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Until Proven by Tira Nog
Author's Note: I would like to thank Leela <lj user=leela_cat> for a truly astounding edit on this story. She caught things my college grammar teacher wouldn't have noticed. Leela edited this monster around moving and work crises. I don't know how she did it. I can't thank her enough for her help. She was incredible.
I would also like to thank Alicia Masters for her input and Meri_Oddities for asking Leela to edit this monster.
As for the story, canon stops for me at Order of the Phoenix. Most of this was written before Half Blood Prince was published. I make no attempt to conform to any of the later books. Also, my beta, Leela, conscientiously made this story conform to JKR's use of capitalization. To me, capitalizing things like "floo" and "dementor" is the same as capitalizing the word "train" or "dragon". I think the usage is wrong, so I don't follow it. Also, Leela made a valiant attempt to bring this story into active tense. Any awkward passive tense clauses or present/past tense errors are completely the author's fault.
Warnings: Graphic, same-sex sexual scenes.
*~*~*
Harry gasped upon returning to consciousness. Everything hurt. Every single muscle he possessed felt like it had been stretched on a rack. A lump throbbed at the back of his head and a warm trail of blood seeped out of it and down his neck. He'd probably gotten it when he'd banged the stone floor in the throes of Cruciatus. It was a wonder he hadn't bitten his tongue off; they'd kept him under so long.
One deep breath, then another, and Harry was ready to take stock of his surroundings. He might be freezing, but at least he was dressed. He was wearing Muggle blue jeans, a grey tee shirt, and black hooded jacket. No wizards robes, and, more importantly, no wizard's wand.
The quality of the light filtering in from the narrow windows high above told him he was in a castle's dungeon, but it wasn't Hogwarts. That much he knew. The rest . . . .
Well, awakening to find one's wrists and ankles shackled to a dungeon wall with iron chains was never a good thing, especially when one's wand was among the missing.
How he'd gotten here was a mystery, as was where here was. The last thing he remembered, he was . . . well, he didn't know where he'd been last. All he remembered was being under Cruciatus.
A sound came from the far side of the chamber, the side with the door. There was a metallic clink of keys jingling, a groan as the tumbler turned, and then a nerve-piercing squeal as the heavy iron door swung open.
Harry blinked as torchlight ripped through his optical nerves the way the Cruciatus had tortured his body earlier. When the light receded to tolerable levels and his eyes adjusted, Harry wished he were blind again.
Six black-robed Death Eaters entered his cell.
The one with the unwashed blond hair in the lead lazily flicked his wand in his direction, and Harry felt his nervous system explode with agony. God, not again . . . .
That was his last thought before the pain took him. His head slammed against the floor once more as he writhed under the onslaught.
There was a different twist to this session, though. While Harry was thrashing around on the icy stone floor, two of the Death Eaters approached him from the side.
Insensible with pain, Harry couldn't protest as the larger of the pair grabbed him and held him as still as it was possible to hold a victim under Cruciatus. The other Death Eater withdrew a long, wicked knife from his pocket.
Harry could only watch as the glinting, razor-sharp blade moved towards him. To his momentary confusion, the knife didn't pierce his skin. Instead, his jacket was grabbed and slit open.
His clothes, they were only after his clothes, Harry thought. Too much pain was assaulting his brain for him to do more than acknowledge their intent. A loud ripping sound followed as his sweatshirt, tee shirt, and then his jeans and underclothes were quickly torn off him.
He couldn't feel the cold of the dungeon floor beneath him as his naked back landed against it. All Harry knew was the red-hot agony ripping through his nerves.
Trying to hold onto the reality outside of himself, refusing to give in to the insanity of the searing pain burning through him, Harry watched as the nearest Death Eater opened his robes and undid his trousers. For a second, Harry thought the man was going to urinate on him, but then he saw the Death Eater's aroused penis and recognized his enemy's intent.
Unable to believe what was happening, he was powerless to prevent the Death Eater from grabbing his legs and lifting his lower body up.
