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They all jumped at the crash, though all tried hard not to. Zach went skidding across the floor, arse high in the air as his service tray scraped across the marble. Harry cringed, knowing what a burn a spilled tray would send to the charmed plug in his arse, and though the ball gag stopped anything but a whimper, Zach's splayed, clawing fingers as he struggled to get back up again with his arms bound in the small of his back were proof enough of his pain.

"Teach you to shake your head at me, you little prick," Macnair was growling as he stalked after the fallen, struggling boy. Nervy and worried, Harry and the other Fosterlings hurried out of reach as fast as their high heels, hobbled ankles and carefully balanced service trays would allow. It was futile, of course, but none of them wanted a share of the punishment for seeming too interested.

The rest of the party guests, of course, showed no such restraint, and gathered close around, blocking the Fosterlings' view with a panoply of brilliant dress robes, so all they could hear over the murmur was Zach's muffled screaming and the nerve-shrilling rip of fabric.

He can't hurt him, Harry told himself, trying not to shake with horror and rage, The treaty won't allow it. They can't hurt any of us. Not really. Not really… But, as each of the Ministry Fosterlings had learned within a week of their arrival in Death Eater territory, there were a loopholes in the treaty just big enough to let a thousand little torments through. And so long as the marks could be healed… He has to stop! Harry thought as Cho Chang cowered behind him and struggled not to cry, God, why doesn't somebody stop him?

And, as though summoned by Harry's desperate thought, Lucius Malfoy swept into the room. "Walden," his voice cut through the crowd like a lash, and for a moment, all was still. "You forget yourself."

"The devil I do," Macnair snarled, doing up his robes as he climbed to his feet. "This little bastard-"

"Is a servant in my hall," Malfoy responded, hard and cold as he used his serpent cane to lift the un-fastened strap of Zach's gag off his bruised cheek, "and is therefore under my protection. Get up, boy."

Harry winced in sympathy at the order. It was hard enough just to walk in the corseted and bustled maid's dresses Malfoy made them wear for service at his parties. Recovering from a flat out sprawl with hands pinned tight in the small of the back, and the tray still fastened to the corset front would be murder. Ernie Macmillan made a small noise in his throat, watching his friend skitter and struggle, but Harry caught his eye, shook his head a tiny bit. Malfoy wouldn't take kindly to anyone trying to help now. And besides, they were just as bound up as Zach was -- they could hardly be much assistance to their friend.

At last, Zach managed to right himself, and stood blushing under Malfoy's disapproving glower. His lace cap was askew, hair straggling wildly around his face. His stockings were torn at the knees and thigh, and the great rips in his skirt revealed clawlike welts on his pale inner thigh, right across the bollock strap that ran down to his garters. Malfoy used the serpent head of his walking stick to lift aside the torn petticoats, and Harry tried not to blush as Zach's cock, limp and small and terrified in its strapping cage, came into view.

Harry hated the way he always seemed to get hard when the pulsing, buzzing plug went into his arse, and his balls were strapped tight to his high stockings, so that each mincing step pulled one or the other. He hated the way his cock would swell inside its tight leather cage when they bound his hands and gagged his mouth, and pinched his nipples hard under long, swinging tassels. He didn't like it. He hated it all. But he couldn't ever stop himself getting hard. Harry was sure none of the other boys got hard, but he'd sooner have fought Voldemort again than ask. And now, of course, he could see for sure. Zach wasn't hard. Not hard at all.

Malfoy made a growling sound in his throat and slipped the head of his cane under Zach's bound cock, lifting it from the shadow of his tray. "On the other hand, Mr. Smith does appear to be less than attentive to the situation at present," he mused, hooking one of the snake's fangs through the ring at the tip of the cockcage, and stretching it, and Zach by it, onto his toes as Malfoy circled around behind him. "Perhaps he does deserve correction."

