Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

I Don't Think You're a Waste of Space	By : SparklySprinkles Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Dudley/Harry Views: 10089 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Fictional story based on fictional characters. I own nothing of Harry Potter, and make no money.

Chapter List
- 1-chapter one
- 2-Chapter Two
- 3-Chapter Three
- 4-four
- 5-five
- 6-six
- 7-seven
- 8-Eight
- 9-nine
- 10-ten
- 11-eleven
- 12-twelve
- 13-thirteen
- 14-fourteen
- 15-fifteen
- 16-sixteen
- 17-seventeen
- 18-eighteen
- 19-nineteen
- 20-twenty
- 21-twenny one
- 22-twenny two
- 23-twenty three
- 24-twenty four
- 25-one more to go!
- 26-the end (26)
- 6
- 7
- 8
    He woke to the sound of the telly, as always, and the scene was so natural to him that it took some time for him to realise he probably shouldn't be there. And he could go back up to his room without being seen, but there were a couple of steps that creaked no matter how the foot was placed. Harry got up and stood at his door, worked up the courage to open the door and stepped out, quickly creeping to the stairs.
   As he turned to go up he saw Dudley had been behind, watching, plates in hand. Harry froze, waiting for the axe to fall, as Dudley followed with his plates. Harry watched him walk up, and waited, and when he saw his cousin was just waiting, nothing more, he ran up the steps to his room. Dudley was right behind him, and handed him his plate once he'd sat down. Harry waited for him to say something about it, but he didn't; he tucked in and kept his opinions to himself, like an angel.
   That night he was left alone again, and he took the chance to wrap some towels from his cupboard around the bedposts in his new-old room, to muffle future sounds. Dudley never mentioned it, and again, he was an angel, but Harry felt fairly certain everyone had heard everything.

   His uncle came the next night, and was the same - gentle and almost affectionate until Harry was swallowing vomit back in his throat. He used a ton of lube and went as slowly as he ever had until he was properly inside him. And the man was suddenly interested in whether Harry enjoyed it or not. "You can move about, you know. You have permission, that is." Harry didn't take him up on his offer, and he prayed the man wouldn't turn it into a command.
   Uncle Vernon took his sweet time there, and after, lying next to Harry and talking. And hands. Always with the hands, like he would lose his rights to Harry if he ever stopped touching him. And that might be something he suddenly didn't want.
   "It used to do my head in, but I think I miss your cheekiness now, boy. You - I mean, I give you permission to be cheeky with me." Harry nodded to the crazy words, just so there wouldn't be anymore, but he felt he understood this one. Back talk wouldn't be so insulting for the man if he could do whatever he wanted to Harry whenever he wanted. He could even call it cheeky. Funny, because he never had before. There were more pets and strokes before he left again, and Harry went for a shower quickly after.
   This went on for almost two weeks. Twelve days, and Harry knew that because he had a window. And he was invited down to dinner every evening. Terrible tense settings but the food was always good, and he was told to eat if he didn't, so Harry was always full when it was over, which was when his uncle decided it was. Aunt Petunia grew angrier ever time, and Harry just wanted to scream at her that he didn't want to be there either.
   His uncle, in that time, took to the disgusting and delusional new habit of talking to Harry in his post coital glow, laying back on the pillow he'd brought in - the man had brought in a pillow for himself, furnishing Harry's room for himself in a small but imposing way - and talked to Harry like he was - Harry wasn't sure what he himself could be likened to in this new scene. One could talk to a houseplant just as easily and receive about as much feedback.
   But perhaps a houseplant would not have remembered afterwards that Grunnings had been closed by the Ministry. Wizards had no need for drill bits. Not that it mattered, as another thing a houseplant would have quickly forgotten afterwards was that Uncle Vernon had to quit his job when the family had first gone into hiding under Ministry protection. But a houseplant would probably have remembered, perhaps even as far as the next day, the touches that casually tracked its parts as the words went on, perhaps even the soft tones that carried the words.
   If Harry had been stupider, or more given to forget the past, he might have curled up into this new Uncle Vernon, pre and post buggery, but he remembered, too sharply, his entire childhood, wishing for this man's approval or even just acknowledgement once he'd learned to curb his expectations, and the cold disdain he'd always received. It was too late for Uncle Vernon to try ... whatever the hell he was trying here. And maybe he wasn't trying anything. Maybe Harry was just overthinking when it came to an animal and its motives, and in reality his uncle was just stretching out into his element of reigning over little lives. Harry didn't know, and he didn't care. It turned his stomach. Every touch and whispered word.
   He paid attention, though. One never knows when there will be an exam at the end. His uncle was very worried about Aunt Marge. Like anything could destroy someone so vile. They were always the ones who made it. He imagined her getting a post at Hogwarts teaching the muggle born to sit properly when commanded. To speak and beg. There were uses for such a woman in this world. He didn't tell his uncle this; he wasn't needed for answering. Just a warm body for the man to play with as he spoke aloud, so he could deny he was talking to himself.
   "In fact," he said, as he went on about his old post at Grunnings and drew patterns in Harry's shoulder and watched his finger's trackings, probably Vernon over and over, "my sole job now is you." Harry's mouth worked as if he might actually answer for once. This might be one of those moments where his uncle was pulling him back to respond in some way. "That's it. We're given everything here. We're even given money to tie up loose ends. All I need to do is keep you." Harry said nothing. And he tried to go back to his half minds parcelled out, but his uncle had gripped him back here with these little facts that Harry really should have already known. What lengths they'd gone to here.
   It was impossible to ignore the little bouts of happiness the man was rolling in as he put his arms about Harry and nestled into him, falling silent finally.

