Warnings: (please read! If you aren't okay with reading the following content, don't bother reading or sending hate. It just makes you look stupid.

Gangbang × Underage Sex × Rough Sex × Dom/sub Undertones × Light BDSM × Sibling Incest × Implied Mpreg × Implied/Referenced Abortion × Angst × Power Imbalance × Anal Sex × Rimming × Rape/Non-con Elements × Non-Consensual Voyeurism × Double Penetration × Gratuitous Smut × Shameless Smut × Dead Dove: Do Not Eat × Cock Slut Harry × Unsafe Sex × Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince × Hogwarts Sixth Year × Au for smuttiness × Fisting

So this whole thing is exploding larger than I ever intended it to get...I have oodles written out for chapters ahead of this one, just bunches of little notes on scraps of paper. I have fucking outlines and calendar notations. Like, this shit be insane. I just want them to Fuck. But. My heart longs to write plot as well and here we are, tripping down a merry lane while I try to make various character bang and yet still end up with a competent fic that doesn't come off as some vaguely cracky shit.

*Sighs*

Anyway, here ya go.

Jan. 6th, 1997

Harry never liked Mondays.

"I hate Mondays," Harry groused, moving his eggs around with his fork. His stomach baled at finishing off his plate, so he poked at them instead.

Hermione grimaced in sympathy. "The first day back from break is always the worst. Cheer up, it'll be Saturday before you know it!"

"I doubt that."

A burst of laughter down the table caught their attention. Lavender was practically sitting on Ron's lap, her arms wrapped around his shoulders in a much more loving version of a stranglehold, giggling loudly. "Oh Won-Won, you're so funny!"

Beet-red, Ron grinned sheepishly, looking a tad embarrassed by the attention they were getting from the students around them.

Hermione made a mock-gagging sound that sent Harry into a fit of giggles, stifling them behind his hand. His smile soon faded. Laughing at Ron's expense could only do so much to ease his bad mood — which had nothing to do with Mondays or the start of second term, but had everything to do with his best friend.

Or was it his former best friend?

He and Ron had drifted further and further apart this year after Ron and Lavender first became a thing — which sucked, sure, but he'd understood. Hell, if Harry was getting sex on a regular basis, he would probably do the same.

Maybe.

But then Christmas break had happened and now it felt like Ron was actively pulling away from him, intentionally ignoring him, and well…it hurt. Harry got on very well with Hermione, but Ron was different. Ron liked quidditch and goofing around and wasn't afraid of getting in trouble and, though Harry loved Hermione like a sister, their dynamic just wasn't the same.

If Harry hadn't been so wrapped up in his own personal issues and sex drive, he'd probably be far more upset than he was.

What kind of a shit friend did that make Harry?

His mood souring, Harry did his best to look at least a little interested as Hermione resumed her recount of her holiday with the Lovegoods. It should have been entertaining, how a practical girl like Hermione had grit her teeth and taken part in an outlandish yule ceremony that had required all participants to frolic naked under the moon with sprigs of holly between their teeth ("I nearly had frostbite — and not just on my toes!" Hermione had wailed), only Harry's mind kept wandering back to his own holidays.

Already he missed the freedom of succumbing to his needs, safe amongst people who knew him and wouldn't judge him for being such a needy slut. It had been so freeing, not once having to skulk around the back of a filthy bar to fuck on an even filthier mattress. There was no need to wear some musty old hood to conceal his identity either.

Just awesome sex without all that work.

Now he was back at Hogwarts, where the nearest fuck was a loooong walk underground to get to Hogsmeade in the dead of winter. The Easter holiday, when he could next return to the Burrow, felt ages away.

Today was the first day of his intermittent celibacy and he was dreading it.

He really hated Mondays.

And mornings.

Scowling at his bad luck, Harry took a half-hearted bite of a piece of bacon, his stomach tolerating it better than the eggs.

The arrival of a nervous-looking barn owl dispelled some of his black mood.

Attached to its leg was a note from Dumbledore. There was to be another lesson, tonight.

That meant discovering more about Tom Riddle. Anticipation rose within him. Maybe he'd get to see Voldemort as a school boy again, perhaps as he was in the diary, young and handsome and already so self-assured...

Maybe Mondays weren't complete shite after all.

Harry very nearly bounced on his toes as Dumbledore prepared the pensieve.

Harry was on edge, not just because he had nearly moved a great man like Dumbledore to tears by recounting his meeting with Rufus Scrimgeour (proclaiming himself "Dumbledore's man through and through" had apparently been more than the old man had expected of Harry), no, he was excited to learn more about Voldemort's early life. Harry was utterly fascinated by the transformation of Tom Riddle into Lord Voldemort, how the handsome young man had turned into a monster, a boogeyman that scared children and adults alike, but deadlier and far more real than any nightmare.

