This in itself was not new, but the throbbing pain had declined none, and Harry (just Harry now, since he'd dropped 'Potter' just as quickly as he'd been forced to drop Hogwarts) winced and moved towards his balcony. He pushed open the rickety screen door and flinched at the burst of cold night air that met his nude, overheated body. In his hand was his pay; £190.50. Harry had been sure to check for accuracy before his client dashed out of the door. It'd been a rough fucking and now he was sticky and the wet was drying but he couldn't give a damn.
Sighing, he grabbed the packet of cigarettes off of the balcony and lit one, inhaling, his fingers shaking and his eyelids drooping. He scowled when one of his false eyelashes worked loose and poked him in the eye. He balanced the fag on the corner of the ashtray and plucked at the eyelash, rolling it and tugging until it came free. He did the same to the other eye, and flung the horrid things off of the balcony. Sleepily, he rubbed his hands under his eyes and came up with chalky remnants of caked-on eyeliner and shadow. He looked like a fairy. Of course, that was the point - his gothy, almost feminine appeal, but he never shook the uncomfortable feeling he got when he dolled up, which was pretty much all the time.
So now he huffed on a fag, straightforwardly naked and freezing his arse off on the damn balcony. He contemplated a shower because he desperately needed one, but his eyelids were weighing down and it wasn't from the makeup. With a final puff and a final shiver, he dashed back inside as quickly as his worn limbs would allow. He slumped into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin after flinging the wad of money on the bedside table. He'd stash it tomorrow, before his next client.
And so Harry let himself start to drift towards slumber, groaning a bit and tossing around. His eyelids stung from his lack of sleep, and that would have normally kept him awake with annoyance, but surprisingly, he drifted off rather well.
To watch his body while he slept was a fascinating study. He grunted, twitched, groaned and scuttled about in a kind of sleepwalk. He jolted about when something particularly exciting happened, and occasionally, he'd wake himself up if he was crying in the dream, and find his cheeks wet and his eyes swollen and puffy.
Tonight, his dreams were trodding along at a fairly ordinary pace. There was nothing wrong, nothing overly surreal or *too* normal. He was breathing steadily.
His body clenched in a tight, tight grip, the muscles contracting and his teeth grinding in a painful seal.
Another dreamscape. Another flashback.
And there he was, Harry Potter, looking like the saintly figure he was supposed to be, wand arm outstretched, eyes already blazing with victory. He had Voldemort in his fucking *fist* and he knew it. He could taste it; triumphant and sweet on his tongue. With a wide, sneering flourish, he pointed the wand directly at Voldemort, just above his heart, and his mouth formed the words; "Avada Kedavra," and a jolt of surging green current seized his arm and he felt the power jut out in fierce thumps.
And then it was gone. Voldemort was a heap on the floor, a charred lump of a body surrounded by collapsed robes. And Harry was exhausted. He, too, fell to the floor, feeling faintly drained and strangely empty. With a hitched breath, he croaked out the simple words to a summoning spell he'd learned earlier that year.
Nothing, not a pop, not a sizzle. Not even a sound. Harry pressed his palm to the tip of the wand, as if it was somehow at fault, and shook it. He tried again.
Harry gaped. Behind him, he felt Professor Snape gently envelope him in his arms and hoist him up. They were leaving. Harry drifted towards unconsciousness, more tired than he'd originally thought.
The setting changed, and Harry grunted in his sleep, a hand at his side twitching.
Dumbledore. He was back at Hogwarts. He couldn't remember the journey. In fact, he could hardly remember anything; not the time, not the day. Harry grunted and shifted on his bed. Above him, sitting - no, slumping - in his chair, Dumbledore broke a forced smile that Harry knew instantly was *wrong*. He was wrong. Something was wrong.
"Sir," he asked hesitatingly, propping himself up on one slim, wobbly elbow.
"Harry, my boy. It's good to see you awake," Dumbledore said in a decidedly hushed voice, most likely to shield others from their conversation.
"Voldemort is dead, Harry, much to the relief of the Wizarding world, and we have you to thank for it."
"That's great," Harry said, trying to sound enthusiastic. It came out flat. There was a *but* in there somewhere, Harry could feel.
"But something has gone terribly wrong." Dumbledore took a breath, and for a moment, Harry gave an extraordinarily rare, probing glance at the man behind the spectacles, and what he saw worried him. "Harry, when you... no. I have to go further back. Harry. When Voldemort came to Godric's Hollow, something happened, even to this day we cannot say exactly what, and the spell flubbed. By cursing you, Voldemort somehow managed to nearly drain himself of all powers and, unexpectedly, passed them on to you. It explains a lot, Harry, if you think back. Your uncanny ability to talk to snakes, your seemingly endless capacity to avoid death at every impossible turn. Tom Riddle was a great wizard, and now that he is dead, completely drained of all powers, so are you, in a sense."
