He’s shivering, but he can no longer tell if he’s hot or cold. It’d started out as cold, of course, but then it got colder and colder until he was burning up. Ice cold flames seem to reach through each layer of skin until it reaches his bones and he thinks he can feel it even in his heart making it harder to breathe. His breath stutters out in uneven puffs. The chill has settled so deeply that it now feels like he’s on fire somehow.
It shouldn’t be this cold in the middle of July. It had to be magic, right?
He’s wet, lying in a puddle of frigid icy water that feels like it’s going to melt his skin off and the pitch black darkness seems to settle in his very soul, like a dementor melding them together until they are one.
He can’t see a thing. Can’t hear a thing. Can’t remember the last time he did.
He’s not sure why he’s here, how he got here, how long it’s been or why he hurts.
What he does know, is that he wants to escape it all.
He’s hot and tired and cold and he misses his friends so much.
But then he’s at Hogwarts and it’s cold because it’s winter and it’s night time and he’s in astronomy. He’s tired, so he lays down in the snow.
“You shouldn’t do that, Harry. You’ll get frostbite.” Hermione says.
That’s why he’s cold and wet and sore, isn’t it? That’s why it’s so dark too.
He’s at school. He’s with his friends.
Ron is laughing at him and he lies down too and Hermione thinks they’re both being crazy and childish. But then Harry reaches up and she grabs for his hand and plants her feet, leaning backwards in an attempt to help him up.
But he pulls Hermione down and the three of them are laying in the snow now and Hermione is shrieking while Ron dumps snow down her robe.
That’s why he feels warm too. Because his friends feel like family and they’re having fun and Harry likes it when they can all laugh like this and forget about Voldemort or evil professors or bullying students. He loves these rare moments when his heart swells with warmth and he feels whole in a way that he never felt as a child.
“If I get detention because of you guys…” Hermione warns.
“Oh, live a little, Hermione!” Ron moans. “This is fun! Do you remember what fun is?”
“I have plenty of fun!” Hermione snaps, pulling herself from the ground and brushing the snow off.
“Let me guess. A nice long text book full of confusing words that you have to constantly look up the meaning to because you’re ’expanding your vocabulary’ and learning a new subject at the same time.”
“At least I can maintain my focus long enough to read something other than Quidditch Quarterly!”
Harry smiles and settles into the cold wet snow. How he’s missed hearing his friends bicker. How he loves Hogwarts and the feel of her magic coursing through him as if Hogwarts herself is alive and keeps them all tethered, connected, safe…
Sometimes when Harry is as calm like this he can imagine that Hogwarts magic looks like the night sky, full of blues and purples and stardust that connects with his own invisibly vibrant magic that ties them together becoming one and his friends are connected to it too and it makes them all united. Separate but together all at the same time.
Usually his life is too chaotic to notice it, but these rare sweet moments where it feels like he’s just a normal kid with normal friends and his brain actually has time to just feel present like this… it’s like he’s in an alternate reality, if only for a few moments.
A loud bang sounds, like a door is being slammed open and it confuses Harry because they’re outside, aren’t they? There wasn’t meant to be loud doors out in nature like this. Light shines down on him, hurting his eyes and it feels like it’s been night for a long, long time now.
Even still, it doesn’t make much sense that the sun would come up so suddenly. There should have been black sky turning deep blue turning lighter even. There should have been purplish hues with clouds turning grey then golden yellow then pink.
Night doesn’t turn to day so suddenly that it burns his retinas, making him feel even more heat somehow than he had before.
His heart rate picks up as something tugs at his wrists and it hurts. It digs into his skin like a ground beetle burrows into dirt. Harry gasps at the pain, not quite understanding what’s causing it.
It’s so bright he can’t see and it’s weird how both dark and light can create the same affect, but in vastly different ways.
His stomach churns and he feels like he’s crashing into the true reality. The reality where what he wants to be so, simply isn’t.
He’s not at Hogwarts at all, is he?
He realizes suddenly just how dry his throat is and he can’t remember the last time he’s had a drink of water. It feels like it’s been days and it makes his body feel weak and sick and heavy.
A laugh fills the air- no several laughs. There’s three voices and they’re all mocking him and it makes him feel cold again.
