Chapter Text
“That’s totally okay, sir, it is called Guilty Pleasure. I can assure you that it is in most cases harmless and healthy and wouldn’t get in the way of your nomination as the most positive public figure.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, apparently not so amused by this light-hearted joke. Just twenty minutes ago he had tried to psych himself up to walk into the office of this therapist without instantly obliviating him after sharing his dirty little secrets.
So now he spends twenty minutes, or £90, detailing his sexual fantasies in front of what is said to be the best and most private muggle psychiatrist in London (£270 per hour for first-time appointment and consultation).
"It seems that you are having a hard time with this but do allow me to show you some definitions in case you are so concerned." His therapist speaks in a soothing tone, not missing the skeptical looks in Harry’s eyes.
“Fantasy itself does not equal to lust, nor is it even necessarily a manifestation of sexual desire. It is quite possible that you have experienced the oppression of the power gap and that is why you have subconsciously chosen to conquer HIM sexually.”
“He lost.” And was DEAD as a mortal. There is no need to share with this muggle the second half of this sentence.
Inhaling deeply, the therapist glanced him with a stern look behind his gold-rimmed glasses, a look reminding Harry of Hermione: “Let’s assume he’s defeated, but he must have pushed you under mass pressure and oppression with trauma, throughout the time.”
“Just being curious, doctor,” snapped Harry who starts to feel uncomfortable under the stern gaze and tried to switch the subject:” You must’ve been a straight-A student when you were in college.” In an effort not to sound so sarcastic, he widens his smile and continued:” The way you demonstrate those concepts to me is as if you’ve got a whole bookshelf engraved in your head.”
"Yes, but no one would think I'm a nerd." The therapist replied in a flat tone :” Besides, you have to finish your doctoral degree before starting your profession as a doctor.” Harry doesn’t get the point, but there is no harm to laugh at this seem-to-be joke.
His doctor doesn’t laugh.
Regret and guilty struck Harry just in time, he doesn’t want to cross the only person whom he could open up to at this moment. “That’s not what I meant, you just remind me of a friend of mine, I…”
“My pleasure.” The therapist pulled the topic back to Harry hastily: “But how about we focus on you now? We haven’t got much time left today.” His gold-rimmed glasses glinted under white cold light.
It took Harry for about fifty-four galleons to get an open-hearted hour to share with a strange elite about him fantasizing a dead man. and he had to emphasize with difficulty, "I don't really reckon myself attracted by male, let alone I'm always the bottom. I've only ever dated girls." And they were all stereotypically feminine. But he hasn’t initiated any sex ever since he was haunted by his unspeakable fantasies. Those self-loathing thoughts just grew louder than the pounding of his blood in ears every time he got an arousal. The fact that he got rock hard with his nemesis on his mind would simply freak the fuck out of himself.
The other man shared an understanding look with Harry before he reassured that, it is quite normal that some decent people would simply marry a trophy wife for the sake of public relations, while it does no good but represses the true desire and lust which people dare not face.
But isn’t this cheating, Harry doubted, then placated by the therapist that he would do nothing more than helping his patients to find out the causes and come up with proper scenarios of treatment.
I would never judge you by moral rules. But I do encourage to be honest and true with yourself, and your desires.
*
Brilliant! An hour ago, he was a regular dreamer with dirty little fantasies and now, he becomes the evil who suppresses his darkest monsters at the bottom of his heart. Just the equivalent of paying to get soaked under the waterfall in Gringotts and discovering your true nature. Harry thinks half-heartedly, putting on a Notice-me-not so that he wouldn’t be so conspicuous on the streets in muggle London.
One more time, just once more, he talks to himself silently, and next time I would definitely obliviate the fuck out of his brain if the therapy still goes on like this. Then no one would be bothered.
Cheque bills were sent into the Auror’s office via the muggle address of Ministry of Magic. Ron, who was curiously unwrapping this muggle item, shaking all the floating sticks in the vicinity with a bellow, "£400 per hour! That's ----"
"That's 80 galleons, Ron." Harry's new colleague, Guy, interjected. He was the only purely civilian employee in the entire Auror department and was responsible for caring the mental state of the staff throughout the division. Handful of people in the ministry have developed psychological trauma after the war, according to this new fellow, and people couldn’t simply live the rest of their life on prescriptions of the Euphoria and dreamless potion from St. Mungo’s. Moreover, muggle treatment should be considered as a form of therapy. Harry Potter the savior, an undeniable symbol of pro-muggle faction, after being assured for countless times that psychiatrists are not capable of “reading your mind” and that they would definitely keep your secrets once you properly made them up to muggle-friendly versions, finally decided to be the first one to take this risk.
