Fic: Save a Slave, Ride a Scientist! CH: 1 WiP
LJ-SEC: (ORIGINALLY POSTED BY amorymichelle)
Title: Save a Slave, Ride a Scientist! Author: Amory Pairings: (all are in the future--none in this chapter) Alan Rickman/Daniel Radcliffe, mentions of Jason Isaacs/Daniel Radcliffe, mentions of David Yates/Daniel Radcliffe, some mild Tom Felton/Daniel Radcliffe Rating: Eventual NC-17, this chapter is G (just setup for the storyline) but in future chapters it will become RPS slash. Summary: Alan Rickman is a famous scientist--but he's just as well known for his strange solitude! His friend and advisor, Tom Felton, wants Alan to give into the system, to stick with a body slave for more than a day, and attend a few social functions to keep their company's funding firm. However, when Alan gives into Tom after stumbling across young Daniel, the very odd and somewhat abused body slave of the recently deceased David Yates, at an open estate sale, he wasn't expecting to be drawn into a murder conspiracy involving some of the richest men and cruelest mobs on planet Earth! But, even more frightening for this monk-like Einstein of a man, he *really* wasn't expecting to fall in love! Chapter Wordcount: 4,000 Disclaimer: This is so far from the truth that it's false! The people sure as hell ain't mine and they belong entirely to themselves and any major movie corporations who have stolen their souls. Many of the places and companies in this story are jokingly named after things from the Harry Potter universe and all such humorous hints at my Harry obsession belong entirely to JK Rowling and all those other people who own parts of it.
Notes & Warnings: This occurs in poisontaster's A Kept Boy universe and more info can be found on this fascinating storyline at the whatwekeepFrequently Asked Questions section. This is eventually a love story between Alan Rickman and Daniel Radcliffe. It involves dubious consent and non-consent, as well as slavery. If these themes bother you then please do not read any further. Also, though all the sexually-involved characters are at or over the age of majority (18), there will be mentions of Daniel Radcliffe as a child in sexual situations. Oh and by the way, I know NOTHING about science. I did religious studies and English in college. I took one Astronomy course and almost failed. It's all made up and I already know it makes no sense... so set aside disbelief and we'll play dress up! :)
A "Key" of Real People in Relation to Harry Potter Movies: Alan Rickman=Severus Snape, Tom Felton=Draco Malfoy, Daniel Radcliffe=Harry Potter, David Yates=A Random Director, Jason Isaacs=Lucius Malfoy, Maggie Smith=Minerva McGonagall
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Save a Slave, Ride a Scientist! Chapter 1: Science is a Man's Best Friend By: Amory
As much as the Yates Manor looked as though it had been uprooted straight from a Disney movie, there would be no happily ever after for British billionaire David Yates. Having made his fortune through the development of resource satellites for nations unaligned to the USNA, up until his death Yates had been the wealthiest British citizen--and one of the wealthiest men in general--on the Earth. Every major government outside the USNA was contracted satellites through his company, Slytherin Satellite Development, where innovative designs for resource creation could be obtained by both governmental and private agencies. These satellites, a recent development, were the answer to Earth’s pending doom as subterranean resources diminished at shocking rates.
The satellites were capable of harnessing the results of thermonuclear fusion and, through a form of chemical induced photosynthesis, creating vast amounts of energy which could then be beamed to Earth. Every developed nation in the world had some sort of research facility regarding this endeavor; however, most were greatly underfunded and produced no more than their name promised: research. Only the USNA, with its access to cheap labor and the interest of its *very* wealthy leaders, had managed to actually produce prototypes and, finally, fully functional satellites. The USNA, however, was not interested in sharing its research with nations such as Great Britain, who had broken all ties with the United States in rebellion against the reinstatement of slavery. This placed Slytherin Satellite in a very good position--though its headquarters were based in Britain, the actual labor was provided within the USNA, at Slytherin’s *real* main office. Through the use of slave labor, Slytherin was able to move beyond mere research into production and was more than willing to sell its satellites to nations unaffiliated with the USNA. Though Slytherin’s use of slave labor was a very well known “rumor,” it was oft overlooked by governments desperately in need of energy sources beyond oil and gas. This had left Yates and his co-owner, Jason Isaacs, living very comfortably.
