Anitra's Dance
Mirror, mirror
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style='mso-ansi-language:EN-GB'>Disclaimers: style='mso-ansi-language:EN-GB'>The entire Harry Potter universe is J.K.
Rowlings – I’m just messing around. Anitra remains mine, though.
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style='mso-ansi-language:EN-GB'>A/N: style='mso-ansi-language:EN-GB'>Cheers for the kind reviews, people. I’m just
sorry that I’m killing you – I had hoped my readers would survive this – LOL. ;-)
So... to
prevent more deaths among you, I give you Chapter 10. I hope you enjoy it – and
believe it or not: we are getting
closer to the end and the resolution.
style='mso-ansi-language:EN-GB'>Warningstyle='mso-ansi-language:EN-GB'>: anyone who thoroughly dislikes anal sex,
should stop right here!
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style='mso-ansi-language:EN-GB'>Mirror, mirror
She met
Harry at lunch, looking at him intently as they sat down. His brow was creased
to the extent that his lightening bolt looked like a knot. The contrast to
Malfoy was searingly clear: Here was a boy who had the strength to survive
neglect and withstand inhuman pressure. Who could pull himself up by the root
of his hair and pick up the pieces of his life.
Malfoy,
now, that was another matter.
But what
was the knot about? Ron gave her the answer in his usual straight-forward way.
“Why did
you protect Malfoy? He should have had fifteen detentions!”
The angry
accusational tone in his voice matched the eyes of Harry. Oh! So that was the
beef.
“You see
him as the boy who has been your adversary for almost seven years, I see him as
a hurting person who has just lost his father in the worst way a child can lose
a parent.”
“He’s just
in prison. Not dead,” Harry said, his voice hard.
“To a child,
that might very well be worse,” Anitra said in a soft voice.
“How can
that be worse?” Ron asked incredulously.
Anitra
sighed inwardly. How to make them see? Come to think of it. Why did
“Consider:
Your father dies, he was a good father, a loving, caring dad. That memory will
stay with you forever. Or: You fear and worship your father – he’s the only
role model you have. One day he’s thrown into prison, everybody hates him and
your role model crumbles. You have nothing left except a bitter memory. Now,
which fate and which memory would you prefer?”
“Well,”
Hermione said slowly, “principally, you’re right, of course, but...”
She was cut
short by a furious Ron, who demanded to know why she defended Malicious Malfoy. Anitra turned her head and left them
to their bickering, concentrating on Harry instead. He was still angry, that
much was certain. His bright green eyes flashed a sharp glance right into her
soft golden eyes.
“You don’t
know what it is like losing your parents, never having known them, constantly
yearning for them, desperately wanting something you can’t have,” he said
bitterly.
“Perhaps I
do, perhaps I don’t. I don’t know, Harry.”
His eyes
mellowed, suddenly reminded of her predicament.
“But this
is what I do know: the two of you are
basically in the same situation: you have both lost a father. The difference
is: your memories of your parents, though almost non-existent, are nice, and
his are pure hell. You are allowed a dream. His has been broken into a million
little pieces.”
Harry moved
uncomfortably, not willing to grant her anything in the sensitive matter of
Draco Malfoy.
“He was
despicable even before his father was sent to prison,” he insisted.
Anitra
nodded pensively. “I’m sure he was. It makes sense knowing what kind of father
he was brought up by. It means a lot, you know. Malfoy turning into a jerk on
account of his father’s nature is not a surprise – you, however, being such a
marvel despite ha spe spent your childhood with those relatives of yours, is nothing
short of a bloody miracle.”
Harry’s
residual anger evaporated right there and then. Not on account of the
emotionalism, but rather because of the rational way she had put it. It added
to the sincerity of her words. She prefd
lost boy; but Harry was whom she wanted. His strong green eyes melted
immediately, and he reached for her hand underneath the table. She felt the
hungry and relieved squeeze.
“Harry,
what did you think?”
“Nothing,”
he whispered, “I was being stupid.”
After
leaving the great hall, they met up with Hermione in the library, eager to
learn if she had found anything during her extensive research. She brought out
an enormous book that her fragile arms could hardly support as she banged it
down on the smooth mahogany surface of the ancient library table. An angry
‘hush’ escaped the librarian, who looked at them with beady eyes through thick
lenses.
“So?” Harry
asked impatiently, “anything?”
“Only the
usual legends about treating amnesia,” Hermione huffed and then sneezed as the
dust from the book reached her nostrils.
“Which are?”
Ron asked.
