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Harry put his face in his hands, staring down at the parchment that had arrived for him during breakfast. He'd been so surprised at the time that he hadn't even looked that closely at it; now he was alone at a table in the library, actively regretting the past four days of his existence.
He'd sent Voldemort anonymous hatemail in the post, and of course the Dark Lord knew how to get a letter back, even if he didn't seem to know who it was. Worse, he hadn't even succeeded in pissing the bastard off, which had been his entire point. It could never be that easy, apparently.
No, Harry had opened the envelope to find witty comebacks . He was being toyed with.
"Fuck you," he muttered, "you shrivel-dicked son of a whore." He actually thought about writing that, but considering his original insult -- borrowed from Monty Python -- had just gotten him quoted back at…
Still, the image of a shrivel-dicked Voldemort was pretty funny. Harry drew a crude figure on the back of the parchment, and folded it up. Then he went back to the Gryffindor common room and begged a bottle of Firewhiskey off Seamus, determined to get roaring drunk.
He really, really shouldn't have done that .
Because, nursing his hangover, he got a new letter, and realized without even opening it what had happened to his drawing.
Liquid courage be damned, he'd sent it to Voldemort .
He glanced down at the parchment address. At least he'd sent it anonymously.
It was Saturday, so Harry slept off the rest of his hangover without opening the letter. He skipped dinner, going to the kitchens instead, and it was there, underneath the Great Hall, that he finally opened the response to his drawing.
He nearly spit out his pumpkin juice at the sight of the detailed, labelled drawing that covered one side of the parchment. Face reddened with surprise, he turned it over to read the message on the other side.
I had expected better from my anonymous hate-writer, but given the alcohol fumes coming off your drawing, I suppose inebriation is a valid defense for such inaccuracy. Please find enclosed a corrected illustration, for your consideration.
'Consideration' was...a word for it, Harry supposed. He blinked slowly down at the page, the sight burning itself into his retinas. Particularly the neat labels drawn on the borders of the image: the ones which read Length: seven inches (flaccid), eight-and-one-half inches (fully erect) and Girth: approx. seven inches (erect) .
"That's big," Harry muttered under his breath.
It was all he said for a long time.
Eight and a half inches long. Seven inches around. Harry could barely believe it. But then, Voldemort had crafted his new body in a ritual. Maybe it was intentional? It wasn't like he could ask how big he'd been...before.
He put his face in his hands again. This whole situation was ridiculous. Here he'd thought, while slightly buzzed, that it would be fun to send Voldemort some anonymous hate. Hermione would have called it 'cathartic'. In fact, she probably did, she was there when he talked about the idea.
Harry hadn't gained any catharsis from this exercise. No, he'd gained a detailed drawing of Voldemort's massive cock and now that he knew , he couldn't stop thinking about it. This is exactly when Obliviation comes in handy , he mused.
In the end, Harry didn't write to Voldemort again for nearly a week. He kept the drawing in his trunk, folded up and hidden underneath a set of school robes that no longer fit. But physical distance wasn't doing anything to let him forget.
By Thursday evening, Harry had to admit to himself that he was feeling...something...in regard to the drawing, and what it meant. He wasn't attracted to Voldemort's dick. He wasn't. Really.
Denial isn't just a river, Harry.
Okay. He kind of was. But how could he not be, seeing that shape, that size? He could just trace his tongue down the vein on the underside of it --
"Harry, class is over, come on," Ron nudged him with his elbow. "You've been daydreaming all week. It's time for lunch, mate."
Harry didn't trust himself with Firewhiskey, or any alcohol really, while his thoughts kept straying to the drawing. But he forgot that during the party in the Gryffindor commons, Friday evening, and took a great swig of something new Fred and George had smuggled in -- what did they call it? Gamp's Old Greg...Grig...Grog... Gamp's Old Grog. Whatever, close enough.
His friends were cheering him on, but whatever the hell was in the Grog was really hitting hard. Harry shook his head, setting the empty pint glass back on the counter, and stumbled off to the sixth-year dorms.
When he woke up again, Tempus told him it was Saturday afternoon, and an owl was tapping incessantly on the window. Harry dragged himself over to it; hell, he was still buzzed. He took the letter from the bird and staggered back to his four-poster, drawing the curtains shut in anticipation of another nap.
About that point, he recognized the handwriting on the envelope, and his stomach lurched.
Oh no.
He hadn't .
...Had he?
Groaning, Harry tried to recall the remainder of the previous night. What had he written this time?