Alan Rickman had never held much affection for Yates. The man was obsessed with money; nothing else interested him in the least. Not family, not friends, not even the effects of his products upon the Earth. As long as the dollars were still rolling in, Yates was a happy man. Hell, while so many North Americans dreamed desperately of one day being transported to Britain, thereby escaping a life of poverty soon to become eternal slavery, Yates had actually skipped his prep-school graduation to catch a flight to New York City, determined to become the wealthiest man in the world. For two years Alan had shared a room with Yates at Durmstrang School for Boys, just outside of London. Even at that age Alan had found him to be unbearably gluttonous and self-absorbed.
“Britain is destroying itself by refusing to enact slavery within its borders!” Yates had claimed. “Morality is useless in the face of politics! By providing free labor, the USNA will gain rapid economic strength which will quickly lead to greater and greater military strength, thereby placing North America in the spot of ultimate power! History shows that such power will inevitably lead to the conquering of all lesser powers. While the Romans may have been unable to reach the ends of the earth, with modern technology the entire planet will be overtaken one day by the strong--and that strength comes through wealth.”
Alan closed his eyes for a moment as the car rolled on, the memories leaving a sour feeling in his gut. His company, Rickman & Smith Inc, had done much of Slytherin’s research on chemical photosynthesis, but Alan had never been fully comfortable doing business for the man. He was a scientist; he liked to think of his research in the laboratory as an art form, and a gift to society. Yates was much too blasé about his work. He wanted results that could be sold, not complicated theories that might one day better the Earth. It had usually been Maggie who’d met with Yates during consultations. Alan had a hard enough time controlling his temper around people he liked--or at least had no grudges against, since he didn’t like very many people. Around someone he couldn’t stand, he was a nuclear weapon waiting to form a mushroom cloud.
The limousine’s wheels ground upon the gravel paved path as they pulled through the gates leading to the Yates Estate. It really was a beautiful place, crafted with some hints of Gothic structure, though not so much that it overwhelmed. It was certainly fit for a Lord--if that Lord’s title was hierarchical and the mansion had been in one’s family since Arthur pulled a sword from a stone and ran off in search of an old cup. But no, Yates’ title--like Alan’s own--was nothing more than a silly honorific tossed around by a bunch of rich wankers whose social structure was much like that of a bunch of five year olds on a playground: tag, you’re it! My best friend today, a loser tomorrow.
Across from Alan, the slave who was currently serving as his secretary, excuse me, his *personal assistant*, at Rickman & Smith sifted haphazardly through a massive stack of papers, the eyes behind his thick-framed glasses flickering quickly across the print. Alan couldn’t even remember the boy’s name--this was his fourth secretary in less than a week, as he had already managed to frighten two of the annoying pieces of luggage away--but his nervously tapping hands and disorganized manner was already irritating him. And that didn’t even take into account the bloody blabbering.
“Oh, Lord Rickman, Sir, I really think you’ll be pleased with the collections, Sir! It’s a wonderful example of the, uh,” a glance back at the notebook he had clenched in one palm, “the mid to early--I mean late!--nineteenth century Impressionables.”
Alan rolled his eyes. “You mean Impressionists?”
“Yes, yes, that’s it, yes! And, um, the, uh, furniture! Some really beautiful pieces that are, um, hold on let me find the note, Lord Rickman, I know that there was something about a birdcage…”
Alan let the lad’s ramblings fade from his consciousness, not really giving a damn what some slave--who he was going to bloody well make sure was scared off back to the copy room by this time on Monday--thought about an overpriced footstool. He hated it when the slaves referred to him as “Lord Rickman.” The Laborist movement was nothing if not full of itself! He missed Britain, where at least if someone called you “Lord” it was in jest--or else your family’s interbreeding could be traced back at least seventeen generations. All this social worry over silly titles; in his mind everyone in the USNA was a slave, to their own bloody pretentions no less! The tip of the top seemed to truly believe themselves better than the poor man, yet what man didn’t stumble in his life? And how can one be better than another when it is simply the luck of the draw to be born in a brothel or a mansion? Only a culture that had once enslaved people based only on their *skin tone* could really convince itself that enslaving a man because he couldn’t pay his electricity bill or make his car payment was a step *up* for society.
