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Separation Anxiety: A Manual	By : gwendolynflight Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 11170 -:- 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.

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This still isn't mine, more's the pity. The rating has been upgraded to NC17 for noncon and violence.
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Worksheet #6: Gold Rim is an Answer
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So you're told all your life that your parents died in a car crash.
That you were sent to live with your aunt, uncle, and cousin because there was literally no one else who would have you.
And so they mistreated you-- not so much on purpose, just in that they loved their son-- and couldn't spare a second thought for you.
So being told the truth wouldn't help matters any.
Being told at eleven wouldn't make much of a difference-- too late, then.
Being told that your father was a wizard and your mother a witch, that they'd schooled together at a place called Hogwarts, that they'd made one very important enemy, might not change your outlook on life quite as much as they'd apparently expected it to.
It's when they sit you down and, with compassionate eyes, tell you that a dark wizard--Hogwarts' best and brightest gone bad-- tracked down your parents in spite of every spell and enchantment laid against him, that you decide things might be a bit off.
It's when they tell you that He Who Shall Not Be Named got your father downstairs, your mother in your room, protecting you, that you begin to wonder why, of all things, your mother's *survival* was hidden.
And it's when they present you with an invitation to join said wizarding school that you begin to think that an explanation and a bit of money might not, after ten years, be enough.
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Worksheet #7: Money is the Root
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The very first time Harry Potter entered the Leaky Cauldron, he was eleven years old, and any in-circulation pictures would have been about ten years out of date.
Yet he was greeted by nearly every person in the pub. Even Voldemort shook his hand that day, though in the guise of Professor Quirrell. Even then, when no one knew him personally, they still knew *who* he was.
Because of the thrice-cursed scar on his forehead he was instantly recognizable throughout the wizarding world.
And how much truer would that be now, when the papers were filled with pictures of and articles on the infamous Potter.
The fact remained that anonymity was impossible for the Boy Who Lived.
What he needed was a disguise.
And magic would, typically, be useless in this situation. Wear a disguise spell into a world of wizards both more powerful and more experienced than himself? No, thank you. But a muggle disguise, now that had possibilities.
Of course, he also lacked money. Entering Gringotts to obtain money with which to buy a disguise would be . . . well, silly.
Self-defeating.
Overtly stupid.
He'd retained money from the school year, but exchanging the wizard currency for muggle pound notes carried similar difficulties. And if he contacted any of his friends . . . even if Dumbledore didn't learn of it immediately, Harry wasn't altogether sure that anyone would believe or want to help him.
Which left . . . stealing, he supposed, though he just *knew* that there *had* to be a better way to make some money. ***
He honestly didn't notice that he'd been walking nearly all night; it was nearing dawn when he came to rest against a remarkably ugly concrete pillar masquerading as a Neo-Grecian column, or a hitching post, he couldn't be sure which. His backpack, stuffed with more outsized clothing and the crumbled remains of food, had long-since evolved from a drag at his shoulders to a constant, throbbing pain.
At least the streets were still. Still and silent. The daily commute wouldn't begin for at least another hour, and the desperate night- crawlers had only recently vanished into the rising mist. For a time, he would have London to himself.
He sat with his back against the pillar, feeling momentarily defeated. He should have stolen some cash from Vernon; m it it wouldn't have been enough for everything that he needed, but it would have been a start. All of his muggle cash had been spent on the train into London. His stomach growled. He was beginning to wish that he'd hitchhiked instead.
"Hey, kid," a voice said out of nowhere.
He jumped to his feet, heart lurching in his thin chest, but relaxed when he got a good look at the man standing above him; it wasn't a cop. Actually, the man was very well-dressed, in an expensive, tailored suit and what looked like handmade Italian shoes; he was carrying a rich leather briefcase, and his clean-jawed face was kindly in the yellow streetlamp.
"Boy, are you alright?" The well-dressed man asked again, shaped and trimmed eyebrows furrowing worriedly.
"Quite, thanks," Harry replied shakily, wishing again that he'd stolen more food when he left.
"You look rather ill," the man continued, putting out one manicured hand to steady Harry as he wobbled on his feet. "Run away from home, then?"
He was very kind, and seemed very patient, and Harry had been expected cruelty for so long now that anything else felt out of the ordinary; he swallowed thickly, and nodded. The man smiled.
"I imagine your parents will want to know that you're alright, hmm?"
"No," Harry said dimly, feeling something like a black cloud float up to invade his skull. "They won't care that I've gone." The well-groomed hand on his shoulder was leading him somewhere, though he was too tired to really worry about that fact.