“How does it feel?” Guy patted Harry on the shoulder, with his colourfully dyed hair coming up to him like a huge attention dog, “Did he pass your trust test?”
Harry swallowed before deciding to take a compromise: “Reckon I’m at the risk of being arrested for misappropriation of obliviating curse on muggle.”
"That's too bad," Guy picked up his muggle coffee and took a long swig, "This one is a graduate of ...some vine league, that brain of his is worth a lot. You’ll be fined to go broke."
“Ivy League!”
The exact name was immediately snatched up by Ron, drawing several surprised looks. He rubbed his nose and continued in an ambivalent attitude of both embarrassment and pride, "Just some muggle universities that students like Hermione might be admitted to if she doesn't get to Hogwarts."
At this point everyone turned into a look of realization, and there was even a pat on Harry's shoulder, "spilling 80 gold galleons to hear a speech from a muggle versioned Hermione for a whole hour, that’s even overwhelming for a brave Gryffindor."
It was probably the half of working day spent consulting that made a normal Friday go by extraordinarily fast. Nothing special happened today, Britain was all in peace. Except for Harry Potter, who was encouraged to think about his sexuality and desire carefully. He felt a nasty chill with nausea at the thought of the man's figure and couldn't even stomach his favourite molasses pie. Ron suggested that he should relax with some fire whiskey and that Confundus charm should be more appropriate if applied to his muggle therapist.
“Bet Hermione would agree on that,” waving his wand, Ron tried to babble his words up before Harry could switch the topic, “DO NOT think of avoiding this, Harry,” he looked straightly into Harry’s eyes: “though you would never tell what the fuck is wrong and insist that you are perfectly well, Harry,” his voice a bit serious, “The last I’ve seen you look like shit was that we just stayed up to make up the whole month’s daily working report.”
Harry responded absentmindedly so that their conversation would end soon. Ron put his long legs down on the table, wiped his hands on the seam of his trousers in a restricted manner and hesitated before speaking, "Everyone will be at the Burrow today, Ginny's there too ..."
"It's okay, it was all mum's idea, you don't have to force yourself, I know it." Observing Harry's scowl, Ron immediately changed his tune and reassured him that they must get a beer for the weekend, just the three of them. Harry just shook his head gently, suddenly struck by the doctor's words of the morning, "Be honest and true with yourself and your desires” and decided to take an honest break in the office to let himself go.
*
Floating stickers had all been driven away and only the green embers of floo powder glowed in the fireplace. Harry felt a little sleepy and dizzy, and the green fire reminded him of the common room of a certain house where he would have been lying on his back, watching the fire on a soft carpet, with fancy cashmere warming his naked torso. But when would he have been lying unclothed on the carpet? Even when he had been drunk for several times at No.12 Grimmauld Plaza, he was sure he hadn't done so.
Just recall it, he thought, fixing his gaze on the dying-out fire amid green ashes in fireplace, trying hard to recall whatever should be at the back of his head from this déjà vu. The whole office was glowing in emerald from the suddenly burning fire and it seemed someone was coming.
Harry found himself tied to the edge of his desk, unable to move. His hands clipped behind him, legs spread open on his sides. The rope wrapped around his chest in a tortoise-like knot, strangling him so much that he had to hold his shoulder blades and puff his chest. The shirt he had ironed in the morning was completely soaked with sweat and conspired with the knots to make a nice, fit, muscular scene of him. Harry had never been that much muscular, but years of Quidditch and battle reflexes had made him a rather fit body figure.
Now, for example, he kept this uncomfortable but known-to-be enticing posture, cursing his own body flexibility.
"Impressive, it seems you've prepared yourself well. Perfect incarcerous charm. I have to admit that I admire your creativity in this."