Zach made a wild sound in the back of his throat, his eyes wide and desperate in protest. Harry could see his teeth biting hard into the ball gag, though the straps hung loose beside his chin, but even as Malfoy unfastened the bustle and tray and let his skirts fall to the floor, he knew better than to spit the gag out. No Fosterling wanted their mouth exposed to a room full of Death Eaters.

"Legs, Mr. Smith," Malfoy instructed, giving his cane a jerk. Zach scrambled to spread to the limits of his ankle hobbles, and all of the Fosterling boys winced from the sight of the straps pulling his bollocks down and wide apart. Several of the girls were sniffling, blinking hard and trying not to cry, so the black kohl wouldn't run in telltale marks down their cheeks, and earn them their own beatings. "You know that I expect you to be polite to my guests, Mr. Smith," Malfoy went on, glancing over his shoulder at Macnair, who stood with red-faced, leering attention beside him. Malfoy slid his hand down Zach's behind, did something to the plug -- something that made Zach whimper and arch away, and nearly stumble. Only Malfoy's cane, still hooking his trapped cock kept him on his feet. Harry watched in horrified fascination as, under Malfoy's continued attention to his plug, Zach's cock slowly filled with blood, twitching and swelling until the straps bit hard into the purpling flesh. The blonde boy's cheeks were striped with kohl the time the serpent cane released him.

"Chair," Malfoy commanded, and one slung itself away from the wall, landing with a clatter at his side. "Walden, you may correct Mr. Smith's manners," he nodded at the chair. "If, that is, you think you can control yourself." Zach trembled, his thighs clenched hard, Malfoy's knuckles moving with slow deliberation behind his trapped bollocks. Macnair scowled at the insult, but he still sat himself in the chair and smoothed the robes over his lap with eager hands.

"Wait," Mrs. Lestrange smirked, tapping her wand to her wine glass as Zach was tipped face down over Macnair's waiting lap. The glass rang and twisted, darkened, lengthened, and became a thin, supple paddle which she offered to her fellow with a leer. "One must use the proper tool for the job."

That was when Harry knew he had to stop watching. They all had to, or Malfoy would decide they were all too interested, and needed a taste themselves. When the first ringing slap filled the ballroom, Harry turned on his heel, caught his fellow Fosterlings' eyes, and nodded fiercely at the elves waiting behind the buffet tables. They all knew what to do; keep moving. Keep walking. Don't give them any reason to punish. Just wait for the evening to be over. Endure.

That was all Fosterage meant in the shadow of the Ministry's treaty with those Death Eaters who had survived the second fall of their Lord -- endure, and know that as long as you were alive and whole, as long as they didn't rape you or starve you, so long as they got you tutors who would be sure you could pass your OWLs and NEWTs, and as long as they took care you didn't look too rough when the inspectors came, the War would keep on being over. Harry didn't know what life was like for the Death Eater Fosterlings sent to live in the homes of the pureblooded Wizengamot families, but he felt pretty sure it was nothing so bad as what the Ministry Fosterlings lived with. He just couldn't see Minister Fudge being so…creative.

Harry approached the serving table, keeping his steps small and even, and trying not to listen to the sound of the beating going on behind him. The elf in charge of the champagne gave him an apologetic look as it snapped its fingers, and Harry just barely had time to brace himself as the empty glasses disappeared, and full, clean ones replaced them. The plug inside him buzzed wildly in response to the momentary shift in weight, throbbing and twisting, making Harry simply ache -- for the freedom to stretch and writhe against the soaring pleasure, for the ability to grope at his desperate cock, to twist and pull at it until he came, sprayed come all over the inside of his short, frilly skirt. But there was a stud on the inside of Harry's binding, right up against the underside ridge of his cock -- a hard knot of 'no' pressed into the tender, eager flesh.

Harry locked his thighs, rolled his eyes shut, and focused his attention on quelling the urge to thrust into the scratchy lace of his petticoats until he either came or passed out. Don't jostle the tray, he pleaded with himself as he felt one of the others crowd in close behind him, Don't spill the drinks. Breathe, Harry. Breathe. It'll pass soon.

