February
It was a quiet Saturday afternoon in the village of Godric's Hollow. The main road was deserted due to the pouring rain that kept the residents in their homes with a warm cup of tea. Only one hooded figure walked the hedged path, his grey woolen cloak repelling every drop of rain.
Harry didn't come here to see his old parents' home, which he had already scoured, but was following a bit of intelligence gleaned from Lucius Malfoy after a tiny bit of torture. Once he reached Bathilda Bagshot's door, he took out his wand and whispered "Homenum Revelio," feeling two pings in return. He knocked.
The Supersensory charm he had cast on himself previously allowed him to hear the approaching hesitant steps, with their telltale high-heeled clucks, as clear as day. They came to a halt, and the door opened to a crack, revealing half a pair of jewelled spectacles and blonde curls.
"Hello Rita," Harry smiled, prying the door open, and cast a silent Expelliarmus, depriving her of her wand. "Fancy seeing you here."
The journalist stumbled back as Harry advanced towards her, shutting the door behind him. "H-Harry… w-what a surprise…" she stuttered.
"Not a pleasant one, I hope," he said, studying Rita's every move. They were in an entrance hallway lined with dusty cabinets. "Where's Bathilda?"
"Uh, she just dosed off in the living room. Are… are you here for her?"
"No, actually. I'm here for you."
"For… me?"
"Indeed," Harry said. "You know, Rita, I've never properly thanked you for turning the public against me."
"Umm, there's really no need," she stumbled back again and put her hand placatingly in front of her chest, its thick fingers ending with long, sharp nails painted crimson.
"No, I think there definitely is a need. You've influenced things a great deal. Who knows how many lives could have been spared if the public believed me about Voldemort, instead of thinking I'm insane."
"Harry, please, it wasn't my fault!" Rita said, her voice pitching higher with panic. "Lucius Malfoy knew I'm an Animagus, he blackmailed me to talk to his son and write those articles!"
"Oh, but I've already thanked Lucius," Harry grinned. "Which is how I know you're trying to drag Dumbledore's name through the mud now, too."
Rita froze in surprise for a moment, before regaining her bearing. "I'm writing a biography!"
"A well-biased biography, I'm sure, in a time where it could seriously impair those who fight against Voldemort," Harry said, enjoying seeing her flinch at the Dark Lord's name. "It would cause just as much damage as your campaign against me did, if not more."
"I-I don't have that kind of influence," Rita said, stumbling back through the hallway until they reached the living room. "You can't blame me for it!"
"I don't care about your excuses," Harry said, not allowing her to increase the distance between them. "You've caused untold damage with your lies, and now you're trying to cause more. You need to make some serious amends."
"Amends?" she whispered.
"Yes, amends," Harry said, surveying the room brimming with stacks of parchment. "I have another biography for you to write. It won't be too long, just enough for the next weekend Prophet. It's about one Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known in public as 'Lord Voldemort', 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named', or 'Lord Thingy'. Hopefully it will hurt his side just as you planned on hurting ours."
"But, but, nobody knows anything about him!" Rita said, wide-eyed.
"I do," Harry said with a slight smirk. "Just enough to seriously embarrass him."
"But he will kill me if I write it!"
"And I will kill you if you don't write it," Harry leveled his wand at her heart. "I want to make that very clear."
"You wouldn't!"
"I'm willing to do whatever it takes to win this war," Harry said somberly. "Do I really need to give you a demonstration?"
"P-Please, Harry, I'm sorry—"
"Dishonest pleas won't sway me," Harry said. "But I'm willing to give you an opportunity to show me how much you regret your actions."
"Oh, thank you, thank you—"
"You can start by giving me a handjob," Harry smiled, opening his cloak and taking a seat on one of the armchairs strewn around.
"A… handjob?" Rita asked slowly.
"You wrap your shiny-nailed fingers around my dick and rub it," Harry said. "I've wanted it ever since you pushed me into that broom cupboard for an interview. I thought it would be the Romilda Vane kind of broom cupboard experience, you see; after all, it was the 'wand weighting' ceremony. Suffice to say, you've left me quite disappointed."