Harry recalled the memory Dumbledore had shown him in their previous lesson: a young Tom Riddle, eleven years old and the spitting image of the handsome muggle that Merope Gaunt had fallen in love with. Already the little orphan boy had looked to be a budding sadist and a bully. Was Lord Voldemort evil from the start, bad from the moment he was born, or was he the product of a broken system, where the poor and the helpless slid through the cracks, ignored until they became too much of a problem to remain forgotten? Did something happen to twist him, his warped soul taking his pain out those around him?

How could that handsome little boy go so wrong? Was there nothing anyone could have done?

These questions and more had burned in Harry's mind ever since Dumbledore had begun showing Harry these memories.

Sometimes Harry could understand all too well the anger that must have burned in Tom Riddle's veins, growing up in squalor, without anyone who actually gave a damn about him. He could understand the confusion and the thirst for answers, desperate for any lifeline to prove he wasn't alone, a freak.

Why hadn't the Ministry done something?

They had responded quick enough to Morfin's attack on Tom Riddle Sr, mere hours after the muggle was cursed, and of course Marvolo and Morphin were carted off to prison for the attack (and the assault of several Ministry officials), but what about Merope? Surely it would have been curious to someone in the Ministry that the same muggle victim from Little Hangleton had eloped with the sister of his attacker?

What follow up had the Ministry performed?

A witch abused by her family, a known muggle victim drugged and raped, and a wizard child abandoned in the muggle world to grow up without knowing love — this was a family born of the Ministry's neglect and countless lives could have been saved if the Ministry had done its fucking job.

Lord Voldemort may never have existed at all.

...Okay, maybe that was a bit escapist. After all, no one forced Tom Riddle to kill people.

But Harry was still bitter about Christmas Day, when Rufus Scrimgeour had the gall to ask for Harry's support for the Ministry, how Harry had been expected to stand with the same organization that had seen to his ridicule and torture, that had imprisoned Sirius without a trial, that had spent decades if not centuries poorly overseeing and aiding the very people it was charged with protecting.

If Harry had been raised with fewer manners, he would have spit in Scrimgeour's face.

Though as Harry learned more about Tom Riddle, saw how Dumbledore treated the boy with suspicion and faint disdain from the start, in the back of his mind Harry also wondered if the Headmaster had his own hand in the creation of Lord Voldemort. This thought brought Harry no little shame and confusion, as it went against everything he thought Dumbledore to be — kind, patient, and protective.

"Shall we?" Dumbledore gestured Harry over to his side.

Freeing himself from his uncomfortable thoughts, Harry gladly dipped his face to the pensieve and down memory lane he went, through Morfin's memory of meeting Tom Riddle hours before the Riddle murder that he would go to Azkaban for, then through Slughorn's poorly-altered memory.

Both memories showed Tom Riddle, no older than Harry and perfectly capable of manipulating those around him to get what he wanted. Young as Voldemort was, he already moved with a confidence Harry himself could only manage when he was on his knees. Young Tom Riddle was so alluring, and yet that same confidence and control was frightening, knowing such murderous violence lurked beneath that cool exterior, even as a teenager.

Brimming with conflicting thoughts and now burdened with the monumental task of dealing with Slughorn, Harry was heading for the door when Dumbledore called him back.

"Apologies, my boy. With so much on my mind as of late, a little forgetfulness here and there is to be expected. But…if you'll permit me?"

Curious, Harry watched as Dumbledore came around the desk to stand before him, wand in hand. With an elaborate flourish, he pointed his wand right at Harry's midriff.

Harry blinked. "Sir? What—?"

The air in front of Harry began to glow, soft white and, if he squinted, seemed to rhythmically pulse.

After a moment, the magic faded.

Harry could feel his heart pounding in his ears. Why was he afraid? He looked up at the Headmaster, his heart lurching at the immense sorrow in the old man's face. "Sir? What— What was that? Is something wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Harry," Dumbledore rasped, as though barely holding back tears. "You've done nothing wrong. But there are some worries…you should not have to bear."

Without thought, Harry stepped back and made to run for the door, not understanding what he was doing or why he was running from Dumbledore of all people.

All he knew was that he needed to get out.

Now.

His hand closed on the doorknob.

A spell hit him in the back, dead center.

Harry's world went black.

"Hello Harry."

Harry turned to see Luna walking up to him. Dazed, Harry glanced around. He was on the seventh floor, a few corridors away from the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

"Oh, hi Luna. Are you going to see Hermione?"