And of course, it did pass, long before the intense feelings could overcome his fear of dropping the tray, and long before he could even imagine coming past the cock strap. Then, legs still trembling, Harry took a tentative step to the side, to let whoever was behind him get to the table and suffer their own tray to be loaded. A tall black shape flickered in the corner of his eye, but he paid it no mind, thinking it was Ernie, or possibly Alex. Then a smug chuckle curled across the back of Harry's neck, dark and hatefully familiar.

Snape! Harry would have yelped, had he not had a ball crammed between his teeth. As it was, only his Seeker reflexes allowed him to steady the toppling champagne flutes after he'd jumped in horror. He managed not to drop any, but that was small comfort as the greasy haired, hawk nosed man eyed him with a thoroughly unpleasant smile.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said, closing the distance between them with measured strides. "I trust you are well this evening?"

Face burning, Harry stared at the man's shoes. Of course he wasn't well. How could any boy or girl there claim to be 'well'? But he couldn't reply, and with the sound of Macnair's paddle still slapping away, he didn't dare give an impertinence. So he thrust back his shoulders as Snape came to a stop before him, and lifted his chest to offer the greasy bastard a glass of champagne.

"No, thank you," he said, catching Harry's chin in one hand, and trailing a thumb along the strap that held his gag in place. "I am here on business tonight, Mr. Potter."

Inspection? Harry wondered, eyes flickering at the scene across the ballroom just as Zach was finally allowed to drop, sobbing from Macnair's lap and huddle on the floor, But how in the world can-

Snape, following Harry's glance, straightened with a smirk. "No, not official business, Mr. Potter, it is far too late in the evening for a Welfare Inspection. I have come on personal business." He released Harry's chin, and straightened abruptly. "Do be so kind as to inform your caretaker that I should like to speak with him alone, won't you?"

As if it were that easy. Grinding his teeth into the rubber ball, Harry gave a nod and stepped out of Snape's reach as quickly as his loaded tray, his tottering heels, and his tethered bollocks would allow.

"-trust you have learned an important lesson about hospitality this night, Mr. Smith," Lucius Malfoy was saying as he flicked his wand over a still sobbing Zacharias, conjuring green ropes that hauled the half-naked, come-bespattered youth to his feet. "Now, since you are no longer anything like presentable for mixed company, you are to retire to your dormitory room for the night." For a moment, Zach almost looked relieved at the thought of escaping what was left of his costume, but Lucius crushed that hope with a sneer. "The house elves will disrobe you attend to your bath when the other boys join you. Until then, I suggest you contemplate the error you made this evening, and prepare to discuss the matter further with me in the morning."

The Death Eaters all chuckled nastily at that, and Harry had to dig his nails into the palm of his hand to calm his rage as his fellow limped brokenly out of the crowd. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Peace wasn't worth this. But what choice did the Fosterlings have in it when the spell that bound them all into the treaty wouldn't let any of them speak a word about it, even when their period of Fosterage was over? Only to the Inspectors could they complain, and then only if the letter of the treaty had been broken. The spirit of the law had no voice, even amoung the Fosterlings themselves.

But now was no time for rage. There were hours yet of the party to get through, and Lucius Malfoy had a way of guessing when Harry's temper was on edge. He carefully schooled his expression as he worked his way through the dispersing crowd to Malfoy's elbow. By the time he rapped his shoe-heel twice on the floor to get the blond man's attention, Harry was reasonably certain his face reflected only subdued acceptance.

"Mr. Potter?" Malfoy turned, one eyebrow arching high as his cold eyes swept over Harry's form. "What is it?"

Harry cut his eyes at the entry hall, and the tall, dark form that he could just see leaning against the library doors.

"Blast," Lucius scowled, and slid his wand back into his cane's sheath with a savage thrust. "What the devil is he doing here?" Which Harry was rather wondering himself. Since it wasn't an inspection, he couldn't think what the one Death Eater who had stood beside Dumbledore and Harry to destroy their Dark Lord on the very eve of his winning the Philosopher's stone would be doing in the home of a man who had stepped up to fill Voldemort's empty shoes before the ashes had blown away. But Harry didn't bother to shrug -- his tray was too full, and anyway, it wasn't as though Malfoy was asking him.