"And… and then you'll give me my wand back?" she asked.
"If you'll keep your trap shut concerning what you've learned about Dumbledore and me," he refrained from mentioning that she would be Obliviated to hell and back.
"I… I… oh, fuck it, I'll do it," Rita sighed in exasperation, and Harry took the opportunity to banish her robes, revealing a curvy body wearing intricate designer lingerie.
"Not bad for a woman your age, Rita," Harry smirked at her affronted expression.
"Well, I suppose that's a compliment from a boy like you," Rita scrunched her nose as she kneeled before him. "Word has it that you get around quite a bit, Harry. Are you sure you need a woman my age to do this for you?"
"I've gotten around before Voldemort started killing anyone close to me," Harry said bitterly. "So yes, I do need whores like you now."
His cock was already semi-erect when she pulled down his boxers, but when she started running her long, sharp fingernails over its length, it rose to full-mast.
"Oh, yeah, that's it…" he mumbled, as Rita wrapped her fingers tightly around his dick.
"I can't believe I'm doing this…" she mumbled.
"Oh, come on, Rita. Just between you and me, I'm sure you've done much more depraved things for a scoop," Harry said breathily.
She slowly began scrubbing his organ, and Harry cast a strong sleeping charm on Bathilda Bagshot's dosing form, just to play things safe.
Rita definitely seemed to have experience with handjobs, seeing how well she went about it, tickling his balls with her fingernails, rubbing his glans with her thumb in circles, and spitting down on his cock to lubricate it. She didn't just rub his dick up and down, but massaged it in mesmerizing circular motions that went down his organ in spirals. Not even Romilda Vane was that good at the craft.
"Yeah, you sure have the experience," Harry said, getting a harsh glare in return. He stretched back in his chair with pleasure and cracked a vicious smile. "But I guess you don't get to your, uh, position, by just being a shitty lying reporter. Now put that silver tongue of yours to good use for once, and suck it."
The journalist pouted and bent her head down, giving his hard cock a lick. Harry knew she was thinking of sending the Aurors after him when they were done, but she wasn't aware of Harry's invisible camera taking photos of her at the moment, or his Polyjuiced alibi in the castle. He wasn't even using his own wand today, but Ginny's, which seemed to work better for him than any other wand he had taken from his enemies.
Looking down on Rita's face as she began bobbing her head on his dick gave him great pleasure and satisfaction, and he barely just kept his eyes open enough to notice if she would try to attack. But she too seemed to have sunk into her role, and was concentrating only on exciting his organ.
She tightened her lips around him and shook her head frantically, sending a flicker of bliss running through his cock. He moaned in pleasure and ran his fingers through her curls to grab her head. When her eyes looked up at him, he pushed her head down on his cock so that it reached deep into her throat, and didn't let her raise her head again until she was completely choking on it and making panicked noises.
"Look in my eyes while you're servicing me," Harry said with cold spite, before releasing her head.
Rita took in heavy breaths, her jewelled spectacles hanging low on her nose. "I didn't agree to this…" she panted.
"And I didn't agree to let you print made up quotes of me," Harry said, and shoved her head down again. "You need to learn to do some honest work, Rita. Get back to it."
He relished in the angry look her eyes gave him while servicing him like a Knockturn Alley whore. He should have taught her her place a long time ago. His gaze shifted to the mounds of parchment strewn around. It seemed she dug a lot of dirt on Dumbledore, and though the public will never get to lay eyes on it now, he was sure to have some nice "light reading" material tonight.
While she enveloped every inch if his dick with her mouth, Harry let his gaze wonder over her body, covered in only a frilly set of bra, panties, stockings, garter belt and high heels, all in a shade of red that matched her fingernails.
"What a slutty outfit," Harry said, meeting her agitated gaze in amusement. "So that's the real secret to your success, huh? Let's see if you're as proficient with your body as you are with your hands and mouth."