I was quite surprised by the contents of your letter, this time, read Voldemort's script. It took Harry some time to decipher, the way everything kept blurring in and out of focus. But then, Gamp's Old Gregarious is quite the brew, and your message was nearly drowned in it. I have taken the liberty of returning you a copy, though I shall keep the original. It would be most uncourteous to take advantage of a Gamp's-induced memory gap, even for a Dark Lord.
To answer your main query, however, yes, it does. Eventually.
With shaking fingers, Harry unfolded the copied letter included in the envelope. What. Had. He. Written?
"Oh, bugger."
"Dear Dark Lord Voldemort," Harry read aloud, cringing already at the greeting. "I find myself in disbelief at the statistics so provided in your last correspondence." (Oh fuck all he'd been that kind of pissed.) "With all due respect, I wish to examine the data..." He gaped at the rest of the sentence.
...I wish to examine the data at its source, in raw form, at a time and location convenient to us both. Furthermore, I believe the illustration is lacking in several areas, more specifically, seminal volume, smell, and taste.
"I'm so fucked," Harry muttered under his breath. "Please tell me I didn't put my name on this." He didn't want to look yet until he'd seen the rest of his message, though.
In accordance with the scientific process, observations would be best conducted several times, and the results compared, for accuracy. Please respond at your earliest convenience as to your interest or disinterest.
And there.
At the bottom of the page.
Sincerely,
Harry James Potter.
He squinted at the post-script. P.S., Does it even fit when you're buggering someone?
He blamed Hermione for making him read all those academic letters last week.
"Merlin help me, I'm never going to live this down," Harry groaned, covering his face in his hands. He flopped back against the pillows, wishing he could go back to sleep and never wake up.
Unfortunately, he opened his eyes Sunday morning, and after threatening Seamus into sharing his Hangover Cure, was functional enough at breakfast to spot the owl headed his way, bearing yet another letter. Perhaps unwisely, he opened it at the table; it was a list of dates and times, and at the bottom, an address. The Hog's Head Inn, Hogsmeade, Room Thirteen.
He took a shuddering breath, feeling more than seeing the heat on his cheeks. It was currently a Hogsmeade weekend. The first date and time listed were for that afternoon.
...He wasn't going to go, right?
"Hey Harry, we're going to Hogsmeade, are you coming?" Hermione tapped him on the shoulder, breaking him from his catatonia. "Harry?"
...He was going.
The Hog's Head was just as grimy as it had been the previous year, only now Harry had had the foresight to leave his school robes behind. He didn't get nearly as many looks from the people already in the bar, that way.
"Thirteen's up the steps, last door on the left," the bartender told him, nodding toward a rickety staircase set along one wall. Harry nodded to him wordlessly, trying and failing to calm his nerves at the prospect of knocking on that door. In the end, the choice was taken from him: his feet had already made their way to the threshold, and the doorknob was turning.
He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the dusty wooden floor, not willing to acknowledge his situation yet. "Harry," came the hissed greeting, "do come in. I daresay we have much to talk about."
Harry didn't look up until the door had closed behind him. When he did, it was to see the Dark Lord in a black suit. Voldemort had left the tie off of it, and undone the top few buttons; Harry had an unrestricted view of his pale collarbones. The sight was making his mouth dry.
Curse him, Voldemort seemed perfectly at ease. He had a large tumbler glass in each hand, and was offering one to Harry. Still reeling from the absurdity of the situation, Harry let himself be coaxed into an armchair beside the fire, and took, but did not drink, the probable-Firewhiskey in his glass.
"Where to begin," Voldemort mused, sipping his drink. "Perhaps a discussion of the contents of your most recent letter?" He crossed one elegant leg over the other (and damn it, where had the 'elegant' come from), reclining in his chair. "It's quite flattering, you know, to be flirted with by your mortal enemy."
"...I'm not feeling very flattered," Harry deadpanned, eyes tracing the man's silhouette against the flames.
Voldemort smiled. " Fitting, seeing as I haven't even begun to flirt with you. " He set his drink aside on a table and leaned forward, uncrossing his legs. "Would you like me to?"
"Um," Harry stammered, blinking, eyes wide. "Er..." He couldn't help the darting glances at Voldemort's groin, given the way he was sitting...nor the way his cheeks burned under that attentive red gaze.
"At risk of sounding flirtatious," Voldemort continued, "you seem to be more inclined to gather your 'data' than to speak, and I won't mind in the least if you put that mouth to better use than words."
