ficbymarks & icarusinwax
Author: ficbymarks
Title: Take Me Down, Wear Me Out
Pairing: Harry/Zacharias
Rating: R
Word Count: 200
Theme: Don't think because I'm talking we're friends - Sneaker Pimps, Six Underground
Harry rubs absently at the back of his head, mussing his hair more than usual. "Yeah, Smith, brilliant effort today."
Zacharias is bent over, absorbed in the concentration-sapping task of tying his shoes. With great effort, he lifts his head, blowing a lock of curly blond hair from his eyes.
"Patronus needs work, but your Paralysing Hex is the best one. Better than Hermione's even." Harry's babbling, he knows, but he wants Zacharias to stay.
Slowly pulling himself to his feet, Zacharias brushes dust from his knees, peering carefully at Harry. "Potter," he says, voice emotionless, unless boredom counts. "Will you be verbally licking my arse all night or will you being doing it for real?"
Harry blinks. Twice.
"Too subtle for you?" Zacharias laughs mirthlessly. "Fine. The hero bit is overrated and I've no interest in speaking to you. That leaves us two choices: You can leave, or we can fuck."
Moments later, Harry's head smacks against the stone wall when Zacharias silences Harry with a slick, hot tongue pushed into his mouth, grinding their cocks together. Savagely biting a spot on Zacharias' throat, Harry wrenches a moan from the other boy and decides he doesn't like Zacharias, either.
Author: icarusinwax
Title: Ceremony
Rating: Eh, R.
Pairings: Zacharias/Harry
A/N: Thanks to my fabulous beta’s- snitchnip_chill, magdellin, electricandroid and purple_avocado (Why yes, I did need a lot of help on this, why do you ask?)
This isn’t quite how I expected it to turn out but I apologize for taking a perfectly smutty story and making it more Gen. :D
In his mind, Zacharias is Voldemort and speaks in tongues.
Harry is moved to a locked and windowless room below Hogwarts for his own safety, or so Dumbledore says. He watches them watching him, as they casually walk past his door with follow-eyes and a steady pace; their boots rough with blood and dirt from the war outside. There is no emotion in Dumbledore’s eyes as he locks the door through the steel bars, and Harry turns to watch the floor crumble around him instead.
*
The war is sweat and burnt forearms and hard, blood soaked ground. Hermione runs her fingers over the unhealed stump, maps and strategies playing in her head. Her breathing distracts her from the muttered spells stuck in the air like static; they, like death, don’t go away, but linger like a flash of yellowing teeth. Ron glances over but does not move to help her. To his left, Percy is dead; his first day on the front line.
*
Harry rubs his arm unconsciously where there is no mark and whispers in dead languages. By now he’s not sure of anything anymore; when it began, or it was there all along, unawakened. He imagines it started in the sixth year, the year he and Zacharias fucked. He thinks perhaps that triggered it. Flashes of Voldemort’s words came only when he touched Zacharias, and then came when he was alone, until he felt Voldemort push and pull inside him, as if moulding his body to accommodate him.
Moments later, Harry's head smacks against the stone
wall when Zacharias silences Harry with a slick, hot
tongue pushed into his mouth, grinding their cocks
together. Savagely biting a spot on Zacharias'
throat, Harry wrenches a moan from the other boy and
decides he doesn't like Zacharias either.
*
Severus, undecided, went to Voldemort to be killed. Percy had said nothing but that night had jerked off to the image of an impaled Severus, jaw ripped off and bleeding. Ron fucks Luna for the first time that night, and left her in the barracks to sleep, stealing away to the infirmary.
Zacharias is tucked into the bed with a starched white sheet, his carefully bandaged hands resting on his stomach. Ron’s eyes flicker at each mention of Harry, but only nods as Zacharias tells of how Harry had tried to crucify him the week before. “He thought I was Voldemort,” he says, gesturing absently. Still, Ron doesn’t leave, and soon Dumbledore joins them, a pale-torn Remus cowering behind him.
*
Ron pours Hermione a drink and settles back wearily into his fold-up chair. The tent is damp from use and beneath them the earth is hot.
“How can Harry think Zacharias is Voldemort when it looks like it’s him?” Ron rubs the back of his head, patches of hair falling out. Hermione doesn’t look at him but answers dully,
“Voldemort might just be trying to make him mad. I really don’t know, Ron. I ran out of ideas and cures a long time ago..”
Ron stands and slightly parts the tent’s opening.