The neatly landscaped lawn continued to pass by, azalea shrubs in full bloom and beds of colorful pansies lining the drive, and Alan wondered just how much acreage the place was set on. The car finally pulled into a cul-de-sac, the drive swinging around the large fountain set at its center. A stone Venus rose nude from the water, balanced on her shell, and streams sprayed around her. Behind her loomed the mansion, its wings spreading far to either side and its Gothic inspired towers rising high into the sky. The sight should have been awing, but one glance out the window had Alan holding back an outright laugh. Less than twenty-four hours since David Yates’ death and his estate already looked like a Roman sale! The justice of it made him smirk.
Dozens of Lords and Ladies leaned daintily against their limousines and mingled together at the fountain, their fine clothing and the delicate stemmed wine glasses balanced between their fingers professing their wealth. The broad entry way was crowded with slaves trying fruitlessly to press their Masters’ way into one of the buyer’s tour groups or to acquire a bidding booklet. The men attempting to organize the process looked as though they might very well collapse at any moment and Alan guessed that they were no more than house slaves, or perhaps realtors, trying to control a situation far beyond their expertise. In fact, this looked more like a job for bouncers than realtors!
At the announcement of David Yates’ sudden death the night before, the social world had gone into an absolute uproar. Oh, while the death itself *had* been a shock--the man was only in his forties--the truly unbelievable lay in the fact that he had never actually filed any sort of will. Alan had a rather hard time believing that, but all of Yates’ lawyers swore it was the truth. As a single man, preoccupied with his wealth and having little attention span for anything else, Yates had no known heir or family to which his estate might go. His company, however, had recently encountered some financial difficulties, suddenly finding itself in debt of over thirty-seven million dollars, and his partner, Jason Isaacs, now the *only* CEO of Slytherin Satellites, had made the decision to dissolve Yates’ personal assets as soon as possible in order to cover this debt. The man’s haste left Alan with his suspicions of just what sort of people the holders of that debt might be--maybe even the kind that would make a shove into slavery look *generous.* In the business world there were even some tales of Slytherin having interactions with the Order of the Phoenix, a powerful crime organization well known for its tendency to assassinate its adversaries under the cloak of anti-slavery terrorism. Despite appearances, the Order seemed to hold no real political stance on slavery and was rumored to have a firm, underground hold in many of the world’s most powerful bureaucracies, including the United States and Britain. If Slytherin Satellites really had been involved with the Order, or even its major opposition in New York, the Death Eaters, an Aryan brotherhood with a foot in both the city’s law force and judicial system, it was likely that Yates’ sudden death wasn’t really so surprising.
The Chief Medical Examiner had declared Yates’ sudden passing as simple heart failure, a result of a few too many good cuts of steak and not enough workouts; however, Alan had his doubts. Yates had always been a remarkably healthy man. His blood pressure had never been a problem and he hadn’t been any more overweight than your average tosser. And to have died suddenly, with no will, so that his assets would automatically pass on to his company, just in time to pay off a major debt? It all seemed a little too coincidental for Alan who, as a scientist, really didn’t believe much in coincidence, karma or not. Not, of course, that Alan would *ever* think Jason Isaacs to be capable of murder--but he sure wouldn’t consider him below it, either.
“My good Lord, sir, we have arrived!” The Slave With No Name had an obviously fake smile plastered across his face and Alan didn’t bother to try to not roll his eyes.
“That’s brilliant. Now let’s get this bloody trip over with so that I can head home, get completely sloshed, and contemplate the day I shall shut down the North American subdivision of Rickman & Smith, grab a private jet back to Britain, and return to our wonderfully *closed* borders--far away from all of *you.*” Alan smirked as he climbed out of the car, the boy’s choking sounds amusing him greatly. Maybe the kid *wouldn’t* last ‘til Monday. Oh, Maggie would lecture his ear off if he frightened off an assistant in less than a day. These slaves were stubborn enough that even *he* hadn’t managed to do that before. But, hey, what is greatness if not breaking one’s own record?
“Eh, Rickman, good to see you, mate!” A tall figure rose up from where he’d been balanced on Venus’ giant shell and waved gleefully at him, his lithe frame towering over the Lords and Ladies that milled stuffily around him. Alan smiled and moved over to meet his friend and employee, grasping at Tom’s proffered hand.
“Hullo, Felton! Glad to see you’re already here! Any chance that you’ve already looked over the estate, maybe bought up a candlestick or two, and I can just turn around, shove Secretary Boy back into the car, and return to the peace of my dungeon?”
