Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related characters belong to JKR and Warner Bros and anyone else JKR lets—which does not include me.
IMPORTANT: In this chapter, Harry is more than slightly insane, and therefore the format will be hard to follow. I have tried my hardest to keep it simple while conveying Harry's broken state.
WARNING: MAJOR graphic torture/mental abuse/rape scene.
Harry couldn't move. Didn't want to. Didn't want to think, didn't want to breathe. Terrors flashed through his head—the rapes; the crooning words that, god help him, were starting to make sense in his fever-riddled mind; the tattoo, god that had hurt like hell; the pain; the beatings, oh god when they touch me—!
"That wasn't so bad now, was it, pet?"
Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god, please make him leave. Don't let him touch me again, don't let me get hard again. Don't let me feel pleasure when they do this to me—
"It seemed you liked it, hmm?" Words whispered almost tenderly in his head as a tongue licked over the edge of his ear. He flinched and pulled away, his chains clanking, and he remained still as—those damned hands those fucking bloody slimy hands that shouldn't be touching me; nothing should be touching me—those hands wandered carelessly over his body.
"I know you liked it," words now hissed, hands viciously gripping his waist, stroking—oh god stop touching you can't touch there you need to stop touching me—inflamed flesh. "Why else were you hard and panting? Little pet, you might as well give in. Do you know what tonight is?"
Need to stop listening to pull away retreat inside stop listening because if you can't hear him he can't hurt you and anger and rage built up in my chest wanting to break free but I'm not strong enough and it drains away as those fucking hands wouldn't stop circling, touching, caressing—
"It's the full moon tonight, little monster. You're going to turn into what you truly are on the inside. Have you noticed, hmm? Noticed you can see much better, oh yes, little monster. Open your eyes."
Wouldn't give him the satisfaction couldn't give him the satisfaction needed to keep something away from the bastard—
"I said open your eyes." Words hard, and he knew what was coming and tried to brace himself for it—no one should have to go through this, right?—for the pain that whipped through his body at the word "Crucio."
Not enough breath or strength to even scream, just whimper painfully in the back of his throat, arching and shuddering and convulsing and praying to dear god please anyone listening that he would die before he turned.
The end came, nerves shrieking and burning and warping underneath his skin as all his wounds were reopened, his arm snapping in his frenzied spasms. And then—oh god can't he just leave me alone—hands touched his sensitive skin, dancing tantalizingly over his groin before slipping upwards to tease his nipples. A moan of pleasure and pain and disgust and—god why couldn't I be normal and hate what's being done to my body, hate myself for giving in like this, can't I even control my own body—escaped his throat, and he tried to pull away.
"You like it, little monster. I could sit here and torture you and then just brush your dick and you'll be moaning like a little whore, won't you, pet?" Those words, cruel and soft and tearing and gentle skittered into his ear as a tongue suckled at the juncture of neck and collarbone. A small whimper broke free, and—god I want to die I want to kill myself I want to kill myself!—he found himself holding still in anticipation—little freak Vernon was right you don't deserve anything unnatural boy nothing more than a little slut everything that happens you deserve it—as that mouth curved into a smile and nibbled at the very edge of Harry's—was he Harry? could he be Harry?—at the very edge of his mouth.
"Open your eyes, little whore," the voice continued, singsong and playful as the hands curled around the rapidly stiffening member—traitor why are you enjoying this should just cut it off and save myself the trouble of all this oh god make him stop touching me—and fluttered suggestively.
There was a huff of breath on one side of his face, and scared of more pain, of not receiving any food, and dazed by—little freak little whore little monster because he's right you are a monster—pleasure and lust, he slipped open eyes that didn't want to see what was around but were too scared to remain shut.
The cell was dingy, small, and he was in the center. Piss, shit, and semen soaked the floor beneath his body—because it had only been three weeks, after all, he could remember one of Them saying, and could They really expect him to break without subjecting him to everything?—and the combined smell tore at his nostrils, burned his mind and his insides. It wasn't just those smells, even—every smell he could pick out with startling clarity—there were the scents of his captors, named by voices and peculiarities because they gave him nothing else to identify themselves, such as Oil, with his curling voice and slimy hands that always managed to make him feel dirty, soiled, more so than any of the others—Whip, who loved to make patterns of blood and stripped his skin with the cat o' nine tails—Crooning, the man with him now, the one who talked and told him how he deserved it how he liked it, voice purring and oh so gentle even when the actions weren't—Father, who called him son and made him open his mouth and suck him off and jerked off over his back and head, splashing him with semen everywhere and told him that if his biological father was alive he'd be doing this too—Blood, who never raped him but was fascinated with seeing how much blood he could bring out, coax to the surface, and laid careful, planned cuts dedicated for maximum pain with maximum blood but always stopping before Harry could die from blood loss and for that Harry hated him more than any of the others—and the last man who Harry never heard speak, never wanted to hear speak, and so called him Silent—Harry's own semen—his feces, his urine, his vomit—his fear—his lust—Their lust—his hunger—his blood soaked on the floor—his sweat—mold—water—smells that overwhelmed him as he had no name for them and smells that confused him, made it hard for him to focus. Then the sounds—dripping of water, the harsh breaths of Crooning, his captor—someone shifting outside in the corridor—faint screams and blissful moans and begging—harsh scraping against stone floor—sounds that made no sense and came to him jumbled and distorted, sometimes loud and sometimes soft.
