LONG: The Scarecrow, Harry/Snape NC-17 Title: The Scarecrow Author:joanwilder aka RaeWhit Word Count: 3500 Rating: NC-17 Genres: Horror Characters: Harry Potter/Severus Snape Summary:Be careful what you wish for. Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and its characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and her book and film companies. I do not write for profit. Warnings: Highlight if you want to know. * rape, non-con, breathplay* A/N: Written for the Autumn/Halloween Challenge. Thanks to jadzialove for the beta work.
The Scarecrow
Harry'd had a horrid fascination with scarecrows since he was a child; he wasn't certain why, but he guessed it had something to do with those confusing years when Dudley had told him other lies—like the one about rats biting your arse when you sat on the toilet. Harry'd been constipated for an entire summer, until Petunia had taken care of that problem by pouring mineral oil down his throat. Then he'd had no choice but to sit there and wait for the teeth to his privates. Better that than risking his aunt's ire by whining about his belly ache.
He and Ginny came here every autumn, to a small cottage that had been in the Prewett family for years. Only two rooms, one of them to live in, and one to sleep in. It was good to get away without the kids. At night they'd sit out on the porch and watch the moon, drinking the beer they'd brought along, throwing a chilling charm right before they popped the caps. There was a well for water, fields of corn on three sides of them, and, of course, the bloody scarecrow.
Ginny didn't know, but at night when she was asleep, Harry'd come out of the cabin and sit in the field in front of it. He told it things he'd never told a living soul, like the time he'd sucked Sirius off in his room at Grimmauld over Yule, and how he'd spent the entire summer afterward defacing Little Whinging with obscene graffiti; he wasn't certain why—whether it was because of what he and Sirius had done, or the fact that the man had died. Both events had seemed momentous at the time.
When he was done confessing his sins of the year—this time it had been a couple of visits to a gay bar, where for the first time he'd worked up his courage to do something…or, as it turned out, let something be done to him—he ritually stood, then pulled out his cock and pissed on the scarecrow, starting as high as his stream could reach, spraying its leering face with its ribboned mouth and tennis ball nose and eyes, down along its tattered coat and trousers, finally shaking himself off to sprinkle the straw-stuffed socks. He'd lean up and stare at its feeble attempt at terror, and purse his mouth in a parody as he crooned, "Give us a kiss good night."
The scarecrow stared back, inscrutable as ever, unflappable as it always was, and not for the first time, Harry was reminded of Snape, the bloody bastard. He'd treated Harry's occasional attempts at reconciliation after the war in much the same way. Rudely staring, acting as if he'd not heard a thing, and when Harry persisted, he'd finally muttered, "Sod off."
This year, Harry realized he might be going round the bend a bit, because he'd actually planned ahead to adjust the scarecrow's wardrobe. He hid the clothing in the bottom of his bag, and since they arrived after dark, Ginny would be none the wiser at who Scary Sev's—as Harry'd so irreverently begun to call the scarecrow shortly after his run-in with Snape—new fashion designer was.
There was a moon this particular weekend, which Harry thought was appropriate, given that it would be Halloween at midnight. He fidgeted until Ginny finally called it a night, then waited for a half-hour to make certain she was asleep. Gathering the clothing from his bag, along with a bottle of scotch purchased for the occasion, he tiptoed out, off the porch and down into the field where the scarecrow loomed larger than life, the moon at its back.
Harry felt a frission of fear, a moment's worth of certainty that he was about to step across a line. He wouldn't be deterred, though. Ever since he'd got the idea, when he'd discovered Snape's old trunk in a dungeon storeroom at Hogwarts and pilfered a smelly, misshapen set of clothing that'd belonged to the tosser, he'd fantasized over what he was about to do.
But no rushing it, he told himself, as he plopped down on the ground in the field, throwing the clothing at the foot of the scarecrow. Taking off his socks and shoes, he opened the bottle and took a long, noisy pull from it, sighing deeply as he felt the satisfying burn begin.
"Cheers," he said, lifting the bottle in the scarecrow's direction, then took another healthy mouthful. "You know," he began amiably, as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, "I finally did it this year."
He nodded at the faceless head bent toward him.