He got up, grabbed her hair, and flipped her over on the carpet. Rita let out a short, breathy screech as she assumed doggystyle position with clenched knees and held the coffee table for support. Harry's hand on her back pushed it down to a curve, and her calves bent up, high heels pointing outwards. He grabbed her ankles while letting his cock glide over her covered vulva.
"Oh, Merlin…" Rita mumbled down in embarrassment. Harry laughed and tore open her frilly panties, revealing her oversized, shiny, dangling lips. They were messy and much wrinklier than Harry was used to, a fact which didn't deter him at all.
"Uuurgh!" the reporter groaned as Harry pinched her clit. He smiled vindictively.
"Damn, Rita, this really gives me some second thoughts… who knows how many cocks passed inside of you? Should I be worried about STDs?"
"N-No!" she sputtered. "I am clean as… as… as a whistle… you filthy boy!"
"My filth will be all over you soon," Harry laughed, pushing his organ through her wrinkly meat flaps and into her worn-out hole. While the reporter was attractive in a cheap sort of way, he really got his rocks off from dominating a mature woman. He began playing with her mess of a pussy, rubbing and pulling different parts with his fingers, to her growing agitation.
"Oh, just fuck me already, you bastard!" Rita ground out.
"I knew you couldn't resist me, Rita," Harry said and grabbed her ankles, prying them apart, eliciting a gasp out of her mouth. He wanted to hurt her so badly. With her legs stretched, her pussy opened up to him and he began powerfully ramming into her.
"Oh… oh… ah…" the reporter whimpered, her face twisted in agony as his rock-hard dick slammed into her depths mercilessly again and again. Harry felt that addictive, euphoric sensation filling his mind once again and giving him more energy to pound the bitch that annoyed him for so long. This was the kind of shit he lived for now.
"Take it, you nasty cunt," he said, his thrusts pushing her body down to the carpet. She was visibly trembling, breathing loudly and losing control of her body that was stretched to its limit by Harry's raw handling.
As he dug in deeper, she began kicking her calves uncontrollably. Harry let go of them and instead took hold of her shoulders, using them as a crutch to hold her in place and ravage her pussy. One of his hands went to her throat, cupping it strongly to the point that she started choking.
"That's it, that's what you deserve, that's all you are, just a worthless lying whore," Harry said breathily, leaning his head to her ear, and bringing another hand to her throat. Her spectacles fell askew, and her hair was all over the place. Tears started to trail down her cheeks. "Feel my pain, you fucking bitch…"
With a final round of frenzied, merciless thrusts, Harry hit her cervix one last time and released his man juice inside of her, keeping his hands tightly around her throat. He pumped every last drop into her moist tunnel, his body slacking with relief, and finally let go of her neck, pushing her head down to the carpet.
They were both breathing heavily for a minute, through Rita's panting was much sharper and noisier. Harry grabbed his own hair as black spots filled his vision and pleasant haze washed his brain. He took a few more minutes to relax, and then bent down on her prone, lying form.
"Barnabas Cuffe," he breathed quietly in her ear, making the reporter recoil. "Where can I get to him?"
"He-He usually spends his Saturday evenings getting drunk and harassing witches at The Mercurial," Rita choked out.
"That will do," Harry said and got up with a contended sigh. "I suppose your tacky bag is charmed against intruders?"
"Of course," the reporter groaned.
Harry sent a Sectumsempra at the crocodile-skin handbag, tearing it open, and summoned all pieces of parchment into the pocket of his traveling cloak. Some information was just better kept secret.
"Turn into your beetle form," he pointed his wand at Rita.
"B-But you said you'd let me go!" she protested, twisting her neck to glare at him.
"Only after you write my article," Harry smiled cruelly. "A task which you'd complete in the confines of my isolated cellar."
Rita huffed, but followed his command and transformed. Harry conjured a snow-globe around the little bug, with a model of Godric's Hollow during a snowstorm, and tiny holes to let in air. He smiled down at Rita through the glass dome, shook the globe a little, and stashed it in his pocket.
