Books and Covers
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Lucius
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
17,421
Reviews:
80
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Lucius
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
17,421
Reviews:
80
Recommended:
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.
Mountains
Title: Books and Covers
Author: Downdilly
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: HP/LM, LV/SS, RW/HG, Others Mentioned
Rating: R
Summary: Harry Potter was born to defeat the Dark Lord. Where does the Prophecy say
it's Voldemort?
Note 1: There's a very long list of warnings for this fic. I just wanted to make sure I
covered everything.
Disclaimer: Not mine. After so much fuss I'm not sure Ms. Rowling owns it either, but
that's what the lawyers say.
Note 2: Finished the 2nd draft of the outline, and 3rd draft of the first chapter of my Snarry. Thought I'd celebrate by
adding a bit to this. Apologies for the shortness, the next part is about a third finished.
Note 3: Not beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
_____________________________________________________
Mountains
Vincent Goyle was a big man.
Standing 6'5" and weighing in at close to 250 pounds, he stood head and shoulders above almost anyone at any gathering, including the Dark Lord's Death Eaters. Medium brown hair, sprinkled with grey at the temples, was kept in a close cropped style that emphasized pale, ice blue eyes and told of his place in Society as Head of a cadet branch of the family. In all, Vincent Goyle was a mountain of a man.
What stepped through the floo was an entire mountain *range*.
Lord Gregory Crabbe dwarfed even Goyle with ease. He stood easily a head taller and 50 pounds heavier, most of it in his shoulders. Thick, coarse black hair swung past his shoulders, and amber green eyes glowed in the dim light; eyes that would have been at home in a wolf's face. Based on physical appearance, he was the single most recognizable wizard in Britain. While it limited what he could do for the Dark Lord, what he did do was something no one else could; stand as Protector to his Healer, Vincent Goyle.
Crabbe stepped from the flooplace, careful of his head out of habit, and into the entryway of Briarwood Manor. It was a sign of the Dark Lord's care for his people that he'd made sure even Crabbe could use it comfortably, and each time he did so Crabbe was further convinced he'd sworn his allegiance to the correct path. So often it's the little things that count.
Eschewing making a grand entrance, Crabbe turned down one of the smaller hallways, using the back stairs to reach the Dark Lord's personal apartments. He entered through a side door into a small antechamber, shedding his outer cloak and giving it to the waiting elf. Passing into the reception parlor, he quickly glanced around, seeking his Lord. Instead he found only the side table set with a variety of food and drink, no doubt spelled for freshness. To Crabbe, it meant a long night for the Death Eaters Called.
"Greg," Vincent Goyle called from the doorway leading to Voldemort's bedchambers. "In here."
Frowning, Crabbe crossed to his Healer. "Lord?" he asked, following behind Goyle.
They crossed the small, informal parlor, but rather than opening the door to the Dark Lord's bedroom, they entered one of the smaller guest rooms. Vincent opened the door to the room, and the smell of burnt flesh and fresh blood slapped Crabbe in the face.
"In or out, but don't just stand there, gawking like some mudblood clod." The snarling voice resolved into Severus Snape stepping from the shadows.
Crabbe closed his jaw with a quiet click, not realizing he'd been staring at the limp bundle of rags and flesh staining the blue satin, embroidered duvet. Alarmed at what might have befallen one of his comrades, he cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Goyle.
"Not one of ours. Look again," Goyle invited, tugging Crabbe closer. The touch, even through clothing, sent a shiver up Vincent's arm and anticipation started his magic to bubbling softly.
Crabbe studied the lump on the bed, forcing it to come in to perspective, looming over the body like an eclipse at noon. His eyes slowly traveled up, noting raw and burnt flesh, clothing melted into skin, and, finally, a dark red lighting bolt carved into pink, raw flesh under long black hair.
His head snapped around, seeking confirmation. "Potter?"
Goyle and Snape both nodded.
“Our Lord has him in a stasis spell; when I scanned him it didn’t interfere, and shouldn’t alter the healing. Once he’s stable, the Lord can remove the spell.”
Snape moved to the bed, agitated that he had to waste his precious free time once again catering to the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-by-Continuing-To-Do-So. “Come on,” he snapped, “let’s get this done so I can go back to my life.”
Impatiently he began cutting away the remains of the boy’s trousers, using his wand to slice the material without slicing damaged flesh. Lengths of cloth fell away, but a different feel to the material under his wand made him pause and look closer.
Long lengths of thin rope or perhaps heavy cord were wrapped around the trouser leg, binding it tightly to charred and reddened flesh underneath.
*If the idiot boy ever bothered with normal clothing, he’d not *have* to bind it to him to keep his pants up,* Snape thought. He sniffed in disdain at the insanity of muggle clothing, and a familiar, sharp-edged scent cut across his thoughts.