"Got a bloke to suck me off, finally. And it was…" He looked around him sadly. "…everything I ever thought it'd be. Gin doesn't know, 'course. No one does, no one ever will." This time his lips didn't seal around the bottle neck quite as well, and a small stream of it escaped to run down his chin. He looked at the label, and then raised the bottle toward the scarecrow again. "'Cept you. You know everything. You're the only one I can trust."
He hung his head down onto his chest, wondering numbly why that was—that he'd take the most personal parts of him to his grave.
He was already beginning to feel lightheaded, but that wasn't too surprising. Harry rarely drank, except on a rare social occasion, and never the hard stuff. He lay back in the field, the straw sticking through the wool of his jumper and pricking at his scalp.
Staring up at the moon, he still talked to the scarecrow. "Do you ever wonder what it'd be like—to only please yourself? I mean, think about it. How often do you get to say what you think? Or not smile when you don't feel like it? Or tell someone, 'You want to know how I am?', and then really tell them how you are?"
He rolled to his side, then got up on his hands and knees. "Whoa. This's powerful stuff. I better get movin', if I'm gonna get you dressed."
He had to fumble around on the ground to find his glasses, then crawled to the bottom of the scarecrow. Pulling out his wand, it took him four tries to get the bloody thing off the pegs at its midriff and neck, so that it fell in a heap into the field just beside him.
Harry alternated between mouthfuls of scotch and working at getting the old shirt and trousers off the scarecrow. He realized as he worked that it was downright creepy, now that he could see its face close up. The eyes this year were balls of rolled up cloth, wrapped in twine, and the mouth was the cutaway of a tin can, painted in a garish red color. He stared morosely at the scarecrow, then planted a kiss on the rim of its mouth.
Pulling back, he muttered, "Talk about clowns being creepy—scarecrows are right up there with 'em."
He felt around on the ground to find the clothes he'd pushed aside. "You know, speaking of being a bastard who does and says what he likes, Snape was that sort. Yeah, never had to guess what he thought about things, the fucker."
He was struggling to stuff the unwieldy arms into the black coat as he muttered, "God, what a mouth he had on him. Course, he never had much time for me, the selfish wanker. I saw him not too long ago," Harry said between his teeth as he brought the front of the coat together, then used his wand to fasten it, not willing to do the buttons up by hand. "Same ugly face. Oh, he knew who I was, but do you think he'd even let on? Even after I nodded at him? Nah, never a good word for anyone; sometimes I'm sorry I saved his sorry arse." He sat back and looked around him for the trousers.
Pulling the scarecrow's lower half onto his lap, Harry snagged a leg, and was just about to start stuffing again, when a rustling in the field in front of him made him freeze.
"Who's there?" he called out, looking to the left and right, then murmuring, "Accio wand." It flew into his hand, and for a moment he sat there, straining to hear in the silence. After a moment of nothing, he shook his head and resumed punching a straw leg into the trouser.
"God, I'd like to meet him alone, in a back alley, and wipe that stupid smirk off his face. No wands, just the two of us," he growled as he almost savagely did up the fly with his wand. "It'd really feel great, to make him pay...show him who's the man. All those years of…"
He didn’t finish the thought. Because since the war, there'd been years of nothing. Nothing but a fantasy that grew like a cancer in his psyche, of snubs and intentional slurs and slights that had never occurred, but Harry'd long ago gone past the point of knowing the difference between fact and fantasy, so far as Snape was concerned. He'd fallen prey to the trap of one's focus becoming one's reality.
The finishing touch was a long, black silk scarf that Harry'd never seen Snape wear, but he'd found it in the trunk and thought it'd be a nice touch. After wrapping it around the irregular neck, throwing the end jauntily over the shoulder, he set the newly clothed scarecrow on its arse against its support pole, and lay back on his elbows to study his handiwork.
The specter of the lewd caricature swam woozily in front of him, as he rapidly blinked his eyes against the effects of the alcohol. He squinted in the moonlight.
"Looking good," he nodded as he felt around him for the bottle. Taking another swig, he barely managed to stay upright. "We need to have a little conversashunn," he slurred. "But first, need a spot o' sleep."
He stared at the scarecrow and could've sworn it nodded, and even more incongruously, crossed its legs.