Only when the whispered words, still soft and gentle, but with steel lacing the tone, "You closed your eyes, little whore," and the hands running over his penis, massaging and stroking, made him open his eyes and take in—sight oh god I don't want to see this it's already too real too real oh god make it stop make me stop kill me let me die—the sight of the tiny cell, but he couldn't see his captor, his tormentor, for his eyes locked onto an emancipated, malnourished, scrawny form, easily twice his size even though it was so skinny and he could count the ribs, and he knew those eyes, those eyes, black but burning with insanity, with fervor—
"Do you see him, little whore?"
He saw him, and he didn't want to, because he was—scared oh god this man no not a man this skeleton is connected to me and I don't want to know who he is please take him away please I won't talk ever again at all I won't think any bad thoughts about you or about any of you I'll do anything for you but please just take him away—terrified of this man before him, this naked man that sat cross-legged, a silver collar around his throat that burned the skin and Harry nearly vomited when he could smell the cooked flesh, the hair black and lank and greasy, and suddenly—
—suddenly, he could remember, remember that there was someone else with greasy hair in his life, wasn't there? The person whose name was Harry, not little whore or little pet or little monster, he could remember a cauldron, a scowl and sneer, and he wondered who this person was, wasn't he important, but no, this person was someone different from that one, someone evil, and he shook his head to push the memories away—
"That's your sire, little monster. Wolf 26. The scars at your throat, they come from him. Your new senses, they come from him. He is your father now, little monster. 26, come here."
Immediately, the shriveled man crawled over, eyes alight with lust and terror. A hand reached out—curled like a claw, dirty, spotted, tanned skin—and petted the oily hair soothingly. "You know to obey, don't you, wolf?"
Harry stared in fear and disgust as those black eyes glazed with utter bliss and the man groaned under the captor's administrations, becoming hard, and—oh god I'm getting harder oh god I'm not that sick please tell me I'm not that sick oh my god will there ever be a day where I'll be like that eager to be touched loving to be touched by Them—then the hand around his own cock stroked down, rubbed lovingly, and unwillingly—no willingly, you little whore you like it your body likes it and how weak are you that you can't control your body—he bucked into the grip, breath sobbing in his mutilated throat.
"I want you to suck your son, wolf. I want you to get under and show him the pleasure that comes from his new family, hmm?"
The man opened his eyes, tongue out and panting, and turned that glazed look on Harry, who whimpered and tried to get away, to move away from that scorched flesh, scarred skin, marred hide and insane eyes, but the chains clanked, and his movement was halted, and all he could do was kneel there, shivering, shuddering—oh my god he's really going to do it oh my god please please oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no—
Something wet, small, tickling, almost, brushed against over-sensitive flesh, and he yelped pitifully, pulling away from the mouth and the man beneath him but hands held him still, strong hands, rough hands, hands that bruised his hips and allowed him no movement—god no please no I don't want this, I don't want this, please no please no please no—
Then that mouth latched on, sucking, suckling, earnest and eager and he couldn't stop the groan of pleasure—little whore you like it you like it! you can't like it, you can't you have to stop oh please no let me control my body oh no oh no oh please stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it!—
Those hands let go, and his hips thrust forward, eager like the tongue and mouth and man beneath him even as he whispered no no no no over and over and over again, and then new hands, other hands, gripped his chin.
"Did I give you permission to speak, little whore?" Oh god that voice—need to get away can't stay here need to run away how can I run away I need to get free oh god please let me die let me die let me die let me die let me die . . .
"I don't know why you're acting like this," the voice murmured, and a hand petted his head absently. He grunted, pleasure building even as he fought it, fought what it would mean, fought what it would do to him—I can't like this I won't like this I won't oh god please oh please—
"You like it. You want it." The hand stilled for a minute, before picking its way down his back delicately. "Look at you. Humping like a little bitch. Moaning and whining in the back of your throat."
Tears stung his eyes, trickled underneath the closed eyelids and traced familiar paths down his cheeks even as he arched his back and all muscles went taut, and the mouth beneath him swallowed and petted and stroked and coaxed and finally—finally oh god oh god what did I do why did I do that I am a whore I am a freak I am a monster—the form beneath him left, left him shuddering and shivering and trembling and whimpering like a pathetic little dog.
