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Harry Potter was a good little boy. Horace knew it from the moment he clapped eyes on him: A good boy, who was clever and wise and grateful and clean -- for so many boys were dirty, weren't they Mummy? -- and who would go far, very far, no matter what nasty, sneering nobodies like Snape liked to think. Horace always could tell the good boys when he saw them, the boys who were pure, who studied hard and played harder, and who didn't chase after the dirty, dirty girls. Oh yes, he could always tell.

Because a boy got that look to him after he'd been to a girl's dirty place, didn't he, Mummy? Like a hound sniffing the air after rotting meat. Like that rotten little Rupert Weasley, filthy little creature, always pawing at the girls like he did, staring and touching, and kissing like that, what must his mother think? She ought to beat him for his dirt, scrub him hard with soap and cold water till all the dirt spurted out, and he would be clean again. Clean and soft and good again, like Horace was.

Horace cleaned himself often. Good boys were clean, always clean, and if they got a bit of potion on their robes, why they changed them straight away, didn't they? Even good boys sometimes got a bit of sugar clinging to the fingers, a drip of grease in the mustachios, or a shameful hardness between the legs when a dirty, dirty girl's smell could get onto him and stain. And so it was necessary to bathe often. Every day. Sometimes twice.

Horace liked to use the prefect's bathroom on the fifth floor -- the boy's of course. Lovely tub. Lovely suds. Lovely bath, if one turned that naughty, staring mermaid into a mer-boy with smooth limbs and dewy eyes for the duration, that is. And if a boy happened to come into the bath while Horace was there, well that was no problem, was it? Because Horace always was quick with an illusion, and if a bit of the marble tiling on the tub's side turned pinkish and bulged a bit, or if a fluffy, comfortable chair suddenly appeared in a disused corner, why none of the boys cared, did they?.

Some would even toss their clothes over him, so he could smell their clean, sweet boyish sweat while they sported in the frothy water. And if they took special care with their boy parts, if they cleaned themselves extra well, with soapy fists and slippery fingers, well that was even better. Because that got the inside dirt out, and that was so very, very important.

Horace could sometimes wash himself then too, if he was careful, or if they'd thrown their clothes over him, or if the foam was especially thick in his direction. He'd rub himself clean, watching their smooth, sweet faces go pink, watching how they bit their lips and panted, watching how their wickedness gathered so tightly in their bollocks, and made their little boy parts so swollen and angry and red. Just like his own got sometimes, because he couldn't always help it, Mummy, however he tried to be good.

And then it would all come out -- the dirty thoughts and the naughty words, and the wicked stares at the filthy girls all coming out in thick spurts across the clean, clean water, then swirling away -- the boys' and Horaces' alike -- wicked and frothy and white as they curled down the drain. And they were all clean, good boys then, weren't they, Mummy? Just boys being boys, being clean, clean boys.

The giant snores, twitching in his sleep. His elbow slips from the table, toppling a nearly-empty bottle on its way. Wine spreads across the table, drips slowly, warmly into the sleeping man's spread lap. He does not wake, though his moustaches twitch a little.

What a shame it was, Harry not being a prefect. Such a fine, good boy. So clever, so friendly, so strong -- for he'd said he was strong, hadn't he? He'd promised it so faithfully, with his shining green eyes so earnest. So much like hers? No, Mummy, no, no. He's a good boy, always a good boy, and he would never, would never! He doesn't like little girls, I know it, I've watched him -- he doesn't go with them at all. Only the one who's his friend, and he doesn't like her, not like that, not at all. He's strong. He's so much stronger than … than that wicked Tom Riddle. He's a bad boy, Mummy, got no mother to look after him, make him clean now he's done such nasty, filthy things, I always knew he'd do them, I always knew. You should have known. Yes, Mummy, yes. I'm sorry.

And now you've told. Good boys don't tell, Horace. Say it!