Harry's view was fixed above the ground and he could only see the visitor's vintage leather shoes carved with dark patterns, his long legs wrapped in his starched suit trousers, and a sliver of ankle between the shoe and the leg of the trousers. His throat suddenly burn in thirst that he had to swallow a nit. Perhaps it was because he’d talked too much today without enough water ingestion.
His visitor came closer and closer, lifting Harry's chin on his toes, so that Harry could get a higher view, a thin, tight waist, broad shoulders holding up his cloak, and a firm chest encased in a dark-printed waistcoat in his eyes. Harry could barely look beyond those broad shoulders and found his visions completely locked on this man. He wore a bowler hat, burying most of his face in the shadow of the brim, revealing only those defined jawlines when he tilted his head slightly.
"Relax, love," he said, reaching down to press Harry's wrists, which were folded together and ready to break the knot, and leaning down to let his warm breath brush against Harry's ear.
§ Devote yourself to me, you love to be controlled. §
In every sense of the word, parseltongue was awfully nerve-wrackingly arousing. Harry felt his hot blood roaring in his veins, a drop of sweat percolated from the corner of his forehead and slid down to his temple. Then before he could even look away, a bone-white wand thundered towards his temple.
Half of his boiling blood cooled down immediately but the other half ramped through his body, rushing up to his head and down to his cock. He was hopelessly hard and aroused in thrill.
Harry felt miserable for the moment.
§ From now on, do nothing without my permission, understand?§
The master of the yew wand spoke gently. But Harry knew that he hadn’t taken his eyes off Harry for even a second. Perfectly on guard, unable to strike. He watched Harry's breath carefully, always made sure to stimulate him suddenly when he was about to calm down. Harry felt it getting harder and harder to focus. His instincts forced him to be cautious on any part of his body that might be randomly touched. He was like a taut string, being plucked casually by his visitor's outstretched pale, slender and bony fingers.
"Tom Riddle?"
"Who else could I be? Go on!"
The glowing tip of his wand moved from the temple to Harry’s cheek, then slid gently across the high bridge of the nose and began to tweak those soft lips. Harry was so overwhelmed that he could only blurt out, "The locket, it could only be you. Only you are so ----"
His sentence snapped, the wand pried his slightly open teeth deep into his mouth and rested against the top of his oesophagus, making Harry stifle a dry heave. Tom Riddle sighed and patted him on the cheek while holding his position, sounded a bit pitiful, "We've met before, when you found me in a pile of gold replicas, remember?"
And then you were stabbed to death by basilisk’s fangs.
Harry strained his head against the nauseating feeling to make sure he could stare straight into those crimson red eyes, then ignored all his senses to concentrated on those thoughts so that Riddle would definitely read them.
The hand patting his cheek snapped and squeezed his jaw so hard that Harry had no doubt he would dislocate it just like that. But the Goblet spoke in the same cloudy tone, "So, shall I be grateful that the Saviour is willing to hand over his reigns to the dead, eh? My pleasure."
There’s no gratitude in his tone.
His other hand made a move to draw his wand away, and Harry bit down on it hard to keep it in his mouth.
"Try harder and then you would have your jaw dislocated like you always wanted." Riddle raised his chin and looked down at Harry condescendingly, his gaze locked between those watery, swollen lips, and continued meaningfully, "It'll only be easier for me anyway."
Harry immediately let go, the saliva-wetted wand found its way down his chin to the Adam’s apple of his, jabbing it maliciously, causing him to black out.
"Punishment now. Would you like it here or?" The tip of the wand continued to slide down to ruffle his collar and rest gently on the nest of his collarbone, "Perhaps this would be good?"
"Keep the cruciatus curse to you and go fuck yourself, you're welcome."
He already expected no good for talking back, but just couldn't restrain himself. Deservedly, Harry was lifted off his feet by his collar and laid wretchedly on his back on the floor. Riddle in the meantime, with one leg on his knees on the floor, the other stuck in between Harry’s legs to make sure he wouldn’t make a move without permission, which made Harry hardly caught his own breath. Long, slender fingers ripped his shirt open, leaving buttons clattering and crumbling all over the floor. But Harry couldn't care less about that as the yew wand pointed at his hard, reddened nipple, crimson red light glimmering on the tip…
The office door slammed open and Harry covered his chest in complete panic and embarrassment, looking at the door with tears in his eyes in horror, hoping he hadn't made too much noise.
