Severus Snape's Sex Book for Dark Wizards

by Octro

Summary:

[Post-War] A mystery Dark Wizard is writing a sex column so popular that it gets picked up by the Prophet. Amongst the deliciously dangerous and titillating taboo, the column describes, in great detail, actual Dark Magic and how to use it to have incredible, unforgettable sex. As the column gets printed week after week, the mystery writer reveals he’s (rightfully) getting investigated by an Auror.

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Vibe: Witty and deliciously dark. Severus Snape writing a sex column like a rogue Rita Skeeter. Nod to most things kinky.

Notes:

Warning: Untagged content. This fic contains untagged content to avoid story spoilers. Automatically assume this fic contains some level of uncomfortable content that may disturb sensitive readers.

Giant thank you to my beta readers chelsdelow52 and eivomlive! Your feedback and corrections have been invaluable. I'm so lucky to have you as betas! All mistakes going forward are my own because I can't stop fiddling.

Chapter 1: Introduction

Notes:

Sex for Dark Wizards is published ten years post-war. The below picture is the only "picture" published in the book. All other pieces are solely for the fic.

Each column/chapter is written in the voice of the "mystery" Dark wizard. Starting in three… two… one...

..

 

The greatest, most powerful men I have ever known never wrote a book, and the “colleague” that I respected least in life wrote several hundred.  With this knowledge haunting me, I decided to forgo more official publications and wet my feet with a column. You can imagine my surprise (looking back, it was bound to happen) that my sexual escapade anecdotes catapulted me from several little unknown publications straight into the big leagues. On my way up the ladder, I disappointed myself when I started writing for The Quibbler.  I changed my tune quickly, delighted and writing freely, knowing they would publish anything. When I got picked up by the Daily Prophet, although they paid, I gave pause... post war, surely they gained some standards and would censor my work.  Alas, I have been proven wrong.  Now I am published alongside great national rubbish like Rita Skeeter—what a grotesque accomplishment. But let us start from the beginning: you may be wondering, what type of man writes Sex for Dark Wizards? It is a common question, so I shall elucidate:

First of all, you must wonder what I look like. I admit, I am shamelessly handsome, as most duplicitous men are. Generously tall, blonde, a cutting jaw, and an even sharper mouth with a lacerating smile. If I weren’t such a studious learner, I would grace the cover of magazines. To that, add a modest eight-inch cock. My hobbies include a vigorous skin care routine, running muggle marathons, volunteer curse-breaking, and running my Quidditch program for the mentally challenged: Bludgers for the Bludgered.

 

All of those were lies. If you look at the above picture, I am the duck.

In reality, I am neither tall nor short, nothing to look at, and neither are my genitals. If you met me, you would instantly dislike me, as many people do. I am nothing but an exceptionally skilled wizard. So skilled, my walls should be lined with accolades instead of books, but for some reason, I have none.  No matter how unethical I am, I have done many great things… heroic, selfless things, yet I have not a thing to show for it. I am still ugly and my bank account never seems to have enough Galleons (hence this publication.)

Despite these shortcomings, I’ve had my fair share of sex partners and can always fill a weekend—proof that skill and personality can get you far.

And my personality is terrible.

Or people keep telling me. For this book, I have compiled the most interesting and salacious (very real) Dark Magic from my ongoing column: Sex for Dark Wizards, a highlight reel for your reading pleasure.

Some of the spells divulged are even of my own invention. You will not find them before my dated publications, but you will find them in many books after.  I'll try not to take it personally... I am used to my work getting stolen.

 

Before reading on, please note the majority of these spells will require sacrifices.  It is Dark Magic after all, and it is a small price to pay for euphoric sex.

 

 

 

Chapter 2: Sacrifices Required

..

 

If you know anything about Dark Magic (and so very few of you do,) it often requires… sacrifices. The sacrifice of morals, the rarest of ingredients, blood of you or others, and sometimes in the most literal sense: the killing of creatures or worse depending how dark one wants to paint.

But in this context there is an even greater sacrifice: Your ego. Your dignity. Your pleasure.

If you truly intend to be a good lover (and I encourage you to try), throw away everything you want (just for the time being) to focus on what your partner desires.

As you are not as skilled as I am, it is imperative to impress people in other ways before you dip in too dark to ensure you have partners willing to play. A competent reputation does wonders when your other assets can’t make the grade.

Let’s play hypotheticals: someone vanished your cock (Is this possible? Spoiler: it is not. You have to cut it off first.) You are now left without a wand. A curse for wizards everywhere. Mourning, mourning, mourning—done.  But oh my, we have a problem: you’re still horny. How do you intend to have sex if you shall never be fulfilled?

You do everything but sex.

Foreplay is sex.

The real pleasures are providing: watching someone lose control, their structured social facades melt as their eyes roll back in their head, losing track of all time and their place in the world.  What if you were to repeat that, not once in a week, but thrice in a night, destroying a piece of them after every completion. Now, tell me that isn’t power.

All notable Dark Wizards have that in common: the lust for power.

You cannot obtain such power by focusing on yourself, not at first.

 

Feeling selfless yet? Of course you don’t. Now that we have that out of the way, let us discuss more literal sacrifices.

If you cannot impress your lover with skill or selflessness, I suggest brewing party favors: the most powerful aphrodisiacs known to man. These are not the ones you find in stores in their colorful sparkling bottles with their cute little warnings. These are not even the ones you find in Knockturn Alley. These mind-stealing concoctions are in a league of their own and will put a lover on another plane of existence. They must be fresh, and would make even the proudest wizard open up holes they didn’t even know existed.

The caveat: they require real sacrifices. I am no Dark Lord, so we’ll forgo slitting our enemy's throats today, but we shall be doing a little bit of killing.

There is a dark rainbow of grey to inky black to appreciate, the shades of murder one can partake to get their desired result. If I have personally not used the knife, I have paid my Galleons and tried every brew. If you are seeking your pound of flesh, sometimes you have to give that in return, and if that is too much to stomach, let us spare a few ounces.

See ingredient list and instructions on the next page.

Ah… you thought this was a jest. Not at all.  If you intend to have the best sex of your life, you shall be a murderer yet. The Three-Horned Puck is on every continent’s Endangered Creatures List and I’ll give you three guesses why. As for the other ingredients, they are rare, but not too rare to find if you know where to look, and the others… extremely illegal, but again, you just have to know which rock to turn over.

When you finally decide your horniness is paramount to theirs, here is the best way to end them: keep them in their cage. The pucks are dreadful screamers, and their bite is twice as painful as the pointy middle horn. Gas them while they’re contained and they die as painlessly as any creature can.

There is a ridiculous “common knowledge” superstition that killing the Three-Horned Puck is bad luck. An old wives tale, useful for its conservation and decreasing the inhabitants of St. Mungo’s bite ward.  I assure you this is false: I was beaten within an inch of my life on a yearly basis before I ever ground my first puck, before I ever held a wand, and my life has been arguably better ever since.

To alleviate your fears further, I know an exceptionally wealthy man who is not above grinding his own aphrodisiacs. I would argue he is only getting wealthier, and despite that he’s ground many horns this year, his wife started talking to him again—good luck I doubt he deserves.

 

This is the disclaimer I must give: all aphrodisiacs of such caliber can be used for non-consensual acts. Thankfully, these ingredients are difficult to procure, and potion, not easily produced.

If you’re going to assault someone, there are cheaper ways, so let your victims be willing.

 

 

 

Chapter 3: Consensual Torture

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Leave it to the creatures on top of the food chain to manufacture pain for entertainment. Our lives have become so mundane without danger, we need to spice it up just to feel.  But what if I am too dismissive of the horrors of today?  Without physical threats, perhaps our torture is mental and the distraction is needed.

One does not need a Dark Wizard to tell you pain and pleasure can be done with the same hand. If you’ve already blown past the chocolate and candles and moved on to the ropes and restraints, looking for that next arousing intensity upgrade, I offer some new tricks to try.  The rewards will be worth it.

The success to stirring in pain is simple: alternate it with extraordinary pleasure. Unless you have a real masochist in your hands, alternate the sensations, starting off mild and building each layer, moving ever upward. Construct a tower with them, but it must be balanced to support each layer. As you reach great heights, their tolerance for pain and discomfort will grow, allowing you to upgrade with each new plateau. Use your discerning eyes to notice any wobbling, switching over to the pleasure or pain as soon as they lean too far. Once the tower reaches the clouds, orgasmic inevitability, combine them, and with both pain and orgasm swirling, comes a sinful mix of sensations a partner has no choice but to enjoy.

One can get addicted to a play partner who provides such sensations.

You can peak in both pain and pleasure, and while you’re constructing your tower, I recommend not peaking in either. One can do real damage if pain peaks, and just like in sport, the point of thrilling is wasted if you fall off your broom. The key to building the above balanced tower (besides having two very skilled hands) is careful observance: closely watching an intimate partner, their facial expressions, their panic, their heart rate, the way they writhe, their voice—intuitively switching between temporary discomfort and reward.

With that said, my trust does not lie in the hoi polloi.

You will not find a thick Dark Wizard.  If the unskilled dabbles too far in the Dark Arts and lops off a limb, they're simply called the village pillock. As you are not a skilled Dark Wizard, I suggest letting your wand do the calculating to avoid any long-term damage.

The curious thing about Dark Magic is that it spurs real inventions. Real, useful magic that bursts into fashion the masse latch their fingers onto. Just like the most outrageous fashions breed tamer wearable versions, the Darkest of magic which is meant to torture and hurt… quickly ends up in the bedroom.  It is not a subtle link, but a direct line. Take this spell for example:

Ratus-Cordis inetextra (I have intentionally left a word out. Again… pillocks.)

This is a cruel Dark Spell that will raise blood pressure and threaten cardiac arrest. Once the heart reaches right before a crucial tipping point, the spell eases.  When the body recovers, it rises again. Rinse and repeat, always teetering on disaster.  It never does cause death, but the effects are crippling until countered.

If you’re thinking: that is ghastly… it is.  But one man’s torture is another man’s pleasure. Any horny Dark Wizard knows a good idea when he sees it—gets the wheels turning. See modified sex spell below:

Phallus-Sanguis inetextra

Use it to get blood pressure to a particular area—hardest erection a wizard could create. Right as they reach the cliff of orgasm, the blood inside the cock will simply… leave, preventing that happy ending.  Rinse and repeat. The spell will cycle, leaving your partner edging until the spell is stopped. You can torture a partner for a full day, but I don’t recommend past two hours. Once released, they’ll paint the ceiling, but won’t want to fuck again for a month.

If you don’t mind losing some precious brain cells, you can also use this handy number for some erotic asphyxiation:

Oisophagos-aer inetextra

No sugar coating here: this is a very real torture spell, the exact same, turning a ‘victims’ generous airflow into an impossible trickle. Feeling death near, the spell will ease to allow but a gasp... and close.  What a terrible torture… unless you’re palm-deep into a handjob.  Then, it is rather pleasant and your partner will swear they saw Merlin.

No doubt, I have intrigued you by modified (or unmodified) torture spells. But you are an intelligent reader that asks the important questions: are these spells even safe to try?

 

Oh, absolutely not.

I pray no village idiots read this, but alas, that is out of my hands. If you do have a charming but challenged partner who is unfortunately literate, I recommend the smarter of the two hold the wand.

 

 

 

Chapter 4: Imperio for Pleasure

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The Imperius: the Unforgivable that can land you a lifetime in Azkaban. Also… an ace, the sexual trick to fulfill your every desire.

At this part, you may be in disbelief: there is no way this author intends to advocate for an Unforgivable.

Oh, but let us dance.

 

I will not bother with moral justifications, so let us go straight into its uses, both delectable:

If you like a show, you can instruct someone to pleasure themselves thoroughly in any way you can devise.

The second way is to Imperio for your own pleasure: instruct your victim (lover) to pleasure you. You can force them to do anything you want to feel, say anything you need to hear. Absolute power for your every desire. A believable fuck-puppet that says all the right things and touches you in any way you need.  Who knows you better than you?

If I can brag, I am a fantastic fuck.  I’ve checked.

Now that you have read the light, this part requires no pontification: the possibilities are limitless and the sex is spectacular—a perfect sex toy in the form of a person.

The only downside, something to consider, is when you start losing your mind to the little death, so does control over your lover. It takes a strong mind to fuck for two.

When you are done being the evil perpetrator, allow yourself to be the victim. Getting and receiving pleasure as a mindless puppet is a freeing experience, falling to an incredible release without the burden of thought.  Not being in control, letting go, forcing to give pleasure and getting pleasure as you give it. I have been on both ends and I do recommend.

It is a form of bondage, high-bar, to completely take over a lover’s mind and body. If you like them, write a script and give them veto power. A timed-contract also works well, the agreed acts, and the wand will release in what, oh, thirty minutes?  An hour?  One small important detail to pen into the magical contract: the vagueness. Never mention the Imperio by name. In the contract, it should always be listed as “the spell.”  The first rule of Dark Wizard sex is not to leave evidence of Dark Wizard sex.

For plausible deniability, if a partner cries foul, there are similar spells that will not land you in Azkaban, such as variations of the Mobilicorpus spell listed on the next page, which simply directs a willing partner’s body part(s), stealing the flesh but not the mind.  Feel free to try every one, but you’ll find being an actual puppeteer is harder. A rape accusation is still a rape accusation, however, and that is why a signed contract is so important for both parties.

For further protection of your kinks, I have personal knowledge that the Ministry of Magic has devised a way to summon the ghosts of thirty spells from your wand, so best do a quick fifty after your encounter, clean up the house, and let the only evidence be that of your memories.

 

 

Chapter 5: Self-Fulfillment

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Dear law-abiding tax paying citizens: Good news, your Galleons are not going to waste.

I am being investigated by an Auror.

My column has gotten so much exposure (and thank you) I've been paid a visit by a government official. I have a long history with Aurors (again, real Dark Wizard) and have very little respect for them. You can imagine my surprise when the Ministry is actually doing its job and one shows up on my doorstep. How humbling and annoying: if I have not been arrested for everything else I’ve done, why start now?  Every single Auror knows me by name; I've done worse. Can a Dark Wizard not write about his sexual crimes in peace?

If what I say is true, you might feel like I should be more than just a little worried when an Auror shows up with questions. I assure you, I am not.  First, they did not exactly send their brightest or their best.  Second, the two men of this earth who could possibly intimidate me are very much dead.  Any subservience is only for play as usually I am the one doing the intimidating.

Instead of getting any more strategic questions in, I told him: get the fuck off my porch, stop reading my column, nosy fucking pervert, and then slammed the door in his face. My intimidation worked as intended and he had enough sense to listen before my wand could do the talking, or the real danger, let my mouth really do the talking. In my lifetime, my bark has injured far more than my bite.

Now that I’m being investigated by the Aurors, for this week only, I shall hold back on the flagrantly illegal. But fear not readers, we shall go on a journey into the dirtiest of wandwork.  Although perfectly legal, these spells go awry easily, so I give my apologies to St. Mungo’s for the influx of distorted patients they are about to receive.

First, let us try out a little body modification: Rib removal.

Why does the modern man need so many ribs anyway?   Ribs may have protected our ancestors from blunt force but do very little when wands are involved. Now that you realize ribs are for muggles, here is the spell to free yourself from several:

Duplici-costae-diluo

Next in this glorious performance, you will use the following spell to make your spine extra bendy.  Please, idiots, stop reading now.  Leave these daring acts to the highly skilled or incurably horny.  A botched spell to the spine can bewilder the best of Mediwizards. 

Spina-solut-imollire

Now… why are we removing two ribs on each side and sponging up the spine?

I think you already know.

If you are ugly (as I am) and having difficulty procuring sexual partners (as I do not) you can now conveniently provide services to yourself.

With a bit of initial stretching (bathing recommended), you can fold your body, face first down to your genitals.

Don’t be shy, you are finally there for the taking! Grasp it confidently by the base and taste your own fruits. Twirl your tongue around the head and suck on it generously... use your hand, assisting until you can taste yourself leaking.  Test out that new flexible spine to slip your lips down the shaft, twisting to get all the way to the base—see how much your throat can handle. 

Don’t stop there! If you’re feeling really adventurous and won’t miss a few more of those pesky ribs, try out a family jewel or two, or go for gold and see how well you’ve been wiping. Tongue your bottom half while you resemble an armadillo. No one is watching, go to town and quench that curiosity.

Once you tested out your shaft and tongued some much needed lubrication to your watering hole, I suggest you go even further: for the truly depraved clowns out there, I recommend this spell to turn your shaft into something much, much longer.

Membrum-este-multum

This balloon-animal spell will comically elongate your cock. Silly and bendy, but firm enough to be effective. Using your hand, feed your cock inside of your own arse.  But why let the head have all the fun?  Give yourself the double ended experience: while you pump inside with a firm grasp, fold into a ball again, tongue the shaft, and finish fellating yourself.

 

Or that is what I suggest to the Auror who is now reading my column.

 

Chapter 6: Branding and Ownership

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The cursed brand: the irremovable symbolic visual of ownership. How dark, how delicious, how greedy.  Our recent wannabe overlord ruined Dark Marks. In the culture of kink, branding was having its moment before wizards got all weird about it.  But why?  He was not the only Dark Lord to mark the easily enthralled and impressionable. 

I was no exception: fresh in the world with something to prove, I immediately joined the closest chapter and ashamed to say I was instantly enamored and fanatical in my devotion. Because I have made the mistake for you, I shall share this sound advice: there is something wrong with a man who brands another with no intention to fuck them. A permanent mark is, dare I say, a bit… kinky.  When I received mine, I was more than thrilled: he was not attractive, but he was powerful, which was extremely attractive, and I prepared myself to express my devotion in any manner he required. I wanted him to lean on me, a true extension—a right hand.  As I grew a shade smarter, I found it disturbing that the man I intellectually lusted after was beyond such earthly desires, and just like everyone else in my youth, had no intention to fuck me. Bit of a letdown... I wasn’t trying to fuck him either, but I would have appreciated the gesture.

Now I am stuck with a cursed mark for a dead Master. Kind of ruins it for the next person who would like the pleasure. Sorry, I’ve been taken... do another?

Imagine being cursed both in the looks and personality department, but you finally find someone… acceptable. Then, picture the serendipity of finding out, in the myriad of fetishes, that your kinks overlap—euphoria! You can stand each other, he’s not a dolt, knows you’re a piece of shit, and wants to burn your flesh? The stars have aligned, indeed. Now envision the awkward moment when the clothes come off and he sees that you’ve already been branded.

Even in the kink world, a brand from two Masters makes you look like a bit of a cheap slut.

Brands are not without their merits: no matter how dark they seem, they can be the safer play. Let me explain:

In a world of limitless spells, magic can be both powerful and permanent.  Before you go devoting yourself to a Dom or leashing a clingy sub (an equal if not worse curse), do your research and weigh the consequences when your cock isn’t behind your forehead. There are only a million and one ways to magically bind yourself to another, and most of them start losing their appeal between toenail picking and flatulence.

 

Now, a public service announcement: A Word Against Unbreakable Vows:

For our ambitious members of the BDSM community who foolishly think literal servitude makes you the genuine article: do not Nox yourself into a dim-wit. With all the Dom/sub spells to dabble in, it does not make you more hardcore or the real deal to do an Unbreakable Vow of daily blowjobs or obey daddy.  Never trust a partner who suggests an Unbreakable Vow—they are hopelessly unforgiving with no room for nuance. One should not have to contemplate life, death, or blowjobs while hugging the toilet, sick with food poisoning.  How about having to suck off your partner during labor because you forgot to do it that day, praying that he can even cum. 

So... let’s keep it physical: a symbolic marking, magical or muggle, is the safer way to play.

 

I end this column with a couple of messages:

To the Auror who has called no less than three times after I dedicated my last column to tell him (very politely, might I add) to go fuck himself, I have branded you an idiot. I have publicized my advocacy for the Dark Arts, my crimes, for the world to read, and yet I’m still not arrested. Now who’s the coward?

You were always such a disappointment.

 

Next, to my Dark brothers and sisters: if any real Dark Wizards read this column (I doubt very few of you do), and know how to successfully remove a cursed mark, please write in. I don’t mind looking like a foolish used slut, that can be a fun Tuesday, but I like to keep my other six days free.

 

 

Chapter 7: Sickos, Perverts, and How to Get Rid of Them

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If you’re like me, talented and depraved, you will attract people twice as depraved as you are but only half as smart. With that well-earned reputation of providing the complicated circus of sex they’ve been searching for all their lives, the window lickers start coming out of the woodwork and begin asking truly deviant requests:

1. Can I bring my Dragon? (No, my house is rather flammable.) She can stay in the backyard... and can we fuck in the backyard? (Excuse me? Is the dragon supposed to be part of this?) Yes, that’s why I asked. (You presume too much!)
2. Can you turn your hands into feet? (You want my perfect hands to be feet?) Yeah, I want four feet. Can I fuck all four of your feet? (No, you can’t even fuck one of them!)

I left this lover very disappointed.  I don’t blame him… as ugly of a duck as I am, I have a gorgeous pair of palmates.

3. Can you remove your eyeball so I can fuck your eye socket?

No, you canno…oops, I agreed to that one. Rather a strange experience I shall not repeat. I will tell you, my medical remedies are unmatched yet I still have an infection.  As I am writing this, I am using my good eye.

Just so there’s no confusion where the lines of my lurid services lie, I refuse to defecate on anyone, let alone in anyone’s mouth. To the shameless pervert who keeps pelting me with owls—STOP.  The letters were entertaining at first; my rich friend encouraged me to send dog shit, but alas, I am not fond of dogs. This is your final warning: do not send another. I make excellent curses-by-post; my duck refuses to take them but I have an unwitting neighbor with a sturdy owl.

