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Harry's new boggart after the third task was a naked Voldemort, freshly risen from the cauldron, mesmerised by his own body, curiously touching himself with a blissed expression.
Too bad she was in mixed company of fellow students when she found this out. She recoiled from Voldemort when he gracefully glid from an unused classroom and into the Hogwarts hallway.
It was like a trainwreck.
Some students screamed, some backed away and hid while others simply froze.
Harry failed at casting riddiculus, not because of fear, but because she, now that she was not on her own, tied to a tombstone facing the real Voldemort, was too busy trying not to stare at the supernaturally pale, sinuous body of the Dark Lord or the two heavy cocks hanging between his thighs. The fact that he was sensually exploring the softness of his own skin while giving her bedroom eyes did not help her concentrate on the banishing spell.
Finally, Snape showed up and saved the day. He was looking distinctly green. Whether it was due to seeing Voldemort naked or the flushed, interested faces of a group of Hogwarts students who had clearly discovered an attraction to Mr. Darkness himself, Harry didn't know and she didn't care enough to find out.
She just wanted to run and hide until the warmth left her face and her hormone addled imagination stopped springing up increasingly embarrassing scenarios on her. Scenarios that heavily featured her arch-nemesis and his soft, pale skin and his scandalous sensuality...
___
The news spread like wildfire. The first time Harry clued in to Hogwarts newest gossip, she was at breakfast. Parvati leaned over Hermione.
"Is it true you saw You-Know-Who naked and your boggart is him fiddling with himself?"
Harry spit her pumpkin juice all over the table and her friends who were unlucky enough to be sitting in the blast zone.
"He wasn't... Who's saying that?"
Lavender giggled. She snuck a folded piece of parchment into Harry's slack hand and winked.
"Dean was there. He did a pretty lifelike drawing of what he saw using wizard inks. Tell us, is this really what he looks like?"
Harry's hands shook as she unfolded the drawing. Seeing a palm sized, completely accurate and naked Voldemort sensually undulating his long, sinuous body while staring at her with heavily lidded red eyes was... a lot.
She folded the drawing and, without thinking, pocketed it. Evidence gone, she blinked stupidly at Parvati and Lavender, who grinned back.
"Sure, keep it," Lavender said in a conspiratory tone. "I have lots of copies. Dean's selling them for half a knut apiece."
___
The rest of the day was a nightmare, with students in the upper years sneaking glances at Harry or giggling over pieces of parchment that Harry would bet her trust vault on being copies of the same drawing of the Dark Lord. Random students came up to her in the halls between classes to ask if the drawings were accurate. The more Harry tried to evade the questions, the more frantic the students became.
Eventually, she cast sonorus at her throat and said loud and clear, in a hallway full of fifth and sixth year students: "Yes, it is accurate. Spread the word and stop asking me."
Gasps and giggles and blushing faces met the announcement.
Harry was half convinced someone had drugged the entire student population. Voldemort was so terrifying that no one dared speak his name, but oogling his nudes in public was just fine and dandy? What was wrong with people?
And why did Harry feel distinctly uncomfortable every time she saw someone discreetly sneaking a peak at one of the copies of Dean's drawing? Something like guilt, maybe, for exposing someone without their knowledge? Even if it was Voldemort and he seemed not at all embarrassed to show off his new, necromancy-made body in full view of his servant and his enemy. But still, having your nudes sold and not even knowing about it was vile.
A part of Harry also felt like, as horrifying as the memory was, and although it managed to usurp dementors as her greatest fear, it was something private. Something that should have remained between her and him. Something she should have jealously kept secret.
___
A few days later, Draco Malfoy handed her a letter. His hands were shaking. His face was pale and drawn. He fled as soon as she held the letter.
It was from Voldemort.
Harry leaned heavily against the hallway wall and slid unceremoniously down it to the floor.
Voldemort sent her a letter. A thank you letter. For the greatest recruitment effort his forces had ever seen.
Turns out, copies of the drawing had spread out from Hogwarts and into the greater wizarding population. And wixen were insane. Or at least, the homely housewifes and lazing lords were shameless in their curiosity and had been bombarding the damn Dark Lord with fanmail ever since his double endowment became public knowledge. Apparently, all a wizard needed to attract attention was power, sensuality and a monstrous body that fanned the flames of the hopelessly horny and the deeply depraved.
He had never been more popular in his life.
As a reward for her efforts, Voldemort sent Harry an exclusive, signed photograph of himself lounging in his own silken sheets with a massive serpent wrapped around him, pumping his manhoods while glistening drops of precum dribbled down his fingers. His lidded eyes were trained on the camera, staring into her soul. His jaw was clenched, as if he was staving off his orgasm through willpower alone. At the end of the scene, before the photograph seemlessly merged back into the beginning, his lips formed a single word.
Harry's heart stopped.
It was her name. He was moaning her name while pleasuring himself.
The photo proved that both his cocks were fully functional, at the very least.
Harry gulped. Licked her lips. Tried not to drool at the influx of saliva filling her mouth at the picture.