“Some savior you are.” One of them says. “God it reeks like piss in here.”
“Look at him, he’s pathetic.”
“Guess Dumbledore bet on the wrong mutt, huh? This one isn’t even potty trained.”
He can feely his unusually pale face start to blush red at the words and he does feel awfully pathetic. A white hot rage settles over him, reminding him that he wouldn’t give in to these lunatics. His body is weak, but was it so different from when he’d been locked in the cupboard for days on end without food or water or toilets?
He’s survived this before and he’ll survive it again and he’d never let these psychotic serial killers break him. A weak body, anyone would succumb to that. But a weak mind, that’s what can kill you. And Harry isn’t weak. He’s not. He’s fought time and time again when the obstacles would have slowed anyone else down. He’s survived the unsurvivable and he’ll keep doing so.
These bastards have nothing on him, not really.
Someone must have used a non verbal spell, because the shackles around his wrists that chain him to the wall fall free and are replaced with small cuffs that keep his wrists secured tightly behind his back.
“I think it needs washed. I’m not touching that filthy thing.”
Harry’s body is being doused in even more cold water, and as humiliating as this is he can’t help but open his mouth, desperately seeking any bit of hydration he can manage. It’s shameful, but it’s better than dying.
Their laughter rings in his ears and he hates them. He hates all of them more than he’s ever hated anyone.
A hand grips him by the hair and he’s being pulled up, biting his tongue to hold back a scream as he scrambles to get his legs underneath him to ease the sharp pain to his skull. It’s hard without the use of his hands, but he manages well enough.
Because that’s what Harry does, right? He makes do with the little he’s got and he lives to see another day until finally he’s able to be free at Hogwarts learning magic and feeling loved by people who care about him, who he loves in return. It’s what he’ll keep doing.
Once he’s up the fingers entangled in his hair remain. They push and pull painfully, directing him which way he should walk, though he doesn’t make it easy on them. He digs his heals in to slow down the process, knowing it wouldn’t prevent him from reaching their end goal, but doing it merely to irritate them.
He turns and spits into one of their faces which only serves to earn a low animalistic growl and a punch to the gut, causing him to curve downward and into himself. Still, a small smile graces his lips because he’s caused them to loose control of themselves.
They’re so easy to manipulate, really. Pathetically so, considering he’s the Gryffindor and they’re all Slytherins.
He causes what should have been a five minute walk to last fifteen with all of the nonsense he causes.
Harry knows he shouldn’t. He’s wasting precious energy he should be saving for the actual torture session, but he can’t help himself. If he’s going to go down, he’s going to fight every second of the way with all he has to give.
Now that Harry’s been pulled from dreamland where he spends a lot of his time now a days, so much time that he does truly forget where he is for a while, he remembers that he hasn’t been home for so long his heart aches with it.
At first he’d been isolated for days, at least. Could have been weeks for all he knows. He’s really not sure how long it was, but it felt like forever. 24, 48, 90 hours - however much time had passed, it’d happened with nothing to see or hear or smell or taste.
It had been its own type of torture, really.
Harry had managed to survive it though. He’s used to having little stimulation in the cupboard. Granted, even then he’d had slits in the door that let sun light in. Even then he’d feel the vibrations of someone going up and down the stairs. He could both feel and hear heavy Dursley men’s footsteps as the walked to and fro during the day.
He could hear the tv, Aunt Petunia gossiping on the phone, Dudley’s loud blaring music that would sound throughout the house and grate on Aunt Petunia’s nerves, who would grumble about it as she cleaned, even if she told him what great taste in music he had to his face.
In Voldemort’s dungeon he didn’t have anything but his imagination.
It was harder, he felt like he was going mad during the moments where he was pulled from his daydreams and returned to the land of the living, but he’d survived.
He’d nearly been grateful for the torture session that followed, because at least he felt something. Though that something quickly became overstimulating after going so long with out. It had been one extreme to the other.
Then there would be more periods of forced isolation with a severe lack of stimulation. Sometimes he’d forget where he was even while being tortured.
He’d be with his friends or Sirius and they were laughing. Sirius was telling him stories about his dad or what their house would be like once he was free and then he’d feel a sharp sting slamming into his body.
