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Black Pearl Tears	By : Sarryn Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 6652 -:- 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
- 1-Black Pearl Tears
- 1
Disclaimer: I don’t own the ri to to the Harry Potter Series, which solely belong to J.K. Rowling, et al, but that hasn’t stopped me from writing about them.
Warning: This story contains the themes of sex, incest, shota/chanslash, and male/male relationships, a.k.a. slash/yaoi. If any of these may offend you, then stop reading. If, however, you do read this, in spite of my warnings, and find it offensive, then I have to say it is your own fault. Some scenes are of an erotic nature, but I have attempted to write them as tastefully as my ability allows.
Note: I will not accept any flames, however, comments and criticisms are welcome. I am under the assumption that anyone reading this has a clear understanding of the difference between flames and criticisms so I don’t have to explain it. Here are some reason why I don’t accept flames: 1) they generally include an attack on the author’s character without regard to previous or future works that may or may not be in the same vein, 2) not only are they childish, but they make the writerthemthem sound immature and not old enough to read the material contained herein, 3) flames help neither the author nor the flamer to improve the work and, therefore, are not constructive, 4) if something is so offensive as to elicit the impulse to flame then it is better forgotten and not dwelled upon, 5) you waste time writing it and I waste time reading and then deleting it, 6) it won’t do you any good to point out my lack of scruples, morals, intelligence, sanity, etc., because not only don’t I care, but I won’t listen.
Thank you for your kind regards and any reviews (not flames) that you will allocate to me.
Important: The POVs in first person happen in the present (Harry, Severus, James), and the third person POVs are the sequence of events leading up to the present. Each chapter is divided into a prologue, main story (interspersed with the present, which will be primarily Severus’ viend and an epilogue.
I enjoy playing around with different writing styles, and I am under a constant assault of plot bunnies.

Black Pearl Tears

::Prologue::
Dewed with sweat, I lie trembling in the arms of my lover. His flesh is always cool and dry, even as we both strain towards orgasm. Gently his hands wander up and down my back as I burrow against his broad chest. I am sore and sated. My muscles ache and burn with flashfloods of delicious agony.
“So perfect,” my lover whispers huskily as his hands play about the curves of my ass. I smile dreamily and trace random patterns on the expanse of chest beneath my cheek.
I know this is wrong. I know others would be horrified and disgusted. But how can I do anything else? I love him so much. We’ve been separated for too long. This was the only possible way for us to reconnect the diverging lines of our past. We were both so needy, so lonely, so desperate for affection long denied us by others.
It started innocently enough: friendly touches to assure ourselves that the other was indeed real; a nightmare driving me to his bed in the dark of the night for platonic reassurance; a chaste kiss of affection. Then the touches began to linger. The reassurances began to lose their platonic feel. The kisses fell upon yielding lips.
This was the final step of expressing profound and devoted love. We can take our devotion no further; there is no other pinnacle to ascend to.
This is the natural unnatural conclusion of our bond. And I cannot imagine being with him in any other way.
After all, I love my daddy.

::Chapter One::

