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Neville Longbottom and the Portkey of Perversion	By : Sal Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 17400 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Author's note I'm not usually this sick. It was written as a challenge for http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Slash_Grievances and for MST purposes only. The warnings are clear, and there are young people in this, so beware.
NC17 for the sickness. And the puns
Flames etc. welcome. They will be used for the torture of heretics and the heating of boiling oil.
Neville Longbottom and the Portkey of Perversion (the Director's Cut)
It is sad, thinks Neville Longbottom, that everyone else is having sex and he isn't. His seventh year has arrived and he hasn't seen anyone naked yet, unless you count in the showers. This means he is a nervous bundle of hormones just aching for release. Oh he has fevered and extremely sticky dreams all the time, in which are involved a large number of students and teachers, male and female, but never, not once, has he even come within one hundred leagues of even kissing someone. It is depressing. It is senseless. Even Crabbe and Goyle are at it, albeit with each other as no one in their right minds wants to touch their skin just in case they catch scabies, but they have someone.
Neville is not a happy little bunny right now.
Even so, he shouldn't utter the wish. It is a very bad idea.
He hasn't seen the Slash fairy floating around looking for some fun and possibly a quick spot of oral sex. He hasn't seen it, all clad in leather with interesting handcuff accessories, purse its lips and mutter a secret spell.
All he knows is that when he touches his painfully erect penis there is a rushing sound, everything flashes black, and he is lying on his back in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, totally naked.
How has he got here? Even Neville, who isn't the brightest button in the box, has an inkling. He glares at his penis, which has shrivelled, in a combination of fright and cold, to the size of an unshelled peanut. Something has happened to it; something has made it into—
*dum dum dummmmmmm!*
THE PORTKEY OF PERVERSION!
He pokes it savagely, and then ends up whimpering in agony and writhing around on his stomach. However, when something warm and moist and—well, tongue-like—starts to creep up the inside of his thigh all thoughts of his painfully squished balls are forgotten. Neville stiffens (not in that way! Not yet, anyhow) and forgets to breathe as the enquiring muscle slips between his buttocks and gives him a right good tonguing. Whoever is doing this can do things with their tongue that only cunning linguists can hope to achieve. It feels good. Damn it, it feels fantastic! The tongue, which is rather long, starts to lap at the tip of his now growing cock.
Neville groans, squirming with pleasure, eyes squeezed shut from the delicious sensations enveloping the lower half of his body. To make matters easier, he twists onto his back to allow the talented tongue person to have their way far more easily with his now throbbing dick.
As he comes, howling obscenities into the night, he opens his eyes a fraction to see who had serviced him. However, as he finally focuses, a howl of utter shock and disgust emits from his mouth.
Fang the Boarhound licks his lips, looking at Neville with far more love than is strictly necessary.
Neville is suddenly aware of another figure, a silent shape hidden by darkness. In the rush of orgasm he hadn't heard the slap of flesh on flesh, hand rubbing roughly upon erection, the whispering gasps of pleasure that drift the short distance from the shadow to Neville's now sharp ears.
‘good lad—aye, that were lovely—ooh blimey dog, that were ‘ot—'
Neville, in a frozen second where his brain kicked in, grasps the situation, tries to strangle it, but fails dismally. He has been orally raped by a boarhound while Hagrid has wanked himself silly over the entire episode. It is time to get the hell away from here.
The boy grasps his penis, starkly reminded of the past few minutes by the liberal amount of dog saliva that coats it, and starts to play with his oboe.
Black flickers behind his eyelids as he is thrust by the portkey onwards, ever onwards, and is glad to find himself back on a bed.
Unfortunately, it's not actually his bed, and he seems tied to it in some way. Wiggling around a bit he sees that he is in a dungeon. A familiar dungeon. This is not good; this is a bad thing, screams Neville's head. He tells his brain that he knows that, and it shuts up for a bit.
Professor Snape's room is, like the man himself, dark, forbidding, yet strangely alluring. However, it is lucky for Neville, and for the Potions Master, that he is currently on MST duty in a far away Welsh castle and cannot be incriminated in all this ickiness. This is still not good for Neville, however. Someone obviously is waiting for him, and after the first episode, he hopes that animals are way way off the list.
It turns out to be worse. Far worse.
Professor Dumbledore, that familiar twinkle in his eye, strides into the dungeon closely followed by Filch, who is looking even more slimy that usual, probably because of the amount of baby oil he has smeared over his naked and wobbling body. Dumbledore at least has some clothes on, for wizards of one hundred and forty years old rarely look good with their clothes off, but the clothes are not so much coverings for the body as instruments of torture for the boy.
The awful thing is that the libido part of Neville's brain is screaming that the elderly headmaster's legs look rather good in stilettos and fishnet stockings. The rest of the outfit he tries to ignore. The crotchless knickers are just tacky, as it the leopardskin bra. The professor also doesn't have the right complexion for lilac eyeshadow and fuschia pink lipstick, and he has overdone the blusher.
‘Pretty young flesh and all for us, Argus my dear chap.'