The man stirs, sweat beginning to bead across his forehead, a whimper trapped in his throat. His lips move against his velvet sleeve, quivering barely a whisper. "Good boys don't tell…"

He drops his hand to the growing fullness between his legs, as though to cradle, or hide. Or to shield. Attracted by the movement, the boarhound slinks from his spot by the fire to sniff the floor for possible sweets.

I only told so he could fix it, Mummy! I had to tell, or he wouldn't win, and he'd promised me he'd win! He said he'd protect me, said he'd never, never, never tell, and he's a good boy, Mummy! The Chosen One! He's a good boy, and he won't tell, and he looks just like that little upstart, Mudblood, of a whore, doesn't he, Horace? Got her pretty green eyes, doesn't he? Got her pouting lips and perky chin, and don't think I haven't seen you watching, young man -- watching that tongue while he speaks, watching those lips and thinking of HER! And you know how filthy thinking of HER always gets you!

The man's fist tightens, and he lets go a shivering moan. Fang investigates the movement with a damp, snuffling nose, and then upon finding the scent of pineapple and wine and arousal, with a warm, soft tongue. The man's moan frays into a sob.

No, Mummy, no, I'll be clean, I promise! Don't bite it off please Mummy, he's a good boy, I'm a good boy, I never thought I didn't think I only thought of him because he hasn't got a mummy. That's right, just like the other boy hadn't got one. They're just alike, and now they both know, don't they? They both know, Because. You. Told. Say it!

"I told. I told. I'm sorry!" The words squeeze out in a whine. Fang slurps harder, liking the taste of the wine, but suspecting some better treat hidden inside the knuckles' convulsive clench. Under the tongue's assault, his hand flexes and kneads, trembles, but does not let go.

I'm sorry, Horace. I don't think this dirt will wash off you. We'll have to try harder. Try harder, Horace. Try like you didn't try to keep your mouth shut, like you didn't try to keep your mind off that filthy little redheaded tramp, and don't think I haven't noticed how you like her still. Her dirt's all over you, inside of you, where it can poison you all through, and no bezoar can save you then, can it? You're almost as bad as a bad boy is, Horace. But don't worry. Mummy can get it out. No, Mummy, please, I don't want to be a bad boy, I don't want to think about her! She doesn't have pretty hair, she isn't soft, and she doesn't smell good, and I want to be a good boy like Harry is, please, please!

"Please!" Horace woke with a convulsive jerk, startling the boarhound into a scramble under the table. The beast's frantic exit nearly toppled Horace's chair, but barely changed a beat of Hagrid's resonant snore. "Please…" he gulped, blinking. Hagrid's hut. Drunk on wine. Acromantula's venom and unicorn's tail.

Harry Potter.

That memory.

Shivering hard, Horace fished out his handkerchief to wipe the wet from his cheeks and moustaches. But as he raised his hand, his fingers caught the light -- stained and dripping red, gory fingers streaking his clean, pressed, white linen handkerchief. Runnels dripped down his wrist toward his sleeve, soaked and spread across his starched shirt cuffs while he stared, struggling to breathe against the horror. All he could feel, throughout his whole body, was the chill of his wet fingers, and the throb between his legs.

Drunken fool, he chided himself, of course it's still there. You know it is. But he didn't dare check. Because bad boys sometimes got them sucked. Right. Off.
And then he had to look in his lap to be sure.

Scrape, went the chair. Snerk, went the giant.

"Hnguzzat?" Hagrid said as Horace's chair toppled over backward.

"No," Horace panted, clutching his robes to his darkly glistening crotch, shielding his shame from the world as he backed toward the door. He staggered where the rug rutched up under his shoes. "No it can't be. It can't be, I'm a-"

Good boys don't tell, Horace. Say it!

"Pr'fesser?" Hagrid asked, listing slowly out of his chair.

"I must find Harry Potter," Horace managed to whisper. "Must find him right away!" Then he turned on his heel, and bolted out into the darkness.