“But why still? He’s not the boy hero anymore. He’s become a discreditable banner for our side. Now who do we have?”
Hermione still doesn’t look at him.
“Voldemort?”
*
The war, in its infancy, was one against Voldemort, with policies of conscription, more auror training and the age-old one-last-fuck-before-I-die. Zacharias and Harry had started fucking the year before, and Zach was already half dead by Harry’s hand by the time the policies had started.
By the third time Harry had killed one of his own, the wizarding world had no set hero nor enemy.
*
Zacharias is bent over, absorbed in the
concentration-sapping task of tying his shoes. With
great effort, he lifts his head, blowing a lock of
curly blond hair from his eyes.
Harry remembers Zacharias’ hands and his perfectly shaped fingers as he drives the second nail into Zacharias’ palm, the fingers crooked and broken under Harry’s boot.
*
It’s Neville, eventually, who kills Voldemort. The kill was simple; too simple. Neville was half passed out from exhaustion as he cast the spell, but from his windowless and too-warm room in St. Mungos he often remembers the smile on Voldemort’s face before he vanished in a flash of light. Dumbledore went to the cell to tell Harry, but he was standing before the door, smiling lightly, speaking softly to himself in a voice that wasn’t his own.
*
They fetch Harry early that morning, and let him take turns in the Ministry courtyard. Harry casually observes the guards in the passageways above him, their wands ready; fingers jumpy. At sundown Ron appears in the archway; Aurors surrounding the walls of the room. Harry recognizes it as the old interrogation room from Dumbeldore’s pensive, but this time he’s strapped to a table. Ron doesn’t look Harry in the eye as he later holds a knife to his neck, in a room of ceremony and an ashen audience, but Harry’s eyes glow red as Ron makes the cut.
*
It is quiet in the old staff room. There are refreshments out in fine china and Dumbledore is in his seat, watching the listless, awkward Aurors and friends gathered in a mock post-funeral party. The gravestone that had been made at the beginning of the war has been discarded, the words “The Boy Who…” no longer apply to the man who had his throat ritually slit on the table. Wavering by the window, Zacharias watches the gravediggers push down a small, upright tablet with Harry’s name messily scratched on into the dry earth; the body tied in a white bag with string. He forgets to smile, and turns back inside, eyes flashing.
Title: Take Me Down, Wear Me Out
Pairing: Harry/Zacharias
Rating: R
Word Count: 200
Theme: Don't think because I'm talking we're friends - Sneaker Pimps, Six Underground
Harry rubs absently at the back of his head, mussing his hair more than usual. "Yeah, Smith, brilliant effort today."
Zacharias is bent over, absorbed in the concentration-sapping task of tying his shoes. With great effort, he lifts his head, blowing a lock of curly blond hair from his eyes.
"Patronus needs work, but your Paralysing Hex is the best one. Better than Hermione's even." Harry's babbling, he knows, but he wants Zacharias to stay.
Slowly pulling himself to his feet, Zacharias brushes dust from his knees, peering carefully at Harry. "Potter," he says, voice emotionless, unless boredom counts. "Will you be verbally licking my arse all night or will you being doing it for real?"
Harry blinks. Twice.
"Too subtle for you?" Zacharias laughs mirthlessly. "Fine. The hero bit is overrated and I've no interest in speaking to you. That leaves us two choices: You can leave, or we can fuck."
Moments later, Harry's head smacks against the stone wall when Zacharias silences Harry with a slick, hot tongue pushed into his mouth, grinding their cocks together. Savagely biting a spot on Zacharias' throat, Harry wrenches a moan from the other boy and decides he doesn't like Zacharias, either.
Author: icarusinwax
Title: Ceremony
Rating: Eh, R.
Pairings: Zacharias/Harry
A/N: Thanks to my fabulous beta’s- snitchnip_chill, magdellin, electricandroid and purple_avocado (Why yes, I did need a lot of help on this, why do you ask?)
This isn’t quite how I expected it to turn out but I apologize for taking a perfectly smutty story and making it more Gen. :D
In his mind, Zacharias is Voldemort and speaks in tongues.
Harry is moved to a locked and windowless room below Hogwarts for his own safety, or so Dumbledore says. He watches them watching him, as they casually walk past his door with follow-eyes and a steady pace; their boots rough with blood and dirt from the war outside. There is no emotion in Dumbledore’s eyes as he locks the door through the steel bars, and Harry turns to watch the floor crumble around him instead.