Hermione
directed her clear glance at Anitra and said with a depressingly factual tone
of voice:
“Different
modus operandi of treating the condition, such as potions made on juice
extracted from ‘forget-me-nots’, which, unfortunately, makes the patient
instantly fall in hopeless love with her healer. Then there’s the treatment
based on a solid punch – a so-called boxing ‘reminder’. Naturally the real classic
would be hanging the patient from a pole for a fortnight, making the blood rush
to the brain, thus stimulating the neural pathways – that one is inspired by
muggle methods. Of course, stuffing ‘rosemary for rememberance’ into a tiny
hole in the skull was also widely used in the middl...”
Feeling
more and more like an unfortunate guinea pig, Anitra hastened to interrupt the
young researcher before she found herself bound to a pole with rosemary
sticking out her ears and somebody mistaking her head for a punching ball.
“Couldn’t
you find methods less medieval and cruel?”
“No,”
Hermione said with a sigh. “All the spells involved caused the patient either to
become a vegetable or simply to be misplaced in a different dimension.”
“Swell,”
Anitra said dryly.
“Well, if
Madam Pomfrey wasn’t able to come up with anything, I guess we should have
known that there was nothing to come up with,” Harry said.
“I didn’t
find a cure – but I did find something.” Hermione looked at them intently.
“Yes?” They all leaned in and looked at her with abated breath.
“I learned
that the only safe way of recovering one’s memory if it has been removed by
magic – is at the discretion of the wizard who did the deed.”
Her
statement earned Hermione complete silence, and for once the librarian looked
satisfied.
“Y-you
mean,” Anitra finally said, “that if this Voldie-fella did this to me, he’s the
one to go see?”
Hermione
nodded.
“You know,”
Ron said hesitantly, his pale face in stark contrast to his red head, “that
different dimension-thing didn’t sound half bad to me.”
*
Professor
Severus Snape was clearing up the last bit of mishaps from his last class of incompetent
students. An impatient but extremely certain whiff by his wand, and it all
looked as if nothing had happened. It was now ready for the next batch of
students – who, unfortunately, happened to be the class that included Harry
Potter.
Just as
arrogant and conceited as his father. Harry Potter was. Snape didn’t sigh. As a
rule, Snape just didn’t sigh. No, he sneered instead. Perhaps without really
noticing it.
So he
sneered. That boy! Looking and behaving just like his father. But this time,
this time he, Snape, was not a snivelling little boy, who was afraid of his own
shadow and who feared ridicule more than anything. .... Well.... actually....
Never mind.
This time
and Potter the inferior. If it wasn’t for the blasted famous fate of his...
....
Severus Snape suddenly winced and bent over. The pain! He clasped his arm with
a shaking hand. Then he rolled up his sleeve and saw the clear markings of a
very familiar dark mark that was steadily getting darker and darker, hurting
him in the process. Potter wasn’t the only one with hurting scars.
He suddenly
realised they had something in common – that at least. And, he had to admit
during a rare peek into the boy’s mind and memory, also the experience of
humiliating situations. Snape didn’t like that. He wanted his hatred to be pure
and undiluted, unspoiled and uninterrupted by intermittent interference by
mitigating facts and similarities between the two of them.
Snape
groaned again.
The pain.
He was calling him. The Dark Lord was summoning his legions.
*
Harry
Potter didn’t think much of his fate as it was. Quite frankly, he wanted it to go
away. People didn’t understand that. Even good old Ron, a couple of years ago, had
been envious of his position as the celebrated ‘Boy-Who-Lived’. Of course, Ron
didn’t know of the prophecy. The prophecy that he would have to go through that
showdown with Voldemort and either kill him or get killed. But that meant going
after him, didn’t it? If Voldemort went after him, he would have the advantage and Harry would die. So he would
have to create his own advantage. That meant planning it in advance, it meant
doing premeditated killing. It meant murder.
An icy
feeling rushed through Harry. Him. A murderer. His parents had been murdered.
At some point he had thought Sirius had betrayed them, and he had been fully
ready to kill him right there and then. But he hadn’t, fortunately. The feeling
of killing Sirius had been a spontaneous urge based on raging emotions. He knew
that Voldemort had dealt the fatal blow to both his parents. Would that be
enough fuel for him to plan the murder of the Dark Lord?
He shivered.
Couldn’t he just – subdue him?
The instant
he thought the thought, he knew it to be impossible. Not only the prophecy went
against this – history did. He had been subdued once before. He would not make
that mistake again. And even if he did, Voldemort would recover and return –
again, and again, and again.