He’d grip tight to his dreams with every once of strength he had, blocking out the pain- blocking out the touches that didn’t belong in a place like this. Or perhaps they did. Perhaps that’s where they belonged, but they shouldn’t.
Occasionally he gets confused and feels those hands roaming his body, feels pain, hears voices that doesn’t match up with the fake reality he’s created in his head. Those kind of touches belonged alone in his room with Draco. Not with strange creepy old men who-
No. Harry won’t think of that.
Harry’s dragged into Voldemorts throne room, because of course the egotistical maniac sits on a throne in front of his followers like some sort of medieval king.
“Harry Potter, The Boy Who Entertains. The Toy who lived. Our Chosen Captive… How good it feels to have you kneeling at my feet… right where you belong.”
Harry was kneeling at Voldemort’s feet, but it hadn’t been his own doing. He’d been forced into this position by death eaters, grown men who manhandled a boy, by bodies who were in stronger physical health then he.
But he wasn’t kneeling here on his own and he resents the fact that Voldemort makes it sound that way. His body fills with fury at the laughter of all the masked men and women who cheer joyfully at Harry’s suffering.
The humiliation he’s felt since coming here is stronger than he’s ever felt before and he detests the new nicknames he’s created for him.
“I’ll never be your ‘toy.’ I’ll never give in to you.” Harry says, spitting on his bare feet.
Those toes are truly disgusting looking and it’s so strange that Voldemort just walks around without any shoes on like this.
Spitting’s one of the only things he can really do to fight back against them. He wishes he could do something else. Switch it up so it doesn’t feel quite so redundant. Still, spitting on someone feels much harsher than a slap anyway and no matter how much he does it, it still seems to fuel their rage.
With the death eaters anyway. Voldemort merely laughs, because he not fully human anymore and he doesn’t have normal responses to things. Harry knew it wouldn’t phase the man, but doesn’t care though. This time it had been more for his own benefit rather than to upset the man. It’s the principle of it, proves to himself that he’s not as broken as he feels.
“I think we’ll start with Yaxley today.” The noseless man says.
Harry groans inwardly, but holds himself stiffly so as not to respond in any way.
The worst part about this whole thing is that there doesn’t appear to be any reason for all of this, other than to see him suffer. It’s arrogant and bold of him to assume no one was ever going to come for him. If Harry was the evil one he’d have had Harry killed the very first day, considering how many times his plans have been spoiled.
But Voldemort isn’t like that. He’s a narcissistic arsehole hell bent on seeking vengeance for something that had happened when Harry was a baby.
Sometimes it makes Harry ill, to know that this sort of evil exists. That this many people enjoy inflicting and watching another being suffer so. At least if there was a goal, like getting information, it wouldn’t have felt so truly nauseating. Not that Harry would support such methods, but this sort of pain just because it gave them pleasure shakes Harry’s view of humanity to his core.
Yaxley isn’t the most vicious death eater- no that title could go to Greyback or Bellatrix or Lucius Malfoy. They’re all fucked up in their own unique ways… But that doesn’t mean he’s not high up there on the spectrum of depraved death eaters.
He at least doesn’t use his hands to hurt Harry.
It’s not long before the pain wracks his entire body. He’s sort of proud how long he manages to hold back his screams, but they always manage to tear it from his throat anyway. He’s inflicted by curse after curse after curse. The sick fuck is a fan of using uniquely painful spells that Harry’s never heard of, so it’s always a surprise what sort of sensation is going to hit him next. And he does it in such quick succession, never really giving Harry a chance to even process the horrid pain.
His insides are burning hot which makes him feel so ill after being so cold for so long. His being whipped so badly that his shirt is nothing but tattered remains, clinging over his shoulders uselessly. His intestines feel like they’re twisting inside and it hurts so badly he wants to die.
He knows he’s seconds away from begging, pleading for him to stop, to kill him, to do anything but cause him more pain. Screaming and crying, that’s something he tries hard to fight off, but he’s only human and he can’t stop his tears from coming when he’s being tortured so badly. But begging these evil creatures for anything is something he refuses to do.
Instead he allows his mind to fill with so much cotton that it feels bloated and fuzzy and his senses dull more and more until he cannot feel anything that’s happening in the dimension in which he body is tied to. He simply drifts away until his mind is somewhere new.