"Sctaaaay there," he managed to mutter, then fell backward, his eyes registering the moon above him before they fluttered closed.
§§§§§§
When he awoke, the first thing he did was be violently sick in the field beside him.
Finally up on his knees, he finished retching, then sat back on his heels. He cast about for his glasses and his wand, but could find neither. "Accio wand," he said as he turned back to the scarecrow, then let out a yelp at the same time he scooted backward.
The scarecrow was alive. He'd seen it move, and then he realized that it held his wand in his hand. Harry rubbed at his eyes, then looked up again. Unfortunately, the apparition was still grinning at him.
"Tsk, tsk, Potter, caught with your zip down, are you?"
"Snape?" he gasped out, knowing even as he said it how stupid it was.
"Of a sort," the scarecrow said with a suitable sneer as it got to its feet, much too gracefully for a jointless overgrown stick figure. It moved soundlessly, with no rustling of straw, then stopped to tower over Harry.
His hand at his forehead, Harry looked up, afraid. "I'm dreaming. I'm drunk, and I'm hallucinating. I'm asleep in the cabin, and Gin'll wake me up if I make some noise."
The black-clad figure fell to its knees in front of him. "As usual, you can't make a simple decision, Potter. So which is it? Are you drunk or dreaming? And I wouldn't count on screaming. That would end our little…tryst, and I won't have that."
Harry could barely get the words out. "What are you?" His eyes dropped to the scarecrow's hand, where his wand was. Looking up, he whispered, "Finite Incantatem."
The scarecrow threw back its head and laughed. "I'm not something you can spell away. No, I'll go in my own time, when I've finished what I've come to do."
Although Harry tried to push himself backward in the field, the scarecrow reached out and grabbed both of his legs, fingers like steel wrapping around his calves and jerking him forward.
Harry cried out, but the sound was weak, as were his legs as he tried to kick them free. The scarecrow loomed closer, and suddenly, in a terrifying revelation, Harry saw that there wasn't anything straw-like about him. The gaunt cheeks shone pale in the moonlight, the bared teeth were sharp and putrid, and the eyes were no longer balls of twine, but black glittering prunes that radiated malevolence.
As Harry tried desperately to summon enough breath to scream, the hands moved up above his knees, then roughly wrenched at his waistband, popping open the fastenings. With a single jerk, his trousers were down around his thighs, as the thing leant in over him.
Harry suddenly remembered the threat. "What d'you mean, 'what you've come to do'?"
Its long fingered hands closed around his throat, pressing gently as the face bent over him. "Remember what you said?" it asked him softly, almost tenderly. "How you'd like to meet me alone, no wands, just the two of us…a friendly fight to see who's the man between us? Hmmm?"
"Thaaatt…that…can't b…be," Harry stammered, swallowing uncomfortably against the squeezing of his throat. "There w…was no one h…here…but the…sc…scarecrow."
"So you say, and there is still just you and the scarecrow," the Snape-like thing told him, spittle from its mouth spattering over Harry's face.
What happened next, happened so quickly that Harry was defenseless, unable to stop the momentum or take advantage to scuttle away. Grabbed at the shoulders, he was flipped over to his stomach, the straw stubble of the field poking like toothpicks into the tender flesh of his groin. His wrists were suddenly grasped and fixed behind his neck, at the same time as he felt the crushing weight of what he now realized must be a real live person kneeling on his legs behind him.
His face turned to the side, he felt the straw scratching the skin of his cheek as he tried to reason with it. "Wait! Wait, what're you doing, my wife's just inside, wait, wait, let's talk about this, I'm sure we can—ummpphh!" The air whooshed out of him as he was pressed even harder into the ground beneath him.
A voice close to his ear muttered, "For once in your life, hold your tongue. I've listened long enough. Time for talking's over, Potter. See how you like my answer."
Harry struggled to free his hands without success, then managed a feeble cry as he felt a knee brusquely separate his thighs. Just as his brain caught up with the dire reality of his situation, he opened his mouth to try again, and found there were no words as something blunt and hot was forced into the crack of his arse.
