Fic: The Points to Which We Slip
Title: The Points to Which We Slip
Summary: Pansy is a spoil of war for a fallen and very sick Harry
Characters/Pairings: Harry Potter, Pansy Parkinson
Genre: Dark fic
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for...well it's a dark fic with some reference to sexual sadism
Word Count: 1062
A/N: I wrote this for pphpficexchange and since authors were finally released, I'm posting here as well. :)
“You could have chosen anyone, you know.” Draco made a soft clucking sound with his tongue, a chiding noise that had once irritated Harry. These many months later he barely heard and rarely cared. “She’s just a used up whore. I took her plenty of times myself.”
Harry snorted. He knew that last statement was a lie but he didn’t press the point- he didn’t legilimens for something that obvious. Without the peculiar tastes of the Dark Lord, Malfoy may have remained a virgin yet. But the younger Malfoy didn’t interest Harry. Draco was a means to an end and Harry was certain it was only a matter of time before the useless git was disposed of. The Dark Lord did not have room for free-loaders in the new regime.
His attention returned the witch at his feet. Pansy was bound and possibly unconscious before them in Harry’s small, colorless cell of a bedroom. A bruise was forming, dark and angry, along her jaw line and there was a bit of dried blood at the corner of her mouth. Displeased that his spoil had been dirtied, Harry knelt down, licked his thumb, and rubbed the blood away in slow circles. Draco snickered. Harry ignored him. Pansy didn’t move, didn’t react. Perhaps she wasn’t faking it.
Harry stopped wondering long ago at this seemingly peculiar change in events. Although in his Hogwarts days Harry could have never imagined the sheer horrors of such a sexually violent culture, had he entertained such notions, this would have been far from this. If ever the thoughts had crept into his mind it would have been under quite the role reversal. Harry, bound and unconscious. Harry, giving fellatio. Harry, at the end of a dildo. Harry, getting fucked to an audience of jeering Death Eaters. Harry, a- no, the- spoil of war.
“Are you pleased, my boy?”
At the sound of the Dark Lord’s entrance, Draco bowed low, but Harry didn’t even turn.
“I believe so.” To be honest, even he was confused as to why he had wanted Pansy. His memory had been fading and it was difficult to remember things from before joining with Voldemort. He no longer dreamed either, although sometimes he awoke in a cold sweat and it would take a while for him to remember where he was.
“What will you do with her?” Voldemort brushed past Draco as if he hadn’t even noticed him, coming to stand beside Harry in the same way Dumbledore might have done years ago.
“I don’t know.” Again with the blunt honesty. “I guess kill her.”
The Dark Lord never once forced Harry’s hand. Harry killed eagerly, or at least without thought. Harry, Voldemort would purr, do you recall so-and-so? For a while now, that answer had been no. Harry never referred to him as Lord or Master, but then again the Dark Lord never requested it of him. They were more like family, never vying for power. Father and Son. Established and indestructible. Whatever pack order the Death Eaters had once held was gone. There was no one to begrudge him of it.
Harry could hear Draco shuffling about behind them, like a small boy forgotten amongst men.
Voldemort must have sensed it too. “Be gone, child.”
Draco made a funny sound, neglected, but he did not argue. After the footsteps had retreated, Harry could feel Voldemort moving through his mind, peeling back layers like an onion. It seemed like it should hurt but Harry had been subjected to it so many times, he barely noticed. Very little registered. Very little felt.
“Tell me, Harry, what would you like to do with her?”
“To do?” What a confusing question. Harry knelt down again, resting on his knees, and stared at the still prone form. “I would like to…keep her.”
“And to what end?”
“Companionship.”
“She is not much of a companion, boy. Not like that.”
Harry continued to stare at Pansy and with each blink he thought he could see something new. The gentle rise and fall of an otherwise uneven breathing. That small wound, the price of a capture.
“Would you like to make her better?”
“No.” The boy brushed a bit of loose hair out of her face and wondered if she was beautiful. “I like her like this. She doesn’t bother me. She doesn’t…call me ‘scarhead.’”
Voldemort smiled and slowly stroked the top of Harry’s head. In turn the boy leaned in slightly to the Dark Lord.
“I could make her like this forever,” Voldemort replied, his voice barely louder than a whisper, a touch of something else to his voice. Longing. Desire.
It wasn’t as if Harry had given up on the Cause. The Cause had given up on him. One too many nights at the beck and call of a needy Sirius who, with every passing month, came to see Harry as James, an old mate, instead of a ward. How Sirius’ hand would rest on the small of Harry’s back, at first a comfort, until the hand slid ever lower. The night they were forced to share a bed at the Order’s headquarters, how Sirius had sobbed, broken down in front of Harry over the memories the house held. Harry had been a friend, but Sirius had wanted (needed?) so much more than Harry was prepared to give. So Sirius took. And took. And took. And when Harry ran out he found he had quite given up everything. And he didn’t care. Not about the Order, nor his so-called friends. It was such an easy out with nothing left to lose. He killed Sirius. The Order dissolved. The Dark Lord offered him an easy life and Harry accepted.
Was there a price? Harry couldn’t take his gaze off Pansy. Was this a reward?
“Pug-faced,” he whispered strangely. Then he nodded to Voldemort. “Do it then.”
Voldemort regarded the boy. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, like this.”
Voldemort flicked his wand and whispered the kill. The girl was struck by the green light and her eyes opened in surprise. A sort of sigh escaped her lips and she lay even stiller than before. Harry thought she looked so beautiful then, her eyes so empty.
Harry laid down beside her and closed his eyes, taking one of her limp hands in his own. Yes, this seemed fitting. This is what he wanted.
