AN: I don't own anything Harry Potter related, unfortunately. This is my original plot.
CHAPTER ONE:
After the war, Harry Potter had not been able to cope. Any form of inner peace escaped him. Night after sleepless night left him irritable, frustrated, and hostile. He alienated himself from all friends, deciding it was better to cut the ties himself rather than risk the pain of losing them in any other way. And he began to seek solace from the bottoms of bottles.
On a particularly drunken night, Harry found himself wandering the streets, peering into dirty windows of bars and clubs that would never allow him inside in his current state. He shivered, a cold sweat prickling his skin as his cheeks burned hot. The smell of fried food wafted up from a basement restaurant and Harry's stomach tumbled over. He fought the nausea, unwilling to waste all the whiskey sitting inside him, waiting to be absorbed into his bloodstream, and continued on down the sidewalk.
The wind picked up suddenly, and Harry heard the raindrops pinging off the roofs before he felt them. He hurried under an awning as the rain grew heavier, but the wind blew it in every direction, soaking him. Everyone else on the streets disappeared into buildings, and Harry knew he had to sober up and try to get inside somewhere, just until the storm passed.
Taking a final swig from his bottle of Firewhiskey and tossing the empty bottle down an alley, Harry ran across the street and into the nearest club. It was dark inside, which he was grateful for as the bouncer who checked his ID couldn't see his face too well. Of course, the name on his identification caused an eyebrow raise and an inquisitive look, but his level of intoxication remained a secret until he stumbled away.
Collapsing into a dark corner booth, Harry took a deep breath and wiped the rain and sweat from his forehead. He waited for his eyes to adjust before peering around the club, getting his bearings. A large bar lined the back wall with about twenty black leather stools with silver nail head details, only a few dim, dusty bulbs lighting the shelves of alcohol. He was sitting in one of only five black leather booths, tucked to the side of the bar. The rest of the club was an open dance floor with a circular stage in the middle. Harry squinted to try and see what was on the stage, but between his level of intoxication and the darkness it was impossible.
With a start, he realized there was someone standing next to him. It was a young man, dressed only in a leather chest harness and leather briefs, a matching leather hood covering his entire face except for his eyes. He silently handed Harry a drink menu.
"Oh," Harry mumbled, taking the menu and reading the name of the club on the front. "The Leather Hex…" He ran his eyes over the guy again, who kept his head lowered respectfully. He didn't want his slurred speech to prevent him from being served, so he kept his words to a minimum, "Firewhiskey, straight up."
The server nodded once and disappeared behind the bar. Harry assumed the leather hood prevented him from talking. In just a few moments, he returned silently with Harry's drink.
"Thanks," Harry said, but the server had already retreated.
He sipped his drink, feeling instantly better as the amber liquid left a warm burn down his throat. He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt, trying again to see what was happening on the center stage. He could see the outline of a handful of men on the stage, all standing in the same stiff pose, only a few inches between each of them. About a dozen people stood in front of the stage, none of whose faces Harry could discern. One person moved on the stage from man to man, and if Harry really concentrated, he could pick up bits of what was being said.
"Our last boy here… Muscular…intelligent…helps with household chores…limited cooking skills, but can be taught… Enjoys some form of bondage at all times." The crowd in front of the stage murmured. "Starting the bidding at 40 Galleons."
Harry's brow furrowed. It was an auction? His curiosity started to pique, and he picked up his drink and carefully began moving closer to the action. The auctioneer was yelling out numbers, and the crowd was holding up paddles. Harry stayed in the shadows as he watched, the price climbing to 100 Galleons, fewer and fewer paddles staying up.
From his new vantage point, Harry could better see the men lined up on stage. They were all young and fit, varying physiques and skin colors, and they were all bound in exactly the same way—a length of chain between their ankles keeping them hobbled, arms cuffed behind their backs, simple black collars around their necks, and completely naked. Some stood proudly and some were visibly uncomfortable with being on display.
Harry felt a warm rush in his groin that surprised him, and he shifted in his pants a bit. Suddenly, a soft voice whispered in his ear.
"Like what you see?"
