And the Darkness Keeps Coming
The first thing he becomes aware of is his headache. A dull but consistent pain that makes his brain feel fuzzy, his thoughts feel slow like hot lava inching along the ground leaving him confused and he thinks he’s forgotten something important, but he can’t remember what it is.
It makes him think of Neville’s remembrall and he thinks the thought is probably out of place, because whatever he’s supposed to remember feels dark and heavy and like it should take precedence in his mind.
The second thing that makes itself known is how unbelievably dry his throat is.
A part of him doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to remember why he’s afraid, but the thirst overrides his fear and he has to see if there’s water near by.
His lids feel heavy as he slowly blinks them open, not fully comprehending what he’s seeing at first. It’s like he’s cross eyed only he’s not, it’s just that his vision isn’t focused on what he’s looking at.
A large black blob stands in front of him, the sound of an owl hooting in the distance, of crickets, of leaves rustling in the wind and he realizes he’s outside before he understands what he’s actually seeing.
The fuzzy blob moves slightly and he realizes it’s alive. His eyes widen in fear and he’s suddenly alert and focused and the unknown entity is now very clearly a man standing over him- the same man who had been in that car and had done a really good job at appearing to be lost.
Harry feels like a fucking idiot for deeming him safe. If only he’d questioned it more. If only he’d glanced back a few times and hadn’t been caught unawares after it’d been too late to stop him.
The breeze outside is warm, stifling even, but it still windy and it hits Harry’s skin in a way that sheds light to the fact that he’s naked and the hard bumpy ground underneath him is uncomfortable. His own weight causes the handcuffs to dig into his wrists painfully and he knows that he’s in the woods.
Dread and embarrassment at being laid bare before a stranger leaves him shuddering, but the fight or flight response is so strong he can’t let himself dwell on it for long. He wants to look around to see if there’s any exits near by- a road or a clearing or anything like that… but he’s afraid to take his eyes off the man for a single second.
It wouldn’t help much anyway, he realizes. It’s dark out now so he wouldn’t be able to see too far. The man has brought a light with him that shines down on them like a spotlight and he’s raw and exposed as if he were on stage with a full audience. There’s some sort of thin table too, almost like a tripod or something, but Harry is far too distracted by the threat to really pay attention to the gadgets he’s brought with him.
Harry wants to ask him what he wants, why he’s chosen him, why he’s doing this… His words are stuck in his throat though and all that comes out is a quiet fearful whimper and the guy who’s kidnapped him grins down at him wickedly, looking absolutely pleased with himself.
His eyes roam up and down his body and Harry feels small and self-conscious and he thinks he knows what this guys going to do with him. He feels bile rising in his throat at the thought and he doesn’t want this. He wonders if he’s going to kill him afterwards. He wonders if he’s one of those serial killers you hear about that take their victims deep into the woods where no one would ever be able to hear them scream.
After surviving Voldemort twice (that he can remember anyway) and that whole dementor and Pettigrew situation, it’d be rotten luck to be killed by a muggle serial killer and he feels slightly manic at how amusing it would be to see Voldemort’s face when he found out it was a muggle psychopath that managed to do a better job than he did.
But then the man starts to lower himself and Harry starts wiggling madly and tries to pull at his restraints in a fruitless effort to get away. He even manages to roll on his side as if he’d be able to out-crawl this man without the use of his arms. Like a an inch worm who isn’t smart enough to recognize that there’s no hope.
He feels sort of pathetic for even trying when it was never going to work, but he’d feel far worse just giving in without a fight so it’s all he can do.
The man laughs heartily and rolls him onto his back once again to sit in his lap, his legs bent on either side of him, his hard clothed cock pressed against Harry’s own soft and exposed dick.
“Please, don’t!” Harry begs, “I won’t- I won’t tell anyone jus- just let me go!”
“Oh, Harry… There’s no going back now.” He says, his hands palming softly on his stomach and sliding them up his chest as if it was his right to touch his body like this.