“Stop,” he ordered, waving the other two back from where they’d begun picking the larger pieces away from open wounds.
Sniffing carefully, Snape made his way up Potter’s frozen body, carefully blowing his sinuses clear after each sampling breath.
“Severus?” rumbled Crabbe. The Protector could literally *feel* the sarcastic comments his Healer wanted to make about the Potions Master’s crawl up Potter’s body.
“Petrol,” was the clipped response. Finished with his inspection, Snape pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and turned to blow his nose and sinuses clear of the stench. He tossed the used cloth on a side table for the elves to collect and clean later, then turned back to the other two.
“Someone soaked his clothing in petrol and bound them to him. Whether they then set fire to him deliberately or it was an accident, will have to wait until we can communicate with him.”
“Will you be able to handle the shock trauma while he’s in stasis, or do you want to wait until he’s physically healed?” Vincent asked.
“I’ll try while he’s under,” Snape said after considering his options. Curiosity had won out though, and he could only hope he had the skill to keep his catskin intact if things went south. “His body is suspended, but his mind will still be somewhat aware, although any protections he has should be down or at least minimal.”
Vincent nodded and returned to picking bits of debris out of open wounds, careful to not let any of it be touched by any of the open flames in the room. It was tedious, backbreaking work that took the three of them almost an hour. Finally convinced there was nothing contaminating the boy that would interfere with the use of magic, Goyle flicked his wand and cast a series of cleaning and debriding charms. The sheets and blankets were changed, and the near-corpse settled carefully in the center.
With a mental twist, the mediwizard was replaced by the Healer. Summoned and directed power created a purely white aura around his hands. He noted that his Protector was there, removing the long over robe, unbuttoning his cuffs and tugging the long sleeves off his arms. Power washed over him, through him, and the warm languor of it pulled him under, a dark riptide that tugged at the edges of his sanity.
His Protector. The grounding force that made pure healing possible, held him closely wrapped in strong arms, hands wrapped lightly around his wrists. Cool flames sparked along his nerves, ripples of ice that brought clarity with them, stretching up from his wrists, coiling like steel serpents to hold him steady against the onslaught.
A voice that sounded like pure sexual longing stroked his raw nerves, answered by a deep rumbling that vibrated against his back. Sparks danced in front of his eyes, and he realized they’d been closed until now. Green sparks, that flickered and flamed, surrounding the hurt thing in front of him. He had to mend it, smooth the broken pathways and restore function to form.
Closer and closer he reached, the green glow tickling his skin, making the little hairs stand up. He shivered in delight, willing to stay and let the tingling thrill his nerves a while longer, but the coolness on his wrists guided him down and through until he made contact with the thing he had to fix.
Contact. Power flared and roiled, threatening to overflow what contained it. What contained it? Ah, he did, he and the marvelous cool that surrounded and braced him, kept his walls firm while he gently, gently eased it over the proper lip to pour gracefully across the body in front of him. He sensed more than saw it spread, watched it seek out and dip into nooks and crannies, little hollows of paleness filled with glow. He giggled at the sight, reminded of pale heavy cream flowing over fleshy red and pink strawberries.
Cold air blew around him, reminding him of what he was there to do. He reached out with metaphysical hands and began to stroke the thick glowing cream, guiding it to reform what was lost, to mend what was broken. Damaged organs regained their shape and broken ribs straightened and reknit themselves. He recognized the shape of a hip, the head of the femur shattered, the cup-like joint splintered. Here was by far the worst damage and he poured his magic into it. Slowly the breaks mended, bone fused and a thin layer of tissue began to form.
The flood of magic began to slow from a near-raging river to a slow stream, but still he coaxed it on, entranced by the beauty of the healing, brilliant colors fading from virulent red to healthy pink, faded blue enhanced to strong night sky. The cool around his wrists tugged at him and for a second he resisted, certain he would be able to finish before the slow stream trailed into a bare trickle.
The cool was insistent now, jerking his hands away from the flesh he molded with only his magic from disparate to whole, passing once more through the tickling greens lights that seemed sharper now. An avalanche rumbled near continuously in the distance, becoming louder and clearer until thunder resolved into words and eventually into one word.
Vincent. That word he knew. It meant something. Something important, near to him.
“Vincent!”
Sharp sting across his mind—no, face. Once, then again. Vincent. Himself.
Shaking his head, Vincent Goyle came back to himself, only to collapse against the man holding his arms. His head was pounding and he knew he was going to vomit any second. The floor made a sudden, close up appearance, and then he was throwing up anything he could have possibly eaten in the last day.
Muttered words and the scalding feel of magic fluttering across raw nerves accompanied the disappearance of the mess and smell. His Protector’s hands helped him into a soft chair, and stroked across his forehead comfortingly. Soft warmth covered him, and he felt a blanket settle over him. He cracked open his eyes to see Gregory Crabbe giving him an amused, lopsided smile, before they dropped closed again and he fell into sleep.