Harry spun around, teetering a little from the fast movement, and found himself staring into an unfamiliar face. "I'm Lincoln, owner of the Leather Hex," the man said, thrusting his hand out for Harry to shake. "Never thought I'd see the day where Harry fucking Potter would wander into my club."
"I, uh, it started to rain, and," Harry stammered.
"Sure, sure," Lincoln said, resting his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Just in time for our nightly slave auction, huh? Seems like you missed out on tonight's selection, but no worries, we have a fresh pack ready to go for tomorrow night. Starts right at midnight, sharp, don't be late next time!"
"No, no." Harry shook his head, stumbling back so Lincoln's hand fell to his side. He took a gulp of his drink, needing the liquid courage to help him handle the situation. "I'm not—not interested… I don't…slaves?"
"Yes, Potter, sex slaves!" Lincoln sounded incredulous, squinting at Harry in the dim light. Harry felt uncomfortable, certain the club owner could tell how drunk he was and would throw him back out in the rain any second. "That's what this place specializes in. Master and slave relationships. Bondage." His eyes narrowed further. "You didn't know that when you came in here?"
Harry shook his head, but stopped quickly as the movement made the room spin. Lincoln suddenly grabbed him by the elbow. "Let's go back to your booth and talk, shall we?" He steered Harry back to where he had been sitting, dumping him into one side of the booth before sitting down in the other. He carefully pried Harry's drink from his hand and pushed it down the other end of the table, far out of Harry's reach.
"This is what I specialize in, Potter. Making fantasies come true for sexual deviants like you. I can see it in your eyes. You wanted one of those slaves. Didn't you?"
Harry looked longingly for his drink, his hand feeling empty and clammy. "No," he insisted. "Why would any of them want to…?"
"Want to what? Be a slave?" Lincoln chuckled, gesturing over to the stage. "Those boys love to live like that. They want to submit to a strong master who will control every aspect of their life. They crave it. These relationships require two willing participants, nobody is forced. This is how I make my living, Potter, spotting people like you whose dull, empty lives need some excitement and fulfillment."
"I don't…" Harry trailed off, looking over Lincoln's shoulders at the stage again.
"I'll tell you what. Go home. Do some research. Come back here tomorrow night. I guarantee you won't be in denial anymore." With that, Lincoln returned Harry his drink and left without another word.
Harry stayed sitting, stunned. His drunken brain struggled to sift through the confusing thoughts swirling around his head. He wasn't sure how he'd ended up in a leather bar, let alone the middle of a slave auction with the beginnings of an erection and a stomach full of Firewhiskey. He looked on as the winning bidders went up on stage and claimed their prizes, hooking leashes on the boys' collars and leading them off. He sighed deeply, tossed back the rest of his drink, left a few too many coins on the table, and found his way home.
Despite how much he'd had to drink, Harry couldn't sleep. He was used to sleepless nights, so he settled onto the couch with a cup of black coffee and his laptop. The past few hours kept replaying in his mind, and he decided to do what Lincoln had suggested. Researching sexual slavery, bondage, sadism and masochism made the rest of night slip by in a blur. Before he knew it, sunlight was streaming through his windows, breaking past the residual storm clouds.
Finally, he closed the lid on laptop and let his head drop backwards with a groan. What was it about what he'd witnessed had turned him on so much? What he had told Lincoln was true—he wasn't interested in owning a slave. But something the man had said about the slaves had resonated with him on a deep level. They want to submit to a strong master who will control every aspect of their life.
Harry looked around his apartment. It was almost bare except for the dingy couch he was sitting on, a milk crate with an old TV perched on top, and pieces of the Daily Prophet scattered around the floor along with bottles of alcohol in various stages of emptiness. He slept on a bare mattress in the other room, and all that was in the fridge was more alcohol, an old tub of butter, and a frozen loaf of bread from months ago. What he really needed—and now that he thought about it, what he really wanted—was someone to take care of him. Someone to make all the decisions for him. Someone to direct and guide his life, because he no longer had the will to do it for himself.
The crushing weight of despair that usually sat heavy on his chest suddenly seemed to lift a little at the realization. He didn't want to own a slave; he wanted to be a slave. Somehow he had stumbled into the Leather Hex last night at exactly the right time. Lincoln had opened his eyes to what he was missing.
Harry Potter needed a master.