Harry shudders at how gruff and aroused he sounds, at the softness of his touch when he’d been expecting aggression.
“You’ve no idea how long I’ve been watching you. I’ve been dreaming of this moment since last summer. Do you know how many times I’ve got off imaging this very moment?”
Harry feels a chill go down his spine, sick at the thought that he’s been being stalked during his summers at the Dursley’s and he doesn’t understand how he could have not noticed this.
The man thrusts against Harry as he tweaks his nipples and he breathes in harshly at the sensation. It feels intimate in a way it shouldn’t because Harry doesn’t want this and doesn’t even know his name and he’s a kid and this guy is old enough to be his parent.
The man leans down so that his mouth brushes softly against his ear and he’s still thrusting against Harry and he hates that he can feel himself harden just slightly in response to these actions.
“I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll be screaming in pain for me, baby… and I’m going to make sure you love it.”
Harry wakes up screaming, the whisper still lingering in his ears, a threat spoken so softly despite the violence it promised.
His heart beats wildly and he feels the need to run or fight or do something with the terror that is just as strong as he’d felt in that very moment, but the only thing to fight is the blankets that are wrapped tightly around his sweaty body.
And he does fight them because they’re all tangled up around him leaving him feeling trapped and constricted as if he’s tied down and bound again and his brain hasn’t really caught up to the fact that he isn’t here and he hasn’t trapped him against his bed.
His breath hitches and his chest feels tight making it harder to breathe but finally he gets himself free and only then is he able to take in his surroundings.
The street light outside floods his room with dim yellow lighting that makes him able to see where he is and he draws in a choppy breath when he realizes that he’s safe.
He wishes desperately for a shower, but once they’d gotten back from the bus station Uncle Vernon had refused him and he still feels the grim from the forest and that terrible man’s touches all over him. He feels itchy and gross and dirty and wants a shower more than he’s maybe wanted anything before.
He can feel is own release on him dried now but still feeling very much present and he’s not sure if he can actually still feel it or if it’s his brain playing tricks on him again. He desperately wants to wash the memories off of his skin.
Harry's heart skips again when he hears his uncle’s angry growl soon followed by a loud creek as he leaves his bed and then heavy footsteps marching angrily towards his room.
His body stiffens minutely and he stands to face the door as he hears the clicks of lock after lock being undone and when he’s finally in his room he slams the door shut behind him. His face is red and that ugly vein is popping out in anger as he stalks towards him.
Harry backs up a pace or two, but his uncle catches up to him quickly and slams him against the wall.
He yelps in pain as his arse hits the wall hard, still injured from the assault and it makes him cringe from the pain as much as the reminder.
“This is the second day in a row that I’ve been woken up because of your worthless hide!”
“I-I’m sorry, I-“
“SHUT UP!” He roars in his face and Harry never particularly loves when his uncle is yelling at him or throwing him around in anger, but it’s much worse now after what’s happened.
Everything is worse now and it feels like he’s breaking at the seams, unable to handle life anymore on top of the new weight that he carries.
It’s been so very long that Harry’s let himself cry in front of his family because they don’t deserve his tears or the satisfaction that it may bring them. But this time he can’t stop his eyes from welling up as the evilness of the world settles over him and it all feels so hopeless.
Strangers who are willing to hurt him so intimately, so completely. Cops that treat his pain as not only a burden, but a punishable offense. Family that would betray him so easily, as if his very life had absolutely no value.
Harry doesn’t know if he wants to live in a world like this… He really, truly doesn’t.
Uncle Vernon’s eyes widen in surprise as he looks down at him and his fingers loosen from the grip on his shirt just slightly and for once the man seems to take pity on him.
“Get back to bed.” He growls, turning to leave.
“Please?” Harry asks, “Please, Uncle Vernon, let me get a shower?”