The sun had already gone down when he left Godric's Hollow and apparated to Diagon Alley. The rain was pouring on the stone cobbled street and the few lamps scattered about didn't do much to lighten the path. Not that Harry needed any concealment – he was under his invisibility cloak.
The Mercurial turned out to be an old-fashioned dance club with back rooms for card games and gambling. Harry entered under his invisibility cloak and slinked through the crowd of merry dancers and waitresses until he found Barnabus Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, sipping gin and playing poker with a bunch of Wizengamot members.
He waited for a while, bored out of his mind by their conversation, until the short man excused himself to the bathroom. Harry followed him carefully. The editor seemed quite tipsy, humming carelessly to himself. Selfish asshole lives the high life while Voldemort is terrorizing the country with Dementors and killing innocents, Harry thought to himself in disgust as he watched the man taking a leak at the urinal.
Cuffe stopped humming and turned his head around when Harry closed the door. His glazed eyes looked around in suspicion for a moment before he returned to his business, having dismissed the idea of an invisible stalker. Harry took the opportunity to banish Rita's Quick-Quotes-Quill into the man's ass, erecting a silencing ward immediately after.
"AAAAARGHH!" Cuffe screamed and fell down to the floor, his piss spraying all over the wall.
"This is for slandering a fucking teenager for so long, you useless waste of magic," Harry said and flicked his wand, sending the editor flying head first into the filthy urinal. He didn't allow him any time to recuperate before calling "Imperio!"
When Harry returned from his excursion through the Vanishing Cabinet, the Room of Requirement had the appearance of a luxurious drawing room. Daphne was sprawled back on a plush green leather sofa, wearing only a loose white blouse and black panties, reading a book with her feet stretched on a matching leather ottoman. She looked exquisite as always.
Pansy Parkinson, on the other hand, was kneeling on the carpeted floor at the other side of the ottoman, wearing a black g-string bikini and thong, her face holding a bitter scowl, as she was manicuring Daphne's feet.
"If that isn't a sight for sore eyes," Harry said with a smirk.
"Took you long enough," Daphne drawled, not lifting her eyes from her book. "Were there complications?"
"Oh, no, I just took the opportunity to knock two targets," Harry said, hanging his traveling cloak on the rack.
"Raped another unfortunate woman?" Pansy asked snidely.
"'Unfortunate'? Why, Pansy, if I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't enjoy being my fuckdoll," Harry laughed.
Pansy's scowl deepened. "It's not like I have a choice, I might as well make the most of it."
"That's the most reasonable thing I've ever heard you saying, Pans," Harry said, stepping closer to her and loosening his belt.
Daphne's eyes shifted from her book for a second to look at him. "If you want to have a go, can you just wait ten minutes until she's done with my manicure?"
"No need," Harry smiled. The sight of the thin string covering Pansy's butt crack had enflamed his libido, despite his earlier tryst with Rita. "I'm sure Pans can keep her balance while I use her. If she doesn't, I know you'll take the pleasure to discipline her."
"You hear that, dollymop? You better not fuck up," Daphne said sternly.
Pansy huffed as Harry knelt down behind her and grabbed her thong with a finger, slowly sliding it down to reveal her prim ass hole and puffy vulva. For all her faults, the girl had the perfect, smooth round ass, which Harry found impossible to resist. By this point she was so used to his anal fixation that she didn't even flinch as her privates were uncovered.
Harry cast a quick cleaning charm on her before discarding his wand and using both hands to grab her ass cheeks and massage them. She unconsciously arched her back and spread her thighs wider.
"Good girl," Harry muttered, prying her ass cheeks open with his palms to expose her crack completely. He leaned down, his nose brushing against the top of her ass, and gave her butthole a lick.
Pansy gasped and moved jerkily.
"You idiot! You just messed up my toenail!" Daphne said harshly. "What a completely useless whore you are!"
