i can't believe I wrote this.

I don't even really get H/D. (Not to mention, I wrote this almost entirely in a public place.)


Title: Potions Masters Do Not Tremble
Pairing: Harry/Draco, implied Pansy/Draco, implied Neville/Luna, implied Ron/squid, physically Draco/Snape
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Prostitution. Questionable consent. Biting. Slash. Implied transgender-ness. Nudity. Extreme, non-sexual violence. Extreme angst. Flexible pronoun use. Character death. War aftermath. Dementor aftermath. Anthony Goldstein impaled on a menorah.

Notes: In response to florahart's Polyjuice Brothel Challenge. Post-war, dystopia-style. HBP-compliant, no real spoilers.



Harry saved a little bit of every corpse he found.

Ron Weasley, hair matted with blood and muddy water, a severed and rotten squid tentacle wrapped around his waist. Anthony Goldstein, impaled on his own brass menorah. Lavender Brown's head, meters from her body. Luna Lovegood, breathing but soulless, the victim of a dementor. Neville Longbottom, clutching her hand and pleading with her, sobbing incoherently. Poppy Pomfrey, holding a bottle of Skele-Gro in her outstretched, dead hand, her face frozen in surprise.

He collected all of them.

They didn't notice. None of them. Neville, hysterical, had seized Harry and begged him for something something anything please, and Harry had coldly slit Neville's throat. He put Luna out of her misery for good measure. Severus Snape, burnt and shriveled and yet somehow still sneering. Colin Creevy, the back of his head caved in and his face wet with bloody tears. Blaise Zabini, peacock quills stuck deep into his eyes. Hermione Granger, naked and torn open, her insides strewn across the simply-dead corpses of Seamus Finneagan and Draco Malfoy.

My Draco. He alone looked almost alive. Whereas Seamus was contorted into a fetal position, a ghastly, almost furious expression on his face, Draco resembled nothing so much as himself, drifting off to sleep after sex. Harry's numbed emotions almost returned to harrowing, formidable power over his weary mind, but instead he brought his foot down on Draco's still-beautiful face, rendering it unrecognizable. Kneeling down to rip out a chunk of Draco's hair, he whispered hoarsely, "Payback, my sweet."

***

He as good as begged for the job at the brothel. The madam at first refused, claiming he would be bad for business, what with the war, and eyeing his scar with great distaste. He offered to Polyjuice himself for every client, shaking the pouch of bloody hair in her face, and she hesitated. He offered her a larger-than-usual cut of his intake, and she aquiesced.

He needed to be touched, and he needed to be unrecognizable. He discovered that he could no longer mourn, not for Ron, not for Hermione, not for Draco. Their deaths felt like mere obituaries, trivial and incidental.

The bell in his room rang, signaling a client. Ladling himself a gobletful of Polyjuice, he chose a hair at random from his pouch. A black hair -- Neville's, perhaps, or Blaise's. Naked, Harry watched himself transform in the full-length mirror on his door. He became taller, thinner, rougher. His nose grew into a beaklike, shining protuberance and his hair went limp and greasy. His skin bleached and sagged on his bones, and his eyes, turning from emerald to dun, appeared to be sinking into a tar pit. His cock stretched slightly and pulled itself firmly to Harry's left. Now fully transformed, he swathed himself in a luxurious black velvet robe and carefully carried the cauldron of Polyjuice to the powder room.

Arranging his new face into that contemptuous-yet-amused expression that Harry had seen Severus Snape use so often, he rang the bell to signal his readiness.

The client entered, in bottle-green robes. Harry momentarily forgot where, who, and why he was.

Draco.

Before he could stop himself, Harry blurted, "I thought you were dead!" in an incredulous and most un-Snape tone. I know you're dead. I saw your body. I smashed your face in.

The shock that had flittered across the fair, pointed face upon recognizing Harry as his old Professor Snape had quickly replaced itself with that old familiar sneer. "I could say the same of you, Professor," he said, simpering so obsequiously that Pansy felt herself less an accurate impression of Draco than a wildly unflattering parody. She smirked, amused at Snape's sputtering, and stole a glance at himself in the mirror. That was the Draco she lusted after. Better than everyone. He said so himself.

Severely confused, Harry attempted to Be Snape. "Malfoy, I --" He hesitated. "What have you come here for?"

"Why," smirked Pansy, "what else does one come to a place like this for?" This wasn't Snape. Snape had died before Draco. Draco had seen Snape die, had personally lit him aflame. He never quite got over Snape having completely abandoned the Death Eaters. It was obvious. No matter, sodomy is sodomy.

"Touché. Thirty Galleons per hour, then."

"Don't I get a favorite-student discount, Professor?" He smiled hugely, wondering if whoever that was had even known Snape. She knew Draco, knew his actions, his expressions, his voice. Better than her own, in her own skin, and she wore his like a silken glove. It flattered her, made her more than Pansy Parkinson, stumbling and shuffling and ashamed of the roundnesses of her unfortunately female body. Whoever that was wore Snape like stiff, ill-fitting robes in an unbecoming color.

"No," blurted Harry. "Shall we begin, then?" He shook off his robes, willing himself to stop trembling. Snape never trembled in his life. He'll know.

Pansy slid sleekly out of the green silk covering Draco's perfect form, revealing his naked body underneath. "Lie down," he snapped suddenly. "On your stomach." Still trembling, Harry knelt slowly on the bed, lowering his face to the worn velvet bedcover like a drawbridge.

All of a sudden he was pinned down, by his wrists. Draco was always kind of emaciated, but Snape was weaker. Harry struggled, but it was not like before. Harry's body and Draco's were evenly matched. Snape's was taller, but haggard and thin. "Stop that, Professor," hissed that familiar, jeering voice. He felt Draco's cock straining against his testicles, and then that hiss again, right in his ear, "Spread," as Draco's knees forced Snape's apart, "and don't you fucking move."

Pansy sank his teeth into Snape's shoulder. It tasted of mold and ripe tomatoes. "Don't you ever wash, Severus?" she sneered, and without warning, plunged his cock into Snape's ass. Harry let out a bloodcurdling scream that turned into a loud, baying moan, and then to wild screaming as Pansy thrust hard into him.

"Come...on!" she barked. "Don't...you...even...fucking...th--oh, shit." For his voice was beginning to raise in pitch, his hair was beginning to darken, and most disturbing of all, her breasts were beginning to swell. She could feel his stiff penis retreating, becoming her useless clitoris, and his skin sagging to become her labia. The Dark Mark on his arm faded and disappeared, and her eyes darkened. She kept thrusting wildly against Snape's ass, until she came, shuddering and silent. As she'd ordered, Harry did not move, although he was vaguely disappointed. "Well, the jig is up. You can move now, whoever you are."

"Pansy?! And I am Snape, your former Potions Master."

"Sure you are. And I'm Dumbledore." Seeing the tears in Snape's eyes (the first since hearing Ron die painfully, slowly, begging for mercy behind Harry's back as he fought Voldemort) Pansy laughed dryly. "Snape never cried in his life. You oughta know that." She pulled the green robes back on and sashayed out, dropping a pile of Galleons on the dresser as she went.

And Harry wept, wept, wept.