The other man let out an exaggerated sigh, tossing his arms up into the air. “Alan, Alan, Alan! That *would* kind of ruin the bloody point, wouldn’t it, now, mate? You know, that whole ‘prove to the North American world that Alan Rickman is actually a living, breathing man--not an ugly arse blow up doll sitting in a lab at R&S Towers waiting for the janitor to come along and have some fun’ bit? They call me the Chief Personnel Advisor for a *reason,* Rickman--because the wanker with the messy black hair and the lousy fashion sense whose name is on the building is entirely incapable of human contact without little Mummy Felton a’hangin’ off his arm with one hand up his bum, directing his words like Frank Oz to Yoda.”
“Oh, bugger off you little prat.” He gestured vaguely toward all the rich tossers roaming the area, dragging their too-beautiful-to-be-free “body slaves” (such a subtle title, that!) around behind them. “Why should I give an ass’ arse what these wankers think of me, Tom? ‘Laborists,’ indeed! Most of them have never done a day of labor in their lives. After all, they have some poor nancy whose grandfather was late with a car payment or what not to do it all for them!”
Tom sighed and gave a shrug. “It isn’t about you making friends, Alan. Hell, I’d rather be stuck in a prison with my sentence based on Her Majesty’s pleasure than on your ability to form a friendly acquaintance! It’s about making your consumers--and your *funders*--comfortable with whatever image of you they hold in those empty heads of theirs! This isn’t Britain, Rickman, so stop expecting everyone else to change just so you can feel more at home. We may not be in Kansas anymore, chum, but we still got ourselves a profit to turn and to them your oh-so-intellectual solitude leaves you the odd duck out. You don’t have to change who you are, Alan. You just have to give them a couple of performances, let the tossers think you’re somebody you’re not, firm up that funding, then slip peacefully away back to your potion making, and Bob’s your uncle! Everything’s jolly good on the money front, you’re normal enough to be of no interest to the gossip circles, and you can return to scaring off slaves and hiding in your laboratory twenty-four seven.”
Alan let out a snort. “A bunch of bollocks. Why do they care how I live?”
Tom rolled his eyes and leaned toward Alan, a smirk on his face. “Because they’re nosy wankers, obviously!” he said, his voice low and his smirk growing wider. “Hell, just stick with one slave for awhile, go to a couple of charity dinners or what not and try not to curse anyone out--at least not in any language they recognize.” He shrugged, smirking a little nefariously. “Bugger it, maybe you should go beyond the secretaries. Get yourself a real body slave. It will make you more acceptable to the Laborists who fund us and, hey, you get your self a little ‘helping hand’ at home--in many ways!” The blonde grinned widely, wagging his eyebrows as Alan rolled his eyes.
“Apparently unlike *some* people,” he glared pointedly at Tom, “I do not need to *purchase* someone in order to get laid, Felton--thank you very much for your confidence in my abilities, by the way--and I already *have* a slave!” He threw up his hands in annoyance. “For the love of God, I *always* have a slave, right there on my bloody heels, always looking for something to do, blah, blah, blah!” Alan gestured vaguely toward his secretary, who was currently squatting on the ground trying desperately to rake up the massive stack of papers he’d just dropped, his head swinging back and forth wildly as he glanced wide-eyed at the Lords and Ladies who had paused their chit chat in order to giggle at him and make snide comments on his worth--or lack thereof.
Tom rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, that’s right, then. How could I forget about dear--oh, just what *is* his name, Alan?” He smirked.
Alan paused for a moment, opened his mouth to answer then shut it again before opening it once more to say, “It’s, um, it’s Harry. Yes, that’s it. Harry.”
Tom just looked at him doubtfully, a smirk on his lips as he cocked his head toward the young man. “Oh yeah? All right, then. Hey, Harry! Just leave that and come give me a hand here, would you, lad?” The boy didn’t even glance up, still rifling awkwardly through the paperwork. Tom looked back at Alan, one eyebrow raised. “Harry, huh?”
Alan scowled. “Oh, piss off.”
Tom laughed. “Bugger, Rickman! You go through slaves like Nicole Kidman goes through sex toys! You may have Maggie fooled, but I know good and well that you chase them off on purpose, *Lord* Rickman! I am bloody well tired of having to make excuses to our funding corporations for why you can’t be bothered to leave your laboratory for a fifteen minute board meeting, much less any *social* event that might very well put Rickman & Smith on the radars of some very important people! All you *ever* do is putter about in that dungeon you call a chemistry lab! You have got to get out more, Alan, I really mean it!” Tom took a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking his head. “Things aren’t going so great on monetary side this quarter, mate. Really, it would be a big step up if you could just *interact* with some of the people who have a hand in our company. At the very least just keep a slave around for awhile.” He laughed again, smirking. “At least then the gossip train can come up with a reason that you never come out of your Hobbit hole--something beyond that you’ve turned into Gollum and you’re spending your days stroking your Precious!”
