Author's Notes: Dedicated to TuesdayNovember.
Rated M for self-pleasure, cross-gen fantasizing and general mindfuckery.
Harry/hand, Harry/Bellatrix's picture, Harry/his own fantasy.
ALSO: In response to suggestions of making this into a multi-chapter, let me say that I'm considering it. Thanks for your enthusiasm!
Harry couldn't sleep.
He lay in his bed in Grimmauld Place, tossing and turning, but completely unable to think of anything except what he had heard in St. Mungo's earlier that day. If Voldemort's possessing him… if Voldemort's possessing him… if Voldemort's possessing him…
What would it mean if Voldemort was possessing him? How much of Harry's life could Voldemort see? Was he most susceptible when he was asleep, or was there a constant danger of Voldemort seeing into his mind?
Harry threw back the covers and climbed out of bed to pace the room. Was Voldemort seeing him right now? Was there any way to stop him?
Ron snored loudly from the other bed, causing Harry to jump. He had a sudden, insane urge to hit Ron for distracting him, but resisted, going instead to the door and tiptoeing out onto the stairwell.
He would go down to the kitchen and get himself something to eat. Yes. That would calm him down. Food would give him something to think about besides possibly being possessed.
Harry made his way down to the kitchen, trying to avoid the creakiest stairs. There was a low fire burning in the kitchen grate, just a few embers, but enough to light the room a little. He set about searching through cupboards for something to eat.
Nothing but rats and dusty old dishes.
He worked his way through each door he thought might lead to a pantry, but none of them contained even a scrap of food. He even got on his knees to open up a door low to the ground in hopes it might contain a bottle of butterbeer or some such.
No such luck.
When he pushed it open, he saw a heap of rags with a small dent in the top, as though something had been resting there. Harry coughed. It smelled foul. This, he supposed, must be where Kreacher lived. He moved to shut the door, but before it was completely closed, a glitter of silver caught his eye, and he paused. Pinching his nose, he leaned in and squinted.
Family portraits of the Blacks, he supposed, all set in handsome silver frames. And at the place of honour at the very front was a familiar image.
Harry's stomach knotted. The witch in the picture frame, all heavily-lidded eyes and dark curls, smirked out at him from behind clumsily mended glass. This was the woman he had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve last year. This was the woman who had tortured Neville's parents to insanity. This was Bellatrix Lestrange.
Numbly, without control, he reached out for the frame. He was mesmerised, and as he picked it up, the picture smirked and shook her hair back over her shoulders. Harry felt the knot in his stomach twist tighter still – she was disgusting, so disgusting, so evil…
The picture smirked again, as though it knew exactly what he was thinking. Looking at it gave Harry a strange sensation in his stomach besides the knot – like he was falling, or going down in a lift very fast. He felt a little dizzy and lightheaded and was glad he was sitting down or else his knees might have given out. He was remembering the memory of Bellatrix Lestrange in the courtroom in the Pensieve – the way she had moved with such dignity in grace, how proud she had looked…
Her face was cruel, yes, but seductive somehow. Even behind the glass and layers of tape that covered her picture, her eyes seemed to draw Harry in. He could hear the voice she had used in the Pensieve, that strong, calm voice, Come to me, Harry Potter… I can give you things you couldn't even imagine…
Where had that come from?
Harry shuddered. This was making him very uncomfortable. She was one of Voldemort's lot, he reminded himself. The enemy. The falling sensation in his stomach was increasing, as was a faint tingling slightly lower down.
He tore his eyes off the picture long enough to glance down at himself. To his dismay, there was a prominent bulge in the front of his pyjama trousers.
The picture of Bellatrix laughed silently. Did it know what was happening? No, that was stupid, it was a photograph. It didn't have thoughts.
Harry swallowed hard.
The picture was preening now, the Bellatrix in it toying with her hair, fluttering her eyelashes seductively, smiling at him. She leaned forward – the picture showed her head and torso – and pulled the neckline of her dress down slightly, revealing the tops of smooth, pale breasts.
Harry's stomach jolted.
He felt a rush of sensation go through him, and a warmth settle in his groin, and he could hear her voice – or, the voice in his head that he imagined for her, whispering… None of the rest of them know anything… they treat you like a child… I'll treat you like a man… come to me…
His cock ached. This wasn't normal, he was sure. It was definitely not normal to be turned on by someone like Bellatrix Lestrange. But…
But he didn't care. He had been through Hell in the past six months. Why should he care about morality when it came to this anyway? It wasn't as though he was planning on marrying her… and she was so beautiful…
Holding the picture in front of him, he reached down inside his pyjama trousers and grabbed hold of his erection. It was hard to the touch, and he stroked it gently, imagining Bellatrix was the one doing it. Picture-Bellatrix raised her hand as well, drawing her fingers through the air just on the other side of the glass. Her other hand went to her own breasts, running over the pale skin. Harry let out a quiet moan in spite of himself, and his hand tightened.
Picture-Bellatrix pursed her perfect, dark lips. She slid a finger down into her cleavage, pulling the dress away from her breasts. Another thrill of pleasure went through Harry, accompanied instantly by the falling sensation. One of her breasts was completely bare now, and she was touching it gently. Harry was rubbing himself as quickly and hard as he could now, trying to speed himself to release. Then those dark sweet lips moved slowly, forming two words, and he heard her seductive purr inside his mind as well.
Harry's breath caught, and his semen spurted out over his hand, spattering the picture. For a few blissful seconds he was unaware of anything but pleasure, but he came back to earth with a thump when he realized what had happened.
Guilt welled hot in his throat. She was a murderer. She was one of Voldemort's followers – a loyal one from what he had heard in the Pensieve.
I am his most faithful…
He rubbed the picture hard against his pyjama trousers, trying to clean it off, but only succeeded in smearing the glass. Picture-Bellatrix was laughing wildly now, though still in complete silence.
He shoved it back into the cupboard, then sat, shaking, trying to steady himself. That was wrong, so very, very wrong. It was her fault that Neville didn't have parents. She was disgusting, evil.
You found pleasure in me…
Shut up! He told her voice in his head. The guilt was incredible now, and he rubbed his temples hard, trying not to think about it. He did his best to focus on how much he hated her for what she had done to Neville's parents. He despised her. He was most certainly not attracted to her. He was just too sleep-deprived to think straight, and she was a beautiful woman in a picture. This meant nothing. All this meant about him was that he ought to get himself a girlfriend.
Valentine's Day. Harry was in Hogsmead. Cho Chang – pretty, sweet, smart Cho Chang – was at his side as they strolled through the cold village. They were chatting about Quidditch, unimportant things. For the first time since last June, Harry felt relaxed and normal. Just an ordinary boy, going on an ordinary date.
Then he caught sight of her in the window.
He stopped dead in his tracks and stared. All the pictures of Death Eaters who had recently escaped Azkaban were there, but he saw none of them save Bellatrix.
From what seemed like a great distance, he heard Cho say something. He wasn't paying attention.
The giant, blown-up mug shot of Bellatrix looked directly at him, and a smirk twisted her mouth.
And in the corner of his mind he heard her voice again, just as he had that night in Grimmauld Place.
I can give you things you can't even imagine…