*
The war is sweat and burnt forearms and hard, blood soaked ground. Hermione runs her fingers over the unhealed stump, maps and strategies playing in her head. Her breathing distracts her from the muttered spells stuck in the air like static; they, like death, don’t go away, but linger like a flash of yellowing teeth. Ron glances over but does not move to help her. To his left, Percy is dead; his first day on the front line.
*
Harry rubs his arm unconsciously where there is no mark and whispers in dead languages. By now he’s not sure of anything anymore; when it began, or it was there all along, unawakened. He imagines it started in the sixth year, the year he and Zacharias fucked. He thinks perhaps that triggered it. Flashes of Voldemort’s words came only when he touched Zacharias, and then came when he was alone, until he felt Voldemort push and pull inside him, as if moulding his body to accommodate him.
Moments later, Harry's head smacks against the stone
wall when Zacharias silences Harry with a slick, hot
tongue pushed into his mouth, grinding their cocks
together. Savagely biting a spot on Zacharias'
throat, Harry wrenches a moan from the other boy and
decides he doesn't like Zacharias either.
*
Severus, undecided, went to Voldemort to be killed. Percy had said nothing but that night had jerked off to the image of an impaled Severus, jaw ripped off and bleeding. Ron fucks Luna for the first time that night, and left her in the barracks to sleep, stealing away to the infirmary.
Zacharias is tucked into the bed with a starched white sheet, his carefully bandaged hands resting on his stomach. Ron’s eyes flicker at each mention of Harry, but only nods as Zacharias tells of how Harry had tried to crucify him the week before. “He thought I was Voldemort,” he says, gesturing absently. Still, Ron doesn’t leave, and soon Dumbledore joins them, a pale-torn Remus cowering behind him.
*
Ron pours Hermione a drink and settles back wearily into his fold-up chair. The tent is damp from use and beneath them the earth is hot.
“How can Harry think Zacharias is Voldemort when it looks like it’s him?” Ron rubs the back of his head, patches of hair falling out. Hermione doesn’t look at him but answers dully,
“Voldemort might just be trying to make him mad. I really don’t know, Ron. I ran out of ideas and cures a long time ago..”
Ron stands and slightly parts the tent’s opening.
“But why still? He’s not the boy hero anymore. He’s become a discreditable banner for our side. Now who do we have?”
Hermione still doesn’t look at him.
“Voldemort?”
*
The war, in its infancy, was one against Voldemort, with policies of conscription, more auror training and the age-old one-last-fuck-before-I-die. Zacharias and Harry had started fucking the year before, and Zach was already half dead by Harry’s hand by the time the policies had started.
By the third time Harry had killed one of his own, the wizarding world had no set hero nor enemy.
*
Zacharias is bent over, absorbed in the
concentration-sapping task of tying his shoes. With
great effort, he lifts his head, blowing a lock of
curly blond hair from his eyes.
Harry remembers Zacharias’ hands and his perfectly shaped fingers as he drives the second nail into Zacharias’ palm, the fingers crooked and broken under Harry’s boot.
*
It’s Neville, eventually, who kills Voldemort. The kill was simple; too simple. Neville was half passed out from exhaustion as he cast the spell, but from his windowless and too-warm room in St. Mungos he often remembers the smile on Voldemort’s face before he vanished in a flash of light. Dumbledore went to the cell to tell Harry, but he was standing before the door, smiling lightly, speaking softly to himself in a voice that wasn’t his own.
*
They fetch Harry early that morning, and let him take turns in the Ministry courtyard. Harry casually observes the guards in the passageways above him, their wands ready; fingers jumpy. At sundown Ron appears in the archway; Aurors surrounding the walls of the room. Harry recognizes it as the old interrogation room from Dumbeldore’s pensive, but this time he’s strapped to a table. Ron doesn’t look Harry in the eye as he later holds a knife to his neck, in a room of ceremony and an ashen audience, but Harry’s eyes glow red as Ron makes the cut.
*
It is quiet in the old staff room. There are refreshments out in fine china and Dumbledore is in his seat, watching the listless, awkward Aurors and friends gathered in a mock post-funeral party. The gravestone that had been made at the beginning of the war has been discarded, the words “The Boy Who…” no longer apply to the man who had his throat ritually slit on the table. Wavering by the window, Zacharias watches the gravediggers push down a small, upright tablet with Harry’s name messily scratched on into the dry earth; the body tied in a white bag with string. He forgets to smile, and turns back inside, eyes flashing.