"I-I'm sorry, mistress," Pansy mumbled, bitterness sipping through her poorly intoned apology.
"Well, Pans, since you're too inept to use a nail file properly, how about you just apologize to your mistress by kissing her feet?"
"Yes, master," Pansy ground out, her miserable tone making him chuckle internally as he compared her to Kreacher, whom he had such nice time slaughtering.
"That would be agreeable," Daphne said with a pout. "Worship my feet with your expert tongue like the little pugfaced bitch you are."
Pansy set to reluctantly follow her orders, and Harry began licking her asshole in round movements, making her moan uncontrollably through her open mouth like a cat in heat.
He didn't know why he wanted to taste Pansy's dirty hole so much, something that should've strongly repulsed him, but he just did. He tried to blame his wolf animagus form for the strange instinct, but deep down he knew he was just a sick bastard with insatiable sexual curiosity.
Still, he could only keep rimming her for several minutes, giving Pansy way more pleasure than she deserved, until he wanted to go further. He unzipped his pants and went back to stretch her ass cheeks wide while bringing his pelvis closer.
Pansy's body stilled in anticipation when his cock began rubbing through her crack, and Daphne slapped her cheek with her bare foot.
"I didn't give you permission to stop," she admonished her vassal.
"Yes, mistress, I'm sorry," Pansy whined, going back to licking Daphne's feet with fervor.
"Good dog," Daphne breathed out and hummed in pleasure.
Meanwhile Harry pushed his cock deep into Pansy's ass hole and closed his eyes to let the delightful sensation of the tight grip on his organ wash through him.
"You know what, my fuckdoll? I'm quite spent after my activities today. How about you do the work for once and massage my dick with your fat ass?"
"Of course, master, it must have taken so much energy from you to rape a bitch," Pansy growled in barely concealed anger. Still worshipping Daphne's feet, she began to wriggle her magnificent bum back and forth on his dick at the same time. Harry was almost instantaneously blown out by how good this felt. He just knelt there with his cock stuck up Pansy Parkinson's ass while she leaned back on it and rubbed it with her inner walls in circular motions.
"Such a good little whore…"
It only took him a few minutes to cum sumptuously and spray his load into Pansy's intestines. He summoned his camera and took a picture as lumps of cum started leaking out of her puckered hole and down her soft thighs.
When he finally came down from the magnificent high, he slapped her bum and allowed her to take a well-earned hot bath, while he Scourgified himself and set to explore Rita's research on the couch.
The evening of the following day, he paid a visit to the headmaster's office. It wasn't one of their scheduled Tom Riddle childhood movie nights, but Harry was too curious.
"Ah, Harry, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
Ever since all of Harry's friends – who, coincidentally, were also Dumbledore's students – were murdered, the headmaster has changed. He looked more tired and weary than ever, and stopped giving Harry moral lectures, which made him so much more bearable.
"It's just something I found in Sirius' room over the winter break, sir," Harry said, taking a piece of parchment out of the pocket of his robe and placing it on the desk.
Dumbledore looked down at the letter Harry's mother had sent to Sirius fifteen years prior. Harry tracked the movements of his pupils, until they reached the bottom of the letter, where Lily wrote about the stories Bathilda Bagshot told them of young Albus and Gellert Grindelwald. The headmaster sighed.
"I suppose you wish to know if there's any truth to Bathilda's stories?" Dumbledore asked tonelessly.
"Well, there's that," Harry said. "But I was also curious about your interest in my father's invisibility cloak."
"Ah," Dumbledore said, seeming a bit relieved. He fixed his gaze into Harry's eyes, and Harry felt a fluttering of magic seeking a way in. He kept his thoughts on what was right in front of him.
"Your Occlumency skills seem to have increased considerably as of late," Dumbledore said.
"I've been working on it," Harry nodded. "I know you don't wish the knowledge you give me to get out."
"Very well," Dumbledore sighed, as if coming to terms with the need to get an unpleasant task over with. "I suppose it's time I let you in on some of my secrets… tell me, Harry, have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows?"