Amanda//Slytherin
And to the people I owe stories from Hogsmeade, expect them within the week. Sorry for being such a bum :\
Summary: Pansy is a spoil of war for a fallen and very sick Harry
Characters/Pairings: Harry Potter, Pansy Parkinson
Genre: Dark fic
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for...well it's a dark fic with some reference to sexual sadism
Word Count: 1062
A/N: I wrote this for pphpficexchange and since authors were finally released, I'm posting here as well. :)
“You could have chosen anyone, you know.” Draco made a soft clucking sound with his tongue, a chiding noise that had once irritated Harry. These many months later he barely heard and rarely cared. “She’s just a used up whore. I took her plenty of times myself.”
Harry snorted. He knew that last statement was a lie but he didn’t press the point- he didn’t legilimens for something that obvious. Without the peculiar tastes of the Dark Lord, Malfoy may have remained a virgin yet. But the younger Malfoy didn’t interest Harry. Draco was a means to an end and Harry was certain it was only a matter of time before the useless git was disposed of. The Dark Lord did not have room for free-loaders in the new regime.
His attention returned the witch at his feet. Pansy was bound and possibly unconscious before them in Harry’s small, colorless cell of a bedroom. A bruise was forming, dark and angry, along her jaw line and there was a bit of dried blood at the corner of her mouth. Displeased that his spoil had been dirtied, Harry knelt down, licked his thumb, and rubbed the blood away in slow circles. Draco snickered. Harry ignored him. Pansy didn’t move, didn’t react. Perhaps she wasn’t faking it.
Harry stopped wondering long ago at this seemingly peculiar change in events. Although in his Hogwarts days Harry could have never imagined the sheer horrors of such a sexually violent culture, had he entertained such notions, this would have been far from this. If ever the thoughts had crept into his mind it would have been under quite the role reversal. Harry, bound and unconscious. Harry, giving fellatio. Harry, at the end of a dildo. Harry, getting fucked to an audience of jeering Death Eaters. Harry, a- no, the- spoil of war.
“Are you pleased, my boy?”
At the sound of the Dark Lord’s entrance, Draco bowed low, but Harry didn’t even turn.
“I believe so.” To be honest, even he was confused as to why he had wanted Pansy. His memory had been fading and it was difficult to remember things from before joining with Voldemort. He no longer dreamed either, although sometimes he awoke in a cold sweat and it would take a while for him to remember where he was.
“What will you do with her?” Voldemort brushed past Draco as if he hadn’t even noticed him, coming to stand beside Harry in the same way Dumbledore might have done years ago.
“I don’t know.” Again with the blunt honesty. “I guess kill her.”
The Dark Lord never once forced Harry’s hand. Harry killed eagerly, or at least without thought. Harry, Voldemort would purr, do you recall so-and-so? For a while now, that answer had been no. Harry never referred to him as Lord or Master, but then again the Dark Lord never requested it of him. They were more like family, never vying for power. Father and Son. Established and indestructible. Whatever pack order the Death Eaters had once held was gone. There was no one to begrudge him of it.
Harry could hear Draco shuffling about behind them, like a small boy forgotten amongst men.
Voldemort must have sensed it too. “Be gone, child.”
Draco made a funny sound, neglected, but he did not argue. After the footsteps had retreated, Harry could feel Voldemort moving through his mind, peeling back layers like an onion. It seemed like it should hurt but Harry had been subjected to it so many times, he barely noticed. Very little registered. Very little felt.
“Tell me, Harry, what would you like to do with her?”
“To do?” What a confusing question. Harry knelt down again, resting on his knees, and stared at the still prone form. “I would like to…keep her.”
“And to what end?”
“Companionship.”
“She is not much of a companion, boy. Not like that.”
Harry continued to stare at Pansy and with each blink he thought he could see something new. The gentle rise and fall of an otherwise uneven breathing. That small wound, the price of a capture.
“Would you like to make her better?”
“No.” The boy brushed a bit of loose hair out of her face and wondered if she was beautiful. “I like her like this. She doesn’t bother me. She doesn’t…call me ‘scarhead.’”
Voldemort smiled and slowly stroked the top of Harry’s head. In turn the boy leaned in slightly to the Dark Lord.
“I could make her like this forever,” Voldemort replied, his voice barely louder than a whisper, a touch of something else to his voice. Longing. Desire.
It wasn’t as if Harry had given up on the Cause. The Cause had given up on him. One too many nights at the beck and call of a needy Sirius who, with every passing month, came to see Harry as James, an old mate, instead of a ward. How Sirius’ hand would rest on the small of Harry’s back, at first a comfort, until the hand slid ever lower. The night they were forced to share a bed at the Order’s headquarters, how Sirius had sobbed, broken down in front of Harry over the memories the house held. Harry had been a friend, but Sirius had wanted (needed?) so much more than Harry was prepared to give. So Sirius took. And took. And took. And when Harry ran out he found he had quite given up everything. And he didn’t care. Not about the Order, nor his so-called friends. It was such an easy out with nothing left to lose. He killed Sirius. The Order dissolved. The Dark Lord offered him an easy life and Harry accepted.
Was there a price? Harry couldn’t take his gaze off Pansy. Was this a reward?
“Pug-faced,” he whispered strangely. Then he nodded to Voldemort. “Do it then.”
Voldemort regarded the boy. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, like this.”
Voldemort flicked his wand and whispered the kill. The girl was struck by the green light and her eyes opened in surprise. A sort of sigh escaped her lips and she lay even stiller than before. Harry thought she looked so beautiful then, her eyes so empty.
Harry laid down beside her and closed his eyes, taking one of her limp hands in his own. Yes, this seemed fitting. This is what he wanted.
Amanda//Slytherin
And to the people I owe stories from Hogsmeade, expect them within the week. Sorry for being such a bum :\