He’s with his friend’s. He’s at Hogwarts. He’s safe and his friends are safe and everything is fine.
Harry sits in the common room with his housemates and it’s later in the evening now. It’s dark, but not uncomfortably so. The fire is going and there are torches and landers strewn about the walls and room to add to the ambiance.
He’s surrounded by red and gold and the dim lighting creates shadows that feel like comfort and home.
It’s the weekend and it’s past curfew and while it’s late, it’s still early enough that a good portion of the students were still in the common room.
Harry sits with his friends on a cozy couch close enough to feel just the slightest touch of warmth from the flames and enjoy the view, but in the more open portion of the common room where he can be surrounded by the others and enjoy this rare moment of calm.
Every now and then he’s jabbed with a dull sense of pain and he realizes that Pigeon is here, pecking at him. That’s why he hurts sometimes, but for the most part he can hardly even feel it.
Fred and George has snuck in some fire whiskey and they’re all drinking and eating strange candies that were also their creations. It’s a dangerous game, they may as well be playing Russian Roulette, but when the fire whiskey warms down your throat and settles in clearing your mind from any worries leaving nothing behind but a childish giddiness… well, it’s much more fun taking the risk of eating the twins candy.
Pig is back for more, a particularly harsh peck lands against his eye and Harry screams. He doesn’t understand what happened, it’s like he’d just somehow pecked through his glasses. He goes to grab at his aching eye, tears stinging at the corners, but his arms are stuck.
Why are his arms stuck? Hadn’t he use been using them to eat candy and drink liquor?
“How’d he do that?” Harry asks Hermione.
“He’s my owl.” Ron says, “Why are you asking her?”
“Because Hermione knows what’s really happening.” Seamus says, “The rest of us would just let him keep up the front.”
“There’s no front!” Harry snaps, “I want to try the blue candy.”
“That one will make you remember.” George said.
“Remember what?”
“That’s the problem with remembralls, isn’t it?” Neville asks.
Things are making less and less sense and Harry’s vision starts fading on the edges. Maybe he’s drunker than he thought he was.
The last thing he hears before everything goes black is the uproarious laughter of his house mates when purple freckles appear all over his body and George saying that he’d told him not to try the blue candy.
A groan escapes him as he comes to and his is body nothing but a pile of wounds on top of wounds. He’s a bag of flesh for others to play with however they see fit. Skin connected to deteriorating muscle connected to potentially failing organs and broken bones.
If only his nerve ending would fall apart so easily so he didn’t have to feel real anymore.
Sometimes it’s easier to think about himself this way, but it doesn’t quite work when he first wakes up. It’s the most lucid time of day for him, when his mind becomes aware of how much pain he is and the darkness reminds him that he’s not where he’s meant to be.
He keeps thinking about how it should be hot in the dead of summer, but Harry has a sneaking suspicion that it’s not actually summer anymore. He hasn’t let himself acknowledge that thought before now, because it just makes him fearful that if so much time has already passed then he just might not live long enough to be saved.
It was summer when he’d arrived though. It was the middle of July or.. was it August? Harry thinks it must have been August, because his birthday had passed, hadn’t it? So far the summer hadn’t been nearly as hot as the year prior, though hot enough to make it decidedly uncomfortable to be working in the garden.
Harry remembers lying in the garden, but he wasn’t working for once. He’d been lying there, hurt and bleeding- the aftermath of Uncle Vernon’s wrath. He’d been furious about the dementors.
Times like now when he lets himself think about, it doesn’t feel like it was in the past at all. He can still see Uncle Vernon’s ugly face contorted in more anger than he’d ever seen the main display before. His face had been so red it was nearly purple and that horrifyingly large vein popped from his forehead, always an event that preceded a painful beating from the man.
This time had been no different. He remembers harsh hits and even harsher words raining down on him over and over and thinking about how excruciating it was. It’s almost laughable now, nothing more than a paper cut compared to the hell he lives in now.
But at the time it hurt, and it still feels heavy thinking of how much his relatives hate him. They hate him so much that no one bat an eye while they watched Uncle Vernon beat him bloody. He imagines that they’re the only muggles Voldemort would take a liking to if he’d had the chance to see them in that moment.