Author: Downdilly
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: HP/LM, LV/SS, RW/HG, Others Mentioned
Rating: R
Summary: Harry Potter was born to defeat the Dark Lord. Where does the Prophecy say
it's Voldemort?
Note 1: There's a very long list of warnings for this fic. I just wanted to make sure I
covered everything.
Disclaimer: Not mine. After so much fuss I'm not sure Ms. Rowling owns it either, but
that's what the lawyers say.
Note 2: Finished the 2nd draft of the outline, and 3rd draft of the first chapter of my Snarry. Thought I'd celebrate by
adding a bit to this. Apologies for the shortness, the next part is about a third finished.
Note 3: Not beta'd. All mistakes are mine.
_____________________________________________________
Mountains
Vincent Goyle was a big man.
Standing 6'5" and weighing in at close to 250 pounds, he stood head and shoulders above almost anyone at any gathering, including the Dark Lord's Death Eaters. Medium brown hair, sprinkled with grey at the temples, was kept in a close cropped style that emphasized pale, ice blue eyes and told of his place in Society as Head of a cadet branch of the family. In all, Vincent Goyle was a mountain of a man.
What stepped through the floo was an entire mountain *range*.
Lord Gregory Crabbe dwarfed even Goyle with ease. He stood easily a head taller and 50 pounds heavier, most of it in his shoulders. Thick, coarse black hair swung past his shoulders, and amber green eyes glowed in the dim light; eyes that would have been at home in a wolf's face. Based on physical appearance, he was the single most recognizable wizard in Britain. While it limited what he could do for the Dark Lord, what he did do was something no one else could; stand as Protector to his Healer, Vincent Goyle.
Crabbe stepped from the flooplace, careful of his head out of habit, and into the entryway of Briarwood Manor. It was a sign of the Dark Lord's care for his people that he'd made sure even Crabbe could use it comfortably, and each time he did so Crabbe was further convinced he'd sworn his allegiance to the correct path. So often it's the little things that count.
Eschewing making a grand entrance, Crabbe turned down one of the smaller hallways, using the back stairs to reach the Dark Lord's personal apartments. He entered through a side door into a small antechamber, shedding his outer cloak and giving it to the waiting elf. Passing into the reception parlor, he quickly glanced around, seeking his Lord. Instead he found only the side table set with a variety of food and drink, no doubt spelled for freshness. To Crabbe, it meant a long night for the Death Eaters Called.
"Greg," Vincent Goyle called from the doorway leading to Voldemort's bedchambers. "In here."
Frowning, Crabbe crossed to his Healer. "Lord?" he asked, following behind Goyle.
They crossed the small, informal parlor, but rather than opening the door to the Dark Lord's bedroom, they entered one of the smaller guest rooms. Vincent opened the door to the room, and the smell of burnt flesh and fresh blood slapped Crabbe in the face.
"In or out, but don't just stand there, gawking like some mudblood clod." The snarling voice resolved into Severus Snape stepping from the shadows.
Crabbe closed his jaw with a quiet click, not realizing he'd been staring at the limp bundle of rags and flesh staining the blue satin, embroidered duvet. Alarmed at what might have befallen one of his comrades, he cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Goyle.
"Not one of ours. Look again," Goyle invited, tugging Crabbe closer. The touch, even through clothing, sent a shiver up Vincent's arm and anticipation started his magic to bubbling softly.
Crabbe studied the lump on the bed, forcing it to come in to perspective, looming over the body like an eclipse at noon. His eyes slowly traveled up, noting raw and burnt flesh, clothing melted into skin, and, finally, a dark red lighting bolt carved into pink, raw flesh under long black hair.
His head snapped around, seeking confirmation. "Potter?"
Goyle and Snape both nodded.
“Our Lord has him in a stasis spell; when I scanned him it didn’t interfere, and shouldn’t alter the healing. Once he’s stable, the Lord can remove the spell.”
Snape moved to the bed, agitated that he had to waste his precious free time once again catering to the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Annoy-by-Continuing-To-Do-So. “Come on,” he snapped, “let’s get this done so I can go back to my life.”
Impatiently he began cutting away the remains of the boy’s trousers, using his wand to slice the material without slicing damaged flesh. Lengths of cloth fell away, but a different feel to the material under his wand made him pause and look closer.
Long lengths of thin rope or perhaps heavy cord were wrapped around the trouser leg, binding it tightly to charred and reddened flesh underneath.
*If the idiot boy ever bothered with normal clothing, he’d not *have* to bind it to him to keep his pants up,* Snape thought. He sniffed in disdain at the insanity of muggle clothing, and a familiar, sharp-edged scent cut across his thoughts.
“Stop,” he ordered, waving the other two back from where they’d begun picking the larger pieces away from open wounds.