 

With such requests coming your way, one gets good at rejecting rancid requests and their rancid owners. Curses aside, the easiest way to throw the rubbish out is to refuse them outright, bluntly, and to their face.  Rescind all kindness. Be uncomfortably cruel. It is an excellent way to get rid of people.

For example, when the Ministry sent a very persistent Auror to tail me, he was so diligent in his duties I started to suspect he was investigating me for other reasons. So, I investigated back—tested that hypothesis.  And my dear tax paying readers, he was so keen on getting to the bottom of this Dark Wizard Sex mystery, he got to his knees and did some real investigating.

I am sorry to say, Aurors give terrible blowjobs. After providing me with a truly lack-luster experience, I told him so bluntly. You would think Ministry professionals would have a better poker face, but no—unbridled hurt, more so, as I held the door open for him to leave immediately after our encounter.

Dear me, do you think that made it into his report?  Let the official record reflect: do not come into my house expecting kindness.

This type of cruelty successfully gets rid of most people, and I’ve had to rid myself of quite a few of those window lickers. For color, here are some of the more depraved requests I’ve received:

1. Can you kill me while you fuck me? (...Metaphorically?) No, literally, like… during my orgasm. (Don’t you have a wife and kids?) It’s fine, I’ve got accidental death insurance.

Now tell me, who leaves their children fatherless over a fantasy fuck?  Contrary to popular belief, there are some people who truly disgust me, so much so, I broke my own confidentiality standards to write to his wife.

2. Can you eat me? (...Literally?) Yes, literally. (Do you want me to regrow the flesh afterwards?) No.

I must confess, reader, I considered a mere bite. I am a curious man, and that is how one gains knowledge of all things.  But I was nothing but alarmed when this lover intended for me to finish my plate. I was not about to keep him in a freezer, so after a bit of discussion, we settled on a piece of his flank. Cooked and served, we both had a small piece of meat on a large plate.  After such a miserable tiny dinner, I told him: I didn’t like the way he tasted, and he has not been back since. Another experience worth regretting. In your exploration, you will naturally find those kinks too far. Now that I’m comparing, I think I prefer the infection.

But the truly disturbing acts a sex partner could ask for does not lie in the squick. It lies in the uncanny, the simple, the strange, and they are all more terrifying for it. I have never been so more unsettled when sex was not the main request. Wear my daughter’s necklace (What?) I’m putting my father’s urn on the bedside table to join us (…Excuse me?) Will you read my journal out loud during sex (Why?) And what does one say when a casual partner asks:

Can you kill my wife?

I barely know him outside of the bedroom but, he shows up one night, distraught. Reveals his dalliance with me is because he cannot get it at home.  His wife is dying. Requests that I put her out of her misery because he cannot bear to do it.  Begs me—please, provide her a drink of euphoria and kill her while she feels nothing but happiness. Then, kill me, because I don’t want to live without her.

This has not been the first time someone has asked me for such mercy, but I was frightened to be asked of this twice. So frightened, I frightened him right out of my house, and I can be quite the monster when my calm demeanor fades.

Love and Mercy? A kink too far! Please, do not come to my doorstep with such things. I would have preferred a piece of flank.

As I am a repellent man with a twisted mouth who lives in a dungeon (a normal house, although people point out it has some dungeon like qualities), and can perform all sorts of irresponsible things with unmatched accuracy, my guests have gotten rather barefaced in asking me for shameless acts. I could ace the magic in almost all of those requests, but my agreement rate is closer to sixty-percent. With these impressive numbers, I have a line of weirdos lining up to be victims. Going down the queue, I scare off those without a full ticket.

But, I’m sorry to say, there are just some sickos you can’t escape.  I will now tell you the most disgusting depraved thing I have ever been asked, and it was by an Auror:

 

Can you take away my memories?

 

The memories of the screaming

The memories of dead loved ones

Dead children

Failures

Those unsaved

The abuse

 

And leave nothing.

Leave nothing but the mundane… and the fact that he knows and trusts me for the act.

Does this not itself prove sickness?

I would have been less distressed if he asked for death!

 

But reader, it gets worse!  I agreed!

It took half a day to remove every failure, every dead childhood acquaintance, every murdered family member, every horror an Auror could experience in his line of service… and left him with nothing but the ordinary.

 

As promised, I had sex with him… if you could call it sex.

 

I was afraid.

I was too afraid to be cruel.

Paralyzed by the blank expression of peace on his face.  The freedom.

Perhaps the people who begged me for death had a point... what a villain I was to refuse.

 

When it was over, internally, I was shaking, but did not let him see my fear.

Calm, completed, and naked as a child, he pulled out a large piece of parchment (from where?) and one by one, asked for his memories back in order of importance.

Little did I know, in the month he should have been investigating me, organizing my crimes, preparing my warrant, he was organizing his thoughts into a complex letter and number chart that not even I could decipher.

Countless more hours, I was alone with him and his chart as he cringed, gasped—breath stolen, and cried in pain when a memory was returned.  Despite bragging that I am an immoral man, that is not quite right either. I have my own set of morals—my own measuring stick of good and evil, and I never felt so much a monster as I returned each memory. Minute by minute, hour by hour, I added the poison back in.

Afterwards, he refused to leave, and I was too ashamed to tell him I wanted to be alone after what he did to me. Instead, he lay exhausted but restless in my arm, and when he finally settled and fell asleep... that’s when the screaming started.

 

The next morning, he presented normal, cheerful even.  I was shocked to see his baseline. While I had been knitting cozy little jumpers for my nightmares to stay warm at night, he eats his for breakfast every morning and goes about his day.  At the door, he tried to kiss me, which very few people do and I never encourage.  He stepped away, off to work, and I wondered why I hadn’t noticed the sleep-deprived hallowed out look before.

To the other Dark Wizards who cannot fuck as well as I: have fear… this man is what you’re up against.

 

Auror free, I passed the Pensive containing the several hundred swirling memories he never asked for. The curiosity burns me. I want to view them, but I am afraid. What terrors are too much for even him?  Perhaps the several hundred are of my cruelty, punishing me for my curiosity… but that is something I would do, not him. No doubt, they are unspeakable horrors.  But I will break and view them soon… after all, I am a fan of the macabre.

 

Now you see my problem, readers: I am quite experienced in running people off and betraying their kindness. There has not been a single sicko I haven’t been able to rid myself of yet.  So… I open the floor to the public: if you know how to get rid of perverts wanting peace, please write in, because my usual tactics aren’t working.

Chapter 8: Best of Blurred Lines

 

..

 

 

This may surprise readers, but I do not make a living peddling porn.

No, I am quite respected in my field, and based on the extremely awkward breakfast that I just had with my colleagues, it has come to my attention that my employer reads the Prophet’s lifestyle section.

This is a great time to reveal that I work with children.

To speed up the firing process, I shall now reveal another unethical sex tip for aficionados willing to delve into the darkest realm of human desires: de-aging potions.

I asked a clingy Auror if he would be interested in taking a de-aging potion so I could fuck him as a teenager, let me strangle him a little… or a lot.  I have some things I need to work out (did I mention some people use sex as therapy?)

My voice sounded sarcastic (the sarcasm in my voice can never be denied), but my Auror could tell I was deathly serious.  The great pause before the ‘no’ amused me.

Now friends, my moral, virtuous, well-read friends, there is no question one should keep their fingers off of children. But there is little debate in the kink world: there are no boundaries in the bedroom if such acts are kept between adults, and if you’re eighty or older, I’ve been told being young again with a kind trusted partner feels like pure Felix.

When the Auror refused (not doing his due-diligence I’d say, not enough investigating), I offered myself at fourteen.  He refused quickly this time, and I do not blame him. To say I was an ugly duckling at fourteen would be a rather grave insult to ugly ducklings.

Although this Auror (who refuses to put me in handcuffs, the nerve) was not willing to provide me with a perfectly legitimate thank-you-very-much therapy session, he remained stubbornly focused on discovering what other crimes I’m capable of. I will now share an excellent Dark Wizard scene that proves I put my Galleons where my Gobstones are. If I do not get put in Azkaban for the Imperious, perhaps I shall get my handcuffs for assaulting and framing an Auror.

First, I drugged him. With his permission.  Or… maybe not. Maybe it was vaguely discussed at some point in the past, but not time or place.  So I chose my opportune time to loosen him up, the drink taken by his own hand.  I’ve gotten rather good at Imperioing, it is but a lazy task. After he was loose and under my control, I forced him to pleasure me.

While he was liquid, I was stone cold sober. Do not discount the experiences you can have when you retain all your faculties. I alone know where my pleasure centers are, my limits, my precipices.

I forced him to choke me.  He covered me in bruises.

What would happen if he legitimately tried to arrest me? He forced his way through my wards many times. I am the one assaulted, and violently. His fingerprints are everywhere, including on the inside of my arsehole.  His magical signature is seeped into my bruises, my body, my wards, my walls.

This Auror has abused me in every way and no one could deny he has the motive.

Afterwards… I gave him a salve. He is mindless, floating on the rings of Jupiter.  The ingredients used are so rare, so illegal, I dare not list them. He is completely out, but he can feel, and I make him feel. In this state... I can do anything I want to him. He will not complain, perhaps he may not even remember.

There is a mark he will find tomorrow. Is it permanent or just for show? I know one thing—he will not be able to remove it, and if he wants it gone, he’ll have to break through my wards again.

So readers… and colleagues… one of the best Aurors has been Imperio’d, assaulted, and marked. Can you believe it? I still didn’t get my handcuffs. That all but proves you are truly above the law if you’re a good enough fuck.

Do you feel safe?  Secure?

 

Be thankful my Dark Arts stay in the bedroom.

 

 

Chapter 9: Acknowledgements and Legal Disclaimers

..

 

 

You have reached the Acknowledgments and Legal Disclaimers. This book was made possible by a variety of people, so let us thank them.

First, I would like to thank The Prophet for loving money enough to spearhead this publication.

Next, I would like to thank my employer who has yet to fire me.  I’m difficult to replace, but do us both a favor and stop pretending you're not searching for a candidate. Let us have a cigar together and enjoy this sinking ship.

Of course, my gratitude also goes out to the Minister of Magic, who I’ve been told, decided to find my column more charming than dangerous. I never did get my Order of Merlin, but a blind eye is a deeply flattering consolation prize.

Finally, I would like to thank my Auror, who for some unknown reason, bungled his investigation so badly his co-workers started to ask questions.

 

All good things must come to an end. I am not a blind man… my days in print are numbered.  As I intend to go out with a bang, I will now tell you the most unethical thing one can do in the bedroom:

Lie.

I hate to disillusion the gullible and easily excited, but the reason why I haven't been arrested is because this book is nothing but lies. Yes, the charms, spells, and potions are real, but these pages are nothing but lies—all made up for clout.

Or… that’s what a liar would say.

I might have done it all, or nothing, but any discerning reader might guess the truth.

 

My rich friend’s solicitor has advised me to put in the above.

As I have mentioned, the Darkest thing one can do during sex… is lie. There is no greater violation to wield against a lover who trusts.  If up until now you found me amusing, let me reverse that opinion.

I told my Auror (who is normally so good at his job) I developed a secret method to duplicate me—to have two of me for a night.

And he believed me.

He had no reason not to.  It would not be out of my wheelhouse to pull off the impossible. So, my very horny, very nervous, eager Auror waited while I whipped up a scene and produced two of me for our evening.  I will not forget the look on his face as a second me walked out of the fog.  What a glorious night he was in for, one in which he received.

In reality, there were not two of me. I invited a friend over for a little fun.  To sell the fake, if you can believe it, I made a grand show of complicated wandwork and produced general blurriness for a dreamlike atmosphere—literal smoke and mirrors, parlor tricks, to sell the lie.  And I’m an excellent liar.  My friend is too, and he knows me well enough to mirror most of my mannerisms, save for the jewelry I never wear.

It was strange to be next to myself naked (it is truly a marvel why anyone agrees to have sex with me), but I had other distractions: my Auror never looked so good as when he was between me.

Now virtuous reader, you may say: that is sexual assault!  You said it was you, yet it was someone else.

Valid point, dear reader, but I have a perfectly reasonable explanation:

 

I never pretended to be a good person.

 

 

 

Chapter 10: Out of the Prophet

..

 

 

Quack Quack Quack QUACK QUACK!

“Thank you, headmaster,” Snape dripped. Like he couldn’t feel the disturbance in the wards.  Harry’s casual tearing through his protections were getting just a shade politer, and after all that, he had the decency to knock.

Snape opened the door but a crack. “Come to arrest me...?”

“…Maybe next week?”

The door crack got wider and they shared a tentative kiss. “You say that every week,” Snape taunted, stepping aside to let him in. 

“How’d your book get pulled from all the bookstores and still become a best-seller?”

“It must be my impossibly good luck.  If you can believe it, I’m still not fired.”

“You’re kind of the best at what you do?  She’s probably having difficulty finding someone.”

“Mmm,” Snape agreed.

“Ron’s read your book,” Harry divulged, taking off his cloak and not making eye contact. “He’s… kind of freaked out. That’s how he found out we’re dating.”

“And…?  How does Miss Granger feel?”

“Oh, she’s known for ages.”

“Ah.”

“George carries your book in the back of his shop.”

“Proof I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. …Have I compromised you at work?”

“Socially...? Yeah, lift rides are awkward. Officially? Not yet. Robards hasn’t said anything, and I told you, Kingsley has a seriously dark sense of humor.”

“Lucky again.”

“Mum’s read it,” Harry swallowed. “Wish she didn’t.”

Severus winced for the both of them, but it still couldn’t stop his tongue. “No Christmas invite?  Pity.”

“Do your students know it’s you?”

“As several Slytherins cornered me to sign copies… yes.”

“Yeah,” Harry laughed absentmindedly, hanging up his cloak, imagining some of the older Slytherins loving that their head of house was an internationally infamous deranged sex writer. Harry’s smile faltered when he closed the closet door.  “…Who had sex with me, Sev?”

 

The simple words sucked the air out of the room.

 

“Who fucked me Sev?” Harry asked again, stern this time.

Severus sighed, knowing this row would come with the book drop.  He was surprised he even got a kiss.

“SEV!”

“I have very few friends,” Snape snapped. “I say you can draw your own conclusions.”

“You have one friend I know about. One.”

“Then you have answered your question.”

“Why would you let him FUCK me!?” Harry erupted.   

“What’s the problem if you enjoyed it?”

“That’s not the point!” Harry gasped. “I suspected it wasn’t you five minutes in! He doesn’t fuck anything like you! Touch anything like you! I’m not thick, Sev!”

Snape’s eyebrows expressed great doubt.

“How the fuck am I supposed to face him!?  His son!?  I NEVER would have fucked him, not in a million years!  And you let him have sex with me!?”

“We were exploring dark waters…” Severus offered. “I provided appropriate depths...”

“You LIED about it!”

“You seemed adventurous… so what if I took a gamble?”

“You know I never, EVER would have agreed to that!”

“You came to me for these experiences…” Snape challenged, heat breaking his patience.

“You let… another man… fuck me…” Harry said, bewildered.

“Why must people insist I be a good person?” Snape complained. “YOU sought me out! YOU refused to stay away! What part of Dark Wizard Sex confused you, Potter!? I did not write Dumbledore’s Lemon Drops for Lovers!”

“I thought you liked me,” Harry said, looking at him like he didn’t know him. “And… you let…”

“Harry,” Snape’s voice shook, angry at Harry’s weakness that was now his weakness. “You can pretend to be violated. Read into the lie that didn’t even fool you. Dwell long enough to hurt yourself.  Decide to be emotional because it is the moral thing to feel… or... you can accept the experience.”

“Would you have let him do that to her?”

If there was any air left in the room, it vanished.

 

They never mentioned her. Not once. Not a word. Not a whisper.

 

No, of course not... but you are not her.

With the accusation, a thousand hurtful things boiled to the surface, things Snape could say that would break him and leave him scrambling for the door. He watched every single memory left in his Pensive, and the only things more horrible than the atrocities he saw, were the simple ones Harry chose to forget.  He could give them all back now, each one, a weapon to impale him with.

When Snape swallowed, he sheathed every weapon, forcing the insults back into his throat. “You ask me if I care for you? Again, with evidence gathered, I say: you can draw your own conclusions,” he dangled.  “In terms of sex: you can hate something and still like it. They do not cancel each other out—they build the tower. Trespassing on society’s expectations, the transgressive, is its own sweet reward.  Do not pretend you don’t have extremely positive feelings about the scene, no—don’t insult my intelligence!  And my God, Potter, if you truly hate the man, you now have a lot of blackmail in your pocket.  If he acts out again, and he’s bound to get his fingers deep in something nefarious, pull your card.  You’ll thank me yet his dick’s been in you.”

“I trusted you.”

“A common mistake.”

It was a quip too far.  The hurt look that washed over Harry’s face made Snape’s guilt overflow his well-constructed dam.  There was something real to lose here: could he really give up the intimacy that escaped him all his life?  And... to be guilty with no defence.

Shifting through his cards, he prepared his play. The choices… he could fold against the accusation: admit how careless he treated his trust, body, and affection.  Beg for forgiveness.  Or… he could lean into his first instincts and go all in on his wicked hand.

“Uncomfortable, yes… but you can choose how to feel about the scene,” he said in his silkiest voice. “In fact... I invited him over for dinner this Thursday. Would you like to join...?” Snape asked, waiting for the answer, lips parted.

“Isn’t he getting back together with his wife?” Harry asked incredulously.

“He was never a faithful man,” Snape shrugged. “And… you didn’t answer the question.”

 

The no didn’t come.

“Let me know, won’t you?” Snape cooed, turning away from what he considered Harry’s emotional wailing. “Owl’s sent. Or…” he looked at his duck, who looked back. “The duck’s sent. Thursday: show up or not.”   Smoothing his robes perfectly underneath him, he sat down at his writing desk surrounded by poisonous plants.  “And… if you make up your mind before you undoubtedly show up last-minute with your dick in your hand, let me know the following: do you want two of me again to suspend your disbelief, or do you want to try hate fucking him as-is?  I recommend it: he is a beautiful shit and his cock’s much nicer than mine.”

Harry stood in the middle of the room, furiously torn and caught in the I-told-you-sos of his own bad decisions. But Severus was not concerned, in fact, he was jealous.  Little did Harry know, these violent social transgressions in the bedroom were the good part of life—an opportunity to be a beast where there was no other outlet.  The journey of self-discovery was just starting for Harry, and there were so many wonderful and magical things to explore… and hopefully with him.

Snape waited for him to walk out, the door to slam.  If that happened, just like all the other times, Snape promised himself he wouldn’t chase him. But just like all those other times, he didn’t leave.

With him, it is.

“You’re never going to lie to me again,” Harry said in his powerful Auror voice.

“Mmmm,” Snape pursed his lips, “but you know how I feel about unbreakable vows.”

Deep anger lined Harry's face—a Dark Wizard hunter's anger.

“I knew you could handle it,” Snape said confidently, perfect fingers rolling out parchment to reply to some fan mail. “Instead of being angry with me, devise some revenge. Perhaps a punishment my readers would like; some are still anxiously waiting on those handcuffs. Best not disappoint them.”  He dipped his quill generously into the ink… paused… and looked back.  “Is it alright if I write a sequel?

 

 

 

Notes:

If you are enjoying this fic so far (or the artwork), kindly let me know. Leave anything! Short comments, long comments, or emojis to express extra kudos. I love hearing from people. Your kind feedback is both a treat and a mercy to the tireless creator.

Chapter 11: Making Ends Meet

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Delightful news!

I have been fired.

Apparently there are only so many sex columns you can write before they take away your ability to work with children.  Still impressive, as I am not easy to replace. Whatever my employer produces, the quality will suffer, and you will notice a steady stream of substandard “product” trickling your way. My absence will create a great ripple through the magical ecosystem, the effects not felt for years to come.

But who is to suffer?  Not I.

In fact, I will greatly enjoy watching this steady decline reclined in the comfort of my own home.

You pearl-clutchers think you have won, doomed me, for taking away my bread and butter. But I ask: is not the greater gamble leaving my only income peddling filth to the general public?  You have only freed up my time.

The fantasies of ruining me are just that—fantasies. Little did you know, I worked into my contract during more dire times, when (not if) I am fired and dragged through the mud, legal or otherwise, I will continue to collect my salary plus a generous severance, a useful stipulation I’m now finding humorously useful.

To celebrate my early retirement, I shall now unveil low-steaks, high-reward Dark Magic for the masses to try with ingredients found in your own back garden.

Snakes have long been used for the darkest of spells, and with that fact, their bad rap feels rather well-deserved.  But why? They are noble creatures. There is a debate of which camp respects snakes more: is it the knowledge-seeker that takes a life but understands the sacrifice (the full potential of the creature)?  Or is it the wizard who does no harm but does no understanding?

This disagreement is mirrored in my own relationship: many snakes have met their fate in my cauldron, but my Auror would sooner free them in the back garden.  I have come home many days to find myself snakeless.

If you appreciate snakes, but not in a way that requires them to live, use the full instructions on the next page to mix up your biology for fun effects.

Using a simple large Grass Snake and those relatively obtainable ingredients, perform a little sacrifice in your cauldron, drink the result, and you’ll have yourself a forked human tongue and a much better sense of smell.

I do not need to tell you the benefits of having two pieces of independently moving tongue.

For those counting on my published misery this week, I shall not leave you disappointed.  With all the tantalizing tricks I’ve performed in the bedroom, I settled in to give another: a split tongue blowjob so good he would have to tell the Minister of Magic, just to get kicked in the face as he scrambled up to the headboard.  He claims this was automatic when my tongue started flicking.  Do we believe him?