His head thunked against the icy floor, making his lump hurt nearly as much as the curse he was under. Seeing stars, Harry tried to rally his senses, to rise above the pain of Cruciatus. If he didn't get his act together and do something about escaping, this ordeal was going to get a lot worse than the use of an Unforgivable.
Horrified, Harry watched the Death Eater spit into his hand and then transfer the saliva to his monstrously aroused penis. Harry stared wild-eyed at the angry vein pulsing along the oversized shaft. The thing looked like it belonged on a stallion, not a man.
It was all Harry could do not to panic completely. The pain was already surreal, but he knew he couldn't handle what was to come.
Pushed beyond reason, Harry lifted his chained hands in a last ditch effort at defence and called upon his magic in a manner he'd never been taught.
"No-o-o-o-o-o!" Harry screamed and let loose his power as his legs were spread wider and that glistening prick thrust towards his bared anus . . . .
"Harry!" a terrified voice shouted from nearby. "Harry, for Merlin's sake, wake up!"
The Death Eater's fist coming straight for his face struck. Only, the blow wasn't hard and painful the way a man's knuckles ought to be. The assault was soft and the fist that didn't feel like a fist bounced off his face with suspect gentleness.
Utterly confused by where he was and what was happening, Harry forced his eyes apart for what he thought was the second time in perhaps ten minutes. His gaze focused on a charred pillow that was leaking burnt feathers. He watched it tumble to a vaguely familiar brown and rust coloured duvet.
What the . . . ? Frozen with terror, sweat pouring down him like he'd just stepped out from under a shower nozzle, Harry gaped into the equally petrified blue eyes of the man whose pillow he'd just obliterated. They were both standing stark naked in the wreck of the bed, with the destroyed pillow lying between them like a bloody corpse.
Harry took a deep breath as he recognized his surroundings and the frightened man who looked ready to bolt for the door.
"M-Michael?" Harry stammered.
His blue eyes bulging, Michael's classically handsome face was nearly unrecognisable, twisted as it was with terror.
"You – you used mage fire . . . ." the tall blond said, his voice hurt and accusative. "I didn't think that was even real. How can you know how to use mage fire? You're not even as old as me!"
Harry winced at Michael's barely suppressed panic. As ever, he had no explanation, no excuse for these bizarre talents that kept manifesting at almost the drop of a hat. Part of him knew that he should have warned Michael, but what could he have said? That he was a freak? That he didn't know his abilities or limits? That he could never predict what power might manifest itself while he was in the throes of a nightmare?
How could he explain what he didn't understand himself? Ever since Voldemort and Dumbledore had died in that final battle when their minds had been locked with Snape's and his, Harry had found himself developing one unexpected ability after another. He could never anticipate what might appear. Sometimes he couldn't even repeat the event – like that time he'd woken up screaming from a nightmare to find himself completely invisible for six hours.
Nothing in his life made sense anymore or was predictable, not that it ever had been.
So, how could he possibly explain it to an outsider? Harry couldn't even say how much of these developing powers were his natural-born abilities manifesting as he matured, and how much were the result of the raw magical energy that Albus Dumbledore had gifted him with when that great wizard had sacrificed his life in the final fight with Voldemort.
Voldemort's fall wasn't even something that could be related. Most wizards didn't believe that Legilimency and Occlumency existed outside of fiction. That last battle at the gates of Hogwarts had been fought almost entirely on a mental plane. How could Harry possibly explain to a one night stand or casual lover like Michael how Dumbledore, Snape, and his minds and power had been locked so tightly together while resisting Voldemort that he and Snape now knew what it felt like to die because they'd been in mental contact with Dumbledore as he'd passed on?
He couldn't, of course. Harry couldn't explain why he was the freak he was, anymore than he could prevent these damn nightmares that were ripping his life apart.
All he could do was run damage control.
"I-I'm sorry," Harry whispered, staring at the charred pillow. Were it not for Michael's quick thinking, that could just as easily have been Michael lying there singed with his stuffing leaking out. "I-I'd better go."