"Very well," Malfoy growled, snatching a glass from Harry's tray and downing it before the echoing buzz of pleasure had faded from Harry's plugged arse. "Come and fetch me if anything untoward happens, Potter." Then he turned on his heel and strode away, leaving no hint as to just how Harry was to do that with his arms pinned behind him, and his mouth full of rubber.

Hoping for the best, Harry watched him go. At least, he told himself, turning to begin pacing the stations of the ballroom, most of the guests have had their fun already for the night. Now all we have to do is keep from making anyone else mad… especially Snape.


Harry's plan for avoiding Snape turned out to be very much the same as his plan for getting through the evening had been all along: to keep moving, to keep serving, to keep his eyes down and pretend he didn't notice the dark man stalking him through the gaily-clad Death Eaters. It worked fairly well, for a time. The party guests all seemed to have things they wanted to say to Snape, and while he met snarls and simpers with equal scorn, Harry quickly realized that those black eyes never left him for long, no matter who got into Snape's way.

In the end, though, it was a lost cause. Harry's tray ran out. The last glass was taken, and Harry had no choice but to go back to the service table before his plug rewarded his tardiness with a jolt of blinding pain. Snape was waiting there, his thin mouth curling at the corner as he watched Harry tremble under the sensation of his tray being refilled. Harry kept his eyes open, refused to moan, tried not to blush under that implacable gaze, but somehow the pleasure was even more intense than usual, sending fierce arcs from his arse to his tight-stretched bollocks and cramped erection, to his nipples, sore and aching from the tasseled clamps he'd been wearing since the elves had dressed them that evening. It was all he could do to hold still, and as he clenched his fists inside their bindings, Harry could feel a sweat pop out across his exposed shoulders and chest from the effort.

"I believe," Snape's voice intruded on Harry's struggle, "I have reconsidered your offer, Mr. Potter." Harry looked up, suspicious, and Snape's mouth curled a little bit more. "You may bring me a drink after all. I shall be in the library." Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

Harry stared after him, breathing hard through his nose as the buzzing pleasure evaporated into ice-cold nerves. He couldn't go into the library alone. He couldn't do it! It wasn't allowed! Malfoy wouldn't let him! The treaty -- they couldn't make him-

"Mr. Potter," Malfoy's voice, just behind him, made Harry startle even more. "I hope you do not intend to disobey a perfectly reasonable request from one of my houseguests." His tone was mild, almost amused, and it sent dread straight down Harry's spine. "That would be most… discourteous of you."

Harry shook his head, eyes fixed on the floor. Then, lest his reaction be taken for disobedience, he turned and tapped his way toward the darkened room in tense, tiny steps.

He wasn't surprised, however, that he never made it to the library with his burden. A pale hand shot out from a shadowed alcove as he passed, caught Harry's shoulder, and hauled him in with a savage yank. Harry yelped as his glasses scattered, but his plug's sharp reprisal to the spill was cut short in a ringing tap of Snape's wand on the metal tray, then a tinkle as the tray evaporated altogether. Panting and panicked, Harry pressed back against the wall, tried to duck aside Snape released his arm and grabbed for his chin.

Snape made a tsking noise, and settled for gripping Harry's throat instead. Harry froze as his long fingers curled tight, pressing implicit threat against his windpipe. A second later, his gag disappeared at a tap from Snape's wand.

"No," Harry gasped weakly, trying to swallow, "No! You can't make me suck-"

"Mr. Potter, I am your Welfare Inspector," Snape replied with a roll of his eyes, "I daresay I am well acquainted with what I am and am not allowed to make you do. Now, can you be trusted to behave yourself while I check your condition, or…" Snape cast a glance backward at the gaily-lit ballroom, and the Death Eaters who were gathered there. "Or must we involve your Fosterer in this matter?"