Some part of him knew it was foolish. Some quietly appalled part of his brain whispered that if he was soaking wet, possibly injured, and still too drunk to manage a location spell, then he oughtn't to go barreling about the castle at midnight in search of one little boy, who by now was surely in his bed in-

"Gryffindor Tower!" Horace gasped, and abruptly reversed his path. Three staircases (and Merlin, why must they always move in such sickening lurches?) a dizzying snarl of hallways, (so easy to get lost, with all those portraits shouting) his breath coming in wheezing gulps, his groin throbbing out its loss with every shaky step, his side stitching hard and painful. Surely that damned tower was around here somewhere!

Then suddenly he collided with something. Something that gave, with a soft-yet-bony, folding 'oof' as Horace fell back and landed in a sprawling tangle. Groaning and panting, Horace fumbled to draw his robes over himself, to roll to his hands and knees, to lever himself back up and-

Stare straight into the selfsame green eyes that had begun the whole trouble.

"Harry!" Horace grabbed the boy's shoulders, "Where the devil did you come from, boy?"

Harry winced. "App-- apparation, sir. Just learned how."

Why of course he had. Such a clever boy, so quick and so bright, just like- Wait. "You apparated? inside the castle?"

"Er…" the boy blinked, then smiled tentatively. "Chosen One?"

Horace gasped, clutched Harry's shoulders tightly before drawing him into a hug. "Oh, thank Merlin! Thought I'd dreamed it. You are, you truly are! Oh Harry, my boy!"

"Mphrfessr!" Harry gave a squirming wriggle, but Horace held fast.

"You must help me, Harry. You must!" He looked around, spotted a bathroom door, and nearly wept with relief. A place to wash! A place to be clean, and Harry could -- Harry was a good boy, and he could- "I need your help, my boy. You'll help old Sluggy, won't you? Won't you, my boy?"

"S-sure, sir," and what a good, brave boy. Didn't even flinch as the door boomed closed and the lights came up. Stayed firm and solid under Horace's hand. "What can I…" Harry stopped with a gasp, his eyes going wide and round as Horace reached down with a shaking hand to pull his robes aside, to show that awful, terrifying stain. "What happened, sir?"

"I…" he fought down a tremble in his lip, "I told, Harry. I told, and now it might be…" Horace closed his eyes, drew in a terrified, trembling breath, and released the boy's shoulder. "You'll look for me, won't you? You'll check? I daren't to myself."

"Sir?" He took a step back as Horace unfastened his trousers, "If -- if you're hurt, shouldn't you go to Madam Pomfrey, and-"

"NO!" Horace screeched, dropping his wet, cold trousers around his ankles as he lunged for the boy, "No, don't you understand, she'll make it worse! She'll make it -- Oh Harry, you have to help me. You promised, you promised I would cancel out the bad things, only now -- Oh, Harry, Harry, please look! Tell me it's still there?"

The boy's face stained pink across his cheeks as he took a deep breath, and nodded. Trembling, Horace closed his eyes, overcome with equal measures of fear and relief. Under his hand, he felt the long muscle of Harry's shoulder flex, felt the brush of feathery hair against his knuckles. The boy ducked, looked under his belly. Horace couldn't hold back a moan. "What do you see? Oh tell me, please!"

"It's…" Harry gave a cough, and stood straight again. "It's still there, sir. Definitely. Looks like you spilled you wine a bit, that's all."

But Horace couldn't stop trembling. "You're sure? It feels…It won't stop…" but no, he couldn't say that. Not even to his personal savior, he couldn't. "You're sure?"

"Oh. Well, um. Yeah," Harry took his arm, turned him toward the mirror, "Look, it's right there, sir. Right there. You… er… have to open your eyes, you know."

Oh, stop blubbering, Horace! He gasped, snapped his eyes open, and there it was -- poking out at him from the mirror, pulling his red-stained underpants tight, and he knew, he just knew it would be swollen and red and infected underneath, and that was why it wouldn't stop throbbing so.

Harry gave his shoulder a gentle pat, and his green eyes sparkled as he nodded at a bathroom stall. "D'you… er… want a moment, Sir? To… y'know… take care of that?"