Harry set his glass aside. He was going to be stone-cold sober, he decided, as he stood from his chair, walked over to where Voldemort sat, and slid to his knees without a word.
Above him, Voldemort took in a sharp breath. He didn't move to help or deter Harry from reaching for the buttons on his trousers and unfastening them, fumbling.
Then there was only a thin layer of black silk between Harry and...and that. He leaned in closer, tugging at the waistband with trembling fingertips. He knew he was sober, but this felt like being drunk.
Voldemort's arm twitched when Harry first brushed against the bare skin of his cock, like he meant to grab Harry but was restraining himself. He did shift a bit in his seat, though, when Harry grasped it properly, tugging it free from his clothes.
Harry let out a shuddering, hot breath at the sight of it, the feel of it. It was hot in his hands, and it smelled..."Smells good," he murmured under his breath. Fuck, Voldemort wasn't even half-hard yet, though his cock was twitching with interest. Harry swallowed, the click of his throat loud in the silence of the room.
He could feel the tenting in his own trousers already, but resisted the urge to do something about it yet.
" Go on," Voldemort purred, "I know you want to."
"Ah." Harry felt those words go right to his cock. "I'm...I'm gonna."
He leaned in, staring cross-eyed at the shiny darkening head of it. Slowly, tentatively, he brought his mouth closer, giving it a little lick on the slit.
Voldemort let out a wordless hiss, moving forward in his seat so he could lean back against the cushioning. His erection was swelling up to match the drawing Harry had spent days fantasizing over, and the sight of it was utterly fascinating. Enthralling. "Beautiful," Harry whispered, just before he moved to lick a stripe down the vein underneath, like he'd wanted to.
Voldemort didn't have the coarse nest of hair at the root that most men did, Harry noticed as he breathed deeply of the musk at his crotch, feeling the weight of the Dark Lord's erection against his cheekbone. It made sense, though, given the fine scales that covered his body instead. Harry mouthed up along the side of the shaft, now, encircling the base loosely in his fist.
He was aware of the Dark Lord watching him, unblinking, when he licked his lips and pressed them to the blunt, wide head: a first attempt at taking him into his mouth. Voldemort hummed, pleased, at the way Harry choked on it, struggling. " Relax your throat, and breathe through your nose, " he instructed, trailing the fingertips of one hand through Harry's messy hair. The touch was electrifying; Harry's surprised moan was muffled by the cock in his mouth. He attempted to heed his advice.
It was harder than it looked in the mags strewn about the dorm. Harry's eyes were watering as he took it further, forcing himself not to gag. " Very good, Harry ," Voldemort hissed, and Harry moaned louder as fingers tangled themselves in his hair, tugging. " Now, use your tongue. Swallow around me...yesss. " Harry glanced up from the man's lap to see the satisfied glint in his eyes.
Harry figured he was getting the method down enough to keep going. He pulled back until just the head was inside, gave a little suck to taste the salty fluid leaking out, and bobbed his head back down, taking a little more of it this time. From the sound that escaped Voldemort's lips at the motion, he was doing it well.
Harry wanted to do well. He wanted...well, he wanted to swallow when Voldemort came. It was one of his hottest fantasies.
Ignoring the soreness in his jaw, Harry kept going, losing himself in the experience of giving head. The way Voldemort's cock pulsed against his tongue, the heat and hardness of it, the taste... Feels so good, Harry thought, blissful. He could take a painkiller in advance, next time, and keep doing this for hours.
(When had he decided he was doing this more than once?)
" Harry ," that enticing voice called down to him, " are you going to swallow? " There was just a hint of strain in the Dark Lord's voice.
Yes , Harry thought, I am . He took the Dark Lord's cock as deep as he could, sucking hard, and dragged his mouth back up in time to taste the flood of seed as it spilled into his mouth. A line of it dripped down his chin; then he pulled his mouth off completely, letting the head rest on his tongue as the last spurts came out.
"Delicious," he tried to say. It came out hoarser than he'd expected.
He looked up at Voldemort, from his lap. The Dark Lord's pupils were wider than usual, almost round. A faint flush was high on his cheeks, and for all that he seemed to be trying to conceal it, his breath was coming in harsh pants. The sight stirred Harry up more than pornography. He wondered how *he* must look, in this moment.