   Harry woke like this, incredibly warm, warm for the first time on walking in a very long time, overheating from the whale that had him in his arms, still. Light was coming in from the window; Uncle Vernon had spent the night in here.
   Harry didn't move. He didn't want to see this man in the morning, and if he moved he would wake him. He tried to go back to sleep. He tried to soak in the heat like it was a good thing, and just close his eyes in the absence of any pain, and he laid still hardly moving but keeping his breathing regular until he could hear the grossly specific sounds of his uncle working his dry mouth. He was waking. He moved against an unmoving Harry and wallowed in satisfaction and contentedness, the sensations bleeding out of him and into Harry's soul, holding him tighter than ever. "You think we have time for another go?"
   He would need to say something here. He knew from experience that when his uncle actually asked him a question, he needed to answer. "They would hear something."
   "Mmm. You're right, boy. No one can be that quiet, ey?" But he still ran his hands along him, soaking everything up. "But I don't need to get out of this bed. I don't need to do anything. I meant what I said last night. You are my only responsibility."
   "What about the lawn?" Pure desperation there, making him pull words out of the very air.
   He laughed. "They enchanted it." Such words coming out of the mouth behind him. Enchanted? Like it was a normal word. Like they'd fertilized it. "We could have our breakfast in here this morning. You could bring it to me." The man was positively delighted in his own words, like they came with bows and it was Christmas morning.
   "Aunt Petunia wouldn't be very impressed with that, Uncle Vernon."
   "Nothing impresses that woman these days." Harry had finally popped his bubble. "I do everything I can to keep her taken care of," with demonstrative hands showing their methods of keeping her alive. "I'm sick of her constant disapproval." And this was something that had happened here in this bed a lot lately, as well. Complaining about Aunt Petunia to him. Harry did what he always did there, and kept his mouth shut. He wanted nothing of the commiseration this man was seeking. Harry could see Aunt Petunia's point, loud and clear. What on earth was this man doing in Harry's bed, right then? It was in no way necessary to the bond.
   He longed for the days of the man ordering him out of the cupboard once a week for the least possible amount of contact and ... bond maintenance. Even if he'd almost died in all that, the delirium caused by dehydration and starvation had been a cloud of vagueness and darkness that was far better than this sharp moment of reality with hands and a hot body that seemed to cover more ground than a body should be able to.

   He was sent down for his uncle's breakfast, ducking his head under his aunt's hostility, and didn't take one for himself. It would have been too much to ask of the woman. He brought the plate back up to the bed, and his uncle commanded him to feed him. Harry did everything to keep his face neutral, but it was hard. Uncle Vernon was seeing it all as a fun new game or something.
   Food was one of the reasons the man had for leaving Harry's room. That and the little fact of his family existing in the rest of the house. Harry feared he'd never leave, but he did before noon hit, and Harry felt nothing but relief. He could see that the only thing he could hope for was the man would grow bored. That was his way out of this new thing.

   Harry was ordered down for dinner, and avoided all eyes. As usual. Asking his aunt to put up with this, with a smile on her face, was just too much, and Harry wished he could say something to her. But anything he said would have been seen the wrong way, and he knew it.
   Out of nowhere, Dudley informed all that Malcom would be coming over. Harry wanted none of that. He didn't want to see Dudley turn in front of him. Dudley's gang had never brought out the best in him; these boys had beat on Harry many times in the past, before Harry had gotten better at running. And now that Harry was little more than shabbily used furniture? He didn't want to see Dudley turn back into whom he'd been his whole life; Harry had always know that little bastard was just under the surface, and the slightest little thing could bring him out.
   "May I be excused?" He asked it to the room, as he always did, but waited for Uncle Vernon's voice. As always. Denied.

   Malcolm was different. But that was to be expected, since there were adults in the room. This one was always good at schmoozing, and Harry didn't buy any of it. He even greeted Harry, said hullo to him, and Harry grunted back. He didn't need to bring any more attention to himself than was necessary.
   They ate, and Malcom watched Harry. Everytime he looked up the boy was staring at him, but would look away when Harry looked in his direction. What did he know? Probably everything. Harry would be hoping for too much to think otherwise.
   "Thank you, Mrs. Dursley. That was excellent as always." Ever the smooth talker for Dudley's parents. A smarter than the rest kind of git. "Want to go upstairs, Big D?"
   "Sure."
   "Harry?" Harry looked up, not meeting eyes, but up enough so no one could say he was ignoring anyone. "You want to come up, too?"
   Harry thought about it. His aunt and uncle were not his idea of the perfect company. But they were the devils he knew, and he chose them. "No, thank you."
   "Harry, I won't be shitty. I promise."
   Harry had no idea what that meant. He'd had his fill of Uncle Vernon 'playing nice' and he knew there were worse things than beatings from teenagers. He shook his head and just hoped Uncle Vernon wouldn't sentence him to being the wounded animal for these shits to poke with sticks. He saw the general movements of a shrug from Malcom, and the two left for Dudley's room. Harry hunched in on himself again, and pretended he wasn't there in the frostiness that descended.
   "Well, if you're going to be around, you may as well do the dishes."
   "Yes, Ma'am. Thank you." He got up quickly, not being stupid, and cleared the table quietly with a hand ever in his trousers to keep them up.
   "Well, now. Isn't this nice, Dear? You can just relax after a meal?"
   "Don't push it, Vernon. You know perfectly well how I feel about all this ... business, him doing the dishes doesn't make up for anything."
   "Well, maybe I don't want him doing the dishes then. I would hate to disappoint you."
   "You think I care about dishes? Or any of it? I told you, I don't need him cleaning up after me, or taking on any more of my job than he already has." Harry put a lot less effort in keeping his work quiet. "Nothing about him prancing about my kitchen is going to make me happy."