Filthy, dirty boy! You only make it worse! Why I should just-

"No…" Horace stuffed his knuckles into his mouth. "Oh Harry, I can't. I just can't. You have to help me."

"S-sir?"

"It never comes clean. Never properly, and now I've told, again, and it's all worse now, all so much worse, don't you see?" He caught the boy's arm, gave him a shake to make him understand how dreadful it really was. "You said I'd be forgiven. You said… you'd help me."

Then something strange happened. Harry went still under his hand -- still and solid as marble. And his eyes, which had been so alarmed before, became steady, boring into Horace's own with such intensity, with such a penetrating gaze that they drove every other thought from his mind. How could he have ever thought those eyes belonged to anyone but this Chosen child?

"Are you asking me to touch you?" Harry asked. Horace caught a whimper between his teeth and lip, but managed a nod. And oh, how his face burned with it. And oh, how his prick throbbed. And oh, how those green eyes narrowed. "You want me to bring you off. To make that go away, right?"

"Please…" he breathed. He'd never asked for it before. Never from anyone, because good boys didn't -- but Harry's face was so strong, so severe, so very wise as he held Horace's gaze with a power like a Basilisk. How could he doubt such resolution? This wasn't Tom's fawning, flattering pleasantry, this was hard, green accountability, and it seized Horace right by the bollocks.

"Fine," Harry said at last, and if his voice was a little hard, well it wasn't more than Horace deserved, asking so much. "Just this once." And then he grabbed, his Seeker's hand flashing in to take hold before Horace could do more than gasp. His knees trembled, and Harry backed him to the wall in three steps, his fingers stroking, pulling, twisting all the while. Then he dropped to his knees, tugged Horace's underpants down with a single rough jerk.

"You want me to suck it, don't you?"

Suddenly Horace couldn't breathe. Horror went to war with a filthy, squirming desire in his stomach, and Harry's fingers just kept sliding, pulling the skin back and forth, and he could just see the scarlet tip over the swell of his belly, peeking in and out of his foreskin.

"You have to say it… Sluggy," the boy said, staring upward at him with those terrible green eyes, "I can help you, but you have to tell me what you want."

Good boys don't- He drew a breath, shivering.

"Say it."

Say it, Horace! Say it!


What the HELL are you doing, Harry? screamed a very small voice in the back of his head, It's a teacher, you don't even like him, he creeps you out, you don't like boys, you don't know how to, don't even know what to, you can't, you just can't!

But a recklessness had taken hold of him -- a knowingness just as solid and profound as when the Felix Felicis was whispering in his ear. This, this filthy, trembling wreck of a man before him, this sobbing, bum-kissing, cowardly man still held a key of some sort -- something that Harry needed, or needed to know. And for once, for bloody well once, he was going to have it on his bloody terms!

He'd seen Piers do this for Dudley anyway, back of the garden shed, when they were meant to be studying, but were really sneaking cigarettes where Aunt Petunia wouldn't see them. He'd hid beneath his father's cloak and watched in disgusted, fascinated horror while Dudley went pink and sweaty, and Piers burrowed his face deep into those rolls of fat to slurp and mumble. He'd got hard, Harry had -- hard and faintly sick. Only the sick feeling hadn't gone once he'd tossed off in the hydrangeas, either.

And now it was him on his knees, staring past a great hanging belly at a prick that was so hard it drooled. Now it was him, and he was just as hard as before, but the feeling in his belly wasn't nausea now. Oh, no. The feeling that swelled from his bollocks to his brain as Slughorn began to blubber quietly was one of pure, unfettered power.

He'll do anything I want, Harry realized, putting out his tongue to lick a purple smear from the glistening cock head. It tasted like wine and sweat, and something saltily bitter. It tasted like power. He took another lick, oddly pleased at Slughorn's gasp and flinch, and then he sucked it into his mouth.