Narcissa woke up in a daze from her strange dreams. It wasn't unusual; nowadays she spent most of her waking hours in a drunken haze, wandering through the empty hallways of her grand manor, just trying to forget and ignore everything.
When the weekend edition of the Prophet surprised them all with the true identity of The Dark Lord, Voldemort was furious. He had murdered both the reporter and the paper's editor, leaving their mutilated bodies underneath the Dark Mark, inside the newspaper's burning offices, but, for some reason, he also laid the blame for it on Lucius, who had previous contact with Rita Skeeter.
Unfortunately, Lucius was dead, and by proxy, it fell to Narcissa to be the scapegoat on whom the Dark Lord unleashed his remaining, excruciating fury.
Coupled with the loss of her child and husband, Narcissa could only cope with the lasting pain by keeping herself on a constant diet of the most expensive wine from the Malfoy cellar, alone and aimless.
But tonight was different. Something was calling her through dreams, compelling her to leave her bed and wonder outside, in nothing but a negligee and frilly white panties, to the grounds of Malfoy Manor, past the rose garden and into the graveyard.
There the freshly cut, marble-white tomb of her only son glittered in the moonlight. She staggered forward, barely noticing the muddy soil that clung to her bare feet, reached Draco's grandiose tomb, and knelt down on the smooth marble, letting her tears fall down freely on the Roman numerals that spelled the dates of his birth and death. Her baby boy was dead, and she still couldn't stomach the loss.
"It's all my fault..." she wept, running her fingers through her uncombed hair.
"Yes it is."
Narcissa lurched at hearing the calm, steady voice behind, and turned her head to take a look at its origin, but only managed half a turn before strong, lean hands grabbed her hair tightly, and pulled her head back. In that split second, she beheld startling green eyes.
"It is your fault your son died," Harry Potter said, tightening his hold on her hair. "You could have taken him and ran away the minute he got his task," his elbows violently pushed her down on her son's tomb. "But that meant you would lose your status and wealth, wouldn't it?"
Her frilly silk panties were ripped from her body, and Potter took no time in bringing two fingers into her pussy hole, making her gasp.
"Those are the only things you ever cared about," he said, rocking his fingers forcefully inside her vagina, and then reaching for his pants. "You didn't give a shit about the Hogwarts children that your son risked with his dumb schemes, or the ones endangered when your husband opened the Chamber of Secrets four years ago."
He rubbed his cock on her cold pussy lips as she held her breath. "You knew what was going to happen and did nothing. It's your fault that two innocent girls lost their lives, you prissy bitch."
With a powerful thrust, he shoved his dick all the way into her tunnel, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as the truth in his words. She had lived a life of selfish pride, never helping another if it might slightly inconvenience her, and for that exact reason, her son was dead.
Her sobbing increased. He glided his finger over her tearstained cheek, wiping out a tear and bringing the finger to his mouth. "Your tears are delicious."
Potter began hammering into her soft pussy, while she bent her head down and let her long blonde hair fall on her son's tomb. "I want you to know that it was I who killed your son."
"You – bastard—" she began groaning, but Potter slapped her face.
"You don't get to feel righteous fury after allowing so much suffering, you dumb whore," he hissed, grubbing her tighter and fucking her like she was a rag doll. "Never in your life have you cared for anyone other than yourself and your stupid son. Maybe if you haven't spoiled him so much, he wouldn't have acted like such a retard and gotten himself killed."
Potter slammed her body down into the cold marble surface and climbed on top of her, clinging tightly to her back, to allow his cock to go into her balls deep. His hands took hold of her throat and crushed her airway. "But instead you let Romilda die. You let Ginny get mind raped. Your life of mindless idle luxury ends now."
She didn't even flinch when he came inside her.
It wasn't until four days later that Narcissa's naked body was found by visiting Death Eaters, slumped in the mud beside her son's tomb, her rotting corpse serving a feast for thousands of insects.