   "Prancing?" A dangerous word to use with such a man. And it touched on things Harry himself avoided in his own head. "Prancing? What the hell does that mean?"
   "Keep your voice down," she hissed, "we still have company."
   "And they don't give two shits what we talk about down here. What the hell do you mean by prancing?"
   Harry could see this being taken out on him later on in the evening. He didn't know what else to do, so he dropped a plate. It cracked nice and loud, and Aunt Petunia got up to yell at him. Stupid, useless, breaking my things! She ordered him to leave, and he asked his uncle if he could. The man paused and thought, milking the moment of his own authority to the utmost, and Harry threw in a please. That did it. He nodded, dripping of generosity, and Harry went for the cupboard, still nervous about the boys upstairs. He was a different animal, now. One that needed to look for danger everywhere and avoid it altogether, because he couldn't fight back.
   He stayed quiet and wished he could somehow not hear them still arguing about him. If the telly were on he would have a harder time hearing it all. Dierdre would sound like heaven right now to him.
   The hisses of his aunt and rumbles of his uncle lashed out, growing louder at times, but always low enough that Dudley would have heard practically nothing from upstairs. Uncle Vernon went on, again, about how he was doing what he did for the family, and Aunt Petunia asked if the "cow eyes" he made at the boy, at her table, in front of her son, were also for the family.
   And then, like the sound of a gunshot, as loud and horrible, the sound of skin striking skin. It was one thing, and definitely not fine, for his uncle to do the things he did to Harry. They were necessary, even. Harry really did know that ugly little fact. But it was another entirely for the man to hit his wife. Beyond Harry; he'd never known Uncle Vernon to be a very violent man. Silence descended on the dining room, over the whole world it seemed, from the weight of this.
   Harry jumped up and went back to the kitchen and froze, taking it in. Uncle Vernon was still in his seat, not moving, glaring at his wife as his cheek turned an angry red. She turned like a whip on Harry and he backed out a little slower than he'd entered. Everything seamed to be in hand there. They both watched him leave in silence, and that remained after he returned to his little bed, sitting on the satisfaction he felt.

   Hours later his uncle opened his door and called Harry softly. "Come on, boy. Let's go to bed."
   "Yes, Master."
   "You don't have to be in here. You have a room." Harry nodded as he left it, and went up the stairs, followed closely. "I don't like having to go about looking for you." Was he off the hook for his prancing? He didn't know for sure, but it seemed so.
   The moment he opened the door to his room he was pulled back into perhaps once beefy but now flabby arms. "I know you broke that plate on purpose." Harry froze in place, but he was walked into the room, and his uncle closed the door behind them.
   "I -"
   "It's alright. I would have done the same." Such an odd man. What was that? Not empathy. Anything but that. This was a part of his new game. More of that commiseration. Harry wasn't stupid. It was Harry and his uncle against the world, and if the world was Aunt Petunia, then that was fine with Uncle Vernon. The man had no scruples, and all the manipulative capabilities of a Hufflepuff.
   He turned Harry about, and held him, as though he was comforting him. Harry kept quiet and fought nothing. He was being forgiven for prancing. That's what this meant. His aunt had called Harry a sissy, and the implications would have dragged Uncle Vernon down with him, but Harry was being forgiven. That was a relief. The man would still sodomize him, and love every minute of it, but if anyone had ever called him gay for it, Harry didn't know what would happen, but it wouldn't be pretty. How this all had a home in this man's mind was just another of life's not-so-great mysteries. Not to be explained or understood, but there, all the same.
    The man was just as soft with him, strokes light and airy until he was inside, and then he was gentle. These touches were something Harry was getting used to, so it wasn't very hard for him to try and let his mind wander away from it all. The best part was that he was face down, and didn't have to see most of what was happening. That was his favourite bit about it - if he had to choose. If anyone ever asked.
   He dug his face into the pillow and waited for it to end, and was shook back to the moment when his uncle started talking. And perhaps he had been for a bit, Harry didn't really know. "I mean, I'm being nice, boy. You should be, I mean, you could try and get into it a little."
   Harry wanted to ask sourly if that was a command, but then he might make it one, so he shut up.
   "I'm being as gentle as I know how and still you just don't like it." He wrapped his arms around Harry and sat back, taking him with him. Harry gripped his uncle's arms until they stopped moving backwards, then let go quickly, but he didn't have much control over this new position. The man resumed grinding into him, holding him close and breathing heavy on his head. Suddenly Harry shot up, feeling something that was definitely not pain or discomfort. His uncle had like an unwitting clod, found something, some spot that had for an instant felt amazing. Harry surged against the vice of arms with a hiss, trying to avoid that again.
   "Does it hurt?"
   "Yeah. Please. Please, stop." Like that would work.
   His uncle pulled out a little, but still kept going with shorter thrusts. "Is that better?" One of the arms around Harry's chest left and stroked his thigh almost consolingly. Harry had to nod. He couldn't have the man rooting around for it. Whatever it had been. "See? I'm trying hard to make it nice for you. You see that, right?" Harry nodded, sweating to keep the man shallow and away from it. "At least you're moving tonight. I could try to make it better for you, too, y'know?" His hand stroked closer and Harry pulled back from it, throwing his own hands over his disgustingly semi hard dick, and burrowing the whole mess between his legs.
   "Please, don't. Please."
   His uncle's hand stroked over Harry's wrists, like they could pass the feeling through solid flesh. He stroked his stubbly face into Harry's neck. "You'd like it, I promise."
   "Please."
   "I could make you."
   "I know." He could hardly breathe.
   "Could even make you want it, I bet."
That was probably true. "Don't."
   "I could order you to want it, Harry." He pushed in deep again, as though he could make him want it with his invasive presence. Harry shook his head, focusing again on avoiding letting him hit that horrible spot inside him. "I don't want to do it, though. I want this to be natural, Harry." Twice now, the man had used his name. He'd never done that before.