"I've come to tell you that you're not welcomed and are not allowed to come to our home tonight." Ginny Weasley's hot figure was wrapped in a black work robe and her furious face redder than her fiery hair. It was like an angry lioness beating down the door.
"Ah, Ginny, I, er ..." Harry found himself frozen on the spot for a moment as his voice was hoarse and he couldn't speak to ask if she had seen or heard anything.
"I'm the one who dumped you, Potter, we're completely done."
Ginny slammed the door and turned her head away, Harry's mind went blank as he watched her long hair flying. He should have expressed something, guilt or apology? But he was so confused now that he could only crumble to the mirror to take a look at himself first.
Everything was normal, his clothes were neat and tidy, there were no bruise or strangled marks at all. Only his face was red to the core. Normally, he would have had a headache by now, and his scars would be throbbing. But now it was so calm there that it was as if it doesn’t exist at all; instead, his cock remained rock hard against his trousers.
A genuine daydream. Another fantasy even at workplace.
He cursed himself and Voldemort with the most vile expletive he could think of.
*
In the end Harry was invited to the Burrow anyway, following the ultimate command from Mrs. Weasley, who suffocated Harry with a hug at the door and thrusted a bowl of hot onion soup that made him genuinely shed a few tears.
“She’s not here, banished actually,” Harry nodded in astonishment as Molly tried to ease him in an unimaginable way, by promising him that Ginny will not be presented at her own home. This mother-like lady hold his hand gently, almost burnt Harry alive with the fire of his own guilty.
“I know you are not getting on well, love” She waved her wand and another cup of hot tea rested before Harry, stopping him from blabbing anything out like “That’s all my fault”. And the mother continued :”It’s months since you came here last time. Ron told me you are always busy, buried in the ocean of your work aren’t you?” She patted Harry on his shoulder, soft, mother-like, with the warmth from her kitchen, almost forced him to vow to visit the Burrow more frequently.
“Home’s always here for you, Harry,” Molly was now busy with Harry’s stubborn hair again, speaking briskly:” and nevermind the fact that I am on your side.” She winked to Harry, making him completely lost.
“I don’t get it; do you mean that----”
“It’s you and Ginny, my dear,” she started to talk in a more serious way, eyes fixed on Harry’s: “I know you are on are fight and I am on your side”, a gentle nudge but Harry felt as if his stomach was wrested by a hand.
“A good partner should be understanding, and Ginny shall be once she gets over her temper, like I promised.” The rest of her words sounded like a curse in Harry’s ear: Then You’ll be living a NORMAL and happy life as you always deserved, my dear boy.”
Her soft and loving voice ringing deafeningly in Harry’s ear. All of a sudden, he could hear nothing but strident ticks mimicking his ragged breath and throbbing heart. Perhaps that’s from Fred’s unmoving spoon pointing to death on that clock, or it may be from his watch inherited from the Prewett brothers. After entrusting everything on the Savior’s shoulder, now people finally have to devote what is left to drag him, the broken piece of an aftermath back to a normal life which he knew he wouldn’t be capable of living.
He should be impressed, should be happy, should feel grateful for the love and expectation people always maintained on this hero, on the Savior. But Harry only felt nausea.
The scar on his forehead throbbed with intense pain as the voice of the Goblet speaking to his ears:
“Just a few attempts and your normal life will be within reach.”
Burning hot tea in his throat distracted him for a while, then he found himself again listening carefully to the nonsense of the Goblet, who’s dripping venom with his words.
“But we all know that you wouldn’t, would you, Harry?” He could feel those cold fingers ghosting over his face, whispering, you are nothing but a ghost of the war, a living cenotaph of what you called sacrificed. What you desire is,” a finger moved upwards, caressing his scar almost gently.
“To devote yourself to me and let me take control of you.”
The cup in his hand blasted into pieces as he was totally enraged by the ghost in his head. Molly and Ron, once again, talked to him in a careful way as if he would blow himself out in any second. All that caring and easing things made him feel so fragile and weak.
For a nano-second Harry almost admitted that he was yearning for some hurt and pain to occupy his mind, to make him feel alive, and have to stay strong again.
That night his dirty wet dreams visited him as usual.