A young childish part of him, a part that always exists but he doesn’t often look at, a little boy that lives in his heart… he hurts terribly when he thinks about this. All he’d ever wanted was to be loved. It’s so unfair that he’s finally got that only to have it all snatched away from him do that he could live a miserable existence full of more pain than Harry knew was even possible.
He’s tired and he’s surprised Snape wasn’t sent in to heal him this time, considering the extent of his injuries. Perhaps they’re just going to let him slowly die now. He feels a jolt of shame that the thought excites him, though he’d prefer a quick death if it was up to him.
The self-hatred he feels at allowing his mind to momentarily give up is enough to send him flying away again where he doesn’t have to remember any of this.
Harry’s not sure where Sirius lives, but he’s with him. They’re in a lovely little beach house just off the shore and Harry is spending the rest of the summer with him.
“I’ve never been to the sea before!” Harry exclaims as he grins widely, digging his toes into the went sand as water pulls away from land.
It feels good on his toes, cool to the touch and brings that same bit of dopamine one gets when handling dirt while gardening. Something that doesn’t seem like it should be pleasant is very much so, like the feeling of sunlight after several weeks of rainy weather.
It’s funny how things in nature can do that and he imagines this must be what it would feel like to dig your toes into wet sand.
The waves are peaceful and calm and the sound is like a quiet melody that grounds him. For a little while Harry can pretend that he and Sirius are family, even if he’s not actually free yet. Harry doesn’t mind pretending. He’s just glad he had the chance to finish off the summer with him.
Sirius turns into a dog and is running madly through the ocean waves, tail wagging so intensely he’s constantly splashing Harry’s face and Harry shouts out in faux frustration, diving at the dog and pushing him down.
Harry’s too nervous to go very far into the ocean though, but Sirius insists he’s going to teach him how to swim this summer.
“Your mom was a great swimmer.” He says, “Who knows, maybe you’ll pick it up quickly because it’s in your genes.”
“She was? Did mum swim a lot?”
“Your mother was a terrible swimmer, Potter.”
Harry’s confused, because Sirius wouldn’t call him Potter. Plus, the voice doesn’t sound like Sirius’ and it’d be weird he’d say she was good and then turn around and say the opposite. He looks around but he doesn’t see anyone else on the beach.
“Drink, Potter.”
Harry doesn’t want to drink any gross tasting potions. He doesn’t want to be pulled back into the cold wet basement where he has to wonder if Snape is indeed being truthful when he reassures him they’re going to get him out or if he’s slowly poisoning him to death. He wants to stay here in the sun and smell the salty sea water with Sirius. He wants to feel like he’s part of a family for once.
“I’m not supposed to be giving you this.” Snape hisses quietly, “You must hurry. Drink. Now.”
Harry feels a vial touch his lips, but he doesn’t let himself become fully aware. He stairs at the a seagull flying by as he swallows the thick grotesque liquid.
“I missed you, kid.” Sirius says as the sit and watch the sunset. “I wish it could be like this all the time.”
“Me too. Can I come back for Christmas?” Harry says, his heart fluttering slightly at an adult wanting to spend time with him.
Harry doesn’t remember the transition this time. One minute he’s in the dark imagining he’s at the beach with Sirius and the next he’s drowning in pain, suddenly in a room full of death eaters with Voldemort sitting at his stupid royal seat.
How is it possible he didn’t remember them coming into his cell to rouse him? He hadn’t fought at all, had he? He must have just complied easily thinking he was with his godfather.
The transition is rough and sudden and Harry goes from being happier than he’s ever been to blinding consuming pain. It’s the most rude awakening he could ever imagine.
The weird part is, the physical pain doesn’t last very long. He’s force fed a potion that makes him remember horrible memories. No matter how hard he tries to return to his godfather he can’t stop himself from being consumed by the memories.
His parents death.
Credric’s death.
Starving in the cupboard time and time again.
Dementors all around him, fearful that Sirius would die.
Hand touching him. Something thick and hard and solid and Harry knows what it is but refuses to believe it’s true… it’s pressing into him and he hates it. He doesn’t want this to be-
Aunt Petunia bashing a frying pan against his head but Harry dodging last second.