Harry couldn't suppress a shiver as he remembered the chill in Malfoy's blue eyes when he'd sent Harry after Snape. "N-no," he shook his head, gingerly settled his weight against the wall so he could try and make himself relax. "No, Professor."

"Impudence," Snape gave Harry's throat a sharp squeeze before he released him, "one would have thought you'd learned better by now. You will call me 'Inspector', or you will call me 'Sir', and you will obey my instructions without protest, and you will answer every question I put to you," Harry gasped at the unexpected invocation of the welfare wardings, but managed to nod when Snape asked, "Is that clear?"

"Now then. Let's have a look at you." Snape pulled him away from the wall, led him two steps into the cramped alcove, and then turned him around. Harry gasped, then blushed to realize that the 'wall' had actually been a tall, narrow mirror -- a mirror which now reflected Harry's ridiculous attire without mercy. He bit his lip against a shiver as Snape's hands settled on his bustle, then slid down his thighs to trace the spot where the lacy stockings peeked out of his garters. "Your clothing appears to be of quite reasonable value," Snape traced a hand down the cinched-in plane of Harry's side, and smiled. "Decent workmanship in a corset like this one, you know, and that isn't cheaply had. So tell me, Mr. Potter, why is it that the other Fosterlings wear a properly respectful black, while you…" he gave Harry's pink satin skirt a flip, "you wear these lovely floral shades that do such things to your green eyes? Partial treatment, do you suppose?"

"No," Harry gritted, then flinched to remember. "No, Sir. Mr. Malfoy makes me wear it because I hate it."

"So it is a discipline then?" Snape nodded, and Harry stiffened as he burrowed both hands abruptly underneath the skirts. "Believable, given what I remember of my time teaching you. I suppose you will tell me that the others wear their arms folded behind while yours are bound straight, is likewise?"

"Yes, Sir," Harry mumbled, trying not to fidget, "because I can't keep my hands from pressing against…"

"Against?" Cool fingers traced the lines of his stockings, crept tickling-slow up his thighs along his suspenders.

"My… the bustle under… in the back. It attaches to… to…" Harry closed his eyes, and made himself say it quickly. "It attaches to my plug."

"Ahh, yes. I have wanted to inspect your chastity plug for some time," Snape's chuckle stirred the hair at the base of Harry's neck as the man leaned down, smoothing his hands around to Harry's bum, and hoisting the skirt and bustle both out of his way. "Bend."

"Wha-" Harry yelped and staggered as Snape abruptly tipped him forward.

"Careful, foolish boy," he snapped, grabbing Harry's hip to steady him. "Clumsy oaf. Amazing you managed to sit a broom at all. Now bend over!" Harry had to close his eyes in horror as Snape pressed him down and further down. The nipple clamps swung, waking twin spikes of pain, and the straps stretching his bollocks brought tears to his eyes, but Snape kept pushing until Harry was bent double. Between the hobbles spreading his ankles wide and the corset binding his waist, Harry had no choice but to hang there, breathing shallow gasps against his knees while the blood roared in his ears and Snape's fingers trailed over the plug seated in his arse.

"Hmm," Snape said, and Harry flinched to feel the man's breath across his exposed crack, "All the standard charms in place to keep you safe from despoilment," (how that word seemed to stroke up Harry's spine from the place where it puffed against his skin!) "but it seems you might have one-" the tap of a wand set the plug buzzing, and Harry couldn't suppress a moan, "or two-" another tap, and it stung him as harshly as it had when Harry's drinks had spilled, "other functions." Harry hated the strangled whimper that escaped him as a third tap banished the pain abruptly, but Snape seemed hardly to notice.

"Still, alterations or no, it will definitely stop you being sodomized by any of the Death Eaters who have been circling you like wolves tonight. Now these," and he gave a tug at the straps dragging Harry's bollocks tightly down, then chuckled at the sound Harry made, "These are, I will admit, inspired. Here: have a look." And abruptly, Harry found his mouth full of pink satin and frothy lace as Snape stuffed the hem of his skirt between his teeth, and hauled him upright by his pinioned arms. Harry staggered back against the man's chest, dizzy and overwhelmed as the sudden motion released the dragging tension on his bollocks, but pressed his plug against something inside him that made Harry see stars.