It turns out, although my Auror is fond of snakes, he is not fond of them in the bedroom and I spent the evening on the sofa with a bruised face (and ego).

Adventurous readers, fear not.  I have a sneaking suspicion some of your lovers might be more appreciative than mine.

 

I don’t know how to divulge the forked-tongue is permanent and I have to charm the ends together every morning.

 

 

 

Chapter 12: Rebranding yourself

..

 

 

I must admit readers, I expected to perish years ago. Death walked beside me so closely I more than once gave it a friendly wave. Now that I know God intends me to suffer, what ever shall I do when I’ve been so graciously released from all obligations?

I would say… rebranding myself is in order.

But how to make a new name for myself?   I’ve been chucked out of my career and all the little clubs I’ve joined disbanded. 

No matter, there are fallbacks. Once, I fancied myself a bit of a brilliant dark thinker. After meeting several narcissistic geniuses too short on morals doing the same, I decided not to aim for a following.

For now, I am busy being a national pervert (does having thousands of sycophant readers count? I’d like to think so.) Still, this is not the legacy I intended.  Part of me considered the fate, but now a new problem has presented itself: my content is drying up, and fast.

I have sworn fealty to fidelity.  Oh, dear me, I found myself stuck in the muck of monogamous-ish. What slop am I supposed to entertain with now that I only have escapades with one to share?

Along with being a brilliant thinker, I also fancied myself a bit of an inventor.  With all of this free time buzzing, I decided to do a little inventing. For those who glorify the job of an Auror… don’t. Their work is 95% boring until it’s a dance with death, and the hours are atrocious.  If you are unlucky enough to date one of these travelers, your cock won’t get sucked for weeks on end, which gives one plenty of time to invent.

As I divulged earlier, new Dark Arts inventions go straight from the workbench and right into the bedroom. Apparently, those who seek Dark power are more than just a little spicy.

When our relationship was in its infancy, the adorable few months he spent investigating me, suddenly he pivoted and started investigating another (the cheat!) There he was, about to leave on some mission, and I refused to be in the dark about his safety.  Outside of direct methods, I devised a sneaky communication beacon, advertently sexual. A special gift for the tireless workaholic; a way to satisfy in those long stretches of silence and keep his mind on me.

I handed it over, a simple pull-string velvet bag. ‘Open it when you’re thinking of me.’ Because I can make my voice extremely sexual, he asked no further questions.

And he was off, catching less skilled and less perverse Dark Wizards while I settled into familiar solitude, left alone to ponder what would entertain you sick fucks next.

When he should have been focused on his mission, his mind was on me, because on the very first night I received my communication. I was delighted to see it!  Picture the scene: on the road, uncomfortable in some tent somewhere, unwrapping the soft mold of my own creation. No doubt, I will get a fresh pelting of owls for this one, but I do not intend to share.  If I get pulled from any more newspapers, perhaps I’ll need to open shop.

I devised, designed, and created: The Insatiable Sheath.

A beautiful, soft, hands-free aid, and if you’re thick enough to put it on, it will activate, and will not stop until it receives its payment. On the surface—very sexy, but in reality, extremely risky when one may need to abandon pleasure at a moment's notice. Once on, it will force itself until completion, and absolutely no exceptions are made. I would argue the danger adds to the sexiness.

Aurors also agree that danger can be sexy, because despite the note and all of its warnings, he used it the very first night. 

How do I know?

To entertain myself, I wrote that the device vanishes all body fluids, but in actuality, they transport directly into a jar on my desk.  My absurd paperweight slowly, slowly, fills night after night, and at least I know he’s alive. What does one even do with a jar of cum?  There are not many potions that require it. Maybe I should do some inventing and solidify my new wretched reputation.

Before I could go patting myself on the back for such a scandalous invention, it was all for nothing, because I threw it in the bin immediately upon his homecoming. Very eager to get his pants off, I discovered my Auror had, what I can only describe, as a serious case of rug burn. I did my due diligence providing my apologies to his genitals that evening (though I blame him for continuing to use the blasted thing).

A blissful reunion.  I am not ashamed to let my lips show the relief that he’s back in my bed. When he heals, perhaps bringing the sheath back in will not be out of the question.  I must brag he protested its disposal.  Administrating it again under my careful supervision would be worth the show: letting the soft and equally relentless succor engulf and swallow the pleasure centers, leaving no mercy and no liquid. It is precarious magic, being forced to cum with no exception, playing with the burning ring of desire, hoping not to get burned.

We played with the burning ring of desire for a glorious week… until he was gone… another mission, and this time, me without a cum jar to gauge his safety.

Perhaps I am a blessed inventor after all.  Now that I’m tallying, all of my inventions produced untold consequences with their domino effect of damage. I will admit in this column only (you might not believe; I do not care), that a few of my dark inventions are household names. Yes, I am that good and that terrible.

Faithful, bored, and lonely, my mind kept wandering back to specific mistakes in my life. Now that I am not serving others, I decided to focus more on myself… and doubled down on removing my branded mark.

I have served two men during two separate stages of my life, and decided neither of them were worthy enough to have me.  A discussion I enjoyed at great length with my Auror, even more so, when he seemed open to being the third.  My heart betrayed me immediately, beating uncontrollably, when our playful branding banter back-and-forth kept serving until he mentioned he wouldn't mind being the next, but in a way that insisted he be the next.

A dream!  I was over the moon to be his.

Auror gone and carrot dangling, I contacted every free Dark Wizard that I personally knew, friend or foe.  Many of these real Dark Wizards were shocked to receive a letter from me, and that surprise slapped back when more than half replied.  Their general consensus: no, they had also failed in this endeavor.  This particular cursed brand was in a league of its own and would stay on our flesh forever into the grave.

No, that can’t be right. I am cleverer than most...

If anyone could figure out how to remove this wretched mark, I would be the one to do it. Determined, I set out. The owls failed me, so next came the books. I went older and older, and with every ancient reference falling off its cover, their rotten pages failed me (but provided more ideas for other rotten adventures). I turned again to my least favorite thing: people. I hate traveling, but I had time on my hands, and after sifting through repented souls and rumors, I found a monk with a missing finger.

Seeing me remorseful for my mountain of sins, he took me in and shared his knowledge (I did not mention I just wanted another.)

There is a way, and the price is not cheap: complicated magic, a month's worth of meditation, actual repentance (this one is hard, as repentance and regret are worlds different,) and…  my small finger. Besides all the other terrible things that it requires, this last one gave me pause... because besides having a gorgeous pair of palmates, I also have a rather lovely pair of wingtips.  What’s more noticeable? A mark on a stretch of flesh that could easily be covered by robes, or that I’m missing a fucking finger?

My search continued.

 

And I have the BEST of news!

I successfully found a way to remove a Cursed Brand.

Many people wrote in, all across the world, and I was instantly able to sift through the snake oil and found someone who really knew what they were talking about. That ring of authenticity from one to another.  So, fellow Dark Arts enthusiast from Poland, I thank you.

…Or I would thank you, if it didn't go horribly wrong.

Your method (I assume) was flawless: first, a great and noble creature, that under normal circumstances, I would never dream of killing, but I was desperate to erase the physical evidence of my mistakes. My conscience was clear: contrary to popular belief, you can kill something and still respect it as our ancestors filled the dinner table with that respect for millennia.  The ingredients—rare, but there is nothing I can’t get my beautiful wingtips on. The magic involved—dreadfully tricky, but again, what curse is that to me?  All the research, the gathering, Galleons spent, and one magnificent creature later, everything was in order.  I would be brand-less that night!

 

But alas, my great sacrifice’s will to live was also too great.

 

After our little power struggle that proved I may be a wizard, but only a man… the wheels of magic kept turning, and with no sacrifice in place, the conjury took what it wanted.  I am alive, another wave at death, and oh my, what a friendly fellow.

 

If I aimed for a free arm, now I have it.

 

 

 

Chapter 13: Freedom

..

 

Dear Pearl-Clutching Ministry Employees,

I wish to slow clap at your success: your relentless grip made the Auror boyfriend the ex-Auror boyfriend—following me in fired.

Fired, as in pressured to resign for having poor enough judgment to fuck me. Your internal water-cooler crusade managed to mistake bedroom antics for lack of moral fiber, but leave it to Ministry employees not to understand nuance.  So, I congratulate you all in cutting off your nose to spite your face. An impressive feat, removing one of the good ones, and putting what’s left of the Ministry’s reputation in the hands of its oh-so-moral politicians.

 

We are both left without a day job. And our finances, oh my, what ever shall we do?  Two mouths to feed on my meager little newspaper salary?  How can I possibly support the drinking habit that he denies on such a pittance of Galleons?

Oh, but you would not believe how much the Daily Prophet forks over to enrage you.

Your clenched arseholes (doing all the pearl-clutching, I’d say) have done us a generous favor: he is no longer destined to be murdered at work.  And he is one of the best! A perfect mix of competence, kindness, and thoughtful justice—that impossible tightrope, and your meddling has thinned your own safety net.

You aim to punish, but you have given me the greatest gift: peace of mind so sweet I didn’t know it existed. For once in my life, I don’t have to worry if he’s at the table with death, offering him one lump or two.

We are both free. 

What do we do with our endless personal time?  A glorious free afternoon in bed, and the next afternoon is free as well.  Weren’t there a thousand things to do? A thousand minds to teach? A thousand heads to save?

No, it’s just us and our lazy days.

With great difficulty… we focused on sex.

At first, it was bliss! Every room in the house—painted.  I was disappointed to discover all of my furniture needed an upgrade, as none of it provided a comfortable or sturdy enough experience.

Then, something curious happened…

 

He stopped smiling.

He stopped laughing.

He stopped speaking.

Sometimes, he wouldn’t eat… but always accepted sex. Instead of worrying, I kept up my monologue and noticed he would always eat if I suggested it. Naturally, I started suggesting other things until I controlled his entire day.

Dear readers, it is a powerful phenomenon to throw away all of your power. It is no accident that the most fearsome souls summon the services of a dominatrix.

Knowing he is finally resting after a lifetime of horrors, I let him be… and took that power away, giving him permission to do nothing.  To be nothing. First, I gave him orders. I told him when to sleep, when to eat, and he walked around like an inferius. Is this not what he wanted? It seemed like it was. He didn’t want to think, feel, or be responsible.

Next, I took his wand. He did not seem sorry for it to go.

In my defense, he wanted no responsibilities—to be powerless, and I gave that to him. He didn’t say it out loud… he didn’t have to.

When he gave me the gift of all of his power, I tied a ribbon around it. Physical and emotional bondage is not new to the bedroom, but as I have the skill, why play around when one can Nox the lights out?

Next… I took his magic.

This ritual is known by any Dark Wizard worth their salt, the ultimate curse to bestow on another, leaving the wizard nothing but a man.

Magic gone, I kept him isolated, literally.  A dark recovery period—I gave that to him.  His friends and family called many times, surprised and frustrated not to find him.  They left upset, returned… and left again, but left all the same. The reason why they couldn’t pick up on his human magical signature was because it was trapped in a necklace around his neck (I am not so reckless to take it away entirely.)

No wand. Unable to leave. Absolutely powerless. Free from all responsibilities except the orders I gave him, reduced to a mere muggle where I had the only wand, the only magic. The power was intoxicating for me and the freedom from thinking was equal on his end.  It was glorious, and even he admitted it was freeing.  If the world caught on fire, he would have no obligation to save a single soul.

He does not know this, but that is the week the night terrors stopped, if only for a little while.

I did not miss my opportunity to take power to the depths that I wanted, experimenting with control:

Do not touch the windows, you can only look out.

Do not touch the doorknob, they do not exist.  There are no true exits.

He obeyed.

If I told him to stay upstairs, he did.

If his family or friends came and they cried out, he would stay silent.

If they looked for him, he would hide and not make a sound.

Every sexual order, he obeyed unquestioningly.

You are nothing but a slave. Your life is now contained in these walls. 

You are mine… you are to stay on the bed… this is your new home. A Sunday afternoon lazily confined as if his entire life could exist amongst the sheets, powerless to do anything even if he felt pressured to do so. I took his choice away. 

Worse, I was jealous!  Letting go is a tall order and I could never quite manage.

 

In that week, I could’ve pressed many taboo boundaries, but kept my orders simple on the sexual front.  Despite wanting to take my spoils, the control was better than any sex I ever experienced.  I simmered in its realism, feeling like the Dark Lord I dreamed of being.

It was the most incredible week, one that I will savor for the rest of my life.

I broke the necklace the following week, and with his wand back in his hand, so too came the nightmares… and the drinking.

 

Here is a tidbit for the general public, in case anyone needs the education:

The Vanishing Spell does not make objects cease to exist.  They may visually disappear, but now their existence is everywhere. Currently, I have remnants of liquor bottles in my sofa, my cupboards, floating in the staircase, and woven into my ceiling.  So please… addicts, if you want to hide your liquor bottles, do not use the Vanishing Spell.  I would much prefer the recycling build up in a neat and orderly fashion than my magical senses get slapped by a “mystery” mass as soon as I walk through the door.

 

My acting is flawless, but I’m tired of pretending.

 

 

Chapter 14: Dark Wizard Tactics

 

..

 

 

To those anxiously waiting for this pervert to receive his justice, I come with pleasant tidings.

I have been assaulted, twice.  On my long list of achievements, I can now add double-home-wrecker.

Because I’m not feeling very spry before or after these encounters, I would like to start off my deviant little column, not with filth, but with three messages:

 

To my ex-Auror’s… “father:”

You are a cheap imitation and cannot hex half as well as the dead one.

I understand your rage: this is the second son I’ve “damaged,” but your anger has overreached.  Do not confuse your win with real skill, as we both know I’m handicapped. And just so there is absolutely no confusion: I have little regrets severing the first and have no regrets defiling the second.  In fact, both are in good spirits about it, and perhaps you should learn from the older and gain a sense of humor.

I take no pleasure in your house divided.  If you trust me at all, a sliver, a piece, please hear me when I say: I don’t want anything to do with the lot of you. Stand in unison with the patriarch.  I don’t mind being the villain.  Feels familiar.  Gets me reminiscent and misty eyed.

But make no mistake… you need me. I am the only one with long enough rope to collect him from his own personal hell… do not be so foolish to cut the tether.

In speaking of lowering myself to new depths...

To the woman who gave me the most incredible scar for bringing her spouse into my perverted nonsense: if your husband being the understudy maestro during the cacophony of the moral-less orchestra didn’t jump start your divorce, why accost me?  Feels a little rich.  I didn’t bloody marry you, nor am I the one who brought beasts into your home.

You have shown yourself to be the steel woman... the unbreakable family.  You have nothing but my respect! I applaud your talents, both in your wandwork and your ability to stand by your ethically bankrupt husband.

The wound you gave me is impressive, truly devastating, and took all of my best medicines to close it. But your vengeance has backfired… I think you’re forgetting you’re dealing with my level of kink. It turned into a stunning scar, star-shaped, and easily the most elegant wound I have, gorgeous to look at, and it takes my breath away every time I remove my robes. 

And if you’re wondering… your husband already stopped by and apologized to me (and to him) on your behalf.

In speaking of your unbreakable family, let me give my third and final message to my rich friend’s conceited son: you have ceased correspondence months ago; your discomfort is understandable.  But heed my words: you are annoying as your father, half as smart, and only a third as clever.  There will be a time yet where you'll beg me to cover for your mistakes. When that time comes, my door is open.  And if you do not accept that invitation, perhaps in twenty years you’ll also gain a sense of humor.

 

Let me take a moment to stand outside the realm of sex and revenge to talk about the Dark Wizard tactic that sorts the curious from the good, and the greats from the gods.

Manipulation.

If I were truly an abusive man, you are all but doing me a favor. Your hatred stews our relationship, makes it simmer to a delicious boil. I have not laid a hand on any of you, yet you attack me. Did you not think for a second that I wouldn’t use that to my advantage?  Milk it for every ounce that it’s worth?  Even if he reads this (and he will), he will stay.  He feels nothing but guilt that I am hurt—absorbs it, eats it with shame, adds it to his list of personal failures.  The failure to advocate for me and protect me against his own.

I have been injured by two and he’s never treated me so tenderly.  You are pushing him into my arms.

Thank you, from the bottom of my black heart.

 

You aim to hurt me but I am laughing as I write.

 

 

Chapter 15: The Depravity of the General Public

..

 

The Dark Arts is a great sorter. 

Once inside the dome, it kills off the uneducated and weak.  It has also severed ties appropriately in my life from those black and white thinkers—people know what I like and those interests culled my inner circle nicely.  People presume the Dark Arts are automatically evil, but in reality, we are all greedy obscene souls. But who are those introspective scholars who study it? Carve a path for its energy? Capture, bottle, and mold it?

Because my column is both wicked and hopelessly interesting, there has been a witch-hunt to uncover my identity. Wild ideas are flying about, and those who are right are still in disbelief how many people are willing to fuck me.

At last, I am feeling some much-desired recognition, but I am torn—for once in my life, I have an ounce of the acknowledgment I craved.  If I could not do it as an educator, if I could not do it in selfless acts, I have done it as a subvert debauchee.

My steady stream of sex partners transformed into a thunderstorm of owls, all asking me for the most outlandish acts, and I’m too proud to deny that I could fulfill ninety percent of them.  If I knew at fourteen I would get hundreds of owls from people trying to fuck me, not for my looks, but for my skill… well, I would say that’s perfectly fitting, because even at fourteen, I knew I was bloody talented.

As flattering as my new fame is, I would like it to cease immediately. My Personal space has always been the safety blanket in lieu of parents that didn’t love me, and now the walls are getting awfully close.

Although my Dark Arts are currently confined to the bedroom, you will make a Dark Wizard of me yet:  My ex-Auror and I woke up to some pervert in my house, no shirt, wearing my loafers, brewing us coffee we don’t drink and cooking us breakfast.  He even fed the duck, and I have not forgiven the duck.

I wanted to kill him, ex-Aurors veto that option.

Here is my warning to perverts that I can’t kill: no more owls to my home address, no more showing up on my street.  I promise, you will not find it, not with its new wards (and curses.)

I would like to reiterate how much I hate you people:

I did not enjoy your snotty children.   I did not enjoy you as meddling parents.  I barely enjoy you as readers!

Yes, I yearned for a little positive regard, but I would like to remain hidden for the following reason: there is no Dark Magic as vile as the general public.

 

I am labeled as the depraved one, but straight from an ex-Auror’s mouth, here is some of the depravity the Ministry has to probe:

Stealthers.

My oh my, what is a Stealther?

Get those pearls ready, because I’m about to make a whole lot of you uncomfortable. Did you know sickos on the street with an impregnation fetish can siphon their semen, guide it through clothing, and transport it into a woman’s vaginal canal with a well-aimed wand?

Worse yet, counteract a contraception charm to ensure their swimmers reach their oasis? 

It is rarely talked about, shameful, invasive, but far more confusing. How am I pregnant? How did my contraception charm fail?  But the normally flawless witch does not need to second guess their wandwork: the attack was planned, intentional, and you are a victim.

Imagine finding yourself pregnant for no reason, or even gave birth to a baby assumed to be your husband’s. Some women even look to the heavens: this must be divine magic—a gift from God himself. Do not be fooled: there is no divine, I have dipped over and checked for you.  It is not the Holy Spirit, but a pervert on the street with an accurate wand.

The Ministry does not want to cause panic, but Stealthers are spreading their knowledge and growing in numbers. Because our governing body is dragging its feet, let me do the educating for them: Listed and illustrated on the next page are the three most common contraception charms for women and men. On the next respective page is the best pregnancy-terminating spell in existence. Included, are the fool-proof very detailed wand movements down to the centimeter of swing and phonic inflections. So, if you find yourself mysteriously pregnant, throw away your shame with the fetus.

If you do know any of these kinksters willing to impregnate women (including teenagers) on the street, on the following page, is a cursed castration spell with no known cure.

Castratio-Duplicifinite

Highlighting this spell for public use may provide more victims, but I say let us all be victims in this world.

If you’re looking for a less-permanent punishment, on the next page, is a quick cock-shrinking charm.

Celerita-Sicula

The counter-spell is not casually known, but it can be reversed at St. Mungo’s easily enough. During their adventure, maybe they’ll absorb some much-needed embarrassment.

 

Sexual assaults on the street aside, do you know what can cause the most damage to the soul long-term?

Guilt.

Guilt will chip away at the very core of a person. I know, as Guilt and I share an intimate relationship. And my ex-Auror, as you know, eats it with milk and a spoon. Now that he’s not saving the world, we removed a quarter of the worst memories. And why does he need them?  The only reason to hold onto such atrocities is to not repeat mistakes. Now that he doesn’t need to remember the fifty ways he almost died saving something, we took a scalpel to the worst.

The change was instantaneous!  He smiled more, and not those fake smiles—the real ones.  Energy to spare, he skipped his liquid breakfasts of guilt and liquor…

…Until he ran into a mother on the street.  A victim’s mother.

When she found out the Great Auror “forgot” her dead son he failed to save, she fell where she stood and wailed in the street.

That evening, he re-ingested the memories we just removed out of guilt.

 

To those who know him (and to those who tried to kill him), he can seem quite indestructible. Even I am fooled most days. Now I know: it will not be a Dark Wizard to send him to his early grave, it will be the general public.

 

To the masses, the disgusting masses, here is my second and final warning:

If I find another pants-less creep in my house feeding my duck, I will do the following:

1. Celerita-Sicula
2. Castratio-Duplifinite

And if the general public continue to harass me or my ex-Auror, I will follow-through with my worst, most frightening threat:

 

Go back to teaching.

 

 

Chapter 16: Elusive Extra Holes

..