Slughorn made a noise; high and thin, pressed himself so hard against the wall that his feet slipped on the tiles. Harry didn't care, and he didn't stop, sucking and sucking on the fat, slick cock, sinking both hands into Slughorn's belly to hold the man up. He could feel his own cock throbbing inside his pants, chafing and aching against his too-large jeans as he rocked back and forth and sucked and sucked and sucked.

And stopped.

Slughorn sobbed aloud. He had both his hands fisted up against his mouth, moustache bristling over his knuckles as the fat tears rolled down his cheeks. Harry felt himself smile, felt the creature inside his chest purr and coil upon itself. Smug. That's how he felt, smug, and for once, in command.

"You have to ask, Sluggy," he said, slipping his fingers down the cock to roll the tight, hairy bollocks into his hand. "It's not charity, you know. Not a favour. You have to say it." Slughorn made a muffled sound around his fists, shook his head fiercely.

Harry frowned. "Then you'd better wank yourself, sir," he said, voice cold and hard as a slap. He leaned back, rolled up to his feet just as if his own cock weren't desperate for attention, just as if he meant to leave the great fat man there, sobbing like a child with his pants down around his knees.

"NO!" Slughorn lunged, but Harry was ready, slithering out of the way as the man staggered headlong across the room. He managed to get his hands out front only just in time to keep from slamming into one of the sinks, and he leaned there, panting and groaning while Harry stared expectantly from across the room. Any moment now, Harry knew, Slughorn would look up. He'd look up into the mirror, and he'd see Harry back there -- see Harry looking back at him.

And then he'll break, said the creature inside his chest, and after that, he's yours. And yes, that thought alone was enough to keep Harry hard, even faced with that pale, quivering expanse of arse, the bollocks with their gingery curls just peeking out between Slughorn's fat thighs. He took a step, then another. Put his hands on either side of Slughorn's hips and leaned close.

"Why won't you say it, Sluggy?" he asked, shuddering at the way Slughorn's cleft enfolded the urgent heat in his own pants. "What are you afraid of?"

Slughorn made a noise. It sounded like it could have been a word, or a plea, or possibly Harry's name.

"Not good enough. You have to tell-"

"No!" Slughorn bellowed at last, "Dirty boys tell! Not me! Didn't want to tell, didn't want to! Please, Mummy, I didn't want to tell him!"

Well. Harry blinked, alarmed at the outburst. But then the sense of rightness reasserted itself. Still on track it whispered, even closer, in fact. Just a little more, and …

"Shh," he soothed, leaning close over over Slughorn's back, "I know." He shuddered, pressed his cock hard against the man's yielding flesh as he stretched over his shoulder to reach the sink tap. "It's all right to tell me what I already know, isn't it?" Slughorn looked up, bleary and damp and utterly lost. He whuffled through his bristling mustaches, a sound very like 'yes.' The creature in Harry's chest approved.

"Look at you, Sluggy," Harry said, turning the water on full, "You're a mess…" he trailed a finger across Slughorn's bollocks, and smiled at the whimper. "We'd better get you cleaned up, hadn't we?" There it was. There was the crack Harry'd been waiting for. It was almost like legilimency, almost like reading his mind, the way his eyes flew wide, grateful, horrified, hopeful. It told him everything.

"If I were to take care of this back here," he rolled his palm across Slughorn's bollocks again, pressing, kneading them like dangling fruit, "d'you think you could take care of your face?" Slughorn nodded, beginning to smile until Harry curled his fingers tight around his bollocks and squeezed. He didn't ask again. They both knew what it was Harry wanted to hear.

Slughorn closed his eyes, took a great, shuddering breath. But when he spoke, his surrender was low, and clear. "Please, Harry. Please make me clean again."

He might just as well have said 'I'm yours, forever.'

Harry rewarded him with a smile, and a lingering carress to the tumescent cock dangling between his legs. "Wash your face then, Sluggy," he said, and as soon as those small, watery eyes scrunched closed, Harry had his own cock out of his pants, and into his palm. He pressed it down, snug and tight into the sweaty crease of flesh, whispering "viscosimenti" as he stretched around Slughorn's belly to take him in hand.

