![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
januariumTitle: Go to Wrack and Ruin
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dora_the_nymph
Rating: NC 17
Warnings: Characters Death. HBP Spoilers.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to JKR
Summary: War!Fic. Harry Potter is the Chosen One, but sometimes he wishes he could just stop. The blood and the pain are getting too much, and he just wants to break away from it for as long as he can.
Concrit: Up to you.
How could the hope of the Wizarding world be a scrawny little boy – and one who had never been sure himself that there was any hope? He had been locked away, yet still ended up being taken out, forced in front of the world, and told it was his job to fight an enemy he had never known, again and again. He had only been given information as a last resort, and even then not all of it was right.
Harry had not been raised to fear a snake-faced man and a flash of green light; he had been afraid of screeching brakes, schoolyard bullies and an endless grey building, supposed to be the rest of his life. Maybe that was how it should have been. If he had never existed the war would be over by now; everyone would either be Voldemort’s slaves, or the evil would truly be gone, and he would be still fighting, fighting.
His life at school had contained equal amounts of happiness, death, destruction, failure and pain. His joy had never been overpowering, and neither had his grief - but he wished that it could have been. No one he loved stayed sane and healthy; if they did, it was after they had lost contact with him, and he felt grateful for that. That way, he didn't have to be happy for them.
He was not a scrawny boy now; he was still skinny, but tall. A man. He found it hard to believe that he had managed to grow up when he was not paying attention. He did not remember a time when he was not a child, and he still thought of himself as one.
They still kept Hogwarts as a base, but now it was no longer a school; it was something perverse and twisted, full of injury, pain, deceit and debauchery. No one tried to contain the students or teach them; everyone was to busy fighting or fucking, and there was no time to think, or plan, or win. All they could do was stay alive and try to feel.
Dumbledore had died and been buried with ceremony, while Harry was concentrating on cutting a tie. Now the old man's killer was praised as a hero, for having died saving Harry Potter. The Chosen One, who could hardly remember all the faces of the dead, was not even sure who was alive anymore, because he certainly didn't feel like he was.
He tried to walk through the school, to find an escape from all the blood, but it seemed that the moaning and weeping followed him everywhere. He had not joined in the mass orgies of people trying to connect with anyone and everyone. He was a lone virgin in this sea of sweat and sin. Anybody would say he was innocent. They would be wrong.
The thought of it made Harry release a low, hollow laugh, which scared him more than masks and signs in the sky. His laugh had once been lighter, but never carefree. Now he had killed, felt that surge of power and gloried over it. Now everybody who hadn’t killed was dead and to be a murderer was to be real, stable, alive.
A shriek interrupted his thoughts and he was thankful, because he hated the thoughts; they weren’t action or inaction, but just buzzed, buzzed, buzzed, driving him insane. He followed the shriek, wand out instinctively, like an extra limb - one he often wished he had never even acquired.
The entrance hall was swarming with Death Eaters. They had broken through, like everyone knew they would. The shriek had been Ginny Weasley, whose flaming hair clashed with the blood, and the thought of clashing with your own essence made Harry want to vomit and laugh and cry all at once, but that would alert the parasites to his presence.
Looking at her corpse he did not see the strong young woman he had convinced himself he loved - he saw the young girl who had blushed and squeaked and refused to speak. Harry knew he should feel something, perhaps anger because he was supposed to have saved her. He had broken up with her to save her, and now she was dead.
Suddenly he could not stand it any longer. He did not want to go on with this endless dance of destruction that got neither side what it wanted, so he turned and ran. He couldn’t go back to Gryffindor Tower though, or the library, or the Room of Requirement, because he had seen people die in all of those places, the first time he had come back - trying to find a Horcrux but only finding chaos. All the students who believed that the side of light and good and Harry fucking Potter would never win this fight, had already joined the opposition.
Eventually he stopped and hid in an old classroom he had never been in before, one that held no memories, good or bad, for him. He was so sick of fighting, but he knew eventually he would be dragged back, because that was his job and if he didn’t do it, who would? Everyone else was too busy trying to keep themselves alive; it was his duty to save everyone. But he could stop, just for now, before they pulled him back.
He sat at an old desk, still with the idea engrained in him that he must not sit at the professor’s desk, whether the professor had died months before or not. He closed his eyes and saw Ginny’s bleeding, lifeless body again, but still felt nothing. Ginny, who had been obsessed with him, who had stood up to him and who had loved him, was dead and he felt nothing. He rather thought the monster that had lived in his chest, with his feelings for her, was dead along with everything else. He hadn’t even been sure she was alive in the first place; it was impossible to keep track now.
