitely going to explore more fully the next time we meet.”

Finally, finally Harry finds his voice he had lost the second this man appeared. “There won’t be a next time. If I ever see you again I’ll run as fast as I can.”

Uncle Lucius chuckles at this. “Really? And what makes you think you will recognise me next time?” While Harry stares at the man open-mouthed, trying to find the right words to tell him that he will never forget that pale, pointed face nor those steely-grey eyes, he casually flicks his wand at Harry’s direction. The stinging in his arse is gone and he is fully clothed again.

“I’ll see you next year, Harry. Until then, Obliviate!”     

 

                                                                 ***

 

Harry wakes up when Mrs Figg shakes him gently. “You dozed off, Harry. Your Aunt and Uncle will be here to collect you soon.” The exclamations are gone from her voice. Now she just sounds sad and beaten.

Harry gets up from the couch he had apparently slept on, relieved that he has managed to sleep off an entire boring visit to Mrs Figg’s. He looks around and notices a small box on the dingy coffee table in front of the couch.  “A Valentine’s Day present, Harry,” Mrs Figg explains. For some reason she looks like she has been crying. “It’s chocolate.”

Chocolate. Harry has never tasted chocolate, only seen Dudley gob down about five pounds of it every day. With anticipation Harry puts it into his mouth. Somehow, it doesn’t taste as good as Harry would have thought.

 

tbc.

 

Ps. I’ll be forever grateful for ANY kind of feedback and for con-crit, I promise you my first-born :)