Fists. Uncle Vernons fists and he’s so small but he doesn’t care, he won’t stop hurting him and it’s makes him sob in pain.
More hands. More things pressing in. Curses raining down. Fists and whips and objects used to hurt him. A horrible musk as his throat his filled with man after man after man. Kids from primary telling him he’s a freak and refusing to acknowledge him or play with him.
Hungry. Tired. Cold. As a boy and as a teenager all melding together to a confusing consuming experience.
And then he’s alone in the cell once again. Horrible memories had haunted him for hours, but now…
Now he awakes alone in the cell and the physical pain remains though not as bad as it had been earlier. Which is to say it’s making him want to die, but it’s still terribly sharp and his entire body hurts.
Pain is all he knows and it’s too much, even if it does feel like a break compared to before.
Slowly his body forgets how intense the pain is. It doesn’t stop. An ever present ache that never fully leaves, but… but his body or brain or something makes it feel more dull because feeling the pain forever must not be evolutionally beneficial or something and soon all he knows is that his body is fairly numb and all of his other senses are too because it’s dark and quite and all he feels is nothingness.
It’s boring. It’s draining. It’s lonely.
Slowly he feels like he’s going mad once agian.
He thinks back to how he got here. It’s a common thought. After being left out in the weeds at his relatives house- after his uncle had kicked him out and told him that this was no longer his home- he remembers lying there in pain, exhausted but not knowing yet what true exhaustion feels like… He remembers thinking he was dead tired though.
He remembers how he’d been thrown outside and abandoned by his family. He felt a wave of faltering magic that affected his soul. It felt like he was losing magic that’s been a part of him his entire life. He felt sick and sweaty and hollow, almost as if the magic had been a drug that he’d been withdrawing from. And the loud popping sounds of one person after another apparating. A female laugh that sounds evil and manic and shook him to his core. A realization that he needs to fight, but he’s already so weak that he can’t do much as death eaters surround him. He doesn’t want to remember anymore.
He’s with his friends again. He’s at Hogwarts. He’s safe.
And then he’s being tortured again and when the pain is overwhelmingly bad it suddenly stops and it’s filled by kind touches. The touches make him sick and they start becoming more rough rather than gentle. All of it makes him wish for death and he can’t bear it.
He’s back with his friends only this time he’s confused. Lavender brown was into back rubs now. Someone is rubbing his shoulders. It must be her, but her voice sounds all wrong.
“Take it, whore.” She says.
Why would she say that to him? It doesn’t make any sense.
“That’s it. Fucking take it, you worthless hole.”
Lavender was weird, but she’d never say that to him. It’s confusing.
The hands don’t leave his shoulders though. Her fingers claw into them and use his shoulders to move his body up and down and he thought back rubs were supposed to feel good, not hurt.
“You love taking death eater dick, don’t you?”
Harry sputters, confused. Hermione is yelling at her, Draco is furious. Ron is so mad his voice quivers for a moment and he says she’s not being nice and they go to the black lake.
It’s Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Draco at first. They’re going on about how creepy Lavendar was, but it’s not long before they’re messing around and enjoying each other’s company, all uncomfortable touches are far far away.
But suddenly it’s just him and Draco.
He remembers the first time anyone ever touched him sexually and it was Draco of course.
His first. His only… He’d been his only, before anyway.
They never actually had sex so to speak, but it was Draco who Harry first kissed. It was Draco that first placed his hand under his shirt, his palm creeping up slowly as Harry moaned beneath him. It was Draco who first wrapped his hand and then his mouth around his cock. Draco was his everything. He’s all Harry ever wanted. He’s the first person who ever said “I love you.” To Harry. And Harry’s the first person who said “I love you” to Draco.
Both of their families were fucked up and they should have heard it from them, but they hadn’t. Instead they’d learned what love really feels like in each other. He thinks of Draco, but there’s a sensation down there and his throat is so full he can’t breathe and it’s not Draco so he adamantly pushes the thoughts of Draco away because he doesn‘t want to think of him when other people are- no. No he can’t think of it.
He’s back in the basement, chained up and tired and his arse hurts but he can’t remember why- refuses to remember, even if deep down he knows.