"I don't understand."
"Ah. Well. There was a link created that night, Harry. A very rare and very dangerous link. You were fed off of Riddle's powers, Harry. And now you seem to have none, which is the most peculiar affliction. By all accounts, even if Voldemort *had* been the main source of your power, you *are* a Wizard, almost done with your training, and you should have retained magical ability. But... you cannot cast a simple spell. Very curious."
"I'm a squib? That I was born a *squib*?"
"Well, I wouldn't say a squib, Harry. But yes. You were born without magical ability."
Harry left Hogwarts later that evening, carrying only a cloak and a satchel of food with a handful of Muggle money. He left the key to his vault at Gringotts to Ron out of commitment and a guilt he felt, (stupid, he knew) at not *being* truly the friend Ron deserved to have and had before. The note to Ron and the Weasley's was left with the key atop his dresser, with no explanation, no reassurances. Just two names and some interspersed, meaningless words.
"To Ron", it read, like a bloody *birthday* note. "From Harry."
He severed the ties and didn't look back.
The body on the bed jerked awake, panting, sweating, his heart racing and stinging tears pulsing under his smudged eyes. Harry was clutching the bed sheets with unlikely ferocity, trying to quell the bubbling memories.
"Fuck," he groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Shit." Grunting, he idly rubbed the spot on his forehead where his scar used to be, then remembered it wasn't there to touch, that it had disappeared when Voldemort had died and there was not a damn thing he could do about it, and slumped back gloomily.
It was too easy to remember. He wasn't sure what did it that night. Could it have been that his companion was a redhead? Did it, in the back of his mind, remind him of Ron? Of the Weasley's? Whatever it was, it left him... *weepy* and unsettled. Not good. He took a deep breath and swung his legs over the sides of the bed, bent down and retrieved a pair of boxers from his hamper. They might have been clean; he didn't remember what he'd put to wash, but it didn't matter, since they'd be off again, come morning.
Once again, Harry declined to shower, and instead padded into the kitchen to wash off his stomach with a rag; they'd fucked with condoms, but the man had pulled out and pleaded to come all over Harry's stomach. It was fine, just that once; Harry knew he was clean, and since he was a regular costumer... rules were meant to be broken, he'd learned that as early as Hogwarts.
God. There it was again. Harry had tried to forget *that* place as soon as he'd taken refuge in Muggle London. He'd tried to go to the Dursley's, to attempt their 'normal' life as he was bloody well *meant* to, but they... had refused to let him in. Harry cringed. And instead... he'd stayed that night, alone, without luggage, in a hotel. He hadn't slept at all that night.
He hadn't meant to be a whore. In fact, the thought hadn't crossed his mind, despite his being so ashamed... he couldn't have stayed in the Wizarding world. What he'd already seen of the Daily Prophet had been horrible. What would he do, with his powers gone? Be a fucking caretaker like Filch? Fuck that. Harry had resigned his hopes and dolefully applied for simple muggle jobs - working in retail, working as a bank teller... but he had no references and no identification and no real experience. He was a virtual con to them, and they'd refused him flat out. One night, after doing practically nothing, he sat outside of the motel he was staying in, watching the passerby with deferred interest.
There was a man hovering on the street corner, he noticed, eyeing him. He wasn't bad looking; dressed simply in frayed jeans and a stained white top with, oddly enough, cowboy boots. He just about bounced in place, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Every now and then, he'd check his jeans pocket for something, probably to make sure that something was still there. Harry watched him with some growing interest, and watched with some amusement when he strode over to where Harry was.
"Got a light," he asked.
Harry wordlessly flicked open his old fashioned zippo. The man nodded appreciation and bent over to light his cigarette, puffing greedily on it like it was the *only* thing he needed and hadn't had it all day. Then he straightened, blowing the air out between cracked, dry lips. "Nice lighter," he commented, rocking on the balls of his feet. Harry said nothing, but gave a vague nod. The man went back to his cigarette. They were silent, until, "My name's Mike."
"Harry," he said. Simply Harry.
"You're a goddamn stud, Harry." Harry smiled.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be bothering you about it... you look straight to me, sorry." Harry said nothing, but kept his gaze the same. "I.. look. Listen. What do you? For a living?"
Mike seemed to expect this, or he was betting on it.
"Listen, do you live in this area?" Harry gave him a look that said 'we're standing outside of my hotel'. Mike chuckled. "Stupid, I know."
"It's all right. I'll have to be out of here anyway."