Sniffing carefully, Snape made his way up Potter’s frozen body, carefully blowing his sinuses clear after each sampling breath.
“Severus?” rumbled Crabbe. The Protector could literally *feel* the sarcastic comments his Healer wanted to make about the Potions Master’s crawl up Potter’s body.
“Petrol,” was the clipped response. Finished with his inspection, Snape pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and turned to blow his nose and sinuses clear of the stench. He tossed the used cloth on a side table for the elves to collect and clean later, then turned back to the other two.
“Someone soaked his clothing in petrol and bound them to him. Whether they then set fire to him deliberately or it was an accident, will have to wait until we can communicate with him.”
“Will you be able to handle the shock trauma while he’s in stasis, or do you want to wait until he’s physically healed?” Vincent asked.
“I’ll try while he’s under,” Snape said after considering his options. Curiosity had won out though, and he could only hope he had the skill to keep his catskin intact if things went south. “His body is suspended, but his mind will still be somewhat aware, although any protections he has should be down or at least minimal.”
Vincent nodded and returned to picking bits of debris out of open wounds, careful to not let any of it be touched by any of the open flames in the room. It was tedious, backbreaking work that took the three of them almost an hour. Finally convinced there was nothing contaminating the boy that would interfere with the use of magic, Goyle flicked his wand and cast a series of cleaning and debriding charms. The sheets and blankets were changed, and the near-corpse settled carefully in the center.
With a mental twist, the mediwizard was replaced by the Healer. Summoned and directed power created a purely white aura around his hands. He noted that his Protector was there, removing the long over robe, unbuttoning his cuffs and tugging the long sleeves off his arms. Power washed over him, through him, and the warm languor of it pulled him under, a dark riptide that tugged at the edges of his sanity.
His Protector. The grounding force that made pure healing possible, held him closely wrapped in strong arms, hands wrapped lightly around his wrists. Cool flames sparked along his nerves, ripples of ice that brought clarity with them, stretching up from his wrists, coiling like steel serpents to hold him steady against the onslaught.
A voice that sounded like pure sexual longing stroked his raw nerves, answered by a deep rumbling that vibrated against his back. Sparks danced in front of his eyes, and he realized they’d been closed until now. Green sparks, that flickered and flamed, surrounding the hurt thing in front of him. He had to mend it, smooth the broken pathways and restore function to form.
Closer and closer he reached, the green glow tickling his skin, making the little hairs stand up. He shivered in delight, willing to stay and let the tingling thrill his nerves a while longer, but the coolness on his wrists guided him down and through until he made contact with the thing he had to fix.
Contact. Power flared and roiled, threatening to overflow what contained it. What contained it? Ah, he did, he and the marvelous cool that surrounded and braced him, kept his walls firm while he gently, gently eased it over the proper lip to pour gracefully across the body in front of him. He sensed more than saw it spread, watched it seek out and dip into nooks and crannies, little hollows of paleness filled with glow. He giggled at the sight, reminded of pale heavy cream flowing over fleshy red and pink strawberries.
Cold air blew around him, reminding him of what he was there to do. He reached out with metaphysical hands and began to stroke the thick glowing cream, guiding it to reform what was lost, to mend what was broken. Damaged organs regained their shape and broken ribs straightened and reknit themselves. He recognized the shape of a hip, the head of the femur shattered, the cup-like joint splintered. Here was by far the worst damage and he poured his magic into it. Slowly the breaks mended, bone fused and a thin layer of tissue began to form.
The flood of magic began to slow from a near-raging river to a slow stream, but still he coaxed it on, entranced by the beauty of the healing, brilliant colors fading from virulent red to healthy pink, faded blue enhanced to strong night sky. The cool around his wrists tugged at him and for a second he resisted, certain he would be able to finish before the slow stream trailed into a bare trickle.
The cool was insistent now, jerking his hands away from the flesh he molded with only his magic from disparate to whole, passing once more through the tickling greens lights that seemed sharper now. An avalanche rumbled near continuously in the distance, becoming louder and clearer until thunder resolved into words and eventually into one word.
Vincent. That word he knew. It meant something. Something important, near to him.
“Vincent!”
Sharp sting across his mind—no, face. Once, then again. Vincent. Himself.
Shaking his head, Vincent Goyle came back to himself, only to collapse against the man holding his arms. His head was pounding and he knew he was going to vomit any second. The floor made a sudden, close up appearance, and then he was throwing up anything he could have possibly eaten in the last day.
Muttered words and the scalding feel of magic fluttering across raw nerves accompanied the disappearance of the mess and smell. His Protector’s hands helped him into a soft chair, and stroked across his forehead comfortingly. Soft warmth covered him, and he felt a blanket settle over him. He cracked open his eyes to see Gregory Crabbe giving him an amused, lopsided smile, before they dropped closed again and he fell into sleep.