 

Dear disgusting masses,

As you are reading this in The Quibbler and not the Daily Prophet, you can deduce I’ve been let go twice.  Your constant whining has doomed me and my poor ex-Auror to a life of squalor.  Because The Quibbler pays in publicity and not in Knuts, you finally succeeded in financially ruining me.

 

Oh no, how embarrassing—could I forget?  My ex-Auror is loaded.

 

You all never cease doing me favors. I never liked children, and you freed me from that curse. My ex-Auror’s job was crushing him, and now he’s free from that too.  I managed to kill two birds with one little dirty column.  Words well spent.

Now that the Prophet isn’t printing my work, I can move on from mainstream filth and graduate (degrade) into addressing the more obscene.

I will start off by addressing one particular concerning owl inquiring about mindless sex slaves: First, Inferi—a kink too far. You are underestimating the smell. A little-known fact about Inferi, it attracts curious dogs that would simply love your new lover’s femur.  For my sanity and your neighbors, do not go the graveyard route.

For your second question (and I will expound for the reader), if you know where to point, yes, you could poke a hole to perform a magical lobotomy to create an apathetic living sex slave. Besides flagrantly illegal, I must advise otherwise. Addling with the brain can leave a lover too unstable or too mindless, and when the mind goes, so does control over the body. Personally, I don’t like my lovers slack jawed, slumped over, and drooling on the floor. Not longer than fifteen minutes, anyways.

 

In speaking of poking holes, one may ask, what is the best spell to create some extra holes in my lover? And if you were to make those extra holes, dear depraved oh-so-knowledgeable writer, where is the most advantageous place?

Excellent question.

For those wanting a few extra holes, it’s not where you put them, it’s what you make them with. You would not believe the wards in St. Mungo’s, clogged with poor souls and their wayward holes, some created with the same rudimentary spells teenagers use to make holes in their pillows.  Those spells are not for flesh. A sex hole is a hole for your cock, yes, but to your lover, it’s erectile tissue. Do not be so blunt to create a simple hole to fuck. Erectile cells and nerves are what constitutes a sexual orifice. The magic is more complicated, naturally, but growing erectile tissue is the only correct way to make an entrance. There are several ways, including duplicating the genitals and aim where they grow, but I suggest you start from scratch.

The next five pages are dedicated to transfiguring normal cells into erectile tissue to mold your desired sexual orifice. It requires you to be a bit of an artist, but then again, you get to be a bit of an artist, creating the hole as tight as you need, as wet as you desire, as sensitive as you want, in any damn shape you please.  And do pick up an anatomy book—poking someone’s bladder is not pleasant, and the kidneys do not enjoy a dick-slapping either.

If you’re feeling evil, when you’re done, close the hole but leave the erectile tissue; your lover will be extra sensitive for a future encounter.  Word of warning: if you leave sensitivity, you’re also leaving sensitivity.  If they get whacked in the erectile-tissue, they just might return the favor.

In terms of the best area, there is no need to turn your lover into Swiss cheese: the best hole you can create is right next to the original.  Two anuses, two vaginas… you know, variety.  Nothing slaps like an arse.  Why mess with perfection?  And don’t forget our other hole—double up with two mouths and tongues to match.

As variety is in my wheelhouse, I brought these into my own bedroom. Ex-Auror over for a date, I sat in the mirror for ten minutes, rearranging my teeth, growing my second pair of lips and a brand-new tongue (I had to charm the fork together on this one too,) and there I was, a monstrosity in the mirror, licking my new set of lips, tasting the virgin flesh.

Instead of a mouth in the center, I had a mouth in each cheek. I stood over my lover on the bed—  he was apprehensive but turned on enough to let me kneel in front of him, switching between the two, pleasuring him with both mouths.  When I closed one mouth, I stuck out my tongue and blew him with the other. I know I looked like the devil, but as far as I was concerned, I looked perfect.

Ex-Aurors don’t think so, however.  A kink too far, because in about three minutes he started to squirm.

“Alright darling,” I sighed with one mouth.

“Close your eyes, then,” I said with the other.

 

The double-mouthed blowjob he found a horror (pity), but when I started dirty talking in two delicious tongues, he remained horny enough to be taken as long as my vocals kept up their double purring.

Finished but disturbed, he looks everywhere but me.  My turn just starting, I plowed on foolishly, lustily asking with both mouths what other holes he wanted in me. Avoiding my face and staring at the ceiling, he pivots and starts rambling on his back about the holes in the attic and how the noise from the raccoons scares the duck at night.

Instead of fucking, he is asking me for a third time: are you sure the house doesn’t need an emergency load-bearing beam?  Because dying in our sleep when the house inevitably collapses is an awfully embarrassing way for wizards to go.

My eyes violently roll.  Sighing with one mouth, I open the other.

 “Couldn’t you have just used the safe word?”

 

Fear not reader, you don’t read The Quibbler for our titillating bedroom conversation about the structural integrity of my house. But stay tuned… our one-year anniversary is fast approaching, and to celebrate, I plan to write something truly regrettable.

 

 

Chapter 17: Assumptions

..

 

//A word on Love

I have known Dark wizards who were the creme de le cr ème of narcissists, incapable of love—their only desire: their own importance.  I have also known family-oriented Dark Wizards, selfless only for their bloodline.  Then there are the great community-minded Dark Wizards: the broad-scale builders who would sacrifice everything, as long as it was their vision.

More beautiful yet, I have known Dark wizards that truly love.  Truly love … to murder. And with love so pure and ever-lasting, who am I to question it?

Love truly knows no bounds, because as I have grown, I watched the unworthy, the crooked, the downright evil, find their match. I have high standards for someone with such an unfortunate temperament, so I resigned myself to solitude before lowering myself to scraps.

It was not always that way:  I was once a fool to want a happy family, fool enough to want a happy wife.   Giving up early was practical more than anything. Oxytocin is easily manufactured; one does not need love to live. It is not air, it is not food.  Many great men lived and died without it. I can get my needs met (appreciation, recognition, sex) elsewhere.

Today I find myself in an awkward position: I have not given my heart away in decades, yet found companionship long after I hung up hope. How confusing.  With my morals that only make sense to me, my poisoned tongue, my uncouth actions, my less than desirable appearance—I have found my bed filled not with sex, but with intimacy.

The ridiculous show we’re carrying on with, the tightrope game played by both—we spend every hour together, the sex is reckless, the intimacy—disgusting, the love not showing up in I love yous but the reckless unreasonable asks. He lets me do anything to his body, and in turn, I am not supposed to notice the entire bottles of he drinks, nor how he functions after drinking them—frightening. I have never been a blind man, yet I must be the thickest. The impossible asks and shameless boundary crossing proves what we would do for each other.

Readers ask the tantalizing question: how serious is the relationship?  Is it love?

I want to say yes, but I ask one deeper: do we even like each other?  Or is this shared desperation between two tortured souls?  Some days I wonder if I ’m cursed or blessed (depends on the day).

My heart, bloody and pumping, is locked in a trunk.  I dare not open it . Its hinges are rusted and I’m afraid to see the state of the thing. Day in, day out, he’s still here and I graciously keep fucking him (selfless, I know).  We avoid visiting shared acquaintances.  We avoid public outings.  

But there are deeper tells than a date. Directly after our discussion about attic holes, came one about creating extra counter space and installing better ceiling fixtures, then, in the same winding stream of consciousness, he announces he intends to sell his house.

Too many regrets, too many memories. Like one he never asked for back: the simple existence of a gifted mirror. He does not want to remember.

In a world where hell was sure to exist because we both felt the flames, in the past few weeks, I watched every important thing he cherished come into my home, and for the first time in my life, I started repairing my house. My disgusting, dreadful, childhood home, because he started bringing in important things, most of all, himself.

He brings in a toothbrush, I address the leaks.

He brings in his broom, I buy a new sofa.

He brings in his family album, I buy a bed to his liking (but not mine.)

The house has never looked so acceptable.  All the windows and window-frames are new.  The draft is still there, but it is less noticeable.

No amount of paint can redeem it, but there are important things here now.

I delved into the Dark Arts early, a greedy teenager, worshiping its power and boundless opportunities. But also as that teenager, I worshiped at the altar of Love, wanting everything, only to throw away both when I realized I could have neither.  As I fell, I held onto the bottom branches of the Dark Arts, if only to taste the greatness I once desired.

Now a new tree has blossomed beside it, glowing, and I am humbled by its beauty. Its purity is beyond words and I’m in awe to be in its glowing presence.//

 

He found Harry amongst the boxes sitting at a drafting table, and definitely not packing. As Severus walked through the sea of cardboard, he noticed many important things: all of Lovegood’s letters, a lifetime of Weasley jumpers Harry never wore but would never part with, every concerning gift Hagrid ever gave him.  Yes, all of that was about to come inside his home.  He hated the clutter but selfishly wanted it all.

“Do you require assistance?” he offered, gesturing to some boxes mostly full.  This gesture of help was a selfish one: he wanted the privilege of shoving certain things in the attic before Harry had the chance to unbox them.

“No, still sorting, Sev.”

But he wasn’t sorting. He was trying to fix a locket on the table. Now that he was out of work, Harry took every opportunity to fix broken objects, both mundane and magical, and almost always failed.  He even offered to fix Severus’ roof but Severus had enough sense to hire a muggle.

“Again?” Severus sighed, Harry endlessly distracted when he was supposed to be moving, lost in a thousand memories he said he was eager to escape. Kreacher’s passing had been expected, but Harry couldn’t bear to throw away any of the treasures (junk) his house-elf managed to save. Photos of Bellatrix and any reminder of Black were the first things Severus hoped to bury in the attic.

Kreacher’s locket didn’t seem to cause him any distress however, so he left Harry to his pair of jewelry pliers.

“Tea?” Severus offered softly, touching his shoulder gently.  When he received no answer, he left to the kitchen to brew some by hand, like his mother used to do. He was thinking about her a lot lately, repairing the house when his parents never bothered (or could afford to).  Every repair, another memory.  He could hear his mother’s voice now, something about the rotting window sill, pressing on it with her weight, testing its give, making that face. The house still wasn’t comfortable, but the difference stunned Severus every time he walked through the door.

After all of Harry’s possessions were moved in, the good, the bad, they were going to leave the country. But in two weeks… Harry set a very important date.

Bringing the water to a boil, Severus' fingers carefully selected the tea. Which one would he like? Which one did he say Kreacher served? Earl Grey? Was that it? Tearing open the package with his teeth, he let the peaceful minutes pass letting the tea steep.

In two weeks, once they properly settled in, Harry was going to make him… his.  The middle of May—springtime.  New beginnings.  He didn’t believe in such sentimentals, but maybe he should start. Would he like sugar today? No, let the flavors stand on their own.

When he came back, Harry was still at the desk fiddling with the delicate chain, trying to make it shorter, making no progress. Setting the tray beside him, Harry didn’t look up, lost in what he was doing. Severus waited, and still couldn’t get his attention, which was fine… because Harry was...

Perfect.

He was perfect.

Calm, focused, lost in concentration. A perfect silent moment amongst the boxes—a beautiful snapshot in time. Severus kissed the back of his head, fingers lingering in his hair… and then kissed his neck—his perfect neck.  Is this how others live?  A thousand beautiful small moments to cherish... for the rest of their lives?   

Instead of waiting two weeks, Severus felt the urge to give him his grandfather’s ring, here and now.  The ring his mother kept in a box hidden in a vent with the money she was saving to leave his father, the money eventually used to buy his first wand. Severus had shabby hand-me-down everything, but got Ollivander.

But he resisted.  The ring would wait, presented after the brand during their private affair.  Lips deep in his hair, Severus simply existed with Harry, watching him work.

“…Please tell me you do not intend to wear that,” Severus ruined the moment, hoping to never see that around Harry’s neck.

“Obviously not.”

“Mmmm,” Severus agreed, slipping his hand down to the table, feeling no guilt distracting Harry’s hand, touching his ring finger longingly.  In the dead of night, he measured it many times with a small measuring tape, but he still wanted his fingers to know.  A potion maker’s hand could measure flawlessly, besides—magic responded best to flesh.  “Do you have a preference in color…?”  Severus whispered close to an ear, Harry’s ring finger unmistakably between his thumb and index finger.

Harry froze and pliers moved no more. 

 

The pause was deafening. 

 

Severus was no idiot and adrenaline flooded him.

 

After an uncomfortably long pause, Harry’s pliers resumed.  “Don’t you think it’s a little soon, Sev?”  Harry said casually, but his voice came out too high to be natural.  

The question felt too brutal for the room.  Severus stared down at Harry’s nervous body language— hunched over, back to him, pliers slipping every time.

“My apologies…” Severus said in the calmest voice he could conjure through his beating heart. “I thought… we were…”

Severus missed a breath as he spoke.  Easy now.

“Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding...” Severus started again evenly. “You are moving in… we are discussing support beams.  We made plans to travel this year…”

“I just said I wanted to get out of this house.”

“…I see...”

 

Another painful pause where no one spoke, filled with the sounds of Harry’s failing pliers.

 

“Do… do we have to talk about this now?”  Harry asked in a small voice, plowing on with his work, failing spectacularly—his hands desperate to do anything so he wouldn’t have to face him.

“No, of course not…” Severus said smoothly.  “I will leave you to Kreacher’s rubbish then, if it’s so important.” 

“Sev…” Harry warned, his Auror voice making an appearance.  “I haven’t been able to look at this stuff since he died.  Don’t be shitty.”  He stopped, angry now, slamming down his tools on the table and resting his head in his hand.  “Why would you…!” he closed his mouth, thinking better of whatever he was about to say.

Why would you ask me to marry you?

Severus continued to stare intensely at the back of him, wondering if this was actually happening.  Couldn’t this just be a bad dream?  But it wasn’t a dream: he stood there, begging Harry to look at him and address their mismatched expectations.  Any moment he would turn around to apologize, correct this misunderstanding, and discuss what moving in meant to the both of them. Smooth things over.  Tell him what he did want.  

But Harry didn’t do that: he picked up both of his pliers, tried again, and worked feverishly until—“Ahgh!” he accidently caught his skin.  Frustrated, he threw everything down on the table and resumed stewing.

Where did he go wrong…?  Severus frantically flipped through their time together, wondering what on earth he could have possibly missed. The hundreds of memories removed, the sex, the endless playful late-night conversations, the screaming, the holding—nothing but support and intimacy. And in front of him, Harry avoiding him like deepening their relationship was some sort of Bogart.

Guilt laced Harry’s defeated body language, oozing through his limbs down to his fingertips. Guilt that he didn’t feel the same.

“It’s… it’s just…” but Harry didn’t go on.

 

“It’s just… what, Harry?” Severus asked in a voice that didn’t betray him. He was a curious man, he wanted to know the answer.

“Sev… we’re not exactly in good working order.”

“I am in perfect working order,” Severus snapped, finding his tongue.   “I’m in the best order I’m ever going to be in. You’re the one not in working order!”

It was the wrong thing to say.  Harry’s body tensed, anger coursing through it.  “Fuckin’ hell, Sev, I’m bloody trying!”

“No, you are not trying, you’re not even-”

“I don’t want any more of your potions!  They don’t help!  They never help!”

“And how would you know?  If you never take th-”

“They aren’t gonna fix my life!”

“They do make a difference!  I notice a difference!  Maybe you don’t notice the difference, but-”

“Shut the fuck up!” he whirled around.  “It doesn’t bring back the dead, yeah?  Why do you keep badgering me!?   Can’t you just take the fuckin’ no!?”   

Severus recoiled like Harry slapped him.  All the color drained from Harry’s face, realizing what he just accidentally said.  Instead of correcting his mistake, he miserably turned around and sunk into his hands so he wouldn’t have to look at Severus’ undeniable, uncharacteristic shock and pain.

“Why do you even want to marry me, yeah?  If you let another man fuck me?” Harry shoved Kreacher’s locket and tools away from him across the table in one swoop.

“You’re still whining about that?  After we continued... how many times?”

“And I feel disgusting every time.”

“So, you aim to blame me for all the things you enjoy?”

“Enjoy!? Enjoy!? I don’t like a third of the things you like!” Harry yelled. “You’re always pushing me to do stuff!”

It was the second slap.  How could this be so one-sided, his mind raced.  Were they not exploring together? How much of their play did he not enjoy?  No, no, that didn’t seem right either—every orgasm seemed powerful. All the kink they discussed in great detail, all the experiences they shared… how could he not have interest in any of it? And the Brand? Was that another lie? Why did Harry volunteer unless… was he that desperate for support? Give in to what Severus wanted, to ensure Severus would continue… to… to do what? 

Be his nanny?

Anger flooded him.  He was not a boyfriend—he was a bloody nanny!

What a fool he was!  To assume Harry loved him.  When all he wanted was a bang-nanny! Someone to watch over him so his friends and family couldn’t see what a mess he was.

What a fool!

Fool

Fool

Fool

FOOL

FOOL

FOOL

FOOL!

Never had he felt so foolish, looking at the back of the man who he thought loved him.  Truly loved him.  All of his imperfections, as he loved all of his.  All his imperfections only made Harry more perfect.

“It seems like we have a lot to discuss...” Severus swallowed into the minute of painful silence, never tearing his eyes away from Harry, who refused to face him—drowning in his own guilt, looking like he wanted to escape his body so he wouldn’t have to deal with Severus’ assumption they were going to share their life.  

...Why did he think this would work? His friends barely tolerate the relationship, his family disapproves, and Malfoy fucked Harry repeatedly and still couldn’t stand him. No one approved, not a single person.

“I’m trying to get my stuff in order,” Harry burst, still refusing to face him, “and you just said I’m not in a good place right now.  Mum’s upset, Dad’s upset, almost tried to kill you and-”

“He does not have the bollocks nor the skill.”

“Everything’s up in the air right now,” Harry ignored his snark, “Why… WHY… why in the world…”

Would you ask me to marry you?    

“I felt like it was a reasonable assumption,” Severus said coldly.

“Yeah?  Why?  Aren’t you in love with someone else?” Harry bit.

Severus gave a small inaudible gasp.  After everything you did to me?  He couldn’t even correct him, not now, not after Harry, one of the kindest people he knew, cut the conversation with a guillotine.  Severus was in love the moment Harry was bare on his floor, void of core memories. The barbarity —putting them back in, no matter what the cost. And the chart, the beautiful memory chart—he stole it that night and looked at it often.  It never made sense, no matter how much he looked at it. How could he not love him? Was that not a life-altering experience for the both of them?  The intimacy, the fear, the trust?

“...I see.”

They lapsed into more uncomfortable silence.

Without warning, Harry hit the table. “And you’re STILL writing that fucking column! You said you were going to stop! You lied again! Telling everyone our business, everyone’s fumin’…” he grasped, wanting some excuse, some moral high-ground, something.

“And YOU said you were going to stop drinking!” Severus erupted with a pointing finger.  “I’m not the only one who breaks their promises!”  Caught, Harry collapsed immediately with the accusation, running both hands over his face. “Do you know how hard it is to date an alcoholic!?”  Severus raged.  “Like my father!? And I accepted you anyway!  AS-IS!  And…!!”

 

But there was nothing else to say.

Harry didn’t want the ring. 

He didn’t even want a conversation.

 

//I have never told anyone ‘I love you,’ save for my own mother, and even that love... mmm , debatable. I never said it to you because I didn’t have to.//

 

This was all his fault. For thinking…

What was he thinking?

But he lives with you! He LIVES in your house! But as Severus thought about it more… what an obvious red flag. No one in their right mind would live in Severus’ grungy house. Are you not smarter than this? Perhaps he cares, but does not intend to stay. He’s embarrassed enough for the both of you. Embarrassed for you. For assuming…

Blood rushed to his cheeks, not feeling so humiliated in over twenty years.  His family’s ring, passed down for centuries, kept safe for him even when they needed groceries, and the man he bestows the honor doesn’t want it.

No, that’s not right… doesn’t want YOU.

“Fresh air,” Severus offered for himself, a pause in their stalemate of mutually humiliating assumptions. Pivoting to leave, his soft footsteps carried him out as if they could lessen his shame.

Harry didn’t say ‘don’t go.’  In fact, he didn't say anything at all.  After getting called out for his secret drinking, his head was buried in his hands on the table amongst the broken things he was trying to fix.

Severus couldn’t leave quick enough.  Once outside, he Apparated directly to his house, locked himself inside, and rested his back against the door trying to remember how to breathe. When air wouldn’t come, he ran his hand over his forehead reliving the scene he just escaped.

 

Why did he think Harry wanted to marry him? No—their relationship was perfect leading up to this. But now a memory from six months ago demanded its retribution for discounting it.

 

An Imperio.

Severus has control—glorious pleasure: Harry is bedding him, mindless and vulnerable, fucking him exactly the way he wanted to be fucked under his flawless instruction. In the throes of passion, straight from Harry’s mouth, streams a pouring of I love yous. Over and over again, he tells him while he’s making love to his body, fucking him like he needs him, the words to match the act. Because it’s coming from Harry’s mouth, his voice and cadence, Severus naturally believes it—his subconscious taking over the Imperio and forcing Harry to say all the things he was so desperate to hear.

When it was over he realized the absurd violation he caused. It was not what they agreed on. The free use of his body, yes, but to force emotional intimacy prematurely? Those delicate and heavy words…

After the violation, Harry made his excuses to leave and avoided him for an entire week.  But he came back… like he always did.

 

But that was six months ago.

In recent months, Harry waged a war with his own family to remain by his side. He kissed—no, made love to all of Severus’ scars. They discussed long term plans. They were moving in together.  They were going to travel the world.  Harry agreed to brand him.

We are happy. We were happy … weren’t we?  He loves you, doesn't he?  Then why didn’t he…?