When he’s alone and chained up with nothing to distract him he misses the pain. Flashes of memories one after another pop up in his mind. People touching him in ways he didn’t like keep taking up space in his mind.
They heal him sometimes, but he thinks he’s getting sick. He’s got some sort of fever. Or it’s one of the curses that has a longer affect than others, he’s not sure. The hands don’t stop and it goes on for hours and hours even though it’s not even happening anymore.
Finally his brain has enough. It shuts down and he’s with Sirius again.
“Why don’t you want to go outside?” Sirius asks, “I thought you liked the sea?”
“The sea is a lie, Sirius.” Harry says.
Sirius looks angry and Harry feels like he’s failing him. He’s failing all of them.
“Please, Sirius. Please don’t be mad!” Harry cries. “I just.. Are you- You’re looking, right? Please tell me you’re searching for me.”
“Searching fo you?” Sirius asks. “Harry… You’re with me. Let’s go outside.”
“No. Sirius… Please, stop pretending.”
“I’m not pretending, Harry.”
Harry doesn’t understand why, but even in his dreams he can’t fully escape them anymore.
“You’re going to save me, right?” Harry asks.
Sirius doesn’t respond and Harry lets out a sob that shakes his whole body. “Please… Sirius, please! I want to spend Christmas with you!”
He’s tired. It’s harder to pretend it’s not happening. It’s harder to keep his sanity. Even Sirius seems to be hesitating, as if he knows the truth but doesn’t want to admit it.
“I’m sorry, James.” Sirius says. “Jamie.. Christmas already happened.”
“I’m not James!” Harry shouts
He looks at Sirius and he’s horrified to see that he’s crying.
“I’m not my father! Please, Sirius! I’m not him!”
Sirius winces and he’s looks terribly guilty now, “I know, Harry. I know… it’s just… You’re going to be gone soon and… I loved James, but… it’s so much easier to think I’m losing him again then it is to admit that I’m going to lose you too…”
Harry sobs and Sirius rushes forward to hold him in his arms. He offers soothing words and touches that feel like comfort rather than heart break and Harry melts into it.
“I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you!”
“Don’t give up, Sirius! Please! Please, I can’t- I’m falling apart! I can’t do this on my own!”
“You don’t have to be strong anymore, Kid. It’s okay. It’s okay to let go.”
“No!” Harry cries, “Please, I don’t want to! I want… I’m so tired… I’m so tired, Sirius. I don’t want to die, but I can’t-“
“It’s okay, Harry.”
It’s not. It’s not okay at all. It hurts so bad that Sirius is giving up on him. He wants to the sea. He wants Hogwarts. He wants his friends and Sirius and comfort.
But even in the most disconnected state his mind has to offer… well, even then it feels so impossible now.
The next time he’s being fucked he recognizes that it’s happening before he has a chance to fully dissociate from it.
Hands are touching him and he thinks once again of Draco, but he doesn’t want to think of Draco while this is happening.
Still, a hand touches his cock and he thinks it’s too big, Draco’s hands were much smaller.
A mouth engulfs him and he thinks that it feels good and he doens’t want it to feel good because it’s different than Draco’s mouth feels.
He doesn’t want to think of him, but his brain can’t stop.
His day dreams make him think that he’s stuck in their basement, because that would be better than this. He dreams of being locked in the closet too. He thinks of himself ans a young boy and not even knowing about Hogwarts. He dreams of pain that’s not quite as painful. Of things he’d have avoiding thinking about in the past, but now this pain feels like happiness comparatively. He’d rather remember pain that was bearable. Pain that felt nostalgic. Pain that wasn’t even pain in the grand scheme of things….
And then nothing.
He’s alone again and he thinks of Draco and how they first became friends and then more than friends.
It’d been in the middle of fourth year and Harry was having trouble with the stupid egg and Cedric had told him to get a bath, but then he’d shown up in said bath.
Harry was naked and he didn’t want to be naked in front of anyone else, but Cedric told him it was okay. He’d told him to put the egg under water and he’d slid into the tub next to him and he was scared, because Harry was just 14 and Cedric was of age and he was touching Harry’s face softly in a way that he didn’t like because he was not ready for those kind of touches and Draco had walked in.