The letter stressed that this picture was her reward and that it was up to her whether to keep it private or spread it around. He didn't mind either way. In fact, he was pleased that Harry had stared hard enough at him in the graveyard to retain such an accurate memory of his marvellous new body.
The tone of the letter was teasing. Flirtatious.
Was Voldemort trying to kill her through embarrassment or arousal? Was he rubbing it in her face how her actions had unintentionally helped him gain more followers? Or was he genuinely pleased with her, thinking she was so enamored with him she couldn't help herself from sharing his beauty with the world?
Why moan her name?
A thought struck her like a thunderbolt from clear skies.
Why give her a photograph, proof that he really was back, when the ministry still adamantly refused to acknowledge it? Did he believe that she wouldn't use it against him? Was he confident that no one would believe Harry, that they would think she edited the photo somehow?
What was he playing at?
___
That night, she found herself in his mind, sitting at the head of a long table, listening to death eater reports. It was frightening how many of those robed, skull-masked minions he had at his beck and call. It was also a bit thrilling to experience his point of view, commanding purebloods and officials as if they were well trained crups doing show tricks.
What shocked her was that she could hear his thoughts and feel his body, and he was only giving his minions the bare minimum amount of his attention. He had one hand propped up on the armrest of his throne-like chair, cupping his chin while idly listening, or at least looking like he was listening. His other hand was in his lap, under the table where his minions could not see it. He was rubbing his half-hard cocks through the smooth fabric of his robes, coating the material on the inside with his precum. Lazily stroaking, twisting and pinching the heads of his cocks, running his fingers up his twin shafts and pressing his blunted nails into the slits of his straining cockheads that were rapidly filling with blood.
He was fully hard now, masturbating under the table in a room full of people who all had their unwavering attention on him. Shameless. Utterly shameless.
And, to Harry's mortification, he was thinking about her. How flushed and shy she would look when reading his letter. How her pupils would expand into inky dark pools of arousal when she saw his photo for the first time. How hot her skin would feel, how she'd squirm in her silken pyjamas, hidden behind the curtains of her four poster bed. How she'd keep his picture under her pillow, how she'd try but fail to not think of it. How she'd stare at it, enraptured, while slowly, hesitantly running a hand down her taut stomach to the elastic of her pyjama bottoms...
Harry gulped in breaths of air, feeling like someone was wrapping her lungs in warm blankets and holding a hot mug of cocoa to her pubic bone between her quivering thighs.
His pleasure was molten, a liquid arousal pumping through their veins, pulling her along into his fantasies and mixing them with her own.
He came soundlessly, holding his body rigid and forcefully keeping his breathing even. His mind was full of Harry's fiery, defiant emerald eyes as he spurted long, hot ropes of cum on his thighs from both cocks. Twice the pleasure, twice the mess.
With the twitch of a finger, he vanished the evidence. Thoughts of Harry still occupied his mind as he basked in the afterglow of his orgasm. He pictured her in his personal training room, eviscerating a row of high level training dummies with a spell he personally created and never taught to anyone, until her. He imagined drifting in slumber, blinking the sleep from his eyes and kissing her hair as she cuddled up to him, fast asleep with her head on his chest, hugging him tight. He pictured her perched on his lap in his throne, as the two of them precided over a death eater meeting in the large ballroom, with everyone bowing before them.
His fantasies post-orgasm seemed almost domestic, inasmuch as the daily life of a Dark Lord can be described as domestic.
Harry felt... touched. He, for some reason, wanted to share his life and accomplishments with her. To wake up next to her and kiss her softly and teach her things only he could teach her.
For a moment, Harry allowed herself to imagine what life with Lord Voldemort would be like. If those fantasies could be a version of reality.
Then, one of the death eaters had the misfortune of saying something stupid and Harry was jerked harshly out of her revery as the Dark Lord shot to his feet and hissed a furious crucio. The writhing mess of black robes, bloodied lips and bloodsmeared mask screamed and begged until he lost his voice.
Voldemort leaned back in his throne as if nothing had happened. He nodded at the next in line, as if the last speaker weren't twitching and moaning on the floor. Immediately, the meeting resumed and Voldemort's thoughts drifted back to his fantasies of Harry.
Of her heaving bosom and manic grin and her blown pupils while torturing his minions with the cruciatus, while he subtly grinded his hard cocks against her ass, looming behind her as a warning so none of his death eaters got any funny ideas about retaliating against her. She would discipline them when they disappointed their master, and in return, Voldemort would sneak a hand between her thighs under the table and finger her while the dark magic of casting an unforgivable wrecked her nerves, engorged her vulva and her clit and held her on the brink of coming.
He wanted to know if she could keep casting the torture curse even while riding his fingers through an orgasm. He wanted to train her until he could. Until she could come as silently and unnoticeably as he could, so they could pleasure each other in any situation with none the wiser.