   "Please, just do what you want and get it over with. Please.
   The man was still digging at Harry's hands, looking for what he'd hidden beneath. "Harry."
   His hand worked itself under Harry's, despite his struggles, trying to get to him and touched him. Harry jumped, "Uncle V- Master! Please, please stop."
   "Mmm. Uncle Master. God, Harry. You're killing me." The man gave up his search and put his all into holding and pounding into him, and Harry knew it was over. He just needed to hold still for the last. A few strokes hit him right again by accident, and Harry bit his lip to keep quiet until it was over. He heaved in relief as the man softened inside him, but still held him. It didn't matter. It was over - for another night. He kept his hands in place, hiding what he would be ashamed about until his dying day, and didn't move.
   "Uncle Master," the man murmured into Harry's ear as he pulled them down, still holding him, still trying to stay inside him, but it was a losing battle, and he was out before their heads hit the pillows.
   Harry stayed still staring forward, and found himself staring at the the little bottle of lube that had made itself home on his night table. A leg stretched over him like it, too, was home, and Harry closed his eyes. They snapped back open in rage at the sound of snores, and Harry had to swallow it. If he pulled away he would wake him, and that could lead to more.
   He woke to knocks on his door the next morning, and wondered why it wasn't the telly this time. "Harry?" Dudley, on the other side of the door. "Dad wants you at breakfast today."
   "Oh. Alright." He looked around for the clothes Dudley had given him. They were on the floor where his uncle had tossed them the night before. He was in a real kick of undressing Harry these days. Everything the man did was just off, lately.
   He came down quietly, as though if he made no noise he might get away with this. He sat gingerly and Uncle Vernon grunted in satisfaction, while Aunt Petunia slammed a plate in front of him, the force sending a few bits of egg to jump. Harry hunched in on himself in his seat.
   He held his fork, and ate a little, mainly to avoid a command to eat. The man wanted meat on his bones, he'd said a few times, and Harry understood what this was. All things with Uncle Vernon were about his own comfort. It had taken Harry years to understand the man, but it turned out he wasn't that complicated after all.
   "Well, this is nice, isn't it?"
   Aunt Petunia sniffed, disdainfully. "Hardly. Really, Vernon, it was fine with Dudders bringing the boy food in his room. Why you would change things, is beyond me."
   "Well, we're a family after all, aren't we, Pet?" Harry felt eyes on him, and wished he could shrink even more.
   "I don't think it's appropriate for you to still call him family, Vernon."
   "Darling,-"
   "Don't you "darling" me! I think I've put up with all this with the patience of a saint. But for you to parade it about the house like this? Really? How did you think I would take this?"
   "Look here. How about he works for you, as well? I mean, you could be getting something from this. He could cook the meals, like he used to? Bet he remembers how. Don't you, Harry?"
   "What?" All heads turned to the woman and the horrid tone used. "What did you just call him?"
   Harry shrank then. He had very much not enjoyed the sound of his name coming from his uncle. Well, neither did his aunt.
   "It's his name, isn't it?" But the man sounded as though he were in deep water and knew it.
   Dudley's head was swinging from one to the other, following the words as though they were a tennis ball. But at this he stepped in to defend his father. "It is his name, Mum. You've never said it either."
   "Because he needed to know what he was. Don't you start in on me. If you turn on me, Dudders, I don't know what I'd do." The woman had turned hysterical, and tears came.
   Harry felt two inches tall, and still too much. "Please, may I leave?" He asked it to the room, but it had to be granted by the man at the head of the table.
   "I wish you would."
   "Yes, me too, Aunt Petunia."
   "Sit and eat your breakfast."
   "Yes, Master."
   "And that! Why are you calling him Master all of a sudden? That was never a command Snape made him give."
   No, it wasn't. But Harry really didn't want to talk about Voldemort with these people. And not with a mouth full of food. Uncle Vernon was staring at him too, as though wanting the answer as much. "It was from a time when he was possessed."
   "He isn't being possessed!" She hissed viciously, obviously terrified of the idea. "You're using your ... magic on him. Your freakishness! Just stop it!"
   Harry looked back down at his plate as he shoved another bite in his mouth, not wanting to eat at all, but unable to stop from doing so. Would he have to clean the plate? His stomach roiled at the thought of all that food inside, not that it was a great amount. But it was more than he was used to eating.
   He tuned them out to the best of his ability and listened with all he had to the sounds of Dierdre on the news, and then he started to pay extra attention because they were talking about professor McGonagall. She had been spotted near Surrey and all efforts were being put to getting her.
   By the end of that bit the throbbing began in his scar, and he didn't need to mind read to know Riddle was angry about it. He saw her as a personal failure or something very close to it. Harry kept quiet that day, very much avoiding Riddle's head, and was awake all night waiting for it, thinking how convenient for him if he visited a body already weighing Harry down, but it didn't happen.
   Another week went by with nothing worse to endure than his uncle, who was greatly enjoying having Harry at the table for breakfasts and dinners. Harry could feel the man's happiness, wafting off him and settling beneath his skin as he sat there in the most awkward of silences.
   He never volunteered his presence at the table - he wasn't a masochist, but his uncle sent Dudley up for him every evening, and mornings when he wasn't still there himself -which was most mornings, really. Two meals, and Harry struggled to eat that much. These people did nothing for his appetite.