Behind his closed eyes her blood seeped, and he did not hear any noise until the door opened. He stood, at the ready - wand out because he had never bothered to put it away. He had not expected to be able to run very long, but even this small respite, where there were a few seconds in which he did not need to think and did not need to kill, was everything.
For some reason the newcomer did not wear a mask, but he knew this was one of the enemy. A boy his age, but not truly a man, looking like fragile steel, who he had not seen since that day, a year before, that felt like a lifetime ago. He was surprised that they had not met somewhere since then, but somewhere within himself, he had also been relieved.
These thoughts made Harry feel so ill that he was thankful when the other spoke his name, and a familiar wave of loathing rushed over him. He had not felt such strong emotion for a long time, but he still did not want to fight, not yet.
“Malfoy,” he replied, amazed when his voice stayed even and calm when all his instincts were jumping in different directions.
The blond boy walked over. He looked different. Older, maybe, but haunted, under the thin veneer of being calm and collected that Harry would have fallen for if he had not seen it so many times before. Malfoy looked like he wanted to look smug for having found him, but it wasn't quite working. When he was right in front of the desk Harry stood behind, he spoke again. “Potter, hope of the Wizarding world, hiding behind a desk? No one could ask for a better victim.”
Harry just looked at the boy in front of him, playing at being a man. He was the same boy he had seen crying to a ghost, when he had no one else. The one that had lowered his wand when given a far easier victim than Harry was at that moment. He didn’t bother to reply.
“Giving up so easily, are we?” Malfoy drawled, but Harry could see a mixture of anger and nervousness in his light eyes, half imagined and half real. The former Slytherin walked around the desk until he was right in front of Harry. “Aren’t you even going to fight back?”
Those words sparked something in Harry. He could not fight, not yet, because he had to be in control of what he did, just this once. But if he died, so did everything, so he did the only thing he could think of, the same thing everyone else had fallen back on.
Harry moved forward, shoving the desk aside, and pushed Malfoy back against the closed door and kissed him hard on the mouth. It was different from any kiss he had had before. In some ways, it had the confusion and thought of this is wet from the kiss with Cho, his first kiss - and she was now dead. So was Ginny, he now realised, whose kiss had been sweet, and had that ever-lingering scent of flowers. It was nothing like the unexpected, unwanted kiss with Susan Bones, who he thought was still alive. They had all been lacking any real passion, even with Ginny.
This was different, Harry thought as he pushed the startled blond harder against the door. This was fire and anger and hatred, and it was better than being empty and better than fighting, even though it was the same, in a way.
To Harry’s shock, as he shoved Malfoy back, their mouths still attached, the stillness of the other boy melted with a cry of fiery pain. Harry was being kissed back and suddenly there were tongues and saliva and the taste of blood and sugar and Malfoy. It was so wrong that he knew he could not stop.
He put his hands on the body pinned in front of him and it was hard and different and not soft like a girl’s body. He did not know what he was doing any more, but it seemed like he and Malfoy were agreeing and hands grabbed him forward, pulling him closer and he could feel how hard and unforgiving that body felt against his. It felt right and wrong and passionate.
They had always been passionate, at least one of them about the other. Their anger, jealousy, obsession and rivalry had burned brighter than a bonfire. This felt like all of that and different and it stopped the thinking and the fighting and he finally understood why everyone else had been stealing moments like these whenever they could. The problem was, he would not have felt these burning feelings with anyone else.
Suddenly Malfoy had taken control, but they still did not break apart. Somehow they had turned, so that Harry was against the wall and their clothes were coming open, but neither let go of their wands. It should have been awkward, but both were consumed with hatred and a lust that neither had recognised nor chosen, if it had even existed before.
Harry did not try to turn them back around because they were not fighting, and that was the point. He continued, with Malfoy’s mouth still pressed against his own, trying to get his hands into Malfoy’s robes, he reached into the trousers and was amazed to find he had gotten hold of Malfoy’s cock. It was hard and so like his own he would have believed it was, but he could not feel the touch and was so shocked he almost stopped kissing. If he had had time he would have felt stupid, because what else would he expect to find?
He did not get time though, because he suddenly discovered that his trousers and boxer shorts were wrapped around his ankles, leaving him unable to move, but Malfoy was touching him and it made perfect sense as long as he didn’t think about it.
He used his right hand, still holding his wand, to pull Malfoy against him, but not too close, so he could use the other to feverishly rub his cock against the length of his hand, which felt so hot and fit so perfectly. The Death Eater had never been ice, even in their sixth year. At that moment he burned as hot as Harry did, as he memorised the flesh.