The hand in his hair let go, sliding down to cup his cheek instead. " You've done so well, " Voldemort praised him, thumb rubbing over his cheekbone. " Servicing me. " Harry shivered under the intensity of the gaze. " Can you climb into my lap? "
Harry stood on shaking legs and practically fell on top of him as he attempted to do so. Arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him in, up against the Dark Lord's chest. One hand slid lower, groping his butt. " Very good, " Voldemort murmured in his ear. " Lean forward ."
Harry held onto the top of the chair, doing his best to hold his position. Voldemort tugged down his trousers to thigh-level; he must have unfastened them with magic. He hooked a thumb under the waistband of Harry's pants and pulled it away, too, exposing Harry's aching erection to the air. Harry sucked in a gasp at the cold, wet feeling of it.
"Oleum," he murmured, and his next touch to Harry's skin was sticky, slippery. Harry shuddered, flinching away from the touch when fingers slid down the crease between his cheeks.
"Wha --" Harry's question turned into a gasp; the Dark Lord's fingertip was pressing against, into, the tight ring of muscle in his arse. It was uncomfortable, but the oil was making him tingly where it touched. "You aren't going to --?"
"To put it in you?" Voldemort finished his query for him. "No, not tonight." Harry's exhale of relief was interrupted by the squirming feeling of that finger going inside of him, up to the second knuckle, sliding rhythmically in and out.
"Then what..."
A low chuckle, almost a purr. "Have you never fingered yourself before, Harry? " Voldemort didn't wait for his answer before he continued. "I'm going to change your world, then."
"Feels weird," Harry groaned. His hips felt like they were made of jelly, and his knees were shaking. He couldn't possibly be expected to hold this position much longer..?
" You're doing well, " murmured Voldemort, squeezing his hip with one hand and working a second finger into him while Harry was distracted. " I'll tell you how to do this to yourself, so you can get used to it before our next meeting. " The fingers were stretching him, sliding in and out and around; it was still uncomfortable, but something about it was starting to feel good.
" The prostate, " the Dark Lord said to him in barely more than a whisper, " is this wonderful little sensitive gland, that produces fluid for ejaculate. It feels firm, like a walnut, to the touch, but you'll know you've found it when you feel like this -- "
Harry's mouth opened in a soundless scream, back arching. " Aah ," he cried, "feels so --"
" That's right, " Voldemort purred, rubbing the spot again. Tears were welling up in Harry's eyes at the sensation. " It's sensitive, yes. So good it hurts, is it not? "
"Please," Harry sobbed, shaking. "I can't --"
The rubbing slowed, but did not stop. Harry's hands slid down from their hold on the chair to brace himself on Voldemort's shoulders. "You're close, aren't you, Harry? You've been so good for me today. Remember this feeling; it will be even better when I take you. Deflower you."
Tears were falling down Harry's cheeks, but he could not stop them, just as he could not stop the building tension in his balls. He clenched around the Dark Lord's fingers, willing himself not to come, but it was too late.
He screamed.
Voldemort worked him through it, unrelenting, and fresh tears spilled down Harry's face at the overstimulation. He didn't pull his fingers out until Harry's legs collapsed out from under him and he fell, heavily, into the Dark Lord's lap.
He lay, gasping, sticky, for an indeterminate amount of time before he could think clearly again. Voldemort held him there, arm around his waist, without saying anything. Then,
"Evanesco." The cleaning spell left Harry tingling all over, inside and out (and wasn't that a weird feeling, to be cleaned on the inside), wicking away his sweat and semen, but leaving his tears. " What a lovely sight you make, " Voldemort teased, sliding his hand down Harry's back. "It's really too bad you have to return to Hogwarts so soon, but far be it from me to keep you from your studies."
He pulled Harry's now-clean pants and trousers back up, tucking him neatly back in place. Harry stood up again, even more at risk of collapsing than he had been earlier. He leaned heavily on the arm of the chair.
" Run along to Hogwarts, now, " Voldemort teased. "Or stumble, as it were. I shall be seeing you again...very soon." He tucked himself in, stood up, and Disapparated in a neat puff of smoke.
Harry took several minutes to breathe and fully re-dress himself, before he made his way downstairs, jelly-legged and exhausted. The Hog's Head bartender didn't pay him any attention as he made his way outside.
In another, saner world, Harry might have gotten his essays finished for his Monday classes, before he went to bed. This time, he barely made it to the bed before collapsing onto it, still clothed, and slept like the dead.
He dreamed of Voldemort's voice, his words, his touch.
He woke the next morning to find he'd soiled the sheets.