Harry wanted to know that too. She had never heard of dark magic providing such pleasure to the caster. Was it real? Was he embellishing his thoughts for his own pleasure? Or was this whole voyuristic experience a ruse, a scheme by Lord Voldemort to corrupt the Girl-Who-Lived?
In any case, her imagination had just expanded by a lot, thanks to a certain, red-eyed pervert and their strange mind link.
She woke up drenched and so sensitive, a few soft caresses of her fingers sent her careening over the edge. While she thrust her hips helplessly against her own hand, Voldemort and his fantasies and his body and his lidded gaze were all she could visualize.
She drifted off again, knowing that she could never unknow and unfeel the pleasure of him.
___
It wasn't long until Umbridge caught wind of her students' depravity. A new educational decree was posted promptly and prefects and her pet bootlickers both were given strict orders to confiscate and destroy all drawings of He-Who-Could-Not-Be-Shamed.
The next day, the front page of the Daily Prophet declared the 'tasteless nudes' to be an imaginative scam, dreamt up by 'a depraved, deeply disturbed artist' and that, other than baseless conjecture, there was no proof that the serpentine individual depicted on the famous drawings was You-Know-Who, much less that he was in any way a real person at all. Therefore, citizens of Wizarding Britain would do well not to spread hazarduous rumours and to keep their sick fantasies to themselves and their spouses, please and thank you.
Unfortunately for Umbridge and the Ministry, the more fiercely they denied the truth, the more intrigued the populus became. Could the terrifying Dark Lord really be a double-dicked, limber sex God? And if not, who was that filthy creature and how would one go about finding and seducing it?
Of course, not everyone was as hot under the collar as Harry and her fellow monsterfucking enthusiasts. A large portion of the student population, most of the teachers and some highly vocal readers of the Daily Prophet seemed nigh traumatized by the images and their effect on Snakiemort's many, many new fans.
Dumbledore, for one, looked ill whenever the drawing of Voldie was mentioned or someone gushed about his massive manhoods.
Harry wondered if he would survive seeing the photo Voldemort had sent her. Or pensieve memories of her transformative experience in the Dark Lord's head, witnessing first hand his perverse pleasures and filthy fantasies.
Probably not.
It was for the best that she jealously guarded that picture so no one but her could ever see it.
___
Harry was lazily fingering herself while staring transfixed at the photograph when she felt a deep rumble in the back of her mind.
"Oh, Harry," purred the Dark Lord, gone hoarse and throaty from arousal.
A thrill went through her. He'd caught her wet handed. Exactly like he'd pictured as he stroked himself beneath the table at a Death Eater meeting.
She clenched around her fingers, wishing they were his, wishing the rumbling laughter of Lord Voldemort would rattle through her skin into her bones as he held her tight, thrusting his hand between her thighs, mercilessly driving her insane.
"Yes, Harry," he encouraged, breathless. "Touch yourself for me. Let me feel how your thoughts of Lord Voldemort bring you to climax."
Her hips stuttered. "V-, ah, Volde-, mm, -mort. Ah!" Her voice was pinched, her moans spilled past her lips without permission as she hurtled toward her peak.
The fact he was riding along with her, experiencing the same pleasure, it warmed her insides further. She thought of how she'd felt his arousal through their bond, of how his shameless thoughts about her had woken some terrible beast within her and how deeply she wanted to... How she needed...
"Go on," he moaned. "My Harry, oh sweet girl, you've been oh so naughty, spying on Lord Voldemort. Do you share my fantasies, truly, Harry?"
She nodded, thinking her assent loud and clear.
A long, filthy sound of pleasure filled her mind, trailing off into a frustrated growl. "You're mine, Harry. Do you hear me? Lord Voldemort will have you, girl, drenched and writhing on his cocks, just as you want him to. Do you want me, Harry?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Whom do you want?"
She came, chanting his name as her slick gushed around her fingers. "Voldemort, I want Voldemort, I need you Lord Voldemort, oh fuck, oh god..."
Floating in her own bliss, she relished the sharp attention thrumming through their bond. Her mind was silent, except for the Dark Lord's littany of praise, of good girls and Harrys and how she deserved this, how she had earned this, how he would lick and suck and stroke her all she pleased forever, because she's his, only his.
"I will have you," he declared fiercely.
She grinned. "Take me," she challenged, knowing he would not be stopped.
___
Harry's new boggart was an apathetic Tom Riddle refusing to look at her, cringing away from her voice and baring his teeth in disgust.
Too bad she was in mixed company of fellow students when she found this out.
"Is that baby-Voldemort?!" Ginny screeched. "He's not even doing anything! How is he your boggart and not Snakeface?"
The Slytherins traded loaded glances. Some students swooned at the handsome young Voldemort. Harry's friends stared at her, concerned.
___
Some undoubtedly Slytherin snitch alerted the Dark Lord, who proceded to pull her into his mind that very evening. He drowned her in his undivided and severely depraved attention.
When he was through with her, she was a boneless, breathless, sweaty mess.
"Soon," he promised. "Soon I'll have you."
And Harry, shameless, agreed.