All the time they kept the kiss, only breaking briefly to breathe, because both knew that if that stopped, if anything stopped they would have to look at each other again and that was not an option. Both were pulling and tugging at each other desperately, in tandem, but wanting to prolong this escape from the pain both knew was just outside the door.
Before he knew what was happening and when it had started, Harry was shuddering, and wrapped in his arm and his hand Malfoy was shuddering, and he felt a sort of white hot bliss and felt his own and Malfoy’s come on his stomach and still Malfoy’s lips on his, Malfoy’s tongue in his mouth, and finally felt it all.
In the afterglow, Harry remembered that boy who had seemed far younger than seventeen on a tower, who had been pulled into the war to try and save his family. He remembered how he had lowered his wand, and how it could have been different if he had done so sooner.
He noticed that, once again, Malfoy had lowered his wand. This, more then anything, made him hate Malfoy. How could he do this, and once again leave it to someone else to make the real decisions?
Harry pulled his mouth away and whispered two words with all he felt, then moved his hand behind Malfoy, still holding his wand, and physically felt Malfoy’s life leave his body. This was the way it had to be, it always had been.
He pushed the frozen boy away from him, onto the floor, and lifted his pants and trousers from where they were pooled around his ankles, then put his shirt on without bothering to clean himself up.
He had known he could only stop fighting for a little while; he had stopped for longer than he thought possible and as he looked at the lifeless body it no longer filled him with rage, nor with sorrow, but with a sort of curiosity. Part of him seemed to wonder how he had got there, and another part wondered why he had not pushed him away, but the feelings weren’t really there.
So Harry Potter walked away, to where he knew that there would be a battle raging and people dying, because what else was there? He saw the body of Susan Bones as he walked towards the noises of pain and realised everyone he had kissed was dead, but it did not seem to mean anything.
Harry walked into the battle with his lips bruised and his body sticky and his heart empty, but he walked in and started fighting, because if he could not be everyone’s hope, who could be?
Fin
Hope people like this. This story will not go up on SH because we have differing views on what should happen within it. Can people think of somewhere that might accept it?
Author:
dora_the_nymphRating: NC 17
Warnings: Characters Death. HBP Spoilers.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to JKR
Summary: War!Fic. Harry Potter is the Chosen One, but sometimes he wishes he could just stop. The blood and the pain are getting too much, and he just wants to break away from it for as long as he can.
Concrit: Up to you.
How could the hope of the Wizarding world be a scrawny little boy – and one who had never been sure himself that there was any hope? He had been locked away, yet still ended up being taken out, forced in front of the world, and told it was his job to fight an enemy he had never known, again and again. He had only been given information as a last resort, and even then not all of it was right.
Harry had not been raised to fear a snake-faced man and a flash of green light; he had been afraid of screeching brakes, schoolyard bullies and an endless grey building, supposed to be the rest of his life. Maybe that was how it should have been. If he had never existed the war would be over by now; everyone would either be Voldemort’s slaves, or the evil would truly be gone, and he would be still fighting, fighting.
His life at school had contained equal amounts of happiness, death, destruction, failure and pain. His joy had never been overpowering, and neither had his grief - but he wished that it could have been. No one he loved stayed sane and healthy; if they did, it was after they had lost contact with him, and he felt grateful for that. That way, he didn't have to be happy for them.
He was not a scrawny boy now; he was still skinny, but tall. A man. He found it hard to believe that he had managed to grow up when he was not paying attention. He did not remember a time when he was not a child, and he still thought of himself as one.
They still kept Hogwarts as a base, but now it was no longer a school; it was something perverse and twisted, full of injury, pain, deceit and debauchery. No one tried to contain the students or teach them; everyone was to busy fighting or fucking, and there was no time to think, or plan, or win. All they could do was stay alive and try to feel.
Dumbledore had died and been buried with ceremony, while Harry was concentrating on cutting a tie. Now the old man's killer was praised as a hero, for having died saving Harry Potter. The Chosen One, who could hardly remember all the faces of the dead, was not even sure who was alive anymore, because he certainly didn't feel like he was.
He tried to walk through the school, to find an escape from all the blood, but it seemed that the moaning and weeping followed him everywhere. He had not joined in the mass orgies of people trying to connect with anyone and everyone. He was a lone virgin in this sea of sweat and sin. Anybody would say he was innocent. They would be wrong.
The thought of it made Harry release a low, hollow laugh, which scared him more than masks and signs in the sky. His laugh had once been lighter, but never carefree. Now he had killed, felt that surge of power and gloried over it. Now everybody who hadn’t killed was dead and to be a murderer was to be real, stable, alive.