"Hey." Mike started as if an idea had just come to him. "Do you need some place to stay? I have some friends that'd be glad to put you up in return for a few favors..."
And so it had happened. Harry had been set up, completely willing, though his depression and lack of motivation might have been to blame. The first night had been rough; he'd checked out of his hotel room and stayed with Mike, learning the tricks of his newfound 'trade'. He'd been in pain for several weeks, and hadn't been ready for a client yet, and so Mike had done his best to transform Harry's image into something more appealing.
They went shopping, to some muggle establishment called Cyberdog where the employees walked around in groups and avoided you unless you came up to them. They watched with hawkish eyes, and wandered around with various parts of their head shaved, wearing what he learned later were UV reactive piercings. He stared at them as Mike shoveled him around the store, pointing at similar things to what they were wearing.
When he left Stables Market in Camden that day, he had two new piercings; a nipple ring and a small nose stud, and he'd been taken to some sort of makeup bizarre and he couldn't move his cheeks for all the caked-on face stuff he was wearing. His eyes stung from mascara and eyeliner, and his nipple was still tingling from the piercing.
He hadn't been the same since. He left his clean-cut jeans and shirts behind, in exchange for netted shirts and slick vinyl pants. He wore heels that he could barely walk in and pierced his ear all the way up to the cartilage. He talked with an even deeper accent - lower, and schooled himself to say things during sex that would normally make him blush red. "Fuck," came so simply to his lips it was as if he was merely saying his name. "Cock," flew from his mouth so gracefully it was like poetry. He was a *dream.*
Harry got used to being seen as an *object*, a *cock*, very easily.
It was nights like these, however, that he wished he'd never been born.
Snape paced his room. He didn't want to go to sleep. The dreams... the dreams were so intense, so disturbing that he may as well not even have slept. And they were getting worse... The only time he felt vaguely happy was when he was tormenting his students. Well, happiness was all relative to Snape. He really couldn't remember a time he could say he was truly happy. Looking back, he could remember a few times he had felt something that maybe by some stretch of the imagination might have been called contentment... and they all seemed to revolve around one Harry Potter. Though Potter seemed to be the bane of his existence at first, at least he had felt truly alive... not some shadow of a person, haunting the Hogwarts dungeons, arising only to sneer and insult. Something about the Boy Who Lived made him want to live too... if only to see him fail, to compare him to the memory of his father whom Snape had hated so much.
Then he had fought alongside Potter, and the boy's true spirit had overwhelmed him. No matter what the odds, no matter how dire the circumstances looked, Harry kept going. Looking back, Snape realized that Potter must have had as miserable a life as he had. He had heard the horror stories about his aunt and uncle, but had thought them hyperbole. But then Dumbledore had assured him that the stories were all true, and perhaps the reality was even worse. His opinion of Potter changed slowly over the seven years he had known him. Snape was never sure exactly when he had stopped disliking the boy. In any event, the final battle against Voldemort was etched into his mind. When he had finally accepted Harry as a wizard and an equal, only to see all of it ripped away from him. Defeat snatched horrifically from the jaws of victory.
Parts of the night were still a blur; of course Voldemort would choose a dramatic night like the full moon to make his move. But he remembered clearly the moment when only Harry had had a clear shot; heard his clearly spoken curse, had marveled at the fact that the seventeen-year-old's voice hadn't even wavered in speaking the most unforgivable curse of all. Green light flashed; and it was all over at last. The dark wizard was no more, and Harry Potter had done it. The boy had fulfilled his destiny at last. It should have been his finest hour, his moment of triumph. Snape himself had felt proud of Harry then, something he had never thought possible. The strength of the curse had stunned him; he could feel its backlash even from where he stood. Harry had given his all, his ultimate, his very soul. He hadn't known till later just how true that really was.
He had watched Harry sag, amazed how small he looked in his robes just then, and he had instinctively rushed forward to help him. Harry looked drained, ghost pale, and seemed unsure of himself; Snape held him close, hoping the boy would forgive his touch, but he was the closest person to Harry. The spell's power had set the surrounding forest on fire, and he needed to get the boy away. He remembered whispering soothing words to the boy, words he didn't even know he knew how to speak. He felt his arm burning, and as he looked down, he saw the dark mark was gone; so Voldemort was truly dead. Harry had been mumbling, frowning at his wand, as if something was wrong with it; at the time he had paid it no mind, just dragged the boy back to the school, to safety, as other wizards rushed forth to extinguish the fire.