   Eight days after Professor McGonagall had been supposedly sighted near Surrey, Harry was lying under his snoring uncle, trying very hard to pretend he was not doing just that. Eventually the walrus would roll over, and Harry would be permitted to try and sleep. The man usually woke before dawn and went back where he belonged, but until then it was torture to have him there. Harry had, a few scant times, fallen asleep in the hot arms, under the legs, and woke when the man moved. It was always jarring, always a disturbing thing to pull him from wherever he had been, permitted to not dream, to a hot body obliviously effortlessly knocking him about and tearing him into awareness as it found a more comfortable position. Always comfort with that man. Gods forbid he should ever experience a moment of fleeting discomfort.
   Harry had learned this way, to just wait until the man heaved himself off him, then he would allow himself to sleep. He'd been there for a few hours. It must have been. Always waiting. That was what his life was now. Waiting for the cupboard door to open, waiting for Dudley to rain snacks down on him, waiting for his uncle to spend himself inside him, waiting for the man to roll off him in the night. Waiting to be called down for some farce of a family meal at a table where he was hated and barely tolerated. Harry could see the pit of pity he was falling into, and stopped himself. It was where he spent a lot of his time, and he wasn't happy about it.
   The oaf rolled off him, grunting in his sleep as he did so, and Harry took an unfettered breath. The first in hours. He would never have guessed the man for a cuddler.
   He hunkered in, hunching to try and get some sleep before morning came, though it was probably just around the corner, and suddenly he felt a surge of magic. Tiny, but he'd gone so long without it felt like a tidal wave. And not that oily heavy dark magic that he had last felt. He knew he should just hide, under the bed, in the closet, or even under the man beside him, but he couldn't stop himself. He slipped out of bed, his diminished frame hardly causing a dip, and threw on the wonderful trousers Dudley had gifted him. He held them about his waist tight as he crept out and into the hall.
   And stood at the top of the steps looking down, at the open front door. Could he walk out if it was already opened? But he could feel it, the outside was forbidden. He could feel the massive NO like gates locked at the threshold barring him from everything outside them.
   That mattered less every instant, since it was forbidden, and he tore his eyes away from it as the door closed silently, and he saw Minerva McGonagall in all her stately splendour there, in the Dursleys' home, looking up at him.
   "Potter," she mouthed, but he heard it. He slipped down the stairs, skipping altogether the ones he knew would creak, and came up to her.
   "What are you doing here?" He hissed it, and knew he shouldn't be anything but lovely to this woman.
   "I'm here to rescue you, of course. Come, quick."
   "This was stupid, professor. Don't you think there are wards here and they know you're here? And he can see through my eyes. You'll get yourself killed for this."
   "Yes, yes, it's all very dangerous. Now come along, Mr. Potter."
   And he wanted to. He felt the pull, the ingrained desire to do as told by an adult, by his head of house, no less. But he had to shake his head. "I can't do that. I'm sorry." And was he ever. But she was wasting time standing there, when she should have been running. "Just leave, now."
   "And care to explain why?" As though they had all the time in the world. And Harry truly did. But he felt the seconds ticking, marking how many breaths left she was allowed. They must have put wards on his home. He couldn't see it any other way. But she was standing there, head cocked slightly as though the world would not turn until he gave her something.
   "I've been put under some obedience curse. I can't leave. I can't do anything." And I need to be buggered once a week. "Look, you should have saved Hermione. She's the one who needs it."
   "Right you are, and Miss Granger is safe." Harry stared, taking that in. Safe? Alive then, obviously. He'd been mourning her for months, while doing everything possible to not think about her and his inability to do anything for her.
   "Safe?" As though he was testing the very word.
   "Yes. In fact I had quite the fight with her over this. She wanted to come along. She couldn't see the sense in staying put until we came back," she paused and frowned at him. "It seems a bit more complicated with you, however. She wasn't able to remember much of what the rest of you were put through before leaving Hogwarts. Pity she didn't recall this."
   "She's alright?"
   "Well. I wouldn't say alright. Nowhere near, in fact. But she is safe."
   Understandable. "And Ginny?" He wished the words back as soon as they were out of his mouth. Was he making demands of this woman? To save the people he couldn't? He didn't even want to remember they existed most of the time. Aside from that, all the answer he needed was on his professor's face. Ginny was still in the works. Complications - he could read it like a headline. "Please, leave, professor. You're running out of time."
   "Very well." She wasn't pleased. "I'll think of something, Potter. You have no idea what she'll put me through for coming back without you." He didn't ask where they were, or how many, or whom. These could all be seen. Riddle could read his mind.
   "Leave!" She looked back at him, sadness and pity and defeat, and Harry stored that to lash himself with in quiet later. He hoped she'd never come back again. Or tomorrow with a solution. Preferably before his aunt and cousin went to bed.
   He heaved in some of the wonderful fresh air as the door opened again and closed. He sat there after, by the door, pretending the fresh air just kept coming. Perhaps, if he opened the post slot - yes, of course. He could touch it as well, he found, happier than he should have been, and stuck his fingers in to keep it open, and just smelled the grass, the air out there. He brought up his knees and leaned against the door.
   Hermione was alive. More than that, she was safe. He wondered why there had been no mention on the news, but of course they wouldn't. It might make them seem weak to lose someone like Hermione. They would hide it until they caught her again. Harry hoped she was very far and very safe.

   "Harry." He opened his eyes. That voice was inside him, and outside. He looked up, seeing Uncle Vernon staring down at him, an odd expression on his face in the breaking dawn light that was slowly lighting the home. He looked around, and saw he'd fallen asleep against the door, his fingers still lodged, now painfully, in the post slot. He pulled them out and kept his face down, slightly embarrassed he had left himself like this.
   "Harry. Come here."
   "Yes, Master." His muscles twinged as he put them back to work and got up to come to his uncle. Arms enveloped him. "You want to go outside?"