Alan let out a loud sigh. “Oh, thank you, Tom, your politesse never ceases to amaze. Look, I am not trying to hurt the company! I simply find my greatest pleasures in a laboratory! And I don’t try to run off my body slaves, or personal assistants, or whatever the fuck I’m supposed to call them! We just… tend to quickly come to the agreement that they would, in fact, be of better and more efficient use in other areas of the company."
Tom was silent for a moment before letting out an exasperated sigh. “Rickman, you’ve run off three this week.”
“Not on purpose!”
“You dumped a pot of coffee over one’s head.”
“It was an accident.”
“The pot was from your laboratory. You dumped it on him in the Tower’s lobby. Three floors up from the lab.”
“I was taking it to the receptionist.”
Tom shook his head. “You tossed one of them out a restaurant’s window.”
“The window was *open.* I wanted him to feed the meter so I didn’t get a ticket! It was a *job*.”
“Last week you locked one in the city morgue.”
Alan scowled. “Bollocks. The ME had asked for my opinion on the drugs in a body they’d found over on Diagon. I didn’t realize that the boy had come into the observatory with me. He should have stayed in the lobby like I told him--then it wouldn’t have happened! It was entirely accidental.”
Tom snorted and shook his head. “I find that hard to believe, considering that he was locked in one of the *drawers* used for *storing bodies.*”
Alan let out a sigh, silently admitting defeat. “All right, all right. But, bloody hell, Felton! They’re just so damn annoying! Everywhere I go, there they are! I try to work, they’re right beside me, wanting to bring me this or that or telling me some story about something that they want to do for me… And it’s forever ‘Lord Rickman’ this, ‘Lord Rickman’ that. I’m not a bloody Lord, Tom! Last time I checked my great grandfather was a tailor, *not* a nobleman, and I don’t know who in the social scene decided I should be knighted or what not, but I never asked for it!”
Tom gave a shrug. “That’s just the way it is, Alan. For God’s sake, you’re acknowledged as one of the greatest minds of our time! Without your work we could never have adapted photosynthesis in a way that it could help us fuel our world! *Time Magazine* wanted to name you Man of the Year when you were thirty, Alan! You may have refused it but people remember. So they call you a Lord. You just have to deal with it and accept that sometimes we have to do things we don’t like in order to get what we need. And, for God’s sake, the whole slave thing…I know you like your solitude but I can’t imagine that it’s that bad--"
“My good Lord, I am so sorry! I beg your forgiveness. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you, Sir? Do you need anything, my Lord? Are you ready to enter the manor, Sir? Here, I have the papers, just give me a moment and I’ll sort through them and when I find the ones that I was looking at then I’ll be sure and direct you to what I believe will be the best purchases available on the estate, though of course if you do not agree then I can find something that should--Oh, oh MY!!!” The boy tripped over his right foot and tumbled back to the ground, his recently gathered paperwork scattering the drive once more.
There was a moment of silence before Tom finally spoke, obviously trying hard not to laugh. “Wow. Okay, yeah, maybe we’ll find you someone a little less… wants-to-be-secretarial and a little more wants-to-sit-quietly-in-the-corner.” He knelt down. “Hey, kid?”
The boy looked up, his breath quickening and his eyes wide. “Yes, Master Felton?”
Tom smiled reassuringly. “You know, the marketing department could really use some new blood in the copy room. Why don’t you go back to the limo and wait there, and, when we get finished up here,” he gestured toward the manor, “we’ll discuss your new place of service. All right? Good.”
Tom grabbed Alan’s arm and hauled him toward the doors, shoving the crowd aside. “All right, Rickman, let’s get this terrible torture I am afflicting upon you over with. Buy a few vases, a tapestry, maybe a St. Andrew’s cross or two that he’s got tucked into a corner, and we’ll be out of here by noon! Ah, hey there’s Lady Jolie. Give a wave, my good Lord!” Tom smirked as Alan rolled his eyes, and he yanked the older man through the barricade of tired realtors into the mansion beyond.