"Excellent," the man smiled, working his slender, strong fingers into Harry's collar. "Then no one will notice your absence for quite some time."
"Excuse me?" Harry started, coming out of his haze of exhaustion enough to notice that the man had led him into a narrow alley; built before the days of automobiles, the alley was barely large enough for man and boy to walk side by side. Not that walking was what the well-dressed man had in mind.
He threw Harry up against a rough brick wall, dropping his briefcase to wrap his slender fingers around Harry's throat. "Don't scream," he whispered. "And you can walk away from this."
"What--" Harry repeated helplessly, hands clawing at the arms holding him to the wall, knees jabbing repeatedly but uselessly into the man's thighs.
The man shook him with the hand around his throat, bashing his head into the bricks until bright spots swam in the overwhelming rise of black. The man's other hand was fumbling with Dudley's clothing, apparently baffled by the excess cloth. Harry was gurgling, and very still. The man relaxed his hold, and crushed Harry into a kiss.
A tongue had invaded his mouth; a foreign organism, entirely unfamiliar, it squirmed like warm velvet into the corners of his teeth. His own tongue went forth to do battle, was beaten down, and retreated quickly to allow the portcullis to slam shut.
"You bloody little prick!" The man screamed, jerking back, trying to staunch his weeping tongue while still holding Harry in place; Harry struggled wildly, knowing that this was his time to escape. But the man was a good bit taller, and a good bit stronger, and forced him into the wall, fingers pressing now into his jaw hard enough to break the skin.
He couldn't breathe. The man was very angry now, and was ripping at Dudley's hand-me-downs, popping buttons and rending cloth until he'd bared the thin chest. Harry shivered into goosebumps in the chill morning air; it was the dark before dawn, and the wind felt like death. His nipples went erect in the cold, and the man ran a possessive hand down Harry's flesh, feeling his fear.
"You pretty little slut," the man crooned, thumbing Harry's nipples with broadly-splayed hands. "You beautiful baby slut. I'm going to fuck you until we both bleed." And he slid a hand down Harry's belly to his sex.
Harry jerked, and slammed his fist into the man's head, then again. The man slammed him into the brick wall, growling, and Harry screamed; he could feel blood pouring, warm and sticky, down the back of his neck. His scalp had been split open. He couldn't see straight, and the man had already forced his jeans open and his legs apart. Oh Merlin, he was going to be raped.
The man forced a hand between his shivering thighs, roughly fingering his balls and perineum; he circled Harry's entrance lightly, delicately, his other hand back at Harry's throat.
Harry whimpered, his mind a whirl of streak-shot black, retreating in on itself as something breached his anus; his legs went limp, numb, as though the finger invading his body had affected his spine. He squirmed, reaching desperately. *Where was his wand?!* His breath came in desperate gasps, and the man forced his bitten, weeping tongue through Harry's fear-bleached lips.
"No," he sobbed, rolling his broken head against the brick, retreating further and further from the growing pain. "No," he said again, his voice stronger this time.
The man moved his hand from Harry's throat to his mouth, forcing several fingers between his split and bloodied lips in echo of what was happening below. Harry screamed around the fingers as a third finger was forced into his anus. . It *burned*, and he screamed again, and--
--it was suddenly like being drained, like water pouring from a broken glass. Power left him in a rush, and the invasive fingers were very suddenly gone.
He slumped down against the wall, hugging himself and shivering, ignoring the screams echoing down the alley; his r har had finally awakened in order to protect him. He didn't especially care what the consequences were for the well-dressed man.
He pressed himself into the bricks, fighting the urge to start screaming. He knew that if he started, he wouldn't stop.
After a time he lifted his head, cracking his eyelids warily. The sun had come up; diffused light shafted through the morning fog, lighting the alley in an opalescent glow that nearly made the well-dressed man's body beautiful. But even the artful sunlight couldn't disguise the splashes and splatters of blood.
The man had been ripped apart.
Not quite as neat as Avada Kavedra, but it would do nicely.
Harry pulled himself to his feet, swaying a bit as he buttoned and tied his hopelessly torn clothing. He edged forward on unsteady feet, nearly slipping on a shredded gobbet of flesh. He stopped, and looked down at the scattered bits and pieces that had once been a man. He smiled.
The man's wallet had been flung into the opposite wall by the force of the . . . whatever, and now lay in a puddle of blood, half-open. A gold card gleamed in the early morning light.
It seemed he'd found his funds. *** To be continued in SA Chapter 4: What Ravages of Spirit
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Separation Anxiety: A Manual