Little Harry James Potter watches his friends and classmates depart for their homes. The summer holidays are here and school is over. He sits on the sweeping stone steps leading to the towering doors of reinforced oak that guard the entrance to Hogwarts. He smiles and waves goodbye with all the sincerity and animation of cleverly controlled puppet. When the last child is whisked away for a summer of academic indolence, Harry slumps in such a way as to appear as if a giant, invisible hand is slowly crushing him. Or perhaps it is the burden of responsibility.
How many fourteen year olds must bear the weight of the Messiah?
Everyone else can go home, but Harry can’t. He thinks—no, he knows—it’s because of the Final Trial and Cedric. He wants to laugh hysterically. He’s finally free of a Dursley Summer, but at the cost of another human being’s life. It might as well have been his own mouth from which the fatal words flew; his own wand from which the spell shot forth.
So he is alone in the only place he has ever considered a home—but now he wonders if this is because of the people and not the rooms and corridors. Already the stones seem as though they are settling down for a well-earned respite from the activity of a restless multitude of children and their pranks. The foundations seem tot shift in preparation for sleep. A rocky sigh echoes subtly through the air and the tension drains from the stones. The ancient institution settles down and only the birds and insects fill the day with sound. He misses his friends and classmates with a poignancy hitherto unfelt. It feels as though he as been cast out of the world, banished for his sins and failures.
Once again he is orphaned.
“Harry?” The boy turns to find his Head of House standing behind him with a sternly compassionate look on her face. “Dumbledore would like to talk to you in his office. Today’s password is ‘Strawberry Laces’”
“Okay.” Harry picks himself up from the stone steps and brushes the dirt off of the seat of his pants. Looking past McGonagall, he walks towards the threshold.
“Harry…” The child pauses while passing the concerned professor. “Are you okay?”
“Of course, Professor,” he tells her with a bright smile. She frowns, not fooled by his cheerful façade. His smile slowly wilts and finally fades to a weary grimace. “I’m dealing. I’ll be fine, ma’am.” She nods shortly; her eyes are suspiciously bright. He continues inside, but not before catching the sound of a hastily suppressed sob.
* * *
I, at the twinkling behest of Albus, search for the elusive Potter duo, who seem to think themselves too good to attend dinner at the scheduled time. Albus has repeatedly requested all of us to display a certain sort of indulgent patience with them. They have been dead to each other for around a decade and a half. I would have found magnanimity far more accessible if a) they were anyone else and b) Albus has decided that my time is so valueless and untroubled by prior obligations that I should be their babysitters; I had quite enough of that during the academic year, thank you very much.
After checking their rooms, the Gryffindor tower and the Quidditch pitch, I find them sitting side by side down by the lake. There they are, twin banes of my continued existence and the gods’ own personal joke on me. I have endured two generations of Potters and their insults, and now it’s a family reunion.
I’m about to call their names when something about them causes me to pause. Unease trickles down my spine like a melting icicle. There is something indefinably off about the tableau before me. The older Potter’s arms embrace the younger, who leans trustingly against him. Father and son appear far too comfortable together. There is no sign of the inherent power struggle between generations, the subtle tension between parent and child. Their body language, closeness of their forms and the gentle inclination of their heads, suggests a level of intimacy beyond that of mere filial devotion.
No, this is just wild supposition born of fatigue and disgust. I am simply looking for anything with which to vindicate further grudges. It’s absurd to think that…
I clear my throat loudly before snarling their names. I make sure to load my tone with all those years of loathing and anger.
Is it my imagination or do they stiffen and almost imperceptivity move apart?
* * *
Swinging trainer clad feet erratically, Harry Potter sits on—or rather in, due to the quicksand like quality of the cushions—one of the large, comfortable armchairs in Headmaster Dumbledore’s office. The room is a cluttered space of various magical, and the occasional muggle, paraphernalia gathered over the course of a rather prolonged lifespan. Squeezed onto every available space on the wall is an assortment of portraits featuring the sleeping, and snoring in some cases, portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses. Harry suspects their all faking slumber. Occasionally he catches one with an eye open with curiosity.
Dumbledore is nowhere in sight. Fawkes is there, though. He’s looking a little worse for wear. The child wonders if he’s going to combust soon or if he’s just molting or something.
“Ah, Harry, you’re here,” the Headmaster says jovially, blue eyes all a-twinkle. His robes are a brilliant acid green embroidered with frolicking—literally— penguins and leopards in blue and purple. Harry blinks rapidly and fights down chromatic nausea.
“Yes, sir.” The child fidgets nervously in the chair.
“Lemon drop?”
“No thank you, sir.” He doesn’t attempt to fool the aged man into thinking he’s okay. Twinkling blue eyes see far more than then the genial face in which they are set professes. The man might play the role of the harmless old dodderer, but it is only an act and pity the fool who underestimates his benevolent smile.
“Harry, I have some news for you and something to show you.” The man’s tone is gentle and grandfatherly. The boy feels repressed tears gathering. He hasn’t cried yet, but Dumbledore’s kindness, his comforting presence are enough to elicit a few drops.
“Is this about Voldemort”—the name punctures the air on an exclamation laden with rage and hate—“Or…C-Cedric?” The last is the merest exhalation laced with sound.
“Not precisely,” the old wizard tells him with gentle compassion. The twinkle dims.
If Harry had known the touch of a gentle hand during his stay at the Dursleys, he might have sought reassurance with another human being. As it, and as it was, he knows only to wrap things up so tightly his lungs begin to tear and push them deep down to sit, cancerous and malignant, in his stomach.
“Am I going to be kicked out? Sir?” His voice is soft and as fragile as a cut crystal figurine. He looks at his battered trainers and envisions a world in them. Will he lose the only refuge he has ever known? Will it be back to the skittering spiders and too-small cupboard?
“No, child, you are not and never will, if I have any say in the matter.” The boy thinks he would like a lie to soothe the agitation in his mind. He wants Dumbledore to tell him that he won’t ever let them, the Ministry, his relatives or Voldemort, take him away. But that is too much to ask of the man with the white beard and many laugh lines. He isn’t God.
“So what is it?”
“First off, I would like to let you know that you don’t have to return to your relatives if you wish not to.” The child feels a rush of sheer pleasure suffuse his being. He is almost dizzy with the unadulterated relief. Sorrow slinks away for the moment.
“Really?” he breathes with barely suppressed hope. The Headmaster nods solemnly, but the twinkle is nearly back full force, though tempered with something sharper.
“Would you like—”
“Yes, please!” Dumbledore nods his acceptance and beckons Harry to stand.
“Now that that is settled, I have something I think you will be interested in seeing. This should also explain the reason for your absence from the Dursleys.” The man’s tone is mild, but there is the slightest inflection on the last word that swells with the man’s opinion of his relatives.
Harry is curious despite himself. He quickly scrambles out of the chair and hurries to the man’s side. Dumbledore wouldn’t show him anything bad. Perhaps the older wizard has something nice hidden away just for Harry. He’s always thought that magic had a cure for everything, that there was nothing that magic couldn’t do. Perhaps magic even has a way to strip away guilt.
* * *
::Epilogue::

This is wrong. I know this, yet I can’t bring myself to stop. I should be the strong one. I am the adult—though I doubt Harry has ever truly been a child (Albus has told me of Lily’s relatives, in detail). But he is my world. He is my last link to a slain goddess. He is my grail of blood.
No one will understand what we have. Not even Albus, compassionate, sympathetic man that he is. They will all turn their noses up in disgust and condemn me, and Harry indirectly as a result. He has seen too much; he does not need this stigma attached to him. Yet I can’t help myself.
I have been absent from his life for fourteen years. He thought I was dead for the entirety of that time. I had merely—I say ‘merely,’ but that is an understatement—been held in suspended animation for ten of those years, while I remained comatose for the remaining four.
We are making up for lost time. We love each other. Isn’t that enough?

::End Chapter One::
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Black Pearl Tears