A shriek interrupted his thoughts and he was thankful, because he hated the thoughts; they weren’t action or inaction, but just buzzed, buzzed, buzzed, driving him insane. He followed the shriek, wand out instinctively, like an extra limb - one he often wished he had never even acquired.
The entrance hall was swarming with Death Eaters. They had broken through, like everyone knew they would. The shriek had been Ginny Weasley, whose flaming hair clashed with the blood, and the thought of clashing with your own essence made Harry want to vomit and laugh and cry all at once, but that would alert the parasites to his presence.
Looking at her corpse he did not see the strong young woman he had convinced himself he loved - he saw the young girl who had blushed and squeaked and refused to speak. Harry knew he should feel something, perhaps anger because he was supposed to have saved her. He had broken up with her to save her, and now she was dead.
Suddenly he could not stand it any longer. He did not want to go on with this endless dance of destruction that got neither side what it wanted, so he turned and ran. He couldn’t go back to Gryffindor Tower though, or the library, or the Room of Requirement, because he had seen people die in all of those places, the first time he had come back - trying to find a Horcrux but only finding chaos. All the students who believed that the side of light and good and Harry fucking Potter would never win this fight, had already joined the opposition.
Eventually he stopped and hid in an old classroom he had never been in before, one that held no memories, good or bad, for him. He was so sick of fighting, but he knew eventually he would be dragged back, because that was his job and if he didn’t do it, who would? Everyone else was too busy trying to keep themselves alive; it was his duty to save everyone. But he could stop, just for now, before they pulled him back.
He sat at an old desk, still with the idea engrained in him that he must not sit at the professor’s desk, whether the professor had died months before or not. He closed his eyes and saw Ginny’s bleeding, lifeless body again, but still felt nothing. Ginny, who had been obsessed with him, who had stood up to him and who had loved him, was dead and he felt nothing. He rather thought the monster that had lived in his chest, with his feelings for her, was dead along with everything else. He hadn’t even been sure she was alive in the first place; it was impossible to keep track now.
Behind his closed eyes her blood seeped, and he did not hear any noise until the door opened. He stood, at the ready - wand out because he had never bothered to put it away. He had not expected to be able to run very long, but even this small respite, where there were a few seconds in which he did not need to think and did not need to kill, was everything.
For some reason the newcomer did not wear a mask, but he knew this was one of the enemy. A boy his age, but not truly a man, looking like fragile steel, who he had not seen since that day, a year before, that felt like a lifetime ago. He was surprised that they had not met somewhere since then, but somewhere within himself, he had also been relieved.
These thoughts made Harry feel so ill that he was thankful when the other spoke his name, and a familiar wave of loathing rushed over him. He had not felt such strong emotion for a long time, but he still did not want to fight, not yet.
“Malfoy,” he replied, amazed when his voice stayed even and calm when all his instincts were jumping in different directions.
The blond boy walked over. He looked different. Older, maybe, but haunted, under the thin veneer of being calm and collected that Harry would have fallen for if he had not seen it so many times before. Malfoy looked like he wanted to look smug for having found him, but it wasn't quite working. When he was right in front of the desk Harry stood behind, he spoke again. “Potter, hope of the Wizarding world, hiding behind a desk? No one could ask for a better victim.”
Harry just looked at the boy in front of him, playing at being a man. He was the same boy he had seen crying to a ghost, when he had no one else. The one that had lowered his wand when given a far easier victim than Harry was at that moment. He didn’t bother to reply.
“Giving up so easily, are we?” Malfoy drawled, but Harry could see a mixture of anger and nervousness in his light eyes, half imagined and half real. The former Slytherin walked around the desk until he was right in front of Harry. “Aren’t you even going to fight back?”
Those words sparked something in Harry. He could not fight, not yet, because he had to be in control of what he did, just this once. But if he died, so did everything, so he did the only thing he could think of, the same thing everyone else had fallen back on.
Harry moved forward, shoving the desk aside, and pushed Malfoy back against the closed door and kissed him hard on the mouth. It was different from any kiss he had had before. In some ways, it had the confusion and thought of this is wet from the kiss with Cho, his first kiss - and she was now dead. So was Ginny, he now realised, whose kiss had been sweet, and had that ever-lingering scent of flowers. It was nothing like the unexpected, unwanted kiss with Susan Bones, who he thought was still alive. They had all been lacking any real passion, even with Ginny.
This was different, Harry thought as he pushed the startled blond harder against the door. This was fire and anger and hatred, and it was better than being empty and better than fighting, even though it was the same, in a way.
To Harry’s shock, as he shoved Malfoy back, their mouths still attached, the stillness of the other boy melted with a cry of fiery pain. Harry was being kissed back and suddenly there were tongues and saliva and the taste of blood and sugar and Malfoy. It was so wrong that he knew he could not stop.