And then it was easy; all slickness and friction, heat and pressure. His hand knew what to do, and his cock knew what it wanted, and the cold, hard, hungry thing inside of Harry knew exactly what it was doing here. Sealing the bargain. Claiming a resource far more valuable than any quidditch tickets or hampers of sweets at Christmas. This is important, that distant part of his brain told him as he grunted and shuddered toward orgasm, Don't forget this. The words. The silences. The giving. The taking. Remember this. It's important!

And in the roar of rushing water, of pounding blood in his ear, of the man bellowing out his release underneath him, Harry could almost hear it clicking into place. Important. Yes. Very.


Slughorn fell apart. Harry expected that, actually. Not only was the man completely drunk, well, it didn't take a genius to see a breakdown in the works. Harry, feeling a bit guilty for his part in pushing him to it, cleaned the man up as best he could -- erasing all trace of wine and spunk from his clothes with a quick aguamenti and a drying spell. He patted Slughorn's arm, made soothing noises, and suffered himself to be clung to while the man rocked and wept like a child. Eventually, he even managed to get Slughorn's pants and trousers back onto him. The handkerchief though, was a total loss.

"All right now, Sluggy?" Harry asked him, feeling, and heeding an urge to begin disengaging. Slughorn blew his nose again, and clutched at Harry's sleeve, clearly ready to sob out his further gratitude. Harry cut him off. "Good. Now -- you know this is our secret, right? Just between you and me. You're to tell nobody else."

"No, oh no, Harry!" Slughorn clutched at him again. "I'll never tell."

"Nobody, I mean it! Not even Dumbledore. Not even if he asks about it. Promise?"

"Never, I swear!"

"Good," Harry fished his invisibility cloak out of his pocket and gave it a shake while Slughorn was wiping his eyes. "I'll just go on now then. Bit tired, you know. Late night. Classes in the morn-"

"Potter!" The bathroom door banged against the wall, and Snape stormed through in full cry. "I know you're in there, you-" he stopped short, looked openly appalled. "Good God, what is the matter with you, Slughorn?"

"Severus?" For a man that drunk, Sluggy could sure move quickly. From the shelter of his cloak, Harry blinked in surprise at how fast the round little man was at the sink, splashing water onto his still-flushed face. "Is that you? I'm afraid I -- er -- Indulged a bit too much down at Hagrid's tonight." He wiped his face dry and leaned confidante-close to Snape. "Had to make a quick comfort stop on the way back to my quarters, if you take my meaning."

"Pfaugh!" Snape recoiled. "You reek of wine, Slughorn! Are you drunk?" Harry was suddenly quite glad he didn't have to try and keep a straight face at Slughorn's panicked expression.

"W-wine? Er… That is," he mopped his brow with the hand towel. "Had a bit of a spill, I think. Just washing up a bit… just getting cl-clean again now, is all."

"Mmm." Harry couldn't decide if Snape looked more unconvinced than usual, but he still held his breath as that black glower scraped the bathroom around. "And you're certain you didn't see Potter in here when you came in?"

"Harry?" His stomach clenched at the sudden brightness in Slughorn's voice, but the promise he'd wrung from the man seemed to hold fast. "Why Harry's not here, is he?" Slughorn gestured around the brightly lit room, then took his colleague's elbow to urge him toward the door. "He must be in Gryffindor Tower by now. He couldn't very well have got out past you, could he? Not unless he could appara-"

"I heard Potter's voice, Slughorn!" Snape sounded peevish, like a child cheated of his expected toy. Harry had to stifle a snicker behind his hand as he swatted Slughorn's hands away from his sleeves, and yanked the door back open himself. "I do not care if he's one of your bloody favorites, if I catch that wretched brat out of bounds again-"

You won't, Harry silently promised his least favorite teacher. Catch me.

"Oh now, you mustn't be too hard on Harry now, Severus," Slughorn's voice came back dimly as the door fell closed behind the pair. "He really is such a good boy, after all. He'll go far, very far. I can always tell, you know."

Fin