“… you really weren’t lying, were you?” He whispers quietly. There’s a combination of guilt and disgust as he looks down at Harry and he feels vulnerable and raw and he can’t quite make himself respond.
He doesn’t wait for him to reply anyway. He just turns and walks out of the room leaving his door wide open and Harry takes that as permission and hastily grabs a change of clothes before rushing to the bathroom.
At first Harry just stands under the hot water and allows it to wash over his aching muscles soothingly. It feels so good to just stand here as the first layers of filth wash away and when he turns to face the shower head he feels sick when he sees the dried blood becoming liquidized once more as it’s hit with fresh water.
His uncle’s apparent kindness confuses him because it’s tinged in cruelty. Had he really just assumed Harry had made it up? And why had he looked disgusted at Harry even while he felt his own guilt. None of it really makes sense and even if it makes his anger thaw slightly, it’s not enough to erase the damage he’s caused him.
He showers until the water starts to run cold trying to make sense of everything.
The apparent compassion his uncle had felt the night before is gone by the time he’s called down to make breakfast.
He limps into the kitchen, his body sore and achey and a constant reminder that won’t let him forget for very long and as he’s flipping pancakes he catches sight of the disgusted look that his uncle shoots him and Harry’s starting to think it has to do with the fact that Harry has slept with a man, no matter that he didn’t want to.
His family has always been homophobic, but his uncle is especially so. He’s fairly certain that if even his precious Dudley wound up being queer he’d disown him.
Being raped by a man wouldn’t suddenly make him gay, the fact that he’s been gay this entire time makes him that way, but his uncle doesn’t need to know about that.
Anger boils inside of him and he can feel his magic brewing. He has to physically stomp it down before it grows wild and out of control, though not from fear of his uncles wrath. He just doesn’t have the energy to deal with the aftermath.
“May as well make yourself one too.” Aunt Petunia says after Harry’s stomach rumbles particularly loudly.
He’s surprised, but he doesn’t question her decision. Harry’s only just sat down and had a few bites of his breakfast when the TV blares from the other room.
“Harry Potter: The Boy Who Called Wolf” a news broadcaster says loudly, “After many wasted hours of investigation into an alleged sexual assault, the boy takes it all back saying he’d made up the entire thing. Find out why at 11 o’clock.”
The entire family freezes in place, all of the clanks of silverware against porcelain stop at once and he can feel all three of their eyes on him as his stomach falls to his feet, his insides twisting in horror as his new reality sinks into place and it’s not fair. None of this is fair.
This time when the feeling of sickness washes over him he knows instantly that it’s not going to stay down. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor and it feels unrealistically loud in his ears. He knows he won’t make it to the bathroom upstairs so he rushes into the kitchen and leans over the garbage can as he chucks up the meager contents of his stomach.
He can vaguely hear his aunt’s shrill panicked voice going on about how they’re going to be the talk of the town for who knows how long and that ‘the boy’ is ruining their lives. He wants to scream, but he feels just as voiceless as he had in the police station and instead returns to his bedroom and flops down on his bed, no longer hungry despite not haven eaten for a long time.
The pain has decreased now, but it’s still intense as he brutally slams into him at a degrading pace and he feels his hand reaching around to touch his cock again.
He keeps doing that, occasionally touching him in ways that increase his arousal and Harry hates the man for doing it.
He’s touching something inside that sends an unexpected heated jolt of pleasure through him, the pain returning as he pulls out because he’s too big and it’s too much and it hurts as he shoves himself back in until it hits that spot again, creating another wave of intense unwanted satisfaction he never knew was possible.
A terrible raw sound escapes him, some awful mixture between a scream of pure pain and a pleasurable moan and harry flushes in embarrassment hating himself and his body and its responses.
As much as he hates it, he also sort of likes it and he shouldn’t like being raped. He can practically hear his aunt’s scathing voice calling him a freak and for the first time since he was a little boy who didn’t know better, he thinks maybe she’s been right all along.