Looking back, he knew that was the moment it had happened, that Potter had lost his powers, become the Muggle he had been raised to be. None of them had realized it at the time; even Dumbledore was hard pressed to accept the evidence. Potter's powers had been Voldemort's all along. Parselmouth, Quidditch, all Harry's prowess was only from the Tom Riddle and the dark wizard he would become. He would never forget the look on Potter's face as he left Dumbledore's office that day. He had waited outside the office, but he hadn't had to ask what Potter had been told. The boy looked like he had lost everything; and in truth he had. He had tried to speak to him; tried to offer words that after seven years of tormenting must have seemed pathetic. But words were all he had. The extent of Potter's loss he couldn't pretend to fathom; all that he was, all that he had thought he would be, gone. Forever. Irretrievably. He felt the loss as if it were his own; though truly he could still not comprehend it. Potter didn't seem to hear his words; he seemed to not even see him.
Though Dumbledore had not said he had to leave Hogwarts, Snape knew in his deepest heart that the boy would never stay, to face on a daily basis what he could never do, never be. To watch the greenest first year do what he could not, no matter how hard he tried. So Potter had fled, and Snape had been dismayed to discover how much he missed him. The rest of the term had passed as if under shadow. They tried to track Potter, keep up with his movements. But to no avail. Magic was little help in tracking a Muggle in Muggle London. And when Potter had gone, Snape was dismayed to find the dreams about him started.
Snape had always known where his preferences lay; he had made little secret of it, but nevertheless his affairs had been brief and unsatisfying. His work was his life, teaching was everything. Then Harry Potter came into his life, and he had a new focus. Sometime in Potter's sixth year, Snape had suddenly become aware of the boy's attractiveness. Rumors about Potter, crushes and flings; it happened to all the attractive students at one time or another. But more so; Potter's charisma seemed to draw both boys and girls to him. Snape himself realize he was not unaffected. But he could use his spite towards the boy and his father to keep it at bay; only once or twice had inappropriate thoughts managed to surface, and they were well stifled.
But then came the final battle, and Potter's tragedy; it seemed that thinking of the boy as a person opened the floodgates. The night the boy had left for good, Snape had had the first dream. Erotic, twisted, frightening; the only image he could hold onto from the dream was Harry bound and naked before him. More dreams followed, not every night or even every week, but they persisted. He began to try to find Harry himself, just so the dreams would end. He was obsessed; he barely slept.
A new school year started; if anything, he was even more horrible to the first years than ever before. The Gryffindors as usual bore the brunt of his ire; several of them were reduced to tears by his tirades, and Snape felt only empty satisfaction. And then he would dream; and wake aroused and frenzied with need. At first, he refused to touch himself. Thinking of Harry while he stroked himself was wrong; he wouldn't do it. But he couldn't help himself finally; one sweaty night, he woke with his hand already wrapped around his rock hard cock.
He gave in; stroking himself roughly, he gave in to desires and thoughts of Harry. It felt so good, nothing should have been this good. Squeezing the base of his erection, the floodgates opened, and visions of that slim body, those green eyes burned him. Harry under him, spreading creamy thighs, welcoming him; Harry kneeling in front of him, taking his cock into his mouth, stroking himself at the same time... visions, fantasies, depraved in their detail, paraded before his closed eyes as he pumped, faster, desperately, as if this one climax would wash away all the perverse need.
Snape awoke with a start; he had fallen asleep in his chair, and it had happened again. He could no longer resist the siren call of self-pleasure; when had tried to give it up, his behavior worsened so much that the headmaster himself had called him into his office just like a misbehaving child. He had been warned not to let personal problems affect his professional life; that was all that was said, and that was all it took. Dumbledore always knew what was in his heart, even without magic. A threat, disguised as an offer, of a well-deserved vacation and Snape was dismissed. But he had learned his lesson.
So when he awoke this night, cramped from the chair, he didn't try to resist. Flinging off his robes, he lay back on his bed and dropped his hand to his aching cock. Not since the first dream had he thought about, or ever wanted anyone else; but the nights of self-pleasure were becoming more frequent and less satisfactory. He needed more; more of what he could never have. But it would have to do; his cock was already wet with desire and no more lubrication was necessary. He stroked, roughly, violently, squeezing his erection almost painfully, as if to punish himself. He arched up off the bed, thrusting up into his own hand, trying to hurry; he needed relief. He stroked faster; images of messy hair and glasses flashed back at him. An image of Harry staring up at him reproachfully became one of Harry looking back over his shoulder as he kneeled on all fours, ready to be entered. That was it; Snape's breathing was labored now, so close, so close... suddenly, from nowhere, an image, crystal clear; Harry Potter, hair dark and spiked, face heavy with makeup, dressed erotically and Snape went over the edge, a strangled cry that might have been Harry's name the only sound as he pumped out his release, once, twice, three times before settling back to the bed, ashamed but sated. For now.