They fall upon him, fingers caressing, mouths tasting damp flesh. They are also very pleased to find that their plan of having Fang do the hard work and stretching Neville worked fabulously, so they get down to the nitty gritty right away, and have their wicked way with the helpless boy.
Thankfully for everyone, including the readers, one of the fluffycuffs shackling Neville to the bed comes loose and he is able to grab his penis and get the hell out of there.
The next instant is a terrifying one, for Neville finds himself floating in the air while his body lays on a stone slab twelve feet beneath.
Finding yourself having an out of body experience is never a good thing, especially when you have the sneaking suspicion that you are actually dead. How did Neville know this? The whole mausoleum thing was a dead give-away, as were the wreaths of lilies and the cards of condolence.
Neville swallowed carefully and floated over towards his corpse. It looked very peaceful dressed in some very smart dark grey robes; its fingers clasped over its breast and the face looking far less stressed and worried than it had ever done. It was almost as if his cadaver was asleep rather than passed away.
Something stirred in the depths of the crypt, and ghost Neville floated up to the ceiling, hiding behind a rather nicely carved bust of what looked like a Klingon but was in all actuality a gargoyle. He watched as a shadowy figure, looking furtively over a cloaked shoulder, strode towards the bank of lilies and promptly fell over.
Slapstick comedy is still amusing if you are dead, mused Neville, as he watched the person extricate themselves from the flowers, stand up, and pretend that had not just happened.
The figure stepped over the lilies and stood, gazing into the peaceful face of Neville the corpse.
Funny time to pay respects thought Neville.
A hand, sheathed in black leather, reached out and ran a finger down the dead body's face. Okay, this was starting to freak Neville out a little. Coming to see him lying in a mausoleum was one thing, actually touching his poor ex-corpse was another totally. He was wondering exactly in which direction this whole thing was going.
The cape dropped from the unknown person's shoulders, but it was so dark in the crypt that Neville could not see who the figure was. He hoped what he thought would probably happen wasn't going to—ah, he was wrong. Poor boy.
The leather-gloved hands proceeded to strip the cadaver, touching with relish the greying skin and rigid muscles. Ghost Neville thought that he could hear the faceless person's voice mutter ‘ah, the pleasures that rigor mortis can bring,' but he put his fingers in his ears and squeezed his eyes shut to try and stop the horrible thing occurring. For the boy knew, as all bad dogs know, that if you close your eyes, the bad things can't see you and go away. It was perhaps a shame that Neville was not a Labrador. The ickiness did not flee; it stayed.
Beneath the indistinct form of the boy's essence, the faceless person removed their own clothing and crawled onto the large flat stone where the now naked body of Neville now lay. It seemed that the man (the whole erection thing gave him away) was having problems due to the advanced state of stiffness, so was having to take some immediate action before things got worse. He kissed the cadaver on the mouth, tongue flicking over blue lips, and proceeded to press his rather excited penis into the extremely passed away corpse.
Neville, who had opened his eyes at precisely the wrong time (which happens to everyone, especially when upside down on roller coasters), had to witness his own ex-body being thoroughly buggered by some insane pervert who, it had to be admitted, had a rather spectacular arse. However, he was also spectacularly sick; contrary to popular knowledge, ghosts can vomit ectoplasm.
‘I wish it would all go away!' he moaned, his transparent face creased with shock.
A small pop signalled the arrival of someone, a very small someone dressed in a black leather catsuit and with neatly painted green and silver nails. Now that Neville was a supernatural force, he could see the Slash fairy in all his red-haired glory.
‘Hello, I'm the Slash fairy . you wished it would all go away?'
‘YES!' screamed Neville. ‘Make the squickiness go away!'
‘Well you wanted it in the first place,' huffed the Slash fairy, pouting angrily. ‘It's all in your psyche, you know, all this nastiness. I was rather shocked you weren't in Slytherin with all the horrible things you want doing to you.'
‘Please—please get me out of here,' whimpered the traumatised boy.
The abject agony in Neville's pained face made the Slash fairy relent. ‘Oh come here!' He grabbed the ghostly hand, placed it on his leather-clad crotch, and squeezed the fingers. (He has his own portkey too.)
‘My my, you have a strong grip,' commented the fairy as everything started to sparkle like something out of a George Michael video, and both Neville (complete with body) and the supernatural bondage freak thumped hard onto a Gryffindor four poster.
Neville breathed out slowly, poking himself to make sure that he was solid, and gave the Slash fairy a filthy look. It blushed and wriggled embarrrassedly. ‘Who the hell was that last one? Who is so sick and twisted to have had sex with my dead body while I floated overhead.'
The Slash fairy winced, going even pinker around the ears. ‘Sorry about that, dear boy.'
‘Who was it?'
At the words ‘Professor Trelawney with a strap-on,' poor Neville Longbottom passed out; at least he was safe in the knowledge that his penis was no longer—
*dum da dummmmmmm!*
THE PORTKEY OF PERVERSION!
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Neville Longbottom and the Portkey of Perversion