Shame, humiliation, pain, fear, disgust, anger, pleasure.
They all mix together creating an intensity that soon becomes indistinguishable from each other and all of it feels like overwhelming need and desire.
Harry wakes up moaning, his body stiffening and thrusting into the mattress as the pressure releases, making a mess of himself and his sheets. The orgasm rages through him intensely and as good as it feels he can’t help but hate every second of it.
Maybe the police were right to not believe him. People weren’t supposed to enjoy such a violent and forceful sexual experience. The fact that he could get off as he dreams about it speaks volumes about how fucked up he was.
He sobs, curling into a ball, self hatred consuming him and he just wants to die.
It’s a few days later and Aunt Petunia still can’t even bare to look at him, so ashamed of the publicity around what happened and how much it was impacting her.
Uncle Vernon seems too disgusted to even talk to him and when he’s woken up to Harry’s terrified screams one night too many he slaps him around some, calls him a poof, and then slams the door shut leaving Harry feeling empty.
Dudley too has been saying horrible homophobic comments and has been mocking him relentlessly for what happened.
After a particularly ugly interaction with his cousin Harry finds himself holed up in his room once again.
He doesn’t know why it happens, but one moment he feels nothing but the humiliation at Dudley’s insult and the next he finds himself getting hard.
Cock whore is what Dudley had called him… the man had said something similar too.
There’s a part of him that feels like it must be true. That he really must be a stupid slut or a worthless whore if he got off on all of that and now there’s some sort of messed up correlation between hating himself and desire.
It’s not the first time he’s gotten a hard on from the shame of it all in the last few days, but it’s the first time he’s considering doing something about it.
The part of him that’s desperate to feel anything but this blanket of depression that he now lives in gives in to dark desire and he’s shucking his pants and climbing into bed.
A thrill of wrongness settles over him and it just builds the anticipation, but then the shame of it all becomes too much. He shoves that all away the best he can and tries to focus on normal things as he takes his cock in hand.
A hot nameless guy that he makes up in his head - it doesn’t feel right to wank off to the image of someone he knows.
He imagines that he’s in a bed and the other kid is being kind and sweet to him. He’s careful and considerate and it’s like how a first time should be.
“You look beautiful like this.” He says as Harry writhes underneath of him in pleasure.
Everything about that scene feels so wrong to Harry now and it’s like his entire being rejects it.
Instead he focuses on the sensations he feels as he jerks off, but that doesn’t quite seem to do it for him either.
The same imaginary guy from the first fantasy is shoving him against the wall roughly and the thrill of it leaves Harry gasping in excitement. He starts to work open Harry’s school uniform, but seems taken over by need and instead rips it off, his shirt buttons flying and the action feels commanding in a way. Like he wants to own Harry.
Harry moans quietly and he very much likes this fantasy. Delicious need and guilt seem to mix together once again.
He images scenario after scenario of being taken roughly in more and more demeaning positions and he’s feeling closer to release now when something changes very suddenly for him.
“That’s right… take it, you worthless whore”
The voice that frequents his nightmares is now haunting his fantasies as well and the past and present meld into one. He’s confused by vivid memories and turned on and horrified and for some inexplicable reason he can’t seem to stop touching himself. He can’t stop remembering either.
Harry shivers at the crude words and the man laughs, stilling inside him and he grabs Harry’s dick again, pumping it quickly and with the lack of pain from his movements it leaves nothing left but pleasure and a quiet little “ah!” escapes him.
“You like that, don’t you?” He says, “You like being a stupid little slut.”
Harry can feel himself pulsing, his cock twitching as he’s being verbally degraded and yet the pleasure builds. He can’t tell if he’s still there or if he’s in the now and knows nothing but sensation.
He groans again and he wishes he would stop torturing him and just get this over with.
A feather light touch with his free hand descends along his spine as he starts rolling his hips again. This time the pain and pleasure become one and the sounds Harry makes are sinfully embarrassing.