   Harry nodded, but wondered if he could use this. Could he undo the order? Hands pulled him tighter to the man's body, as though he wanted to fuse them. Morning Vernon was a nutter. Soft and warm and confusing. "I'll make us some tea and we'll take it on the porch, alright?" Harry nodded, swallowing the thrill of the simple little idea. Tea on the porch? Outside, in the sunrise - such as they were when it was always overcast. Always cold. But it didn't matter. Outside.
   It wasn't long before Harry found himself on the back porch, held tight in his uncle's arm, beside the man and actually soaking up the body warmth he seemed to have in spades, hands curled about a steaming cup of tea, silent. They both were. Uncle Vernon was using the hand not wrapped about Harry to hold his own cup, and sighed heavily over his first slurping sip.
   Harry was easily able to drown him out, he'd had a lot of practise lately. And aside from that, it really was nice. Incredibly gloomy, though. He could feel Dementors out there, not in the vicinity, probably, but enough and spreadout so there was a constant air of oppressiveness that eventually got to the man, and they went back inside. No orders had been given though, so Harry was left with no freedoms. No ability to step out on his own some day.
   Uncle Vernon shivered ostentatiously and rubbed his hands together as they entered the kitchen. "Always so chilly these days. Odd summer we've had." Was that small talk? Harry honestly didn't know with this man. "And we still have a couple hours before anyone'll be up. Come sit, Harry."
   Harry looked at the clock as he said, "Yes, Master." He looked back at the man, and saw he was to sit on his lap. He was holding out an arm and patting his leg. Disgusting. Harry gingerly sat on a thigh, and was turned sideways so his legs were pulled in between Uncle Vernon's. And those bloody arms brought him in, closing the space he'd tried to keep. "This is nice, yeah?" He looked around and whispered, "Reach in my trousers and pull me out, boy."
   "Yes, Master" Harry whispered, and looked about as well as he obeyed. If they were seen doing this at the table, he'd die. He would just stop breathing and lay down for the end. His hand closed about the man's stiffening member, and he suppressed his reaction well. It was silken and mostly smooth, with far too much give considering how much pain it caused him at times.
   "Good boy." Harry turned his face further away at the shaming words. "I mean it. Harry. You're such a good boy for me." And what choice did he have? Was the man delusional? He freed him and stared pumping, knowing the sooner it was over, the sooner it was over. "So good." His uncle seemed to not mind Harry's sloppy and quick attempts, and was bucking into his rash grip in no time.
   A hand travelled over Harry's body until it rested on his arse, holding tight. He put his other hand on Harry's thigh, and tried to pull him even closer, but he just didn't seem to understand that it was his gut getting in the way. "I wish you'd let me return the favour." The hand on his thigh stroked, inching closer every time, and Harry inwardly groaned. Let me, he said. What was this? Harry could see, as well, that his uncle would keep at this little aim of his. Harry scooted back, trying to avoid it, trying to let his discontent show. "Please, Harry. Please. I just want to make you feel what you make me feel." He gripped the bits of flesh his hand had been holding, bruising with his intensity as he thrust up in Harry's hand. "Just want it."
   "Yes, Master," Harry said, and felt it, like a horror scene, unfolding inside him, and he did. He cried, and kept his face turned away, as his hips reached for the man's encroaching hand.
   The hand slipped down the too big waistline of his trousers, and found him quickly, limp, but awakening under the hand he'd been ordered to want. And he did. He sobbed as he humped the disgusting wonderful hand, and stopped pumping his uncle, distracted to hopelessness, and working into the meaty hand that had him. "Yes, Harry. Good. Fuck my hand, boy."
   "Yes, Master." He nearly wailed, and almost hoped he might wake someone and this could stop. But he didn't. He kept his voice down, because nothing on Earth could be allowed to stop the fist working on him. And compulsion aside he really, really would rather no one saw whatever this was.
   "Keep going," he said as he jerked in Harry's hand, reminding him that he'd been given a job to do, and he resumed. "Look at me."
   "Yes, Master." Harry turned his face, keeping his eyes on his uncle's chest. Not eye contact, that was too much, but the man couldn't say he wasn't obeying. Tears and snot were running freely, and he was ordered to stop crying. "Yes, Master," and he hid his face in Uncle Vernon's chest as he shut that down. It helped to be commanded to. The hand on his arse left to rub his shoulder, like consolation, but Harry knew better. You couldn't be consoled by the torturer.
   "It's alright, Harry. It's alright to like it." Harry wondered if he just concentrated on his uncle's hand enough, and this ended, then maybe that would be a good thing. The man was no slouch at wanking, but really, shouldn't any man be able to do the job properly? The little jerks his body made for him were the worst, and he tensed every muscle to stone to stop them, but it didn't work. It couldn't override the order.
   "Relax, boy. It's alright."
   "Yes, Master." That brought a low moan, and a twitch in Harry's hand.
   "You like that?" He shook his head miserably. "You want me to stop?" He nodded his head, more miserably, still working to not thrust into the hand even as he did just that, just what he'd been commanded to do. "You want me to keep going?"
   "I don't!"
   He slowed down, but tightened his grip. "You want me to keep going? Tell the truth, boy."
   "Yes, Master. I ... yes." The admission burned, and he tried to tell himself it wasn't true - not really. He couldn't help commands, no matter how repulsive.
   His uncle chuckled breathily, and told him some more it was alright. Harry shook his head, and really wished he would just stop talking. It would help more than anything else. "Watch my hand, Harry."
   "Yes, Master." He looked down as his uncle again pressed into his own weak grip, and he had to admit that the sight was helping. In utter defeat he gave in to it all, feeling his own want like an insidious parasite, and feeding it, because that was the only way this was ending. He tightened his hand and jerked his uncle off until the man came, and Harry followed, making no sound, but feeling it from his toes to his sack to his head, and hating it more than anything that had happened to him so far.