Harry
shivered harder. Partly, however, because he was on his way into Snape’s
dungeon for his potions class. Thank god he had Anitra by his side.
For once
the class had been tolerable. Snape hadn’t been nearly as vengeful as he
usually was. Clearly, something was on his mind, for he often passed Harry
without even trying to put him down. His head was drooping, his eyes glued to
the floor and his movements fluent and vacant.
That
something was not as it should be, was evident from the fact that the Potions
Master actually asked Anitra to stay behind.
“Uh-uuuh,”
her fellow students said to her with an expression that more than anything
relayed: Better you than me. But both Harry and Anitra had the distinct
impression that he was not holding her back because of an impending detention
or a swift removal of the total storage of their house points.
“Tell me
later,” Harry mouthed as they shared a glance before she turned to address
Snape.
“So!” she
said briskly, “what did you want to talk to me about?”. She sat down on top of
one of the tables, legs crossed. Snape stirred. Why was her behaviouwaysways so
incompatible? But a burning on his arm pulled him back to the problem at hand –
literally. He went to her and placed himself quite close to her.
“Miss
Anitra,” he said, meeting her golden eyes without wavering, “do you feel
anything while I’m standing this close to you?”
Anitra’s
face had probably never conveyed as much surprise as it did at this moment.
Probably. But how could she possibly know for sure?
Snape
blinked at her unexpected facial expression, not quite able to interpret it.
“Well?”
“Um...”
Anitra said with a dry mouth, “what... exactly.... do you mean? Do I feel
anything...?”
“Do you
feel a migraine coming up?” he said slowly and clearly as if speaking to a
particularly dense child.
Oh!
Why would
she feel a migraine at this particular moment?
“No?”
She said,
tentatively, looking at him with the expression of someone keen to know if she
said the right thing.
“Nothing at
all?”
She
shrugged. “No.”
Snape
stepped back, his face unfathomable.
“Very well.
You may leave.”
Completely
confused, Anitra slid down from the table, hitting the floor with the dexterity
of a cautious cat, and then left the vaulted dungeon.
&np>
Snape stood
still for a while, rubbing his arm. She may not have felt a thing, but his skin
was burning hot. And not in the good way.
Without
taking care of Neville’s still oozing potion that was slowly eating its way
through the cauldron and the solid stones of the floor, Snape hastily left the
place in search of Albus Dumbledore.
*
“No, stop
it, Harry. We must think! If Hermione’s books are of no use, Madam Pomfrey’s is
at her wit’s end and Dumbledore is just waiting for something to happen, then
we must try to employ real-life logic: THINK!”
She was removing
another suggestive hand of Harry’s that had found its way along her long legs
to the zipper of her trousers. They were standing in one of the many hidden
corridors that narrowly connected the stairways to the outside walls. It was
cold, but it was a safe place to talk, and they didn’t want the entire
Gryffindor to hear their musings about Voldemort. There was a tiny window
through which one could just see the moon shine through a thin layer of clouds,
generating that eerie gleam that was so characteristic of this time of year.
“What do
you suppose Snape was on about?”
Her
question had Harry’s infamous temper ignited.
“He was
on you! And he’s a dead man!”
Completely
ignoring his youthful tantrum, she mused, “No, I don’t think he was hitting on
me. Admittedly, that’s how it looked at first. You could have knocked me over
with a feather when he asked me what I felt. But...”
“No
“He might
be,” Anitra discussed, almost in a scientific way, “but I got the distinct impression
that he was on about something completely different. He was very unemotional –
well, not really, but he was, at least, completely a-sexual.”
“That’s
because he’s a dead fish!”
She
sniggered at his zest. “Oh, Harry – you’re impossible. So passionate. You
should learn to look at situations through the eyes of a scientist.”
“Perhaps
that’s what you were?” Harry said, creeping closer to her, his good mood
returning and his hand getting busy again, “a young, promising and aspiring
scientist?”
“That would
be a young ‘un,” Anitra mumbled wryly. Harry shrugged.
“I don’t
know, ‘Nitra – you do seem awfully adult sometimes.”
She
stiffened, and her lover misunderstood.
“Wow!
Relax. I didn’t mean...”
“No, you’re
right!”
“What?”
“You just
voiced what I have been feeling all the time, but couldn’t describe.”
“I did?”
“Yes... all
the time I have had that uncanny feeling of... being so much older than most of
you guys.”
“Older than
me, even?”
She looked
down and saw a pouting face right underneath her bosom. Stroking his smooth
chin, she smiled at him and said: “Yes... and no. There’s something about you,
Harry. You’re young in so many ways – and yet mature in others... sorta like I
feel myself.”