But no one ever loved Severus before. 

He should have known.

Reality rolled in like a storm cloud: no one ever loved him.  No one ever put him first.  Why didn’t he see that he was only a temporary stop in wherever Harry wanted to go?

Fool

Fool

Fool

FOOL

FOOL.

FOOL!

 

//And that’s the end, dear readers… you will have to find your filth elsewhere. This is my last column. Our goodbye. Love has stolen me for its journey.

For someone who loves the Dark Arts, I rarely venture out to find them. But that is not up to me, it is up to love.  With my new appreciation for beauty, we made plans to find it all—he wants to see the world.

My quill is done.  I will go on many new adventures, but with a secret goal: whether I find great love, discover great sins, great sex, or plain greatness, I will report back with my findings.

I have been a fool to pretend, even now, that the greatest horizons lay in the Dark. I am under the most euphoric spell that cannot be measured by magic and I shall bask in its ever-glor—//

 

The column lay unfinished on the desk covered by spilled ink and bloody animal footprints.

 

 

Chapter 18: Nine Surefire Ways to Kill Yourself

..

 

The most dangerous thoughts are not of murder, but of grave assumption.

So far, I’ve printed some fairly light things (light for Dark Wizards), but now, it is an excellent time to talk about death.

Did you know one cannot Avada-Kedavra themselves?  How do I know? Dear innocent reader, this is common knowledge for people with suicidal tendencies! The depressed simply don’t decide to snuff the lights out, there’s a great deal of stewing involved.  It is a significant event to finally cross that rubicon, best not waste your nerve on a failed attempt.

To assist the ambitious, here are nine surefire ways to kill yourself, suicide spells and suggestions to ensure the job gets done.

1. Propulsatio-Rectsini (Satus)

Drape a thick rope or a sturdy chain over your neck and charm both ends with Propulsatio-Rectsini.  Say Satus to snap your neck instantaneously with as much force as two speeding carriages going in the opposite direction. You will not feel anything, it happens that quick.

2. Terracoelo-curro

Practice this spell, it is a nifty one. Terracoelo-curro will sever a piece of earth for the taking. When you’re ready, take a hefty piece the size of a house, hover it above you, and let your wand arm… drop. Crushing yourself to death sounds terrifying on the surface, but I assure you, if you do it right, it is like blowing out a candle. Your body is but flesh and will succumb to the weight.

3. Brevusmors-magnamors

Whisper these words in your final throws for a deadly good orgasm.

4. An amendment on the Unbreakable Vow: sensational way to kill yourself. Do an Unbreakable Vow, one that you cannot help but break. Any inconsequential thing will work. An Unbreakable Vow not to sleep… fall asleep. Profit.
5. In speaking of, working for the Prophet, I discovered a routine string of personal ads. If you read between the double entendres, there is a whole underground coven of vampires who lean into the kink community for a snack who are all too happy to take the full meal. Will give you an experience before you go. If you are looking to be a victim, scan the personal ads and you’ll find your red ticket.
6. Quattuorcor-casus

A personal favorite of mine.  The aim has to be perfect, but will collapse all four chambers of the heart simultaneously. 

7. Before getting eccentric, let’s get simple. Even the wandless know how to do it right. When in doubt, find a nice height to dispose of yourself. If your magic saves you, it wasn’t your time to die.
8. If you're a bit of a showman and want your emotional turmoil highlighted nicely in death, siphon some of your most treacherous memories, and with the potion on the following page, solidify them into thin wisps of string. Use your magic as a needle, pierce the body and sew them around your heart. Next, with all the force you possess, whip your wand up and rip out your heart with your own memories. They’ll talk about your death for two centuries.
9. And if you’re feeling like you just can’t raise a wand to yourself, enlist a friend or colleague to help you. Believe it or not, that works sometimes.

 

Why nine might you ask? Because the tenth didn’t make the list.

 

To my ex-boyfriend Auror who was bound to take my death personally…

Splendid.

In reality, this was not your fault. I have considered meeting my fate many, many times. It is a miracle I’ve lasted until now. But, you were bound to blame yourself anyway, and…

All the better.

 

That night, I waited at my house for you.  Waited for you to expound your pathetic excuses why you actually care and how this was all just bad timing.  I even looked forward to your lies!  If you could lie to me, I could lie to myself.

…But you didn’t come.

You didn’t come running to correct the misunderstanding.

 

As the hours ticked by, I realized… there was no misunderstanding.

 

But why?

Even if in the core of your being, your good core, if you did not want to share your life with me, your guilt would bring you to my doorstep. Your kindness would bring you past the threshold.  Your empathy would find and comfort me. You would show up any minute to apologize, soften the blow, do anything in your power to ensure, no matter how painful the conversation, your softest mat would be used for me to fall upon. You are a good person, so I knew you would come…

But you didn’t come.

And that was so... unlike you.

And then it dawned: you were no longer you.

 

After I left, you drank yourself into oblivion and ceased to be you.

I found myself not even good enough for an alcoholic shell-of-a-person. It hit home more than anything could, how truly unlovable I must be. I was a body, someone to look after you.  That’s it. My house was a closet to lock yourself away in because you’re too much of a coward to let your co-workers, friends, and family see how far you actually fell.

I spent a month watching every memory you left over and over, analyzing them, feeding off your sickness, wondering if you were broken enough for me, and as it turns out, you still deemed yourself too good.  Me, not even good enough for a drunk Auror.

How pitiful I must be, to settle for an alcoholic like my father.  When I have been sober for thirty years?  And my first drink since sobriety was with you—I nursed a glass and you polished off the bottle.

There is a familiar visual of the inventor yelling Eureka!  That sobering moment when everything becomes clear. I’ve had several of those moments, and they were always when death crept near.  My path, so illuminated, you could see the stones trailing off into the veil.

I didn’t need time to consider, not with the path kindled for me.  Plan in motion, I drafted two letters: one to my rich friend, and with it, the manuscript of my book-my legacy book (not the filth). The second, of course, was to you.  In it, were not apologies for my actions, but my family’s ring (because I truly have no one else to will it to), and asked within your slivers of sobriety to honor my final request:

Take care of the duck.

I never told you, but it showed up near the lake at his final resting place. I am not so romantic to believe it was a coincidence, but he brought me small moments of comfort, as you have.

You owe that to me. The simplest of requests—surely you can drink and still feed a duck, can’t you?

Finished with both letters, I tried to send them, but my duck vehemently declined.  Refusing to leave my side, he followed me to the neighbor’s house (quacking all the way) where I borrowed a sturdy owl to send my final wishes.

In our whirlwind time together, I have seen many of your worst memories, but you have only viewed one of mine.  I shall now remind you there is one emotion I cannot bear to feel:

Embarrassment.

It’s a poison I’ve never been able to quite swallow.

After spending decades in regret, swimming in the cowardice of never telling her, the nightmares of missed opportunities and all the sins to follow, I now know her answer:

No—just as I assumed.

I have been a fool twice.

You were too drunk to receive your post, and I wonder what time of afternoon you finally woke up from your stupor and sliced open my letter.

In speaking of slicing it open, I will divulge a very rickety way to kill yourself:

When I’m in a mood, I’ve been accused of being a little… dramatic.  And what fucks do I have left to give? It is a spell of my own invention, one that I have great history with, and do you.  I picked it on purpose—how fitting. I have matured in many ways, but I never outgrew my pettiness.

It was simple: I was going to sever myself from this earth—instant death.  Cursed, might I add.  And, it would be very gruesome for you to find—my final revenge.

As you are reading this, you can infer that I am not dead, but I did a number.

With the Avada Kedavra, please add that you cannot Sectumsempra yourself. I believe the Avada Kedavra has to do with magic’s natural self-preservation, and if I can guess, the Sectumsempra has more to do with range.

Now let me tell you the real hero of this story: my rich friend. He is a piece of shit, and I say that lovingly, as I am also a piece of shit, but it is the truth.  Upon receiving my letter and manuscript, he Apparated straight into my house to find me cursed and bleeding out.

According to his re-telling (screaming), my body was in a pond of its own blood with my duck nestled on my chest as if to keep me warm. I don’t remember much, but I remember being very cold.

My rich friend, who I assume has never healed anything besides a scratch to his posh face, subjected me to botched healing spells thirty years past his last instruction. But what he lacks in healing, he makes up in curse knowledge.

That is the moral of the story: real friendship exists, even between unconscionable souls.

But what use do I have for friendship? What use do I have for a fiancée? Can one not kill themselves in peace!? I have never lacked for a set, nor the nerve to do it, so imagine my annoyance when I couldn’t even kill myself when it mattered the most!

As soon as I was “saved,” I left with my emergency bag and my duck, and I am now writing this column from an undisclosed location. The debate is still out whether or not I’m going to kill my rich friend for saving me, but as of today, I have some amending to do.

I would like to amend my column, Sickos, Perverts, and How to Get Rid of Them.

Apparently, you can take the job away from the Auror, but you cannot take the Auror out of the man, because now he’s Dark Wizard hunting.

To my ex-boyfriend Auror: WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO FIND ME!?

We didn’t have an official break-up, so let me clear up the misunderstanding:

There were two ax swings to sever our relationship: I asked, you said no. And I tried to end it, literally.  Simple—we are done.  Finished.

The good deal of blood I left for you to find all but tells you how done I am. A memory your next boyfriend can siphon out of you.

 

Do not bother trying to find me—you are wasting your efforts.  You, of all people, know how well a wizard can hide when one truly does not want to be found.

 

 

Chapter 19: Out of the Woods

..

 

Quack Quack QUACK QUACK QUACK!

In one liquid motion, Severus was on his feet, quill down, and wand ready. 

WHUMP

Someone’s body whumped against his door, hard.  Followed by… a lot of confusing door knob fumbling.  This alone threw him—a wizard wouldn’t struggle with a simple door knob.  So what, a lost hungry hiker? 

But no hiker could get through his wards.  The frantic desperate door fumbling increased, and then it clicked: he was supposed to be grabbing his duck and Apparating right now, which he failed to do. 

The door finally swung open and snow flurried in.

“SEV!”

“Get the fuck out you BLASTED stalker!” Severus snarled, retreating deeper into his small cabin.

“SEV!!”

“Get out!”

“No!”

“I broke up with you! Very publicly!”

“Yeah, and I don’t accept that!”

“What does that matter?”

“We’re not broken up!”

“We are,” Severus spat with finality.

Harry stood in the doorway, devastated, bundled in a huge coat that doubled his size, weathered from hiking for God knows how long.  It was at this time Severus noticed his stiff and frozen fingers, unable to hold a wand.

“Will… will you go out with me!?”

“What?”

“Will you go out with me!?” It sounded strange as a child asking out another child on the playground, so juvenile, it momentarily stunned Severus into silence with its stupidity.   “And I’m not marrying you for at least five years!”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”  Harry demanded.

“Not until you stop drinking!”

A panicked pause… “I will!”

“No, you won’t. You’ve tried—you won’t.”

“I will!” Harry urged, taking a step.

“Can you even stop?”

“I think I can? I’ve done everything else,” he gestured.  Knowing Harry Potter, that was very hard to argue with.

Relief in actually finding him came crashing down on Harry and he buckled under its weight. “Don’t ever do that to me again!” he yelled.  “Why did you do it!?  HOW could you do it!?  You’re the cruelest person I know!”

Guilt was threatening Severus again, knowing the brutality he left for him to find.  Waking up to his treacherous letter and stumbling into that horror show—the pool of blood on the floor, the violent splatter up the wall, the footprints (the ducks’ and Lucius’) and the unfinished love column on the desk (that he definitely should have ripped up).

“We’re going out, yeah?” Harry rallied, not taking no for an answer, and swung the door shut with his forearm, trapping them in.

“Oh, are we?” Severus dared, holding his upper arm, which was his version of crossed arms.

“Yes,” Harry informed, pointing an entire stiff hand.  “And we’re done with sex.”

“What?” Now this was just too far!

“I want…” Harry grasped, trying to illustrate something, “Lemon drops.” He took another step, begging him to understand. “I want to stop whatever we’re doing.  I want… lemon drops.”

“I hate to ruin this romantic reconciliation,” Severus dripped, “but I am not vanilla. I don’t want vanilla. Kink is the only outlet I have left! And according to all the other perverts owling me, my interests are perfectly normal.  You’re the freak for wanting lemon drops!”

“I know! I... I just want to stop, until… just… for a little while.”

“That doesn’t work for me, Harry!”

“I know… I’m sorry… but I want to stop. I need…” Harry stopped mid-beg and shook his head, refocusing on his task and stepped closer. “Come home!”

Severus’ eyes glittered while they twitched something fierce—the audacity.  The nerve to track him down, freeze himself in the process, burst through his door and declare their new and improved bugger-free relationship.

When Severus didn’t answer (too busy deciding if Harry wandless presented a perfect opportunity to hex him), Harry crossed the small cabin, begging, urging, demanding… “Come home!”

“No!”

Quack! Quack Quack QUACK QUACK!

His guard duck caught another disturbance in the wards. Remembering something, Harry went to the door and used both palms to twist it open. “He’s here! We’re here!”

“Fuckin' Merlin, you brought your friends here!?”

Emerging from the snow, looking zero percent desperate to find him and at least seventy percent warmer, Kingsley Shacklebolt entered the cabin.

“Doesn’t the Minister of Magic have better things to do!?”

“After what you printed, Snape?”

Frozen fingers and all, Harry started using both palms like tongs to pick up Severus’ belongings and drop them into a large bag.

“Don’t touch those! I’m not leaving!”

“Let me see your injuries,” Kingsley commanded.

“No!” Severus snapped, forgetting Harry and backing away.

“Now,” Kingsley ordered, advancing.

“No!”

“I know how badly you're injured; Malfoy said you Apparated as soon as you could stand.”

“An exaggeration.”

Quack Quack Quack QUACK QUACK!

“SHUT UP, Albus!”

Kingsley gave a long look at the duck…

…and then back at Snape.

“No, duck’s name’s Wulfric,” Harry corrected, picking up more things with his palms. “He only calls him Albus when he’s angry.”

The long dead-pan look Kingsley gave him was exceptionally uncomfortable. Severus stayed defiant… but could feel heat creeping to his cheeks, not appreciating Kingsley now possessed the knowledge that the hole Dumbledore left in his life was so uncomfortable he tried to stuff it with a duck.

He spared him the embarrassment, but not his freedom.  “Sit down. We’re assessing your injuries before we move you,” and he cornered him.

“There is no need,” but he stumbled on something in his haste to back away.

Taking his opening, Kingsley made a grab for him.

“Don’t touch me!”

Quack Quack Quack Quack!

Instead of where an arm should be, all Kingsley got was cloak.  Severus shook out his new wand arm, but seeing how easily he could be over-powered, Kingsley used his very real strength against him.

“Easy now...”

“Get your hands OFF me!”

“Sit down, Snape, best get it over with.” Kingsley twisted and forced his body down on his trunk, holding Snape’s wrist like it was the head of a biting snake.

“Harry! Harry!" he hissed accusatory.  "Don't let him touch me!  No one is supposed to touch me!"

"Boy, you are just as mouthy as I remember," and ripped his cloak off his shoulder.  

"As flattering as it is to be undressed by the Minister," Severus said through his teeth, "and we all should be so lucky... I am perfectly fine!”

Quack Quack Quack QUACK QUACK!

“I don’t want to hear your LECTURES, Albus!”

“You’re not fine,” Kingsley rumbled, starting on his many layers.  Harry stepped in to steady him, steeling himself to see the damage, and sure enough, they reached a final layer that stuck to his skin like glue, crusted blood and discharge coming with the fabric.

“See?  I’m alive, am I not?”

“You don’t even have enough ingredients to heal yourself!” Harry huffed. “We’re going home.  Now.  If not for me, for Wulfric.  You brought a duck to the Himalayas.”

“No—straight to St. Mungo’s,” Kingsley informed.

“No!” Severus gasped.

“You’re going to be treated.”

“NO!”

“You don’t even have enough food for the week, Sev!”

“St. Mungo’s—it’s not an offer.  We’re leaving. Now.”

When Severus’ fingers tightened around his wand, Wulfric started up a storm.  Seeing his wand twitch, Harry shoved himself directly between Severus and Kingsley, blocking the shot with his entire body.

“Best go quietly.   I will bind you and your mouth if I have to.”

“Only if you want that in my column,” Severus quipped.

When Kingsley dragged him to his feet, Severus still managed to put up a struggle.  They were trying to take it easy on his injured body, but after a stomped foot and a hole in the roof, Severus was bleeding through his robes and Kingsley looked like he wanted to punch his lights out.  

“No, let me handle him,” Harry changed tactic.  “You grab the duck; he won’t hex me.”

“The fuck I won’t!”

But Severus didn’t: when Harry hoisted him up from behind, securing him with both of his forearms, Severus’ strength left him like a ghost.

 “Hospital wing!” he gasped, his last reprieve. 

“No, it’s N.E.W.T. week—her hands are full,” Kingsley said calmly but all out of patience.

“The rest of my things!” Severus ordered from his bear hug. “My notebook and quill—that’s my good quill!”

With Wulfric happy and secure under Kingsley’s arm, he summoned the rest of the wayward things scattered in the cabin.  Severus’ new hate-filled column flew straight into the Minister's hand, full of Dark and dangerous magic. 

“… …You’re not printing this.”

“I will if you don’t take me to Hogwarts.”

Chapter 20: Lemon Drops for Lovers

..

 

 

“I’m not talking to him.”

“Please dear…” Mrs. Weasley begged. “It won’t be an argument this time.”

“I said no,” Harry stayed firm, looking forward—steel to her request. He didn’t care what Mr. Weasley had to say, not now, not when he was next to Severus' bedside, covered in no less than four death-defying scars. The one that Mr. Weasley provided was by far the tamest, but what it lacked for in lethality, it made up for in length.

She sighed, licking her lips. Her new reality—her fractured family. “Alright dear…” She gave up, kissing him on the forehead. “Check in with me, if not tonight, tomorrow, won’t you? Let me know how he’s doing.”

“Mmm,” Harry nodded.

She lingered… and left.

There was an unspoken agreement he would come home and visit as long as no one fought about his relationship. Even though the Weasley children stayed appropriately on the fence, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley still fought endlessly about it, because even when it wasn’t talked about directly, it was talked about indirectly, as Harry’s entire life was now entwined with him.

 

The door opened and two sets of footsteps solemnly made their way in, Ron and Hermione joining him with their support.  Hermione sat down on the other side while Ron stood beside him, settling in with him for the long night, ready for Harry whenever he was ready.  

 

“Never thought I’d be in this situation again,” Harry said, shuddering, after a few minutes of defeated silence. Severus half-dead for a second time, lined up in a ward with several unconscious over-stressed fifth years.

“You’ve been gone for weeks, mate.  Alright…?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Do you want to talk about it, Harry?” Hermione asked softly.

“No.”  He felt like this was all his fault. Even if Severus overreacted, so much so, any sane person would break it off with him, this was still his fault.

Ron shifted uncomfortably like he wanted to talk about it.   Not two minutes went by until, “Am I missin’ somethin’?  He asked you to marry him and you said no?  And he just... did it?  That’s it?”

“Yeah.  Sort of… I guess.”

“Why did you say no?  Thought you really fancied him, the way you were defending him and all.”

“I don’t know.”

“Harry, it’s fine, you didn’t have to say yes,” Hermione gave Ron an annoyed glance.  “It’s not your fault.”

“I know…”

“Yeah but…” Ron started, ignoring Hermione’s warning eyes, looking at Snape’s body and Harry’s unwillingness to leave him unattended for even a moment.

“I... I don’t know,” Harry said, “It’s just… I don’t know?” He shook his head lightly. “I don’t know.”

Another lapse into silence.

After the recent events, Harry didn’t know how to make eye-contact with anyone.  That night, all of his former Auror colleagues swarmed the house, responding to Lucius’ frantic summon for help.  The next day, Aurors gone, his friends and family were allowed to enter. The blood, the crime scene, the horror, the love column on the desk.  If his family didn’t approve of their relationship before, they certainly weren’t going to approve after Severus’ epic bloody temper tantrum. It wasn’t easy, knowing they read every article he printed: the sex they were having, how much he was drinking, his night-terrors.  Most of his loved ones were blaming his worst struggles on ‘Snape’ when all he did was shine the light.

What they didn’t understand was how much Severus was trying to build a nest for him—a soft enclosed silent space for him to repair himself. In theory, not working as an Auror should allow him to relax and heal (no new horrors to experience), but he found it incredibly stressful with nothing to do.  He felt stir-crazy most days.  The world was in no shortage of atrocities, shouldn’t he be doing something productive?  In the meantime, Severus gave a grand show of normalcy: the tea, the cooking, the support, and hands-on intimacy in the form of all the sex he could ever want, while simultaneously trying to hold him accountable for his drinking, including his lies about not drinking.

But under that careful inscrutable eye, Harry felt like he was under a microscope.

The smothering was terrible until it was what he needed: wrapped up in covers so he wouldn’t thrash, the memories taken and given back freely, or easing his mind and body with some warm concoction, bitter tasting, but instant temporary relief.

The first twenty-four hours after Severus’ attempt were out of a nightmare.

Aurors already on the scene, Kingsley came personally to collect Harry to find him passed-out next to an unopened letter. As soon as he was taken out of his stupor, news delivered, Harry Apparated straight into the middle of Severus’ living room, Aurors, blood, and all.   Hence started the nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. For the first day, all he did was Apparate endlessly from place to place to place, unable to stop, frantically disappearing and reappearing anywhere he could think of.  The next place would be it, no—the next place, popping into any location his brain lit up and suggested, looping in an endless broken spiral.  Soon he started Apparating to places that didn’t make any sense, like every place they camped during the war, hoping Severus was there, waiting for him, injured, or worse, bleeding to death. If he didn’t try the next spot, or the next spot, he would be too late and Severus would be dead. 