"Nooooo!" he managed a single wail as he felt his hands released, only to have his neck caught from behind by the vice-like fingers; they pushed his face into the straw, threatening to cut off his air supply. He frantically flailed his arms in the dirt and straw beside him, but the world was becoming gray, as he made a gurgling sound in the back of his throat. He managed to buck upwards once, when the dry cock speared into him, ripping him wide open.
Harry gave up then, and lay with his arms out to the side, gasping in great gulps of air when the pressure on his throat let up slightly. He was vaguely aware of crying, as the man behind him continued his pitiless pumping, each stroke a streak of fire in Harry's arse. There was a wet sensation there now, and Harry, not really caring, realized it must be blood. He felt like he was been pounded into a bed of red-hot needles, and closed his eyes, grimly determined to stay conscious and, an even better plan, come out of it alive.
Suddenly, he was free, but before he could move, he was being flipped again. His head hit the ground hard, as the shadow loomed over him, its weight coming down forcibly on his chest. Harry wheezed, and as he did he felt the cock being pressed into his face, seeking his mouth. He grit his teeth, then when he felt the fingers close around his throat again, he obediently opened. He didn't have to suck, though; in a few plunges, the man was coming, his hands still at Harry's throat as he rutted into it.
Harry felt the bile begin to rise up, and he panicked until the voice growled, "Swallow!" Knowing he had no choice, Harry did. He felt his stomach lurch at the taste, along with the bitter gall of the alcohol trying to force its way up. His eyes watered, but still the man stayed where he was, one of his hands milking his cock as he force-fed Harry every last drop.
The weight atop him shifted, then the softening cock was withdrawn; Harry lay still as death as the fingers left his throat, then had to force himself not to turn his face away when the figure bent forward, still straddling him at the waist.
"Have we learnt anything, Potter?" the man murmured close to his lips, so close that Harry was afraid of touching them, were he to answer.
Swallowing, his throat so sore he wasn't certain he could form words, Harry mumbled, "Never trust a scarecrow."
There was a soft laugh, then the surprise of lips mouthing over his own, stealing what little breath he had, as the hands began to squeeze again, gently at first, then harder. Harry tried to squirm away, but the tongue in his mouth seemed to pinion him to the ground. As he began to lose consciousness, Harry wondered over it all: he'd survived a madman in the war, only to be done in by a scarecrow with a grudge.
When he came back to himself, he was alone, his hands folded neatly across his chest, his wand resting beneath them. For a moment he wondered if he'd dreamt it all, but then he moved. And this time he cried out with a sound like a wolf at the full moon.
He could feel every single point of contact he'd had with the straw. And the gravest injury…when he stood, there was a trickling of blood that ran from his arse, down along the inside of his leg. He spat repeatedly to get the taste of the man out of his mouth, then finally, he made slow progress through the field to the well.
After he washed, he tried several healing spells, but found there was no remedy for the pain in his arse, although the bleeding stopped. He figured the scarecrow had wanted it this way.
He glanced back at the field, and was relieved to see the scarecrow hanging in place. He had no desire to face it again, just now. He wasn't sure what he'd've done with it, had he had to handle it—maybe set it and the entire field ablaze, in a fond farewell to his obsession with the man in black.
§§§§§§
"Harry!"
Harry set his tea cup down with a sigh, then stood painfully to limp just to the door, knowing that once he was outside, he'd have to walk normally.
Out on the porch, he hailed her with his hand. "What?" he called to her, where she stood out in the field. When she waved for him to join her, he sighed wearily and ground his teeth as he took the steps and traipsed the hundred feet into the field where the scarecrow hung.
"Look," she said, pointing as he approached. "Isn't that bizarre? They've got black clothes on him this year."
Harry shoved his hands in his pocket, trying to affect nonchalance. "Maybe that's all they had."
Ginny snorted. "Not a very good way to scare crows. They're afraid of bright colors."
Harry looked up at the scarecrow, noting that one of its twine ball eyes was missing. "I dunno, Gin, looks pretty scary to me."
"And see here," she said as she circumscribed a circle with a hand. "There's blood in the straw."
Harry stared at the concentration of bloody straw that lay about six feet from the scarecrow. "Hmmm, must've been an animal."
"It's Halloween, maybe it was a virgin sacrifice," Ginny laughed.