Snape didn't seem to mind. "See here," he said, just as though his own erection wasn't pressing into Harry's bound hands, just as though he wasn't reaching over Harry's shoulder to turn his cock from side to side, displaying its binding to the pier glass, "The stud blocks the urethra but allows adequate circulation, the straps acting in cooperation to render you safe from inappropriate fondling." But even as he said it, Snape somehow managed to give Harry's cock a rhythmic squeeze through the leather bands. Harry shivered, and couldn't stop himself thrusting at that grip, even though he knew he'd find no release that way.

God, he hated Snape! Harry swallowed, bit his teeth hard on pink satin and a whine as Snape let go his cock. Hated him for touching, looking at Harry with those hard, hot black eyes, for making Harry want like that, for stopping, and making Harry watch while his cock twitched and throbbed after his touch. For doing this to him while Malfoy's party went on just there behind them, so close that anyone could turn and see Harry's shame at any moment. Could see him, hard and wanting, with that single pearly drop creeping out of his cock, despite the tight leather, and oh, it wasn't fair!

But Snape was never fair. He had helped Harry and Dumbledore kill Voldemort, had taken Harry's helpless body out of the burning chambers afterward, had saved him when Dumbledore lay dying in the Dark Lord's ashes, and had stood with the Ministry against the remaining Death Eaters until both sides finally came to their truce. But Harry would never think of him as a hero.


"Now what," Snape interrupted Harry's inner tirade with twin jolts of pain as he pinched the clamps from his swollen nipples, "might these be?" Harry, his mouth still full of his skirts, could barely breathe, let alone answer as the blood returned with a roar to his abused flesh. "Hmm… temporary measures, purely decorative. Permissible, I suppose." And with that, he doubled the pain by reattaching the clips. Harry shuddered, hands curling reflexively into the body behind him. He hardly noticed Snape's gasp.

But he couldn't miss the way the man wrapped both arms around Harry's waist and thrust himself into Harry's grip, bumping his bustle askew, making his plug buzz, making sparks dance before his eyes as the tassels swung under the onslaught. "Forward of you, Potter," Snape growled, lips brushing the shell of Harry's ear. "Very forward indeed."

Harry mumbled an apology around his mouthful of damp satin, but he couldn't make himself uncurl his fingers, couldn't quite let go that strong, hard, big lump that he'd found hiding under the Potions Master's black robes. Snape didn't really seem to mind anyway.

The skirt twitched suddenly from Harry's mouth, and Snape tucked it safely up over the top of his corset before seizing Harry's chin, and craning his head back for a kiss.

Harry keened, shock, shame, and unbelievable desire washing over him as Snape's tongue thrust roughly past his lips to twine with his own. He was kissing back before he'd fully realized what was happening -- kissing back, and tugging at Snape's erection as his own plug buzzed maddeningly. He couldn't stop a groan of protest when Snape pulled his mouth away.

"Now then, Mr. Potter," Snape said, low and almost ragged as he reached once more down Harry's front, to press both hands flat to his pelvis, framing Harry's cock between his thumbs and spread fingers, "you're nearly fifteen years old, as I recall?" Harry made a noise, and Snape took it for a 'yes', pressing fingertips against his thighs in rolling, massaging patterns that did nothing but make Harry think of where they weren't touching. "And so, assuming you pass your NEWTs, your Fosterage will be over in another two years. Have you given any thought to your future?"

Harry, his head swimming, his thoughts full of little beyond the need to come, and the desire to disappear, started to shake his head. "Do not lie to me, you wretched boy," Snape hissed in his ear, "How could you bear treatment like this and not dream of the day you would escape it?"

"I-" Harry swallowed, tried again. "I'll go away."