"I've just been," she smiled, her voice light and airy in her usual dream-like way. "It's nearly curfew."

Oh. He hadn't realized.

"Er…I guess I'll head in then." Harry scratched at the side of his head, frowning when he grazed a fair sized bump, which began to throb as soon as he touched it. Then he noticed that all over his body were little aches and pains, like he'd taken a tumble or bumped into something. Or a lot of somethings. The worst of it was his stomach. He rubbed at his belly, face twisting at the awful feeling of wrong coursing through him.

Luna tilted her head. "Are you alright Harry? You look much paler than you usually do."

"Er- Do I?" Did he always look bad? "Um, think I'll be fine. Prolly just need some sleep." Sleep sounded amazing, now that he thought about it. He just wanted to close his eyes and drift away—

A slightly worried look disturbed Luna's normally placid expression. "You know that if anything is wrong, you can always talk to me. I'm a very good listener. Hermione is too — when she's not busy talking." She gave a tinkling laugh that crinkled her eyes in a charming way. It was obvious she was smitten with Harry's friend.

Great, now his heart ached too...

"Yeah, I know." Harry forced a smile he didn't quite feel, suddenly needing to be alone. He was happy for his friends, really, but Harry had no one for himself. "I'll be fine. A few hours of sleep and I'll be right as rain."

"Okay then. I'll head back to my Tower then."

And off she skipped — literally skipped — down the hall.

Harry stared after her for a bit, trying to clear his head. His brain felt slow and disconnected, unable to really concentrate on any one thing, and he was so tired, his body aching in places it normally didn't, especially low in his gut.

Was he getting sick?

He shook his head and made his way to the Fat Lady's portrait. "'Abstinence'," he muttered, stepping into the Common Room. A whole week until Saturday when he could get to the Hog's Head Inn for some proper relief.

Abstinence was right, he mentally grumbled.

The portrait swung open and Harry stepped into the Gryffindor Common Room. Apparently, it was very late indeed. Hermione was the only one left in the room.

"Harry!" Hermione waved him over to the couch she'd claimed, her books and homework spread across it. She cleared a spot for him. "How did it go with Professor Dumbledore?"

Dumbledore?

Harry blinked.

His meeting with Dumbledore—

Instantly, he recalled the two newest memories of Tom Riddle and the task Dumbledore had set for him. Strange, until Hermione asked, Harry had quite forgotten...

"It was interesting." He all but collapsed onto the couch, sagging into the squashy cushioning. A decorative button dug into the back of his head. He pressed back into it, using the discomfort to fend off the rising wave of exhaustion threatening to crash over him and sweep him away. "Really interesting."

"Harry, are you feeling alright?"

He looked round at her, surprised to see her biting her lip, her brows drawn in worry. "I'm fine," he said, his shrug awkward and hampered by his slouched position.

"It's just…you don't look fine. And you're rubbing at your belly again, just like you did after the last two meetings."

He blinked, confused. Harry looked down at himself. She was right, he was rubbing at it. He hadn't even noticed.

He let his hand fall away to the couch. "I'm fine," he insisted. Wasn't he? "Look, it's been a rough day back and, between classes and Dumbledore, I'm probably just tired. Overdid it." He shrugged again.

Hermione searched his face for a long moment. "You'd tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn't you? Because you can tell me anything, Harry, anything at all. I won't judge. It's… I'm just worried about you. You never feel very well after these 'lessons'."

A small defensive voice in Harry's head wanted to lash out at her, tell her to mind his own business.

But he knew that her worry was genuine and came from a good place. She cared about him, enough to fight back tears just because Harry was a little pale and ached in weird places.

After nearly six years, Harry still wasn't quite used to having people care about him and her affections more often than not made him squirm, uncomfortable with the attention. Sometimes, it all felt like a dream, the kind he would indulge in while locked in his cupboard, wishing that he had real friends instead of the pretend ones he had in the broken castoff toys he played with.

Feeling horribly awkward, Harry smiled and reached out, drawing her into a tentative hug that she heartily returned. "Thank you. I do know. And it goes both ways."

Her breath hitched a little. She held him tighter for a moment before pulling away, quickly dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve as she did.

Harry pretended not to notice. "I think I'm going to head to bed now." He stood, stretching, failing to bite back a yawn. "You might want to clear up, too. It's getting late."

"Ah- yes. Yes it is." Not looking at him, Hermione started to organize her things into little piles, gathering them up. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah. See you."

Harry plodded up the steps to his dorm. He didn't even bother getting cleaned up. Exhaustion was starting to overwhelm him and it was all he could do to change into his pajamas and crawl into bed, sleep claiming him before he knew it.