And they weren’t even friend yet, but he saw the look on Harry’s face and heard the confusing words that Cedric was saying to get him to comply and he freaked out. He’d defended Harry when he hadn’t been able to defend himself because he’s not used to sticking up for himself when it comes to… love? Things that involve love, even if they were manipulation.
It’s one thing to face a bully, it’s another thing entirely to accept something you don’t want in the face of someone who acts like they care in ways that are deeper than friendship. And Harry had been taught to expect pain and give up his own wants and needs from his family and even though this was an entirely different situation… it’s like his brain couldn’t really tell the difference.
But Draco could. He took in the situation, the age difference, the fact that Harry was 14 and Cedric was technically ‘of age’, the fact that Harry looked uncomfortable and Cedric was cooing at him and telling him it wasn’t a big deal and he snapped.
After that… Well, after that they’d become friends. And then more than friends.
The reminder of what’s happened since being captured, the reminder that he has no idea how many grown ass men he’s slept with because they’d all been wearing masks and Harry tended to pretend he was anywhere but where he was… it makes him want to float away again.
He’s alone and he’s with Draco, but it’s not like before where he can pretend everything is fine and he hasn’t become just a toy for death eaters, for the man who killed his parents... He tells Draco he’s sorry, that he’d wanted Draco to be his first and Draco holds him and says it’s not his fault. Harry tells Draco that he wants to pretend everything is okay. Draco says that he’s not sure he can, that Harry’s so far away like a ghost. He’s transparent with thin ribs and so many injuries and he’s wailing now... Draco, that is. He’s crying for him and Harry’s crying too.
It’s not long before Harry is so gone that he can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. He can’t tell if he’s in the dungeon or throne room or with his friends or his boyfriend or his godfather. Nothing makes sense, everything hurts, and there’s no denying the truth of what he’s become.
Draco keeps coming into his mind. His soft touches as a woman laughs and he’s not sure if it’s Bellatrix or Draco who’s touching him. A stinging curse is thrown ant him and Draco used to hit him too, when they’d been enemies. They used to hurt each other. Draco fighting with him. Draco kissing him. Draco hitting him. Draco touching his cock for the first time. A female saying that she’d done this to Sirius while a small hand that could be Draco’s or hers is wrapped around his hard dick and is pumping him. Harry wants to forget. He doesn’t want to know this. He doesn’t want to think of Draco either. She’s tainted him. They’ve tainted him. Both Draco and Sirius were no longer safe to think about because they’d made them wrong.
Hands in his hair, on his chest, on his cock, his ass splitting open. Length after length being shoved down his throat. He imagines his friends. He begs for them to forgive him. He apologizes for giving up. He tells them not to be sad that he’s gone.
Day after day another plate of food delivered, another meal Harry refuses to eat. He pretends he’s locked in his cupboard. He can smell the food, but it’s out of reach, just like when he was a kid. He feels sad for himself how nostalgic it feels to be locked up in a dark room, starving but able to smell food his mouth drools for. It shouldn’t feel comforting, but it does. His cousin speaks mocking words through the slits on the door. His aunt says he’s unlovable. His uncle said he’s a nasty freak who doesn’t deserve to eat.
The food in front of him isn’t really there. He can’t reach it. He’s just Harry. A filthy little bastard who doesn’t deserve food or hugs or kind words. The touches confuse him, because he’s not allowed touch unless he’s being punished.
Someone’s laughing, he’s so hungry he wishes for death. He’s so weak he can hardly hold himself up. He smiles, because he thinks it’ll end soon.
He forgot he had friends. He forgot he was a wizard. His breathing has slowed, he knows that he’s going to be gone soon. That it’s time. He’s glad his brain has allowed itself the memories of those he loves. He imagines he’s with his friends. He remembers Ron and Hermione and Luna and Neville and Seamus and Dean. He feels okay thinking about Draco, about Sirius for the first time in what feels like forever. And they care about him and they say how much they love him and Draco is here. He says he’s going to spend his last moments with him.
Harry smiles and he’s not cold or burning or in pain. His heart is full of love and he thinks he can feel his parents now. His friends seem to fade away just has his parents slowly materialize in front of him.
And then everything stops.