"Away?" Snape's fingers carded through the sparse, wiry hairs that were only just beginning to tangle along Harry's groin. "Where do you mean to go? To that fool Lupin? To the Weasleys? To your devoted fans at the Ministry?" The words couldn't have dripped more sarcasm if Harry had dared to say them himself.

"No," he gritted, trying not to writhe, "Far away. S-somewhere nobody has heard of Voldemort, or Death Eaters, or, or-"

"Or?" Snape nudged.

"Or me," Harry sobbed, wringing his hands around Snape's shrouded prick, as though by coaxing release from it, he could secure the same for himself.

"You're the Boy who Killed Voldemort," Snape purred in his ear, "There is hardly a soul in the Wizarding World who doesn't know who you are. Or," and his fingers hooked, digging suddenly, bluntly into Harry's thighs, "do you mean to run back to the Muggle world? To hide from your memories of this, and your magic as well? To pretend with all your might that you're…normal?" Harry shuddered at how dirty Snape managed to make that word sound, but nodded all the same.

"Then Malfoy has won this war, and you are a waste of my time." Snape straightened, drew his hands away and made as if to step back.

Harry groped after him with desperate hands, seeking Snape's gaze in the mirror. "No! No, how can you-"

"You understand it," Snape replied, cold and deliberate, "you know why he does these things to you -- to all of you."

"Because we can't stop him!" Harry cried, "Because you care more about the treaty than about us! Because he hates us, and he wants to make us-"

"Remember what it feels like to be helpless under his heel," Snape finished the sentence harshly. "To remember, and to be willing to do anything not to be reminded of it. Especially once you and these others are the adults who will be standing against the Death Eaters' aggression when they tire of this peace."

"But…" Harry shivered, torn and balanced between horrified understanding, humiliation, and unassuaged lust, "but you let it happen!"

Snape smiled that cruel, sidelong smile Harry remembered from so many potions classes, and his fingers disappeared from Harry's shoulders for a second as he parted his robes and then pressed his cock, naked and hot and hard as stone into Harry's slackened grip. "Why so I do, Mr. Potter," he said, resuming his grip on Harry's shoulders, "and I daresay you think me cruel for it, but I assure you, it could be far worse."

And because he knew he was meant to, and absolutely not because he wanted to hear, Harry asked, "How?"

"Can you pretend you don't know just what Lucius Malfoy would be doing to you if I were not here to watch him?" Snape's voice went velvety again, and Harry shivered to hear it. "Can you not realize how he aches to fill that impertinent mouth of yours with his cock? To thrust himself into your throat over and over while you struggled to breathe? To spill himself on your tongue just to watch you swallow his seed and try not to gag?" Harry loosed a groan as Snape pressed him close, and growled the words against his ear. "And when he takes a strap to your perfect little arse, can you not guess how desperately he wants to rip this plug away and bury himself to the root inside you? How he dreams of your struggles and cries as he takes you hard and fast? How he salivates to imagine your humiliation as he turns your body into his willing ally in your defilement?" Harry gasped, breath coming in hard, humid puffs, ribs straining against the corset, cheeks a blaze of want and shame as Snape grinned evilly at him in the glass. "Do you think Malfoy doesn't see how all of this affects you? How the straps and the clamps make you hard and flushed, and greedy for what he is forbidden to give you?"

"S-stop," Harry moaned, blood roaring in his head as his plug seemed to take a life all its own. "Please stop!"

"Stop, Mr. Potter?" Snape purred, and gave another hard thrust, "oh, but there's so much more to tell you about your Fosterer. And you did ask, did you not?"

Desperate beyond humiliation, Harry gulped out, "Please, sir. Please stop. You'll make me c-come!"

"Yes," came the smug reply, "I know."

"Please, no! I'm not allowed! I'll be punished-"

"You are already being punished, Mr. Potter," Snape's fingers crept down Harry's chest to give his nipple a flick, "Would you not rather have done something to deserve it?" Blinking tears, Harry didn't know whether to arch toward the pain, or flinch away from it. Snape pinched him again though, and growled, "Answer, Mr. Potter!"