   Ordered to want it. Like a puppet. Like a mindless drone. The arms about him loosened in post nut ease, and Harry hung his head as he sat there, trying to find the words to tell this man he needed him to never do this again.
   "That was good, wasn't it?" The man was stroking him again. "Nice, right?" He reached out and took Harry's jaw and turned him to face him, and Harry made the mistake of looking up. The man was staring at him, suddenly intense, suddenly leaning forward and staring at Harry's lips.
   He was going to kiss him.
On the mouth.
   Harry jumped back and slammed right into the table, but kept going and hit the floor, still staring at the man. What was wrong with him? No, wait, he seemed to be returning to normal functioning levels as his face contorted into one of his fits. One of the fits Dudley had inherited. Harry couldn't move.
   "Go!"
   "Yes, Master." He jumped up and ran out the room, right into his cupboard. It was closest. He hunched down, listening to the man pace angrily and stayed still for as long as it took for the rest of the family to wake.
He was allowed to not exist during breakfast. The normalcy of the noises and the even tempered bend of the voices of those at the table helped him even out his thoughts. He felt ... betrayed. And it took him some time to recognize the feeling. When he did, he stepped on it angrily. He felt as though his uncle had betrayed him, and what loyalty did the man even have for this to be possible? Harry was just stupid. That was all. Stupid and holding up unrealistic and childish expectations. That shouldn't have been possible anymore.
   It wasn't as though there were some agreement between them; the man had never sworn to not destroy Harry's free will or anything. He knew that. He knew that. And he should have never expected the man to understand, either. He was just being stupid.
   A filthy stain on his trousers, the ones Dudley had given him, stuck to his skin and reminded him whenever he moved that it was still there. And when it dried it was stiff and crusty. At some point that day he would slip out and clean them. They were already gross enough, but this was worse.

   Shorty after breakfast there was a knock at the front door. Harry heard strange voices asking Uncle Vernon about magical imprints, but the Dursleys of course knew nothing of all this, and Harry was dragged out of his cupboard. He hung his head and avoided eye contact, staring at the hems of twin robes.
   "These men have some questions for you, boy. Just be good and tell the truth."
   Did those two things conflict? "Yes, Master." But why would he lie? Professor McGonagall had to be safe and away by now. Back with Hermione, wherever they were.
   "Yes. Well. There was a magical imprint here early this morning. Do you know anything about it?"
   "Yes." He gave nothing more. These gits would have to work for it.
   "Well?"
   "An old friend came to see me."
   His uncle cut in, sounding a tad nervous. "What? When?"
   "This morning."
   "Who?"
   "Professor McGonagall."
   The suits tried to edge back into it. "And did she say where she was going?"
   "No. She didn't." Thank Merlin.
   "Did she say she would come back?"
   "yes." Too bad.
   "When?"
   "When she could find a way to help me."
   "Help you?" Uncle Vernon again, angry now.
   "Yes, Master."
   "If you're both done here? Anymore questions?" Harry could hear the trouble in his uncle's voice, and risked a quick look up at him. He was staring right at Harry, and ... thinking.
   "Almost. Tell him, if you please, to alert us the moment she returns."
   "You hear that, boy? The moment she comes back, you tell these people. Will you leave your numbers?"
   "Yes, Master."
   "Numbers? No, I don't think so." They looked at each other as though muggles were another species and it was just common knowledge, then pulled out a card. "Just fold this the moment you need to contact us, and we'll appear."
   "Hmpg." Uncle Vernon took it, then handed it to Harry. He hadn't been told to not throw it in the rubbish. Could he do that?
   "Well, good day to you both," and they left.
   "So, got your freaky friends trying to get you out of this?" Harry could feel the man's anger, sharp and stinging, and something else, too.
   Harry kept his face down. "I didn't tell them to do anything, Master. She just showed up. I told her to save the others."
   "Yeah?" It worked, god knew why. "You told her you didn't need saving?"
   "Er, yeah." Something like that. And maybe he had; he couldn't really remember after hearing Hermione was safe.
   He stepped a little closer. "Good boy, Harry." He put a hand on Harry's shoulder, but didn't do any more. Aunt Petunia and Dudley weren't far. Then he turned and went back to the dining room, and Harry went back to his cupboard, not really knowing what else to do with himself.

   Dudley was sent to his cupboard door later, knocking and inviting him to dinner. Harry dipped his head and avoided the funny look on the boy's face. He wouldn't have minded that old vacancy that the boy used to hold almost permanently there. Dursleys thinking were unknown beasts.
   He sat at the table and kept his eyes on his plate, and ate as much as he could. He needed to be extra good tonight. That was what he'd decided in the cupboard. True there was no agreement between him and his uncle regarding the bond in any way. And there needed to be one. And Harry needed, needed to do anything at all to forge one. He would go insane otherwise.
   After the meal was done Uncle Vernon said, "Bed, both of you," and Harry followed Dudley up the steps. At the top Dudley turned to Harry and said, "you want to come in and play something?"
   Harry thought it sounded good, actually. Take his mind off waiting for the man who would be down there for a couple hours, with Aunt Petunia, and Harry would just be stewing in his juices the whole time.
   But the order had been "bed". He had to decline.
   "Another time, Dudley. Sorry." He was sorry. He needed to show Dudley that he could be nice if Dudley was being nice, but his hands were tied in so many ways here.
   He went to his room and sat on the bed, feeling the bond ease now that the order had been obeyed. Such terrible dark magic. And it was latched to his soul. He laid down, deciding he might as well, and waited.