“You like the contrast between pleasure and pain. Fucking pathetic.”
The tears stream down his face uncontrollably, but the worst part is that he thinks the man might be right.
It starts at the base of his cock, the pressure that seems to build on itself before it erupts out of him, a crescendo that increases in volume and leaves him floating in the stars for one blissful moment until the horror of it all crashes over him. The self hatred is so intense that even mid orgasm his pleasure feels like pain.
It’s weird, Harry thinks, how pain during sex can feel like pleasure. But Harry is certain now that this man has ruined him. Because the opposite can be said for his release. The act of getting off now feels so shameful that the pleasure feels like nothing but pain.
He realizes then that he’s crying in real life and nothing about this experience has actually felt good for him… he doesn’t understand why he got off on it. Not the other day when he’d been forced against his will, and not now either.
But the thing is, he doesn’t stop. Everytime something horrible happens he finds himself coping by doing it again. He’s not sure if he’s trying to punish himself for something or if he genuinely loves to hate it.
It only gets worse as the reports and talk show hosts become more vicious about how they talk about Harry and it all starts to feel like a ghost that haunts him, constantly mocking and inescapable. He thinks maybe he’s fucked in the head. Maybe this guy has tainted the way he views sex now and he won’t be able to get off without hating himself for it.
The worst is thing to happen comes about a week later when Dumbledore stops by for a visit. He’d been wondering when someone was going to pick him up, because they’d said ‘soon’ nearly two weeks ago now.
It turns out that soon means never, because both Hermione and Mrs. Figg have spread the word about Harry’s ‘lies’ and apparently everyone thinks it’s a good idea for him to stay away until it all ‘cools down.’ Harry can read between the lines there. Everyone hates him now.
Dumbledore tries to reassure him by saying that it’s stayed out of the Daily Prophet. He knows that should make him feel better but it doesn’t, because everyone who’s important to him thinks he made it up.
It hurts that Dumbledore didn’t even ask Harry if the assault happened. He speaks about it like he already knows that the rape wasn’t real and Harry can tell that he feels disappointed in him too.
He could try and convince him, but he doesn’t have the energy. Besides, it wouldn’t be worth it to get his hopes up only to see that the headmaster’s opinion doesn’t sway.
Harry’s punishing himself again after that dreadful conversation.
He’s given up on thinking about anything other than the rape, as it always seems to come down to that anyway.
He remembers being flipped onto his stomach, his mouth being pushed into the ground as he’s taken violently. He’s saying awfully humiliating things to Harry, but there’s also this pain-pleasure sensation that he’s resigned himself to.
It’s pure torture, but the worst part is what happens at the end. Harry is screaming for him to stop around moans of desire, another strange contradiction that Harry can’t make sense of. A man yells in the distance saying they’ve called the coppers and the guy swears and pulls out.
Harry knows he was close and he thinks the man had been too, but he’s jumping up and gathering his stuff and leaving Harry lying there hovering on the edge.
He can’t stop himself from thrusting into the ground once, twice, three times and then he’s cumming hard. It’s the worst part of the entire night, because it was the only part he could have prevented and it’s what really makes him feel like a whore. It’s the real reason he can’t stand his own pleasure… because after all of that it wasn’t taken from him. He gave it up himself.
Harry feels the orgasm take over him, but the terrible guilt he knows he’ll feel is more than he can stand. Instead at the last second he pulls his hand away and ruins his orgasm.
The pleasureless release is terrible but amazing and for some reason he feels proud of himself. For the first time since it happened he has a sense of control. It takes over him, consumes him, makes him feel like he’s finally done something right, what he should have done that night instead. The lack of experiencing release… it feels like it’s what he deserves and as horrible as it is to have all that build up only to never actually receive the pleasure… not actually getting off is somehow also the most arousing thing he’s ever felt.
Finally he feels whole again. He feels peace. He falls asleep and it’s the first time since it happened that he isn’t woken up by nightmares.