"Tonight it will be very special," the voice crooned, dancing over his back and the words dancing on his nerves. "Very special indeed. Have a good transformation, my little monster."
First day of classes. Severus glowered at all the annoying first years while his mind was preoccupied with dark thoughts. Ever since Dumbledore had asked him to keep an ear out for Harry Potter, he had dutifully been alert, both from the common side and from Death Eater meetings, but nothing had come up. Nothing. Not even a whisper that something interesting was happening, or going to happen, or had happened. It was extremely unusual for any Death Eaters to refrain from boasting, for all Death Eaters were praised and rewarded due to feats, and the only way to bring to light some of the deeds they did was to brag about such actions where the Dark Lord or one of the Dark Lord's inner circle members could hear.
This meant a very unusual and entirely unplanned for situation had occurred. One that no one, not even Dumbledore himself, could figure out. It didn't matter that Dumbledore had announced calmly at the Welcoming Feast that Harry was secluded away and was undergoing training—the panic was there, in the children and teachers both. Severus could sense that Dumbledore knew of the panic, and didn't know how to alleviate it. It was faintly—no, frighteningly disturbing. Dumbledore couldn't make a mistake, not with the life of the infamous Harry Potter. Potter was needed by too many people.
It didn't help that Remus was hanging around so much. He didn't like it when Remus was haunting the Snape manor. It reminded him too much of—well, just too much. He needed to get Remus away, at least for a while, because it hurt too much to have those eyes and that hair flashing in the corridors, hiding away in rooms because Remus was still as shy as ever, still as tentative as ever, and a hell of a lot more hurt than he ever used to be. In fact . . . in fact, for pain and betrayal in his life, he practically matched Severus himself. And that bothered Severus. Immensely.
He closed the door after the last of the first years had left—last class of the day, and he didn't have to deal with the ignorant brats until tomorrow. He sat behind his desk and studied his options thoroughly.
He turned to the fire—Remus's head was there, eyes hooded and more than a little angry.
"What?" he snapped, furious at being disturbed.
Remus flinched a little, but didn't move. "Did you see the Daily Prophet this morning? When they found out that Harry didn't get on the train?"
A bad feeling settled in the pit of his stomach—not that he'd admit it to the wolf. "No, I hadn't. I was too busy dealing with insufferable lack-wits who should never have been accepted to Hogwarts in the first place and repeatedly tried to kill me with their horrendous parody of potion making."
Remus smiled faintly. "Oh good. Not that it'd matter much."
And with that, his head popped out of the fireplace.
Dammit. Now Severus wanted to look.
When he got the paper, he stared in shock at the headline.
BOY WHO LIVED TURNED DARK!
On September 1st, hundreds of students piled into the Hogwarts Express, eager to return to their beloved school and professors. However, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was conspicuously absent. The world was shocked and appalled to learn that no one had come to drop off the Savior, and so this reporter took it upon herself to investigate.
The house at Surrey, hidden by hundreds of wards and countless magical protections, sat sedately as this reporter uncovered unspeakable horrors within. "He ran away. Little brat never liked us, always threatened us with his magic and refused to help out around the house, expected us to wait on him hand and foot. I have a job, my wife can't spend her entire day focusing on a spoiled boy, and my son has his own friends. Frankly, I'm glad that the monster is gone. Maybe now there will be some peace in this house," said Vernon Dursley, Harry Potter's uncle and one of three remaining relatives.
Up in the room designated for Harry Potter, locks were found on the outside of the door. "When he leaves for school every year, he locks his room and threatens us with horrible deaths if we try to open it. Strange noises and smells come from there sometimes," Dudley Dursley, Harry Potter's cousin explains.
What was even more shocking and heinous was the blood liberally splattered over the entire room. When questioned, all three family members shrugged. "He takes knives and mutters strange words behind his door. We don't bother him. We just get him his food and try to make sure not to anger him," Petunia Dursley confided. "My Dudley has always been frightened of what Potter can do. Many times I've seen strange bruises and cuts, and asked him what happened, but he's too scared to tell me. I know who did it, but what can I do? If I make Harry upset, he'll take it out on me and my entire family. All we can do is endure."
These horrifying facts point blatantly to the fact that not only is Harry Potter spoiled and a bully, but practicing the Dark Arts in his own home, using Blood Magic. This reporter asks, is this the boy we are going to trust our future to?
Severus snarled and threw the article to the ground. For a moment, he entertained the idea that the article was right, and Potter had simply run away.
No. Potter might well turn Dark—but he would never leave his friends. If it had been an option to come to Hogwarts, Potter would have fought tooth and nail to secure it—just look at the boy's second year, with that ridiculous flying car. No, something was wrong.
Severus quickly fire-called Remus. "Remus, how do you feel about stopping by Surrey this weekend?"