   Hours later he heard his aunt come to bed, and sat up. The sounds of his uncle taking his evening shower downstairs, then the feet up the steps. Harry sat up and watched. Sure enough the door opened, and he was there, staring at him. Like a creep. Like someone who would kiss him. Would force him to jerk off in his hand. But Harry needed to push out all thoughts that wouldn't help him achieve the words he needed from this man. He came forward in a rush, before even more thoughts could come and ruin everything, and hit his knees before him. Uncle Vernon's eyes widened and he took a tiny step back, staring.
   "Please, please, Uncle Vernon, don't order me to want things. Please. I can't take it. I'll do anything. I'll be good, I'll do anything. Just don't make me want things, please. It kills me." Inside. He lost his courage and hung his head. A hand landed on his head and Harry stayed still, rock solid tension driving him to be good and not flinch. The hand tracked down his cheek to his chin and lifted his face.
   "Really? You want to be good?" He nodded, taking the hand with him. "Stand up."
   "Yes, Master." He stood, but kept his eyes lowered. If Uncle Vernon wanted his eyes up he would command it. He had before. Look at me, boy. "Look at me, Harry."
   "Yes, Master." The man's eyes were so creepily soft. The hand in his hair gripped, not pulling, just a vice that held him in place, and he knew it was coming. What he'd tried to avoid that morning. The man must still be angry and wanting to prove a point. He leaned in and Harry continued his statue energy as a hot wet mouth covered his own and slobbered everywhere in an earnest attempt to cover and soak as much ground as possible. It was nothing like Ginny. He threw that thought away in a panic as he let his lips become softer than the rest of him, so the man wasn't kissing a rock, to make himself pliant for him. He needed Uncle Vernon to see how much it mattered. Because he obviously didn't know it would.
   Harry was backed to the bed and lowered in the man's arms, as though they were lovers, snogging their way to more intimate poses. Uncle Vernon was digging his way deeper to dark delusions, and Harry was only bothered by any implications he could reach on his own, so he pushed all thoughts away. If they weren't going to help they could get out.
   A tongue barged its clumsy way in, making its presence known in a very Uncle Vernon like way, as much him as any other part of his body, but Harry was rag dolling for him, being good. He could do it, because he hadn't been ordered to want to kiss this man, and that would be the worst. He knew that now. That was the absolute worst.
   He kept his eyes open because Uncle Vernon was into that this evening. His uncle grabbed the bottle of lube and slathered up his prick as Harry stared at the ceiling. Then lowered himself again. "Put your legs on my shoulders."
   "Yes, Master."
   "Nice and slow for you. I'm gonna be real good to you tonight, boy." And then the slow shove of his greased dick. It really was better with the lube. It burned less. The man took a moment then and looked down at Harry's body, making him feel like a specimen. Or something less. But it didn't matter, as long as he was not ordered to want it. The eyes travelled back up to Harry's face and he gave him the eye contact the man was waiting for. That was indeed what he'd wanted, and he pushed more inside.
   He was true to his word, working in slowly, stretching Harry as he went and pulling out often, doing what he thought was gentle love making. It was sickening, and Harry couldn't tell what was worse. But why would he have to chose? Was it a contest?
   "I want you to move, Harry. I want you to reach with your arse for me."
   He almost said his little Yes, Master, but realised the lack of compulsion, and kept his mouth shut. But he did as told though.
   Harry didn't even know he was holding his breath until his lungs cried out to him, and he exhaled. Did he always do that?
   "Nice. That's real nice, Harry." He bent Harry further as he moved his face downwards, and Harry knew it was coming. He looked away but kept his eyes open, his face forward, and let his mouth be moved and opened as he was invaded. This man was going to devour him.
   It went on and Harry realized he'd stopped doing the other thing he'd been round about commanded to do. He moved his hips and groans came out, rumbling against his mouth. He had to use Uncle Vernon's shoulders as leverage for his legs to work with, but that was everything the man seemed to want, and he grew to a fevered pounding quickly. Harry didn't mind that; it meant it would be over sooner than usual, surely?
   He rubbed his face allover Harry's, mopping him with sweat and said "I want you to touch me." Harry's hands were clenched fists in the bedding, trying to keep himself in place under the movements. He looked up in alarm. Was this a warning for a repeat of what happened that morning? "I want you to touch me like you want me. Harry, please."
   Pleading did not suit this man. It was the oddest thing to see. Like Dudley going nerd. Or Aunt Petunia taking in stray cats from the neighbourhood. Harry quickly reached up, though, lest this become a command, and placed his hand along Uncle Vernon's jaw. He moaned and nodded, like that was just what he wanted, and Harry let some pressure attach itself. It was a small thing. Not jerking the man off, after all. He could touch his face. Obviously, because wonder of wonders, he was.
   He really didn't like participating to this level, though. This amount of awareness. It couldn't be healthy. His prick echoed the thought by showing the tiniest interest, and Harry quickly imagined professors McGonagall and Dumbledore. Mad Eye Moody. Anyone whose face would have soured and fallen in the most profound disappointment to see the chosen one in such a position, and it worked. Hopefully Uncle Vernon hadn't felt that, the tiniest of twitches between their bodies, the early stages of stiffness, in his excitement. God knows how he would have reacted, and how far it would have been taken.
   The man blew himself out, face in Harry's hand and Harry's ankles by his neck, as happy as he had seen him yet, and he pulled up and back without pulling out. He was staring at him, catching his breath. "That was real good, Harry. You're getting good at this." Words that were not really as encouraging as he'd meant them. "Not what I'd originally planned coming up here tonight," he said, like a confession. "I was going to give you more commands like I did this morning. But you're coming around on your own, aren't you?"
   Harry nodded, terrified. This man had no clue what power he had, or what it meant, anyways. How much of Harry's soul he owned, and how much of it he could destroy with his casual words that sought only a moment of gratification. Scary what a stupid man could do with a touch of power.
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