Warning: may be disturbing to read. I also think non-con might apply. Tread carefully.
He can feel his self-loathing radiating from him: it's in his every feature, in the hunch of his broad shoulders, in the way the tiny droplets of water disperse as he steps carelessly through the pools of water on the ground. The face he wears today is a young one, it is not marred by lines of sorrow, scowls and suffering. His nose is not bent, his teeth are not crooked and yellow, his hair does not weigh down on him heavily. On days like this no one could recognize him, the least of all himself.
No one wants to be recognized when they head to the "Fata Morgana".
On the outside, the building looks plain, unencumbered by bright neon lights or scantily clad girls. It rather stands out from the neighbouring shops on Knockturn Alley through its simplicity, a white house and panel with the name, written in black cursive. The windows are small and dark, making it impossible to see inside. Then again, no two people see the building the same way; it is one of peculiarities of the ancient wards surrounding it.
No one talks about "Fata Morgana", yet everyone knows it."Fata Morgana", the place where the magic happens, no matter how diverse your tastes. Satisfaction and discretion guaranteed. Once in a blue moon, the Aurors come to play at raiding the place, but their heart isn't in it, not really, because how could it be? How would then they be able to monitor what goes on beyond closed doors then? Think of the children, they say. And yes, that helps them sleep at night. That, and the girls. Wondrous magic. Think of the children, they always say. And their eyes close.
Appearances are kept even within. If he didn't know any better, he could say he'd entered an empty wooden inn from older times. A blonde busty inkeeper turns around to greet him. Her smile looks warm, yet practiced.
"It's been a long time."
He nods in acknowledgement, placing his rain-soaked mantle in the hanger. It's the only one there, but he knows it's just a matter of Disillusionment Charms. A comforting lie. "Life got in the way."
She smiles knowingly, toying with her long, curly hair. "Life always gets in the way. The usual, then?"
He answers curtly. "Yes, please."
A potion and a sac of galleons are exchanged for a key. He goes upstairs, enters the room and waits. It's this part that he dreads the most, the waiting. The voices in his head judge him constantly, and he could envision no worse punishment than being left alone with himself and his sins, forever. He came here to avoid just that, to escape, if only for a little while, the emptiness he feels within his soul, scratching it raw, bleeding it dry.
The door clicks shut behind the readhead. She is examining her looks curiously, as if she's seeing herself for the first time. "So you're telling me that you could have any girl, any girl that you like, and you went for an A-cup?" She laughs. "Look at you, all stocky and muscular. I'd hardly believe this to be your type."
He expected this. In time, he learned that, no matter no matter how much he wished for it, no matter how much time, energy and concentration and skill he put into the potion-making, the copy was always imperfect. Sure, the physical resemblance is outstanding, eerie even. But the crassness in her words is even more jarring than usual. "My tastes are no business of yours."
She looks hardly affected by his comment. On the scales of snide remarks she's heard, this ranks as pretty much harmless. "I disagree. In fact, they are actually my livelihood." She cocked her head to the side, looking inquisitively at him. Considering what she's heard about the man, she expected something more acidic than that.
He scowled. "Then you're not very good at it. I request gentle, I get meek. I ask for fierce, I obtain obnoxious. For a place that is all about pleasing their clientele, I believe you're rather failing on that front, don't you think?" By the end, his voice has gotten a bit quieter, laced with a menacing undertone.
Her expression changes subtly for the briefest of seconds. Her eyebrows raise, if only slightly, and her eyes and pupils dilate. At another time, he would have spotted that, but he is far from his usual self. The fear quickly vanishes from her face. She then asks coyly: "Then tell me what pleases you and I will deliver". Save for the unnatural speed of the transfiguration, all appears natural.
He's not thinking about her words, he's thinking about his past. He looks at her, through her, through the wall, gazing somewhere far-far away. He gulps, licks his lips, then closes his eyes gradually. He swallows again, once or twice, and his closed eyes keep twitching with some invisible pain. Everything stops, but she keeps watching him attentively. "Talk to me, Lily." His voice sounds hoarse, indecisive, distant.
"About...our times together?" She inquires, uncertain.
He nods.
She would like to put a hand on his shoulder, to comfort him; however, her instinct tells her this would not be appreciated, not now, so she refrains. "We...we were friends for a long time. I had your back, you had mine."Her voice is wavering, if only a bit. She was never good at improvising and the background information she received was scarce in detail."We...met on the Hogwarts train..."
He opens his mouth to say something, but he apparently reconsiders and shuts up again.
She continues her story, trying to keep her voice steady. "...you would tell me later that was the moment when you fell in love with me, fell in love with my laughter."It sounds unlikely when she reconsiders it, but she presses on."When we got to Hogwarts we..."
"Stop," he interrupts suddenly. "You really are not good with this," he adds, resigned.