Then it hit—the tree!  The tree where Severus hid behind while his doe led him to the Sword of Gryffindor.  That was it!  That’s where he was!  Harry never did find the tree again, but that’s the forest where Ron and Hermione found him, but he refused to leave, not until he found that tree.

The Aurors had to come fetch him from his cycling madness.

Ron and Hermione talked him down, insisting they go with him, forcing him into a structured plan if only to ground him. Under the surface, the question remained: was he even still alive?  Entering into the whirlwind vile-on-the-surface relationship with Snape all but proved Ron and Hermione would follow him anywhere—they tried.

Then… the articles started.

After what happened next, the Aurors got involved in earnest. Despite the catastrophic consequences, Harry’s mind cleared.  He was alive. Ron and Hermione were out, but the Aurors were in, and now Harry had an entire team at his disposal, including the Minister of Magic himself.

Even now, Ron and Hermione were right beside him.  Through it all, they didn’t express their approval nor disapproval.  Their neutrality annoyed him endlessly, but Harry pushed away everyone that disproved of his relationship, and they refused to be pushed away.  His friends never questioned why he was going with him, not once. Maybe it was strategic on their part, but their neutrality frustrated him when he wanted their real opinion… and he desperately needed their real opinion right about now, even though he would absolutely punish them if they dared say something negative.

“Do you want to be alone, Harry?” she asked softly in the quiet ward.

Harry shook his head.  Ron and Hermione stayed.  

 

*****        *****        *****

 

After term ended, Severus was transferred to St. Mungo’s.

Because Harry took his wand, he had no choice but to stare at the ceiling for days on end, contemplating cursing (killing? No—cursing, it would prolong his suffering,) Lucius. It was one of those impossibly boring (stressful) days he found out how many people were suing him.

When the Aurors were gone from the house, Mrs. Weasley attempted to clean up Spinner’s End by herself. Word was, his house was more or less back to normal, minus the Sectumsempra gash through the living room wall, cutting through the doorway leading into the kitchen, refusing to be repaired.  

Severus wasn’t fussed… sounded like an improvement.

A week and a half later, he was released, and their first few days at Grimmauld place were spent with very few words spoken.  Tonight was no exception: a dinner full of scraping cutlery and sub-standard food Harry threw in a pan and called dinner.  Both chewed loudly—Harry, miserable without alcohol, and Severus, miserable without sex.  Aren’t we quite the pair, he thought. Although tonight Harry hinted he would grace him with a shag, it would not be the filth he wanted, yet he had to pretend Harry didn’t sneak a drink right before dinner.  All the liquor gone, he downgraded to wine, drinking full glasses in the shadows of the house.  If Severus had to turn a blind eye to all the glasses he charmed to tattle, Harry could at least choke him a little bit.

Dinner finished and dishes spelled away, Severus followed Harry upstairs in a funeral march.

“Why do you have to be so moody?” Harry asked, closing the bedroom door.

“I am not moody,” he said moodily.  Hearing his own voice, he accepted he wasn’t fooling anyone and dropped the pretense, but shrugged off his robes anyway. “Let's get this over with, shall we?”

“You’ll let someone bugger your eye socket but you can’t show some enthusiasm for normal sex?”

“My apologies, Potter,” Severus said silkily, smirking for the Gods, “I shall behave…” but behind his facade, he queued up several Dark Arts sex scenarios to think about during the act out of sheer boredom.

Not entirely convinced, Harry took his shirt off anyway.  Severus accepted the invitation, joining him on the bed and putting his lips to his chest immediately and repeatedly, kissing a trail down his abdomen in what he thought was a perfectly acceptable level of fake interest.

“Wow… really?”

“What?”

“Sev, one of the reasons you’re so incredible to be with, is your passion.  Fine for anyone else, bit lack-luster for you.”

“Forgive me, passion must dissipate after you say you’re not into two-thirds of what I’m into.” Severus said, taking the loose ankle fabric dangling off of Harry’s feet, wrapping it around his wrist, and yanking his trousers off in one go.

“You’re really going to take that personally, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to continue to fake it?” Harry dared.

Fake it. Those words haunted him. Yes—he faked it. “I admit, I discounted your acting ability. Your interest fooled even me.”

“Yeah, because it’s you. You’re into it, and I like you, so I can sorta get into it, and it can be fun because you’re having fun, but it’s not… my thing.”

“…Understood.” And he did understand: he was able to perform a great deal of things he wasn’t into. He enjoyed providing… so he provided. Defeated, he provided gentle kissing, stroking—a strong loving hand, body contact, grinding, trying to start the fire of intimacy.

“…You sure you don’t want to skip tonight?  You don’t seem bothered, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Am I not doing a good job?” he bit. “Is this not exactly what you asked for?”

“It is,” Harry admitted, unsure.  “But I know you, and I can tell you’re not into it.  At all.”

“Ah! But it is my acting that’s the problem!  I can fix that…” Severus snapped his fingers next to his face.  Like a light switch, his expression changed to sincere affection and slowly started worshipping his body, intensely, like he normally did.  It happened so quickly and effectively, Harry was nothing but disturbed. Ignoring his shock, Severus replicated love and passion with intense focus with acting so good, Harry didn’t have to wonder how Voldemort was fooled.

He hates everything he ’s ever done with you. You disgust him.

A wet tongue made its way to his groin and perfect fingers encased the cock to steady it.

He ’s disgusted by you.  He can’t even look at your arm, you mutilated yourself and hindered your own talents.

The blowjob was spirited: what he lacked for in hand, he made up for in mouth.  His best asset.  But while he sucked dick so good it could sail ships, his eyes glazed over, thinking how much he wanted Harry to hurt him so he would have something to distract him from his shame.  Half a man—not worthy of affection, not worthy of satisfying sex, not worthy of honesty, not worthy of a brand, and certainly not worthy of commitment.  

Not even worthy of a sober partner.

“Out,” Harry smacked his head like he was trying to empty an upside-down bucket, not blind to Severus’ symptoms of over-thinking.

“Mmm,” Severus agreed, moving lower to prep, his hand stroking the cock generously as he tongued.  As he practically made love to his arse, his thoughts turned resentful, wondering how tongue-fucking a hole could possibly be weirder than his most favorite acts.

“Out,” Harry reprimanded, both of them knowing he slipped that quickly.

Severus dropped his invasive thoughts as he stood, summoning a thicker pillow to shove under Harry. Preparing with his fingers, he gazed down at him, contemplative. Normally Harry would have been perfectly fooled by his level of acting.  Despite his slip up today, he must be more or less sober to read him accurately tonight.

He fingered and played, burning him with deep eye contact—the pressure, the warmth, the intensity.  Harry’s body lay open to him, completely open to him.

I love you, Severus wanted to say… but was too afraid, not after...

“Out,” Harry whispered, reading whatever micro-expression Voldemort could never find.

Severus nodded and sighed.  Moving to enter, he pushed in, taking his time.  When he started to thrust, the first few sighs sounded like magic.  Harry’s voice caught him on a line, stealing his attention and reeling him in.  Melody started, he played Harry’s voice like an instrument, only focused on his pleasure, making sure it was Lemon Drops, everything he wanted, continuing the nice even rhythm with his hand doing enough work for two.

 

Pain crept in.

Normally pain was not a problem, but without any transgressive games to balance, it settled in and knocked relentlessly at his chest with every thrust.  Readjusting, he fought it, feeling his cursed injuries, trying not to let his discomfort show.  With his physical aches, too came the mental, reminded of the other times Harry was on his back moaning performatively.

Did he enjoy anything? ...But doesn’t he enjoy everything? Was that the problem? He enjoyed it all, but didn’t want to? What if he wanted to marry him, but didn’t feel like he should?

With that thought, hot evil greed flooded him.  He wanted to corrupt Harry enough to say ‘Yes.’ Maybe he shouldn’t be sober. Maybe he had to be broken to love him. Was that it?

“Out…” Harry begged.  When Severus didn’t react, he reached for him, brushing his face with his fingers, asking him to look into his eyes. With the demand for eye contact, Severus melted into the gaze long enough for him to forget the pain, if only for a moment.

But with the glowing reminder of her, flashed the accusation: Aren't you in love with someone else?

He winced.

“Careful!” Harry gasped, trying to sit up, hyper-vigilant to what he assumed to be Severus’ physical pain.

“No…” Severus whispered, taking the back of his hand and kissing it, pushing him gently back down, restarting the thrusts. “It has already passed...” He continued to pump, rallying, forcing his body to cooperate and find a rhythm comfortable enough to fool Harry, holding him down for good measure, adding pressure to the thrusts, proving he could do so effortlessly. After a steady rhythm, Harry was fooled, letting go, relaxing again, his hyper-vigilant eyes relenting and… rolling back. When they finally closed, Severus dropped his facial acting and fucked him with his everyday disgruntled face.

“Yes… yes…” Harry begged.

Ah, but that ’s what you always say.

Knowing he didn’t have much strength left, he kept up the consistency: his best thrusts, the even pumps of his cock, and maybe Harry would finish before…

Severus collapsed without warning.   Harry gasped and caught him by the shoulders.

As he fell, Severus could feel the muscle memory of his left arm swing out to stop his fall.  He groaned.  It was too much to show this weakness but he had a job to do. Ashamed, he reached for his wand nearby, and without making eye contact, resigned himself to a strengthening charm… and re-entered. 

The charm did not take away the pain, however.

After collapsing, Harry’s eyes stayed open, monitoring him through their intimacy.

Concern—and a great deal of it.  Why did he look at him like he loved him? Was that love? Or was that simply his good nature?   Was Harry so desperate to be taken care of he threw his whole body at him to take?  But… did he not say he’d marry you in five years?  Did that mean he wouldn’t even discuss engagement for five years?  And if so, did that mean they had to be together for five years (as in four from now), or five from now (as in six together)?

“Out…” Harry squeezed his arm, gentle at first, but added pressure, tightening until he saw the light come back in Severus’ dark eyes, forcing him to be present.

“Mmm,” Severus agreed, and kissed him before readjusting.

“What’s wrong…” Harry asked, wondering why Severus’ face did not mirror any pleasure.

“Shhhh, it’s nothing… I’m right here, I’m right here…” he kissed his hand.  When Severus’ voice started to purr, Harry softened. It took minutes of thrusting to placate him back into feeling.  His eyes blinked slowly, opening half-lidded to… want.

Want. Wasn ’t that good enough for now? 

Folding into him, Severus performed for the curtain fall, sweet talking him all the way to the precipice.  Fingers threaded Severus’ hair in the final throes, Harry begging, and no amount of pain would steal him from this moment.

 

When it was over, Severus pulled out unceremoniously and summoned his trousers.

With the sudden exit, Harry propped himself up on an elbow. “Seriously?”

“Did you not enjoy it?”

“You can’t get into normal sex at all?”

“It was fine,” Severus decided. “I’ll get used to it.”

This was one hundred percent the wrong thing to say—Harry stared at him downright offended. “Are you that addicted to rough sex?”

“No,” and it was the truth. This problem was beyond sex. Do you even love me?  But he knew better than to ask loaded questions this early into Harry’s… ‘sobriety,’ so he asked the other thing that was eating him alive: “What other thirty-three percent?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Harry sighed and collapsed on the bed, not wanting to get into this again. Anything but a repeat of their heated St. Mungo’s argument. Cursed, torn-apart, and not allowed to move during his recovery, did nothing to stop Severus Snape’s brutal tongue, giving Harry a ferocious bed-side lashing.

“I don’t know…?  Nothing, I guess?  I just said I wanted to pause for a while.”

“I see…” Severus tried to accept that answer, he really did, but it wasn’t good enough. “Perhaps they’re intense for you, but they are important to me.”

“Yep,” Harry said to the ceiling, miserable.  “I got that the first time.”

“I cannot live with myself knowing the things I desire disgust you.”

“I didn’t say they disgust me, Sev.”

“You said you weren’t into it!” he snapped and his pent-up resentment oozed out. They were having all these incredible experiences, and they were only incredible for him.

“Yeah, and you don’t fancy a basic shag, but I’m pretty sure you still fancy buggering me.”

Barely.  He knew they shouldn’t be having this conversation, not when Harry was six days ‘sober,’ minus the wine he had to pretend he wasn’t drinking.  He was cutting down, but to Severus, it was the same poisoned apple.

“I shared many, many things—the high-bar kink that I desire, and you pretended to be interested, and for what?” he spat.

“Sev…” Harry warned.

“What else do you hate?  What other thirty-three percent?” he demanded.  They discussed a lot of pain play he no longer wanted to indulge in, but divulged little else.

Harry looked like he was getting a headache.  “I… I don’t know?”

“Not good enough.”

With this argument, he could almost hear Harry’s resolve slackening, hear Harry’s footsteps sneaking away to drink.  He could mask the sound of his footsteps but the old house still creaked.  During their bedside argument in St. Mungo’s, Harry abruptly stood up to huff, “Gonna grab a cuppa,” but was gone for hours… and came back giggling.  Severus laid there miserable in pain, paralyzed to heal, and beside him, Harry, drunk again.

“Forgive me,” Severus bit his tongue, turning away. “You are entitled to your boundaries. You have been more than generous to indulge me.  I shall do the same.”

“Indulge, yeah,” Harry said, frustrated.  “You indulge me, I indulge you, that’s how this is supposed to work, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Severus confirmed sourly.

“Sev, we can continue with certain stuff. Just… not right now. Not… I don’t know when, but just… not right now.”

“Yes, of course…” Severus said in a dead-pan voice that did not betray emotion but betrayed all the emotion in his attempt to hide it.

“I don’t know why you’re not being more understanding about this.”

“The idiot act never did suit you,” Severus decided.

“Yeah…? How ‘bout you bloody communicate with me instead of insulting me for once?”

“You LIED!” he burst, gesturing with his only arm. “How’s that for communication!? Faking your interest, knowing how personal those acts were to me! And for what? Why would you possibly-" he cut himself off mid-sentence, swallowing the argument.  This was all Harry’s fault, he decided.  He would have never made such a grave mistake if Harry didn’t move himself in after agreeing to brand him.  How confusing! That was all but a ring to him. Why would Harry go so far as to offer? Faking his interest with something so permanent, so important, so intimate.

“Merlin on the fucking cross, we do things for each other!  Why is it so important that you hurt me?”

It’s important that you hurt me, Severus thought, and now that he really thought about it, Harry was doing brilliant. “It’s not important that I hurt you…” he said in a small voice, back to him.  “It isn't, and won’t happen again,” and started looking for his shirt.

“That’s not even what I asked for!  Why… why don’t you write a list of sexual stuff you need, based on importance, and… let me pick from those?”

“No,” he said automatically. “Perhaps you should write a list, when you’re ready… the things you actually enjoy, and the things you’re willing to do, and I’ll pick from those,” but fear crept in as he said it… if certain things weren’t on that list… “I can do vanilla until you’re ready,” nothing is as important as you, he almost said, but reprimanded himself immediately—the reminder he was supposed to be holding back on emotional declarations for the time being.  He had to control himself until Harry felt the same, if he was ever going to feel the same.  And with that, he wanted to cry despite that he hadn’t cried since… Lily died.

Instead, you’re here with her miserable alcoholic son.  The Gods are laughing at you.

“I can do some things if they’re that important,” Harry offered, but didn’t quite meet his eye.  Many people looked away when they talked about sex, an embarrassing subject, but now Severus realized he looked away on purpose so he couldn’t read his mind if he tried. “And don’t pretend you’re interested in the things I asked for!” he accused. “I didn’t enjoy any of the hardcore dodgy stuff, yet I did it anyway, just like you didn’t enjoy taking hundreds of memories from me, shagging me while I was some blank fool, and gave them back while I screamed and cried.  You didn’t enjoy any of that, but you did it anyway!”

Severus’ breath was momentarily stolen. He shouldn’t say it, it would be too much to say it, but he couldn’t stop the words from coming.  “That was the most meaningful sexual experience of my life,” he gasped, realizing the chasm between them.

“Wow… you really don’t mind the fucked up shit, do you?”

“Is that what you think of me?” Severus whispered so venomously he couldn’t help but smile.  All he could see was the judgement, and without realizing it, he started to back away.

“No no no no no no…” Harry jumped off the bed to collect him before he could escape. “I’m sorry,” and he started showering him with kisses, knowing how badly he fucked up. Severus could feel an internal panic attack coming, and before he could get too far with it, Harry dragged him into the bed and trapped him, preventing him from running away emotionally or physically.  He pinned him with his whole body and continued his reassuring onslaught—kissing his face, his hair, his chest, his neck, in what felt like a hundred times to apologize.

Lips kissed every one of his scars: the one Nagini made, the one Mr. Weasley made, the beautiful star-shaped scar from Narcissa, and the one Lucius tried to close—the scar running through his ribcage and ripping up straight through his clavicle.  In the showering, he also kissed the end of his left arm, the flesh right before the elbow, signifying he’d kiss the Dark Mark too if he still had it.  Finally, he seared a kiss to his heart—the invisible scar Dumbledore left.

Severus’ chest full of injuries shook with emotion he normally tried to hide.

The kisses turned more intense, sexual—a deliberate trail down his right arm and started a pressured kiss to the area where they discussed the brand, adorning the soft skin there, just like he did in the months leading up to their argument.  With this act, this memory, Severus’ voice turned molten.

“You lied to me.”

Harry stopped and sighed exasperatedly. “Sev, I haven’t drank in two weeks.”

“No, not that,” and the gall, “You lied to me: we went over designs, discussed it in great detail over alcohol, a huge mistake I’m finding.  We set the date, no—you set the date!  And you were only humoring me.”

“But I was serious!” Harry urged. “We can still do that!”

“Perhaps I find those acts more meaningful than you do.”

“That’s not true!” Harry looked hurt, and his fingers did not betray him—both thumbs still on his arm, right on top of the discussed spot.  Severus desperately wanted to believe him, hope against panicked fearful desire.

“Two thirds,” Severus reminded him. “You said you weren’t interested in two thirds.”

“Are you mad?” Harry cried to the room. “Do you think I’d honestly brand someone?  Why would I do that?  You think I would do this with anyone else but you!?”

The way Harry said anyone else but you sounded like a siren's song.  And… it felt sincere, like Harry Potter heart-on-his-sleeve usually did, and his fingers still didn’t move away from the spot. Emotional and greedy, Severus quickly shut up.  It sounded like he wanted to do it, just like when they initially discussed it.  Surely Harry wasn’t so bloody thick not to play with such a declaration.  When Severus continued to stay silent, Harry gently went back to kissing the sacred spot on his arm many, many more times with his adoring tongue.

“I refuse to let you make a fool out of me.”

“Isn’t that what I always do?” Harry dared, putting his mouth where his words were, pressing his tongue deep into the spot, digging in, licking it thick with sex, pressing his mouth into the future brand spot, eyes mimicking all the intensity of a blow job. 

Severus’ heart squeezed uncomfortably while his brain argued with it, swords drawn. Sometimes he swore that Harry could make them greener inadvertently during these acts, and wondered if he even knew he was doing it.  Disturbing as it was bewitching, he doubted Harry truly knew what kind of spell he had him under.

“I’m sorry…” Harry paused to whisper.

“What are you sorry for?” Severus asked, curious exactly where his guilt lay.

“Mmmmph,” he uttered, leaving the options open. Maybe he was sorry for not accepting the ring; mishandling that whole situation.  Maybe he was sorry for his drinking or taking away the pain play from their sex life. But out of the thirty-three percent they actually discussed, acts to ax out, Malfoy’s name didn’t come up once. Severus thought that was very funny and knew better than to bring it up.

With the blanket of intimacy, sexual and emotional, Severus was momentarily placated.

“Are you done with your tantrum?” Harry asked, feeling the shift in mood, rolling over and pulling Severus with him.

“Mmmph,” he grunted, more than happy Harry intended, on some level, to make him his.

Pulling him in further, Harry cradled him, kissing him passionately, and slipped a grabby hand around his backside to play with him. 

“I don’t get why saying I wanted to ease off the hard stuff bothered you,” Harry breathed when the kiss broke. “You never laid a hand on a student but you were the biggest ass in school.  Don’t you have other ways to be cruel?  Playful, maybe? You already have the orgasm denial thing down. Thought you’d have a whole list of things we could try if I said no to others. I didn’t think it would be such a big deal, honest.”

 

First, came the silence.

 

Next… Severus’ brain lit up like a Christmas tree.  No—on fire, thinking of the many, many ways he could be cruel in a creative context.  More toned down, perhaps… but who’s to say? Doesn’t the fucked up lie in the uncanny?  Instead of stuck in the bog of ‘does he love me or not,’ his brain fired on all cylinders, working at a fever-pace.

“I don’t get it… our sex life doesn’t have to be limited.  You’re always cooking something up, why is this a death sentence to you?”

“You are correct, Potter…” Severus said in his silkiest voice, realizing exactly what Harry had been trying to get at.  He was not limiting them, he was directing them.  And roadblocks only carve new pathways. “My apologies…” Severus admitted with a slow kiss that carried.  What a fool he’d been.  His brain worked in overdrive, turning all sorts of mundane things into sexual play, mixing up several unorthodox scenarios. 

Fingers caught his hair and pulled him in. “Make love to me…” Harry breathed. “Or... do you want me to do it?” he offered, but it sounded like he preferred the first suggestion.  Harry continued to play with him, patiently waiting for a response. In for a penny, in for a pound. Severus kissed him to agree, pouring love into that kiss, trying to trust he wouldn’t regret it.