The last two times his night terrors had awakened them, Michael hadn't let him leave. Michael had laid him back down, held him close, and made sweet love to him to help him get past the shakes that were even now shuddering through him. He really liked this man. Harry hadn't known him even two weeks, but Michael's forbearance had earned him a special place in his heart.
But tonight, Michael simply stood there looking at him as though he were a Death Eater.
"Harry, I, er . . . ." Michael began and stopped.
Knowing what tonight had cost him, Harry took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. "It's okay, Michael. I know the drill. We shouldn't see each other anymore, right?"
Harry tried to keep the recrimination out of his voice, but it was hard, so hard. He hated being a monster. Every lover he'd ever had ended up fearing him. He'd hoped that Michael would be different, for the man had really seemed to care for him, but this was too much to ask anyone to put up with.
"I'm sorry," Michael answered in a strangled tone. "It's just . . . ."
"It's more than you counted on. I know. Don't be sorry. It's not your fault."
Still having no idea where his wand was, Harry flicked his hand at the charred pillow. They both watched the feathers float back through the gaping burn holes before the singed pillowcase returned to pristine white.
If anything, Michael's already pale face turned to chalk.
Of course, Harry sickly recognized. Wandless magic was almost as unheard of as mage fire.
Realizing that he was only making things worse, Harry climbed down from the bed. His clothes were scattered around the bedroom like fallen leaves blown about by an autumn gale. That visible reminder of the passion that had brought him to this bed was bitter as bile.
Harry didn't have the temerity to hunt all his scattered clothes down with those scared eyes watching his every move. At this point, one more wandless spell wasn't going to make a difference. So, Harry silently summoned his clothes to him and climbed quickly into them the old fashioned way. Once he was decent, he took a last look around the room.
Finally spotting his errant wand on the dresser, Harry levitated it over, plucked it out of the air, and stuck it deep in the pocket of his grey robes.
Only then did Harry look back at the man he'd spent the last four hours loving. He'd taken Michael twice tonight, but there wasn't even an echo of that shared intimacy on that wide, handsome, utterly frightened face. Michael was watching him like he were Voldemort reincarnated.
"I'm sorry," Harry voiced the words that had finished every affair he'd had for the last nine years. Then, unable to bear being in Michael's room for another moment, he apparated outside Hogwarts' wards to his favourite spot beside the lake. He materialized with no more sound than the rustling of his grey robes.
The cold air was a shock after the warmth of Michael's bed. His overtired senses were unbalanced by the abrupt change of locale. He took a deep breath and paused to take stock of his surroundings.
He'd apparated to a flat area on the lake trail that afforded a view of both the island in the lake's centre and the far side of the lake. The menhir at his left cast its deep shadow over the spot on which he'd materialized. When Remus had been a teacher here, they'd often walked along this trail and stopped in this very spot to talk. Sometimes he still missed Remus. Losing him had hurt nearly as much as Sirius' death.
The October night was clear and brisk. The wind bit into his skin, chilling him to the bone and whipping his grey robes around him as he stood on the muddy lake bank. The moon was so bright tonight that he could barely see any of the stars around it. He stared up at the full moon, and once again, was reminded of Remus. At least his old friend was in a place now where his curse couldn't torture him.
On nights such as this, it was hard to remember the good in the world. Professor Dumbledore, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Fred and George . . . they'd lost so many wonderful people trying to put down Voldemort that Harry sometimes had to question if it had been worth it. His inability to make his private life work out only compounded these feelings of hopelessness. What had happened with Michael was just another loss to add to all the others. He was trying to be philosophical about these things and face what came with a brave front, but with every romantic debacle it became harder and harder to keep up his optimism.
Harry started and chuckled as a sudden gust of wind threw a dozen or so dry oak leaves directly into his face. A cosmic 'snap out of it' order, if ever he saw one. Abruptly struck by the savage beauty of the night around him, he released a slow breath and tried to shake off his melancholia.
Michael was gone. The world would go on. Come next Friday, he'd find some other bloke to hang his hopes on.
Taking a deep gulp of the cold air, Harry admired the wild beauty around him and tried to let his disappointment go.