He put his hands on the body pinned in front of him and it was hard and different and not soft like a girl’s body. He did not know what he was doing any more, but it seemed like he and Malfoy were agreeing and hands grabbed him forward, pulling him closer and he could feel how hard and unforgiving that body felt against his. It felt right and wrong and passionate.
They had always been passionate, at least one of them about the other. Their anger, jealousy, obsession and rivalry had burned brighter than a bonfire. This felt like all of that and different and it stopped the thinking and the fighting and he finally understood why everyone else had been stealing moments like these whenever they could. The problem was, he would not have felt these burning feelings with anyone else.
Suddenly Malfoy had taken control, but they still did not break apart. Somehow they had turned, so that Harry was against the wall and their clothes were coming open, but neither let go of their wands. It should have been awkward, but both were consumed with hatred and a lust that neither had recognised nor chosen, if it had even existed before.
Harry did not try to turn them back around because they were not fighting, and that was the point. He continued, with Malfoy’s mouth still pressed against his own, trying to get his hands into Malfoy’s robes, he reached into the trousers and was amazed to find he had gotten hold of Malfoy’s cock. It was hard and so like his own he would have believed it was, but he could not feel the touch and was so shocked he almost stopped kissing. If he had had time he would have felt stupid, because what else would he expect to find?
He did not get time though, because he suddenly discovered that his trousers and boxer shorts were wrapped around his ankles, leaving him unable to move, but Malfoy was touching him and it made perfect sense as long as he didn’t think about it.
He used his right hand, still holding his wand, to pull Malfoy against him, but not too close, so he could use the other to feverishly rub his cock against the length of his hand, which felt so hot and fit so perfectly. The Death Eater had never been ice, even in their sixth year. At that moment he burned as hot as Harry did, as he memorised the flesh.
All the time they kept the kiss, only breaking briefly to breathe, because both knew that if that stopped, if anything stopped they would have to look at each other again and that was not an option. Both were pulling and tugging at each other desperately, in tandem, but wanting to prolong this escape from the pain both knew was just outside the door.
Before he knew what was happening and when it had started, Harry was shuddering, and wrapped in his arm and his hand Malfoy was shuddering, and he felt a sort of white hot bliss and felt his own and Malfoy’s come on his stomach and still Malfoy’s lips on his, Malfoy’s tongue in his mouth, and finally felt it all.
In the afterglow, Harry remembered that boy who had seemed far younger than seventeen on a tower, who had been pulled into the war to try and save his family. He remembered how he had lowered his wand, and how it could have been different if he had done so sooner.
He noticed that, once again, Malfoy had lowered his wand. This, more then anything, made him hate Malfoy. How could he do this, and once again leave it to someone else to make the real decisions?
Harry pulled his mouth away and whispered two words with all he felt, then moved his hand behind Malfoy, still holding his wand, and physically felt Malfoy’s life leave his body. This was the way it had to be, it always had been.
He pushed the frozen boy away from him, onto the floor, and lifted his pants and trousers from where they were pooled around his ankles, then put his shirt on without bothering to clean himself up.
He had known he could only stop fighting for a little while; he had stopped for longer than he thought possible and as he looked at the lifeless body it no longer filled him with rage, nor with sorrow, but with a sort of curiosity. Part of him seemed to wonder how he had got there, and another part wondered why he had not pushed him away, but the feelings weren’t really there.
So Harry Potter walked away, to where he knew that there would be a battle raging and people dying, because what else was there? He saw the body of Susan Bones as he walked towards the noises of pain and realised everyone he had kissed was dead, but it did not seem to mean anything.
Harry walked into the battle with his lips bruised and his body sticky and his heart empty, but he walked in and started fighting, because if he could not be everyone’s hope, who could be?
Fin
Hope people like this. This story will not go up on SH because we have differing views on what should happen within it. Can people think of somewhere that might accept it?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-09-03 02:54 pm (UTC)One quibble, this sentence The shriek had been Ginny Weasley, whose flaming hair clashed with the blood, and the thought of clashing with the your own essence made Harry want to vomit and laugh and cry all at once, but that would alert the parasites to his presence. seems to have an extra "the" in it.
I'm glad you're writing again!
no subject
Date: 2005-09-03 07:28 pm (UTC)Thanks for pointing that out to me.
Glad you liked it.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-03 08:36 pm (UTC)Okay, NM. You can put it up at www.restrictedsection.org they'll take it.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-04 07:53 pm (UTC)I might do restricted section, good idea.
no subject
Date: 2005-09-03 08:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-04 07:55 pm (UTC)