This just might survive, Severus thought, we just might survive.  Harry was not downstairs hiding with a bottle tonight. Better yet, he was asking for variety, as long as Dark Wizard Sex was off the table.

Did that not leave absolutely everything?

And in the middle: The Brand—a waiting centerpiece.

Wrapped up in Harry’s arm, the pain from Severus’ injuries soothed, his body warm, and they indulged in a snog session reminiscent of the early days, where Severus berated him mercilessly for being thick enough to show up, but once on the sofa, snogged him for two straight hours, praying he wouldn’t call him on his pathetic unhinged behavior.

 

“Harry…” Severus broke the kiss first.  “I understand that I have been no angel, nor do I intend to be,” he continued in a comforting low voice, one that promised he would be mature this time, “I… desire a future with you, and you say you want time, but your actions… contradict yourself, as do mine.   Is there something you need from me…?  To make me an attractive long-term partner, one that you would consider?”

The hand that played with him abruptly stopped, just as the jewelry pliers stopped.

Ah, right on the Galleons.

“Please, Harry.  My affections are not a secret… if there is some reason you do not feel the same, some fixable reason...”

Harry was looking away again, thoughts hidden and miserable.

 

After a painful amount of time, Harry opened his mouth.  “Why do you assume it’s you?”

Is this a better or worse answer?

“Love has nothing to do with it.”  He opened and closed his mouth.  “This relationship doesn’t feel very healthy, I mean,” he said in a small voice.  “I’m not healthy… us together’s not healthy.” He cringed with having to dispel this honesty.  “I’m not healthy,” he repeated for good measure, just to make sure Severus heard it.

It was a worse answer.  ‘It’s not you, it’s me’, felt very on brand for Harry Potter on his moral high ground, one that Severus would have a hard time snatching him from.

“So, you do love me, but it is not enough…”

 “That’s not it at all,” Harry shook his head as if to dispel an annoying fly. “The love is more than enough—that’s why we’re together despite the…” he searched for a better word but couldn’t find it, “…unhealthy.  And your recent stunt—I can't comprehend it.”

“I see…” Severus said, somber.  “You love me, but do not wish to?”  

“I feel like you’re just another one of my bad habits.”

Severus frowned heavily, voice about to snap.  “So I am the proble-”

”You’re an addiction, and maybe not… a good one.”

Severus stared.

“I’m addicted to you.”

 

These words went past Severus’ mind and pierced his soul, landing straight into the murky place where Dark Wizard Sex and brands lie.  Where a more reasonable man would consider the consequence of that statement… Severus slowly spread an evil smile that took over his whole face.

“Addicted, you say?” Severus simmered. 

Harry looked on, resigned to giving him this loaded information.

“That is your affliction? You poor thing…” He kissed the back of his hand, oozing mock empathy laced with power.

“And that’s why I want to wait five years.  I haven’t been making good decisions, and haven’t made them for a while.  I almost destroyed my relationship with Teddy, and I'm amazed he still even talks to me.  You're not the only person I need to get sober for.  I need the fog to clear so I can think straight.”   

“Mmm,” Severus agreed.  Not to scare him, he reigned in his manic greedy expression, covering it with a calmer one while his evil danced victoriously behind a curtain.  This was one addiction he would not let Harry escape from.  

Knowing that he had won, Severus tipped his affection cup over to spill, hair falling, pouring his lips over finger tips and Harry’s palm, moving down to his wrist, overflowing, gentle, and passionate.  

“Little lower, yeah?” Harry said in a breath, shifting his pelvis slightly, telling him to get a move on.  

After one final kiss to seal the others, Severus sat up and encircled his hand around Harry’s waist and squeezed... before brushing his finger tips lower.  This time, his piercing gaze wasn’t fake, it was starving. 

Their first go tonight was nothing but a snack, this was the real meal.  Harry’s eyes mimicked his—hungry and wanting. 

Framed by the dark curtain of the four-poster, Harry looked absolutely perfect on the bed—another beautiful snapshot in time. 

The look he gave him did not escape him—eager and curious what he’d roll out next.

Even during their intense conversation, Severus’ subconscious was stacking up sexual variety scenario bricks waist-high, ready when needed.  He summoned a box, immature rubbish left lying around the house.   After a moment, it made its way upstairs and flew into his hand. 

“Lemon Drop?” he offered.

“Really?” Harry laughed at the junk George left, tilting the box to see the chocolate first and then to the side so he could read it.  

Weasley ’s Wizarding Wheezes presents: Sweet Dreams. A confectionery concoction for the steamiest of dreams, guaranteed. 17+ Warning: do not use as sleep aid: habit forming.

Severus took one of the sweets out with two delicate fingers and placed it on Harry’s waiting tongue, who thoughtfully chewed it… before cringing.

“And…? How does it taste?”

“Mmmm, it’s… alright.  Chocolate and sugar’s covering up something dreadful.”

“It will be better soon...”

“Mmm,” Harry agreed. 

Entering, Severus pushed in slowly, relishing every inch, and started gentle rhythmic thrusts.  Soon, Harry’s sighs became deeper, eyes glazing over and losing to sleep fast, peace stealing his face.  Severus watched him fade away, his only hand reserved for cock, allowing him to enjoy some wonderful alternate world. 

Whatever dream Harry was having, it looked pleasant.  But he still wasn’t ready to let go… and fell asleep with his eyes open.

 

 

 

Chapter 21: Afterwards

Notes:

This is the last chapter. The next section is Authors Notes and original sketches+ bonus sketches.

..

 

 

My apologies go out to the delicate, depressed, and idiot readers, who took my 9 Surefire Ways to Kill Yourself too literally.

Imagine my annoyance: after all the years of attempting to cram knowledge into the thickest of adolescence, this is the lesson they choose to pass with flying O’s.

As I knew very few of you personally, I decided it’s not a loss.

Next, I insist acknowledging the audacity from my previous employer, the Daily Prophet, for pretending to be the moral oasis while they shamelessly profit from all the deaths I inspired.

If you are enjoying this shitshow, please purchase a copy of my new book (funding my legal defense), Sex Two Dark for Wizards, found absolutely nowhere but everywhere you care to look.

You might be relieved to know, the Ministry of Magic has finally tracked me down and put a limit on what I can publish.  No longer can I give you perfectly practical ways to end your suffering or list real Dark Arts purely in a sexual context.  But roadblocks only carve new pathways.  I am working closely with my rich friend’s (very good) solicitor about technicalities I can exploit so I can continue to provide the rubbish you perverts are so desperate to read. Thankfully, my skills to alluding are unmatched, as well as my manner in all things double-speak, so I can show up every week to toss the scheduled slab of depravity into the feral general public's hungry cage.

 

On to my life, I am in penance.

I drank my Dark Arts cup empty, down to the dregs. My ex-Auror has found his last Dark Wizard, and now caught, I am paying for my crimes, forbidden from the Dark Arts both in print and in the bedroom.

Our adventures continue, however, from the novel to the bizarre, and now we’ve reached the muggle and wandless.

Whoever wrote Tantric Sex, Muggle Meditation for the One Hour Orgasm, kindly refer to my article, 9 Surefire Ways to Kill Yourself.  And I shall be right behind you, as he insists on trying out every chapter.  I never dreamed sex could be so boring.  No one needs to have three-hour long sessions when I could have easily accomplished the same result with a wand.  No, I don’t have a day job, but my mind has better things to do with its time.

Amongst my legal woes, I have found myself humbled.  Despite the deaths generously placed at my feet, many kind readers reached out to ask about my health and my relationship during this troubled time.  The answer is: Dreadful, because he forbade from asking for his hand for five solid years.

Naturally, I asked again in two months. 

…He reminded me not to ask.

So, in three, I begged.

And in four, I demanded.

I have asked every month since, and I am pleased to report the pauses before the nos keep getting longer.  Although he keeps refusing, I do enjoy the small detail that he never gave back the ring.

Just to punish him for saying no six months in a row, I have been refusing sex outright.  It is driving him mad and my cruelty meter is finally getting filled. People have pegged me as a manipulative man, and there’s some truth in that.  He’s losing it, not getting a piece of me, and it feels so delicious to be lusted after.  Is this a new kink?  (I think it is!)

In truth, our relationship is doomed.  His family does not approve nor do his friends (they kindly keep their tongue), and even my rich friend (who joined us in Berlin), does not approve either, and complains about him endlessly when he’s not in the room.  But as fate has a sense of humor, I think he likes that no one approves.  Enjoys breaking rules… something I’d forgotten.

I am selfishly keeping him all to myself, and now that he’s not sacrificing himself for all of you, he’s never been safer. He stopped sneaking drinks between months three and five, and the screaming stopped somewhere between months six and eight.

And all of those memories he never asked for back, those horrors swirling and waiting? I freed them into a stream before we even left.

 

Now for the best of news… I belong to a new Master!

Readers, there is a picture-perfect scene that comes to mind when one thinks proposal. The bended knee, the gasp, the yell, the shaking of the hand… the hug, the lift, the climax of happiness—a promise of a beautiful life shared.

I was not far off: ecstatic and shaking, but there was no ring… there was iron. My heart pumped wildly, visible through my chest.  We went literal—no magic.  Perhaps he expected me to cry out as he pressed the glowing iron into my flesh, but I never moved, accepted it completely, even as it smoked.  He was covered in sweat and fear, but I was oh-so-alive.

Have I won?  Time will tell.

 

In lieu of drinking, Dark Sex, and things like careers, we are traveling. He has climbed every mountain in Europe and insists taking me with him.

Hiking… with one arm.

With all the details I dropped about my identity, I held an inconsequential one back: I am left-handed. I cannot begin to tell you how devastating it was to lose my wand arm, how much I suffered and crippled myself.  Now, I only feel half a wizard. I have been accused of being a mind reader and ambidextrous, but alas, I am not ambidextrous.

More confusing still, was to find out how much my ex-Auror actually liked my original mark.  To him, it was a testament to my sacrifices—how much I did care.  All that I’ve done for him and the community.  I should have realized he loved the original—how much he kissed it when we were alone.  What else have I been too stubborn to see?  

He is ninety days sober and I have never been more miserable, stuck traveling the world with a man I have nothing in common with.  Not books, not magic, not ethics, not food, and frankly, I don’t even like him.  But somehow, I am madly in love with him: we share nothing but a deep history and seem to have everything the other person lacks.

This year, I have been dragged around in search for the best mountains (I say they all look the same), dipped underground spelunking, and peddled across the countryside because he never owned a bike as a child.  He is talking about Everest (what a shithole, think I managed to talk him out of it), but after visiting the ocean and having a particularly close call with a Cetus, I have stopped these adventures cold.  I’ve been almost killed by enough beasts to be getting along with and refuse to accompany him any longer.  Now, I am stuck writing in hotels, cabins, and even… a hostel.  The duck and I did not enjoy the hostel, but he insisted on the experience.

Only great love could get me into a hostel.

 

To those who have sued me, I have sorry news: I am not going away.  

My work morphs and continues… I even have an editor.  I cannot stand her… or… I don’t understand her.  I’m still making up my mind.  But she has advised me if I cannot legally write about the Dark Arts, I am to take your questions and respond scathingly, the way I would do in real life.

There you have it readers: Dark Wizard Sex is now under your control. 

Send in your letters… your owl will find me, wherever I am.  I have never been so desperate for a distraction: he comes home (back to whatever shithole we’re staying at) describing what he climbed on that day. 

He is free climbing, reserved for the reckless and stupid, and he is both, but also very hard to kill.

My life has turned from the best kink to boulders. Abstinence from Dark Wizard Sex is good for his sobriety, but terrible for mine.

So, to the wannabe Dark Wizards of Sex, the sickos and perverts, the disgusting and creative, the ground-breaking and adventurous, write your depravity to me so I can live vicariously through you.

 

Send me your letters… I promise not to be kind.

 

~END~

 

 

Notes:

WAIT!  Don’t go!  Next section are authors notes, plus all my sketches, including ones you haven’t seen before!  The bonus section is always worth it!

 

WOOO!!!   Thank you all for reading my fic!  I hope you LOVED it!   As you can see, this was a labor of love with all the artwork created.    If you enjoyed it, kindly let me know!

Chapter 22: (BONUS) Authors Notes and Orginal Sketches

Notes:

Hello friends! I don't like author's notes to take you out of the story so they're all here in the back, including all of my original sketches plus bonus sketches!

Authors Notes

 

SKETCHES AND AUTHORS NOTES

 

 I had so much fun writing this!  Hopefully you enjoyed it and had fun reading it!

 

 

1. Severus Snape reveals he is an ugly duck
   

Sometimes I think of a fic name and I'm like "Yeah, that's great fuckin' title."  

 In my eighth-year fic, Harry Potter and Dark Enigmas, Harry jokes that Snape wrote his own sex book called Sex for Dark Wizards.

I also wanted to duplicate the magic of my other fic, The Ugliest Veela, where Snape is a witty piece of shit. I decided my fics are more entertaining when I write them from Snape’s point of view.

 

This project was a higher level of insanity for me. I am supposed to be working on a different fic, but I did this one instead. Who the fuck spends 250+ hours on artwork for a tiny little fic? I really question my judgement. And I had to do shading?  WTF why. 

 

I thought it would be Snape’s own private joke to pretend initially to be a Lockhart character, everything he is not, and then he reveals he’s the ugly duck the man is holding.

Wulfric the duck: believe it or not, the duck was originally a throw away joke, an ugly duckling/Ugliest Veela reference.   The more I edited, I threw him in more: Severus has a pet duck. No reason. He just has one. I thought it was silly and I liked it. Duck’s pretty chill. I got almost to the end of the fic where I decided, fuck it, Snape uses the duck as his owl.   Sends letters and delivers his publications to the Prophet and answers his fan mail. He has a duck, and when he yells at it, he calls it Albus.

Wulfric has no literal significance to Dumbledore besides Snape found it near his tomb.

The duck is a magical familiar, just like a cat or an owl, in tune to Severus’ moods, and it did not enjoy delivering mail in and out of the Himalayas. 

 

2. The Three Horned Puck (one of the horns is its dick)

Snape admits that he likes to think he’s more moral than some, but has tried every concoction, no matter how dark. All the most illegal aphrodisiacs, regardless of how dark the ingredients, he’s tried (if not loved).

 It’s slightly cheeky, but the Three-Horned Puck has only two horns in the drawing, which means its third “horn” is behind its loincloth.

 

3. Torture Responsibly

To our boi Severus Snape, all of these spells are pretty light. This is the easy stuff.  He’s having a fun time sharing the tamer of the kink. Lots of fun making this stuff up.

I feel like the two examples shown are excellent examples of how one man’s torture is another man’s pleasure.  With a responsible partner, even risky spells may be fun to try.

 

4. Imperio to fuck yourself juussssst the way you want with someone else’s body

For the original sketch, he was supposed to be laying down on the bed, controlling his lover from behind.  The way I ended up drawing it, it looked like he was standing so... welp, he's standing and I had to get rid of the bed.

 

I wanted it to be REAL Dark magic. I wanted it to be very unethical. What better than an Unforgivable? And if magic was real, wouldn’t fucking yourself using someone else’s body be the way to go? Take over the mind to make a sex slave?

I feel like a lot of people would absolutely use this in the bedroom in leu of laws. I also enjoy all the idiosyncrasies of the drawbacks. Wouldn’t your control over your partner wane right before or during orgasm? I think it would take a strong mind to fuck for two, which means not many people could pull this off, and if you could, you would not be able to truly relax as you’re controlling another.

 

5. Snape tells Harry to go fuck himself

Just so it’s clear Harry is legitimately investigating him for work. Someone is publishing real Dark magic for sex, including the Unforgivables. Although Harry is doing a lot of investigating, he decides he will actually get more information if he just shows up and talks to him. They know each other, after all, even if Snape has avoided him like the plague post-war. Harry’s right… he’s about to learn a whole lot.

 

6. Brand me, Daddy

Not seen in the above sketch, but the final product turned out incredible.  The top flames were snakes and the fire cast the skull shadow.  I was pleased as punch in how it turned out.

 

My favorite line in this chapter is Severus explaining how he’s a foolish young sycophant for the Dark Lord and it slowly dawns on him that Voldemort is fucking nuts. Here he is, tied to a Master, and now that he’s maturing, realizes how bloody weird it is to be branded by a man with no intention to fuck him. Severus kind of wakes up and realizes he’s in a cult.

I also hoped the readers would get a kick out of Snape’s stance on Unbreakable Vows: 0/10, do not recommend.

 

7. Sickos, Perverts, and Mercy, Oh My!

Once upon a time, I considered a Sketch of Severus Snape with the Dragon in the back garden with Severus and the duck looking out.  

 

I had a vision for this picture, Severus with a bandage around his eye with the eyeball suspended in liquid, the duck looking at it.   But this picture was too similar to the one in chapter ten, so I changed it.

 

Perhaps I have a dark sense of humor, but I can see with all the perverted things people have asked him, he gets the request to fuck his eye, thinks about it, shrugs, and carry’s on.  He puts in it a jar with some preserving liquid, cleans up the area, and allows his orifice to be penetrated by the head of a dick. Might even give it some extra room. I can also see him with the bandage around his eye, waiting for the infection to clear thinking “fucking hell, never again.”  

 

In terms of what “breaks” Severus, now that I’m thinking on it, I cannot pinpoint the inspiration. If you have read multiple fics of mine, I do like to give the broad spectrum of morality and mirror the sweetness and horror of life.

I am very happy with what I’ve devised (the removal of memories).  I think it is believable.  The request is both simple, complicated, and painfully intimate.  But it’s also emotional and horrifying, one that would break both of them.  An uncanny, uncharted ground of a sexual experience. Snape, who is a fan of the Dark, would be cut to his soul by this experience. He is broken, unable to use his cruelty, his defense mechanism, and is faced with the intimacy of Harry without his core memories, trusting him completely.

Severus was forced to be gentle with him, so he mimicked making love to him, because he didn’t know what else to do because Harry seemed too fragile.  The experience left Severus emotionally and internally shaking.

The giving up of one’s memories and slowly asking for them back, reingesting the pain, knowledge, and core memories even if they hurt him. Mirrors Dumbledore and the cave, I think, in terms of intensity (minus the inferi)

Like the Maurader’s Map, I can see Severus wanting the memory chart, the chart with a thousand numbers and letters, hand written, could be folded many times. The complexity. The intricacy. The organization and intelligence that Harry rarely showed because he’s just a likable “normal” person on the surface.

 

8. Truly Unethical Magic

As you can see, the title of this chapter changed.  Just didn't jell well, especially with all the other unethical shit that happens during this fic. 

 

I prefer the extremely thin version of Snape.  I feel like the twisted unhealthy look sort of suits him.  It's a challenge to draw him that thin, and it was also a challenge to keep up the consistency of his thin unhealthy look.  I am trying to draw him sort of ugly-beautiful, not sure how much I succeed.

 

Snape has been using Harry for sex with reckless abandon. Without boundaries, they are playing fast and loose and everything’s fair. What Snape does not mention in the column is that Harry can break out of the Imperious at literally any time. The control stuff is always just for show.

Snape’s wards and boundaries mean nothing, and Harry refuses to be kept out. Snape will use him if he’s dumb enough to come. The intimacy is there as an undercurrent, but the aggression and shameless sex presents itself on the surface. Best not look below the water.

 

9. Lies and Sexual Assault

I debated whether or not to add this when I wrote it: am I really going to have Snape sexually assault Harry by default?  But once the idea presented itself, it felt… on brand for the fic. Once I saw this dark path, it felt like I was cheapening the story by not including it. I wanted to hammer home the depths of it. Snape was unethical by default, and although I knew it would turn readers off, it felt so… right for this fic?  This fic needed to go there, so it went there. 

 

10. Snape intends to write a sequel.

I final version of this picture took fuckin' forever.

 

It’s awkward:  although the general public may not have caught on, everyone who knows Snape knows he’s writing this trash.   Harry has to wait in horror as his boyfriend publishes the highlights of their very taboo sex life.  Mrs. Weasley reads it.  Hermione reads it.  Ron reads it.  Everyone they know reads it.   Harry doesn’t know what to do, but also knows Snape was going to publish.  He gritted his teeth and waited for the blow… and boy, did he get one. 

Because it was a little confusing at first, the first mention of Mum is Mrs. Weasley, the mum that collected him into her family, and the mention of her is Lily.

In the heat of the argument, Harry points out that Snape would have never done that to the woman he loved.  A lot of writers write Harry and Snape as gay, but I typically don’t.  Snape’s love for Harry’s mom was very much real, and insist in making it a complication.  And he is right: Snape would have never done something so disgusting to Lily.  But Snape and Harry do not have that rosy pure dynamic.  That part of Snape, his joy and picturesque white picket fence family, the ideal relationship, died with her.   He wants a little downs with his ups.  He wants reckless abandon and no boundaries with a partner.  A disgusting relationship, emphasis on disgusting.  A relationship you could drag through the mud and say “thank you sir, can I have another?”

It was a huge decision to turn Snape into someone who would knowingly violate not just laws, but consent. I never intended to write someone as a rapist when I started this fic, but by definition, he would be.  If there is a sliver of defense… he had a sneaking suspicion if he dangled Lucius around long enough, it would bleed into transgressions eventually. He took a shortcut and pushed him into the deep end. Is this sexual assault? Absolutely. Did I write him to be a rapist with no morals? No, he is quite the opposite, and this would have turned into one of the biggest regrets of his life if it did not work out favorably.  An gamble that played out in his favor.

Snape wants the kink, forces his hand with a bluff, and of course.  What’s not to like?  An attractive, well groomed, nice smelling, beautiful cock of a mother fucker?   Except Harry fucking hates that guy.  And if you have a boner for justice, it’s not going to happen.  Harry is on board, he’s just unhappy he boarded.  Disappointed in himself.