Her shoulders slump. "I...I tried," she excuses herself. Suddenly, she straightens up, not a trace left of her defeated attitude in her posture. "Tell me what to do and I will do it," her voice slightly higher-pitched than before, huskier, more seductive. Apparently, he's a better observer with his eyes closed, because there is a voice at the back of his head nagging him. Continuously. He decides to ignore it for now, the demonic voices are louder and it takes everything not to surrender to them fully.
He turns towards and cups her head gently, touching her lips with his thumb. "Shh", he whispers soothingly. "You're not good with words, but you're pretty, and you are mine now." His mind is set to make the best of this experience, and actions will have to do when words cannot. He continues caressing her. From time to time, his mouth twists into a bitter smile. He'd like to forget that this is not real, but he cannot shake the feeling. So he focuses all his attention on her, moving his hands over her, teasing softly. She warms up under his touch and looks comfortable, enjoying herself.
"So what?" she laughs. "Am I supposed to shut up and watch you being all dark and broody? Oh, look at me, I'm so sad."
He frowns, because he was temporally in another world and her comment snapped him right out of it. He was about to answer snarkily when, suddenly, her demeanour changes. For a moment, she looks painfully young, surprised even. The sincerity in her eyes is replaced by a darker glint that he doesn't quite understand. "Nevermind that, I'll listen to you." The sentence sounds submissive and bland. He senses the discongruity.
He steps back and folds his hands, assessing her silently. How did the go from disruptive to obedient that quickly? Alarm bells ring is head. "You are really inexperienced at this," he laughs nervously. "How long have you been in this business?"
A beat. Then, she answers dismissively, "Ah, let's not talk about me, let's talk about yooou."She is practically cooing when pronouncing the last word. "This should be all about you." He had expected either a straight answer or an oblique toyful one from her, not this pathetic attempt at seduction.
He knows a deflection when he sees one. He takes a deep breath, so he asks again, accentuating each syllable as if he's talking to a particularly dense student. "How. Long. Have. You. Worked. Here?" By now, he is strongly suspecting that she cannot answer, that she is magically bound not to disclose anything, but he has to ask. He has to know. He hopes he is wrong.
This time she doesn't answer, casting her eyes down, then looking back at him, pleadingly.
He is suddenly aware of an icy claw clenched unforgivably around his heart. "You cannot talk about it?Why?"
She steps forward and wraps her hands around his neck. "My goal is to make you happy. I have to make you happy." That cooing voice, again.
He knows this is an illusion, that this is simply a prostitute polyjuiced as Lily. He's seen glimpses of an obstinate, smart-mouthed woman and this, this pliant puppet holding him in a tender embrace feels disconcerting. He tries again. "Did you elect to have this job of your own free will or were you...coerced into it?"
She cups his head and kisses him fiercely, probably to shut him up. He is certain now, of what is wrong, what is happening here. He feels hollow on the inside and tries to disentangle from her, pushing her away forcibly when she wouldn't let go, caught in the passionate kiss. He is enjoying the tingling but, at the same time he is conflicted, disgusted with himself. He feels dirty under his skin in a way he has never experienced before.
He has many sins weighing on his shoulder, yes, but he prefers them to the hellish existence the woman in front of him is living. To have no free will of own, to be under wards and spells that only allow you to be yourself as long as the client is 'happy'. To have that snatched away at any perceived 'mistake'. And no not even allow the reprieve of a complete Imperious, to have no distance between one and one's actions...because the clients can tell, can distinguish between reality and illusion.
It makes him sick to the stomach.
"Fata Morgana", the place where the magic happens. Satisfaction and discretion guaranteed.
He shudders violently.
For a minute, he considers his options. He's well versed in magic theory to realize that the ancient wards would never allow the girl to escape, even with his assistance. As is, he might not even be allowed to leave himself for knowing too much, but he refuses to entertain that possibility. However, even in this bleak situation he finds himself in, there is one thing that he can do.
He grabs her hand gently, in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. "I remember you loudly complaining about girls with A-cups. I would very much like to hear why is that."
She looks him up and down uncertainly, assessing him. She eventually looks him directly in his eyes, questioningly. It's this particular vulnerable look in her eyes that confirms his other suspicions, that she has never experienced the shackles of these wards before, that she is, behind her attempted bravado, scared and even confused. And maybe even young. Too young.
"It would make me very, very happy to hear what you have to say on the matter." He looks back at her, and nods. "Or any other subject if you so prefer. I wish to listen to you."
An understanding passes between them.
"Well, you see, when I was young..."
She begins slowly at first, but gains confidence as time passes by. Her face is lit up by a timid smile. As for him, he listens attentively, asking for details and prodding from time to time. And if the demons in his head get quieter and his remorse weighs less heavily on his heart, he doesn't pay attention to that. After all, it's not every day that you get to talk to a friend.