And then Harry was coming, his cock jerking in its strangling bindings, pulsing and spurting and painting ropes of sticky white across the pier glass as Harry clung to Snape and tried not to drown under the blinding, whelming waves of sensation. He was aware, on some level, of Snape's harsh breath against his throat, of the feel of teeth digging into his shoulder, of the cock in his hands tensing, shuddering, and then suddenly growing slick and slimy between his grasping fingers. But Harry could only see himself in the glass, flushed and shaking, bound in girl's clothing and men's cruelty, striped and smeared with globs of his own spunk.

And he could not look away.

Not even when Lucius Malfoy himself appeared in the entrance to their sheltered alcove, eyes blazing with thunderous wrath as he took in Harry's disheviled state, the streaked mirror, the purpling bite mark, the smile in Snape's eyes as he swung his robe closed and turned around to say, "I win."

Malfoy's lips pulled back in an animal snarl, and when he raised his cane high, Harry just knew he was about to be beaten bloody! He shrank back against Snape, casting desperately about for a corner he could wedge himself into and curl up tight against the coming blows. But when the serpent cane bit, it was a blue and white Chinese vase which paid the price, shattering wildly across the marble floor.

"Damn you, you traitorous bastard," Malfoy hissed as Snape, nonplussed, twitched Harry's skirt down properly, and smoothed the rose coloured satin, "If you think for one second-"

"I think, Mr. Malfoy," Snape cut him off with a smile, "that you should not have wagered those things which you were not prepared to lose." He gave Harry's bustle a tug to straighten it, and caught his arm when the plug's echoing buzz made him stagger a little. "While I had intended to wait until the party was over to collect my winnings, I suppose it's better the boy isn't completely worn out, don't you agree?"

"What?" Harry shook his head to dispel the echoes of fear and ecstasy, "Winnings? You -- this was a be-" But Snape restored his gag before the question could escape.

"I suppose, aside from his wand, Mr. Potter will not have many belongings for you to send along," Snape led Harry past Malfoy just as though the Death Eater were not vibrating with barely-restrained rage, "You might as well bring his trunk tomorrow morning when you deliver Riddle's Diary to me at Spinner's End."

They were halfway to the front door when the unmistakable sound of Malfoy's wand slithering free of his cane stopped them cold. "Double or nothing," said the man in a leaden voice when Snape looked back over his shoulder. Harry could feel Snape's wand against his leg suddenly, hidden in the fluff of his skirts. "Choose another. Any other, boy or girl."

"I think not," Snape replied as though bored. "I've no more interest in games of chance this evening. You've lost, Lucius. Surely you don't intend to compound one grievous error in judgment with another?"

"Damn you Snape, what about my son?" Lucius crossed the hall in two strides, then stopped short to find Snape's wand leveled at his heart. "You cannot just… leave him," he finished weakly, "Not in a place like that. Not with those-"

And while Harry was still blinking, confused at the beseeching tone he'd never imagined he would live to hear in Lucius Malfoy's voice, Snape trumped his shock by breaking into laughter.

"Come now, Lucius," he crowed, and pushed Harry toward the door again, "it's not as though living at the Burrow will do Draco any lasting damage. Why the worst he's got to worry about are those twin boys, and as of last inspection, they were hardly any worse than when they were at Hogwarts."


"Besides, I'd think it cruel to move Draco now, when he's forming such attachments to his Fostering family."

Attachments? Harry thought, still dazed as the doors swung wide and let the summer night in.

"What attachments?" Lucius demanded.

"Why, hasn't he mentioned it?" Snape pretended surprise poorly with cruel humour glinting from his beetle black eyes. "Well, though I hate to ruin the secret, I believe you might well see your son married before his term of Fosterage is up. He seems to be embroiled in quite the forbidden love affair with their youngest boy," And here he turned to Harry and asked, "You'll remember young Ronald, won't you Mr. Potter?"