 

Perhaps I turned off the reader at that point.  But as the writer, I ask:  what part of Dark Wizard Sex confused you?  I did not name this fic Dumbledore’s Lemon Drops for Lovers.

 

11. Severus permanently splits his tongue, has to pretend he didn’t

When I wrote Harry Potter and the Dark Enigmas, many people said there wasn’t any happy sex and that bothered them.   I didn’t realize I didn’t include… any of it?  (I actually think I included plenty of it, there was just lots of arguing before, in the middle, or after.)  I think I enjoy the contention.   Why would Harry be happy when he could be fucking freaked the fuck out and kick Snape in the face in his effort to get away from his weird tongue?    

 

12. Snape Cripples Himself
13. 

This sketch was originally for chapter six but as you can see, I switched some stuff around.

 

I’m not sure how many armless Snape fics are out there, but to me if felt natural to go in this direction.   I feel like canon Snape would accept his Dark Mark the way the Bloody Baron wears his blood, in penance, but there is another reality where he may want to move on with his life and just be… normal, or as normal as he could be, now that a new chapter is actually starting.  No job, new love, new life. 

I never found a good place to put in Harry’s reaction to coming home to his boyfriend missing part of his arm but I pictured a lot of screaming.   This of course, would be followed by a late evening of holding with very few words spoken because he knew exactly why he did it. 

And his WAND arm!  His dominant arm.  For a wizard as skilled as Severus, but in cutting potion ingredients to the exact length and all things magic, he crippled himself heavily.

 

On a lighter note, I love creating magical sexual shit.  I have a lot of it swimming in my head.  I have so many I’m not sure when I could even roll them out.

 

13. Harry is forced to Resign

The original sketch for this was Harry literally hiding in a closet and Severus checking in on him, composed, but concerned.   This was set out to be a beautiful drawing, but once I drew death with tea, I fell in love with that more.  Something about it stole me. The haunting etherealness.

 

I think I caused a lot of confusion!  Severus is not “out” as the writer, not officially, for the entire fic. This “common knowledge” happens in stages.  In the beginning, he drops very few details about his identity. 

 

As the column continues, to those who know Snape personally, it’s a dead ringer. I would say anyone still alive in the Order is violently rolling their eyes with Snape’s antics.

To everyone who’s never met him, not so much.

Next, everyone at Hogwarts knows via proximity. 

Then, it trickles through the Ministry of Magic because of Harry’s relationship. 

After that, it becomes more “public suspicion” where it’s obvious that it’s him to others and it’s a “no way it’s him” just because so many people find him repulsive—a casual public debate. 

Even when it’s painfully obviously it’s him, like in chapter fifteen, it’s still not officially confirmed. 

 

In terms of the Ministry rumors, I pictured an internal crusade from holier-than-thou Ministry employees because Harry was playing with Unforgivables in the bedroom.  He is an Auror and his boyfriend is literally publishing Dark Arts.   Kingsley knows that Severus is just having a laugh, but the shit he’s printing is plenty dark.   Too many people get involved and Harry is forced to resign before the investigation can go any further, especially because he’s not about to break up with him.

It is revealed in this chapter that Harry is actually a functioning alcoholic. Severus has been trying to mitigate his PTSD and addiction this entire time.

I was worried that the emotional bondage in this chapter would get misconstrued and sound way worse than it was but it seems like the general audience understood Severus’ intentions perfectly even though he took some spoils. 

 

 

14. The fury of Narcissa

 

I love how haunting the sketch was.  Didn’t quite capture it in the final.  Also, I keep trying to draw Snape ugly and failing.  My goodness, he’s so pretty here (but exhausted.)   I do like how his scar turned out, managed to capture it nicely.  He also looks appropriate thin in this one, and in the final, he just looks kinda Disney Villain hot.   Arthur tried to disembowel him. 

 

Severus just published a column where he admits to hiding Harry from his friends and family.  They came many times and Severus lied through his teeth, keeping Harry away from him and in some closet somewhere.

He gets attacked by Arthur (for essentially kidnapping Harry) and Narcissa (for dragging her husband into his sex shit and writing about it).  Both attacks happen in the same week.

Because Severus lost his wand arm, he is having to relearn everything with his right and his reflexes are way off.  

He feels like he could have taken Arthur, but decided the only reason he got hurt in that duel was his guilt, knowing Harry’s “father” would be upset after reading the things he was doing to Harry, even if most of it was with his permission.

Narcissa got him good, and he decided he deserved that too, but it healed rather cleanly.  Harry and Snape both decide the scar looks both impressive and oddly lovely.  

 

15. The Prophet Drops Snape’s column for liability reasons.

So this original sketch was so ambitious I couldn't even.   The pensive was supposed to be overflowing with a lot of Harry's memories. The visuals were supposed to be melting out of the pensive and distorted.  Inside was a Dementor.  Crawling out of it was an acromantula. I had the locket and Mad-Eye's eye and maybe the blood quill and Hedwig and a rat.  It was just... too much. When I was fleshing it out, the Pensive was turning out beautiful as is.

 

Snape is no longer getting paid, the Quibbler being the main publication for Sex Book for Dark Wizards. Luna is in the background, coming home to help Daddy with the newspaper.  She is now writing her own column about magical creatures.  I can see Severus stopping by very rarely to discuss something in person with Xenophilius, and Luna is there, greeting him brightly while he freezes up, and thinks better of ignoring her outright or insulting her in front of her father, and forces out a few uncomfortable words in passing.

 

It's Snape, it’s Snape, it’s Snape!  Everyone knows it’s Snape who’s writing the column, and he decides he hates his new fame.  Ever since he’s lost his arm he really hasn’t gone out much.   He’s getting a LOT of positive attention (and negative) right about now, and recognizes that part of him WANTED this, but it feels just so… uncomfortable.  And now the general public knows it’s (most likely) him, a lot of people are propositioning him for their weird desires.   The very few times he had gone out in public turned out to be a disaster and is still sort of hiding at his house.

In a world where anything is possible, I assumed people could really fuck up other people with magic on the down-low, and wouldn’t sexual assaults be easy?   For example, wouldn’t it be super easy to blow up a girl’s robes with a “strong gust of wind”?  In fact, there would be no shortage of atrocities for the pervert to exploit.   Contraception charms would be standard, I think.  Most people wouldn’t have to worry about it, because the immoral are few and far between, but those twisted souls would still exist, and wouldn’t it be easy to get away with things on a crowded street?

 

To add to the horror, now that Harry isn’t working as an Auror anymore, they decided to remove some more traumatic memories.  But this goes wrong, as there is a public expectation to still be Harry Potter.  After he realizes his “forgetting” victims hurts the dead one’s memory and their families, he re-ingests the memories out of guilt.  Severus… is… PISSED.  Harry was doing so much better and now he’s drinking again.

 

16. The Elusive Fourth Hole

I typically do all of my sketches at once over a period of many days just so I have a template for inspiration and a placeholder.  When I did this sketch, I originally thought it was going to be my standout piece.  I worked very hard on the final product and it didn't quite turn out the way I wanted it to, but the final product is still pretty sweet.

 

For this fic in particular I have been trying to draw Severus more bat-like.  The ears, specifically.  Hopefully this has some bat-like qualities to it.  I also added glittery eyes since the OG author mentioned Snape’s glittering eyes more than once.  

The Elusive Forth Hole is a phrase that originated, from all places, from Gilbert Godfreid during a Comedy Central roast.  He does a bit about rich men searching for Eastern European women with the Elusive Fourth Hole. It is perhaps the funniest bit I have ever heard in my entire life, you might be able to find it on youtube.  This was probably the top two times I’ve laughed the hardest.  It wasn’t just his joke, but his delivery.   

This chapter was originally called the Elusive Fourth Hole, but this would be the “third” hole because they’re in a same-sex relationship.    It took me literally six months or more to change the title to something that made sense.

I’ve dropped a lot of hints that Harry is simply not comfortable with a lot of the sexual shit that Severus rolls out, even more so now that he’s trying to get sober.  

I enjoyed the little monologue of them starting to move in together and Severus repairing his house.  No matter how Dark he is, Severus is very smitten right now.

 

17. The Day the Jewelry Pliers Stopped.

Trauma and co-dependency.  Severus is over the moon with their twisted, deep, murky, sticky, never-leave-my-side relationship.  To him, this is all he ever wanted.  He’s never had a single healthy relationship, so to him, the codependency feels like the premiere relationship model.  Harry simply… knows better. 

They’re moving in together (Harry is trying to escape his old life,) Harry agrees to brand him, (He did so when he was drunk, and it came from a sexual, animalistic place.)  Severus is pleased and excited that Harry is his and they’ll be starting their life together.   

Harry is not sober, but he’s trying.  He lost his job, his identity, things are terrible with the Weasley’s, his house-elf died, and he’s trying to escape is own memories.   He’s… caught off guard with the engagement suggestion/proposal hint, and doesn’t think they should get married right now. All the unspoken problems with their relationship bubble to the surface, Harry’s alcoholism, his PTSD, the fact that none of their friends or family approve, not even their special bedroom unicorn Malfoy, Harry admits that the sex they’ve been having is too intense, and don’t you love my mother or something?

 

Severus is also caught off guard, because he thinks their relationship is perfect outside of Harry’s drinking.  

He is also honest when he says this is the best shape he’s ever going to be in. He is alive, he is sane, and he’s finally in a loving relationship.  After all the fucked-up things that happened to him, what he did for the war, what he let happen to others, he is in decent working order and looks forward to settling down with someone. 

 

To avoid any miscommunication in the fic… there was no miscommunication. Harry did not want to marry him. At all.  Harry views his relationship with Snape as just another one of his addictions.  Everything wrong feels good right now.  Harry is deeply obsessed too, but knows their relationship isn’t healthy… and he’s trying to be healthier. 

The rejection was real and it sent Severus to spiral.

 

18. Lucius: the hero

I am a little disheartened I never quite capture the horror and beauty of this picture’s sketch.   I love Wulfric’s body in the here, but ducks neck’s just don’t work that way.  Hmmm, perhaps I should have kept that body form anyway.  I fiddled with this picture way to long and sort of gave up.   I wanted to show the gash in the wall through the doorway.  I wanted it to be sort of horrific and beautiful. 

The white looked nice and was a nice contract, but he also looked... too dead in that one?  I have a few other variations where it's even more white and glowy.  I didn't want people to think he died and went to heaven and readers to nope the fuck out.

 

 

Can’t Snape kill himself in peace!?

Wulfric “Albus” the duck is quacking up a storm, following Snape around as he gets his affairs in order.

Snape tries to send the duck away with Harry’s letter… but he refuses. He tries to send him away with his manuscript… but he refuses. Snape has no choice but to use his unwitting neighbor’s sturdy owl, leaving the poor Wulfric as witness for what he’s about to do.

It was a challenge to write all those suicide spells but I think the chapter turned out fabulous.  Also, the part about enlisting a coworker to help you ;)  Hey, that works sometimes.

Lucius is secretly the hero of the story, who upon receiving the manuscript and the letter, Apparates directly into Snape’s house and stops him from dying from blood loss.

 

 

19. Dark Wizard Hunter

 

I admittedly LOVE this chapter.   It was difficult to balance it where it sounded sort of believable while allowed it to be stupid.

Part of me worries this chapter is too silly but I do love reading it.

“SHUT UP, ALBUS!”

Part of me knows that real Harry would have told Kingsley that the duck’s name was Wulfric when they were hunting him, but the reveal was too adorable.

In normal circumstances, Severus would have been able to defend himself from being taken, but he was extremely weak from his unhealed injuries, carrying on, fed by his anger and vengeance.

 

It wasn’t so explicitly said, but Wulfric was sick of the Himalayas and made no attempt to hide Severus’ location when he was flying in and out.    When he quacks in the beginning of the chapter, it’s not to warn Severus, it’s because he’s excited to see Harry.

 

 

20. Lemon drops for lovers

In the above sketch, Snape is pretending to shoot himself in the head weeks after his suicide attempt.  Harry is not amused.

 

 

Calm down chapter. 

Someone said this fic had a lot less sex than they were expecting and I thought that was extremely hilarious because they’re right.  Sometimes I feel guilty or disrupting people's expectations for fics, but hey, I'm an artist first ;)

 

Nothing is really fixed.  They are together.  Severus is feeling rejected and he’s in a lot of pain.  Harry does not want to marry him and he’s still struggling with cutting down. 

In the past couple of weeks, Severus has been analyzing their entire relationship. With his new lens, he does not like what he sees, but Harry’s actions still contradict themselves.

 

Another tidbit that is never discussed is that Severus is essentially a non-drinker.  He never touched alcohol because of his father, but then drank during his Death Eater Days, but has not touched alcohol since Lily died. The sentence is a throw-away but has some backstory: Snape actually starts casually drinking with Harry, breaking his own almost thirty years of sobriety to enjoy the bonding opportunity with his boyfriend. It is mentioned that the night they discussed branding Severus they were drinking at the time.  Severus has wonderful memories of this night, an intimate time on the bed and a bottle of wine shared, the love rich between them, the discussion, Severus being his, the discussion of how and where and why—a very sexual and intimate conversation.

Harry does love Severus, how could he not? He is more than deserving of his love, especially after Snape was taking care of him for a full year while Harry tries to get sober and fix himself. The reason why Harry doesn’t comfort Severus after his temper tantrum was because what Severus did (try to kill himself,) was so upsetting and traumatic, he holds back on I love yous and emotional comfort because he is too hurt, exhausted, and guarded to do so.

Edit:  I actually edited this chapter extremely recently.  In my author’s notes I put:  Harry views his relationship as one of his unhealthy addictions.  And then I thought to myself: why am I keeping that in my author’s notes?  So I wrote it explicitly into the fic only a week before posting.

I was already extremely happy with the flow of the chapter, but I tore it apart to add it, sold by the visual of Severus kissing his hand and saying “That is your affliction?  You poor thing…” in a mocking greedy tone… all too happy for the power.  

 

 

21. Snape's New Editor

When I first started, Severus losing his arm was supposed to be hinted at heavily until it was finally revealed in this final chapter.  I gloriously failed.  All the hints were more confusing than anything so I rolled it out, explicit and blaring, exactly when it happened.

Isn’t Wulfric ADORBS?

 

Never quite said, but Severus denying Harry sex was very short lived.  Because they weren’t having sex, there was a lot of non-sex happening like grinding and jacking off on him when he wouldn’t give it to him.  Harry being physically active all day, getting the blood pumping coming home and just being horny as fuck, but not being able to have sex with Severus… rinse and repeat for weeks, everything building to a boil where Harry just can’t not have him. It was a very cruel game Snape was playing, and Harry may have stolen sex from Severus when he couldn’t take it anymore, but honestly, Severus was very happy to be stolen.

 

More behind the scenes!

Luna Lovegood is Snape’s new Editor at the Quibbler!   It’s a very confusing relationship, and he doesn’t know how to take her while she directs him to take questions and weigh in on readers Darkest, Sexiest, and Kinkiest dilemmas. She is very kind to him (something that annoys him).  It’s hard to be mean back because she is too confusing so his quips don’t work in every circumstance (often throws him for a loop and breaks this retorts).  She also doesn’t bat an eyelash at the subject matter. “Daddy says sales are good.”

Canon-ish Draco is soooo fucking pissed with Snape and his entire family, and of course, Harry Potter. So much so, he cannot form words. Snape is dating/fucking Harry Potter, dragged his father into threesomes, pisses off his mother, and writes about it for the whole world to read. Draco has ceased talking to Snape who is sorry to destroy a relationship with a pupil and someone he tried to protect, but understands… and leaves the door open.

 

More, more, more behind the scenes:

Teddy absolutely exists in this fic.   I (think) I have Severus 50 in this fic and Harry is 30?  Teddy is at Hogwarts during most of this.  I meant to weave him in somehow, a mere mention, but I never found an authentic place to put him in.  Instead of coming home after Hogwarts, Teddy is staying with Andromeda because Severus is in the hospital.   Instead of a huge fucking house, they are all about to move into Spinner’s End and the transition is not great for the three of them.   Teddy spent a lot of time at Andromeda’s and the Weasley’s (a second home) during this fic because Harry (was) gone all the time for work, and is now struggling with his demons.  

 

I usually do a one year edit, so I will probably sew a mention of him somewhere in chapter 17 during the move.

---

 

 

Thanks for reading my fic and I hope you enjoyed it and the artwork!   You have found the Narrated Epilogue:

 

As alluded, Severus is sued by the families of the people who committed suicide using his published methods.  Lucius pays for his legal defense. Severus wins the Collective Proceeding Order Regmine against him but loses some of the individual lawsuits. Harry pays those. The legal battle outs his identity officially…and… it’s fine. Severus always had a terrible reputation—a heartless teacher, Death Eater, Dumbledore killer. Depraved National Pervert is... fine. He calls it “an acceptable fate.”

Ron and Hermione are instantly pro-Snape as soon as Harry returns home from his year of traveling completely sober. They have their old Harry back. They give Snape all the credit for turning him around but Harry’s successes are all his own, as journeys in that realm usually are.

The next year, Harry, Ron, and Hermione travel the world together, broadening their experiences and their magical knowledge.   Snape, for the most part, stays home unless it’s a particularly interesting place.

After relentlessly asking him to marry him Harry doubles down and forces Severus to wait the full five years on principle (as in four more years, five together), but starts wearing the ring much earlier. This causes a lot of confusion when they do finally plan on getting married, as everyone thought they were already married.

Draco only makes it three years before he lands himself into trouble and requests Snape’s assistance to slither out of repercussions. Instead of rubbing it in his face, Severus helps him unquestioningly. They never, ever, ever talk about his marriage to Harry or the sex books that clearly hint to his father’s involvement. Draco does not know, but Severus never actually fucked Lucius or vice versa, but with what they have done, decided that was a moot point.

Severus does not want children.  Period. Harry wants them, but chooses his relationship over the biological kids he wanted to have, Teddy remaining his only “son.” Although he can’t stand Snape, Teddy moves in when he’s a teenager and things are tense until he realizes Snape will help him procure dangerous ingredients and also has an endless knowledge on taboo things. Normally Snape is more responsible, but he doesn’t particularly care for Teddy or his shitty gaggle of window licking friends (who are giving him Marauder flashbacks), and sees no motivation to be moral. Both are happy with this transactional relationship for his teenage years, plus, it fools Harry into thinking they can stand each other… although their smiles on their Christmas cards look rather forced.

Wulfric loves Teddy, something Snape judges his familiar harshly for. With Harry’s approval (and Severus’ horror), Teddy wants to take Wulfric to Hogwarts.  He does, and the duck’s a hit with the entire house of Hufflepuff. 

Snape privately accosts his duck upon his homecoming: “Albus, you cheap slut!”

It wasn’t until year ten of their relationship where Snape gets invited for Christmas at the Burrow… which every person agrees was a terrible mistake, never to be repeated.

Lucius and Narcissa never divorce. She finds the fact that her husband is secretly sleeping with Harry Potter so confusing, so perplexing, she can only devise that it’s misplaced guilt. She’s wrong—her husband is still terrible, retains all his traditional views, and never strays too far from insidious politics. Harry absolutely uses their casual sexual relationship as blackmail, confronting and controlling him whenever he’s spearheading something nefarious. Harry is able to cut Lucius’ politics off before they root many times, but Lucius and his new friends win enough to be concerning. Lucius and Snape are BFFs, and although Harry never learns to like him with his clothes on, decides Snape’s and Lucius’ everlasting corrupt friendship through everything they’d been through (war, betrayal, and all), is strangely wholesome.

Dark Wizard Sex does make it back into their bedroom, but not as much as Snape wants. To satisfy their individual needs, they very tentatively open their marriage after Teddy is out of school. Snape has a waiting list of people wanting Dark Wizard Sex, but it turns awkward when they both catch each other out with redheads. 

Once out of Hogwarts, Teddy finally reads Snape’s Sex books (after getting taunted with second hand knowledge from his friends)… and is disgusted.  Horrified.  He proceeds to stop talking to Harry and Snape for two whole years. The no-contact destroys Harry, so much so, he relapses. Severus hates Teddy for this and his anger never reverses.  By the time Mrs. Weasley helps them mend the relationship (and Harry gets a hold of himself,) Severus is a master at covering up his burning disdain, enough to fool his husband. Teddy realizes he only gets one dad, even if it comes with Severus Snape. Plus, there is no doubt that his dad’s husband pampers him, whatever his mouth says.

Snape’s sex advice column is a huge success and continues to write for the Quibbler (for free) long-term. His colleague-level relationship with Luna works well because no matter what rubbish he writes (perverted, dangerous, or in jest), she reads it with a straight face and provides unbiased feedback. Her tolerance, acceptance, and absorption of the weird works out great for the column and they have an excellent working relationship (not his words.)

Severus Snape is labeled a witty national pervert, both dangerous and humorous, and is endlessly parodied. He publishes two sets of seven legacy books, Potions and Defence against the Dark Arts, but his reputation is so tarnished they can’t use them as school textbooks. Snape secretly remains employed at Hogwarts under an advisory role as he never actually left in the first place. He spends his summers there (no students) while Harry travels with his friends.

After his relapse, Harry remains sober.  When Snape realizes he won’t get addicted like his father, he learns to have an occasional glass of wine.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

As always, thank you SO MUCH for reading my fic.  I hope you had a wonderful time reading Severus Snape’s Sex Book for Dark Wizards.  It was a blast to write.

 

If you enjoyed this fic, please let me know!   I would be so pleased to hear from you!  Any of the following!

A short comment
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Follow up question: do we hate Harry’s beard?

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