She bent
her head to meet his warm, willing, wanting and waiting lips. He was an
excellent kisser, she decided, as the fragile skin connected and started the
intimate and teasing dance.
Harry’s
hand became active again, and this time she didn’t push it away.
The surface
was hard, but she was soft, and the Invisibility Cloak took some of the brunt.
She showed him new venues he hadn’t been introduced to before, and he forgot to
wonder how she knew as she enveloped his head with her lips and teased the back
of it with her able tongue. He moaned. Goodness, what a trick! She flicked the
tip of her tongue quickly over the tip of his shaft. Oh, God. It was almost
painful. He grabbed her buttocks hard, eager and sizzling to get inside of her.
But she stopped him, intent on procrastinating his agony, so she removed his
hands from her buttocks and let his cock slide down her throat all the way. He
hissed fervently. She drew back, let her tongue travel down the size of him and
ended up at his scrotum, suckling it and licking him right in the tender spot
between his balls and his dick. Harry huffed convulsively and banged his hand
into the cold stone wall, oblivious to the pain.
He couldn’t
stand anymore. Grabbing her waist, he forced her down on the cloak; she managed
to twist in his grip and he landed on top of her back. That was good. Her back
would do too! A knee forced apart her slim legs that trembled in anticipation.
His left hand made sure she was ready for him. She was soaking wet. No more
foreplay was necessary so evident from the way he just slid in to the hilt. Oh!
He straightened, hoisted her up and supporting his weight on his knees, he
started ramming into her. The slick sounds of him thrusting in and out of her
contributed to his arousal – and just as he thought he would come nice and
easy, something happened to tease him further: she snuck a finger round her
perfectly round buttom and stuck it into her rectum. Harry gasped. What was she
doing? It was incredibly arousing.
Then she
did a thing Harry had a hard time forgiving later. She pulled away from him
right before he came. With a disappointed cry, he made a gesture to wrap his
hand round his pole to finish himself when she brutally stopped him, arresting
his hand with hers. Harry was breathing so hard he thought he would pass out.
She turned her unbelievably agile spine and stole some of his pre-cum. Balacing
the pearly drop on her finger, she gingerly and lovingly transported it to her
anal entrance and oiled the edges with it. Harry watched. Enthralled. It
suddenly looked so utterly charming, that chocolate brown flower of hers. He
bent down to add his saliva to his drop of pre-cum. A different taste. But
still a taste of her. Lovely. He inserted a finger and the moan she emitted
almost did him in. Then he straightened and continued to lubricate her butter
hole. She had now begun to rock to and fro, groaning in growing frustratation.
“Inside of
me – please. Inside. Fill me out!”
Harry here
had the perfect opportunity to let her wait the way she had let him wait and
for a wicked moment, she thought he actually might have his revenge. But he was
too far gone to wait anymore. Very slowly and instinctively carefully, he
started to penetrate her rectum. Little by little he inched in; OhMyMerlin, how
tight it was. He put a gentle hand on the small of her back, and she arched in
response. Was he hurting her? She was writhing underneath him, huffing like
him. It hurt him a bit, but he loved it. So tight, so arousing. He felt the
inner walls of her contracting as a reaction to him being inside. Lovely. Now
she was playing with herself. His finger joined hers, almost fighting her for
the wonderful juice that oozed out of her. He felt her anus suddenly enlarging,
accomodating the entire length of him, and he thrust, eager to be as close to
her as possible. She whined a bit.
“Oh, yes.
More. More.”
He would
give her more. He pulled out and thrust again, generating more lubricant in the
action. Leaning down on her, skin against skin, he started pumping, his pelvis
slamming against her cheeks. Oh, this was life. So good. Her clit was hot and
dripping wet, and he couldn’t resist raising his finger to his mouth to taste
that sweet ambrosia. He pumped harder, enticed by her smell and very being.
This time
they came almost simultaneously. He felt the wave of painful pleasure wash over
him as he ploughed into her one last time while she was already twisting
convulsively from a beginning orgasm. Sweaty and warm, they fell limply to one
side and remained linked together in spoon as they enjoyed the last effects of
the aftershock washing over them.
It wasn’t
until Harry started nuzzling her nape that one of them spoke.
“That was
incredible,” she whispered. “Mmmmm,” Harrswerswered, muffled by her tawny
waves, “I hadn’t tried that before. How did you know about it?”
Stupid
question. He helped her answer it and they spoke in one tongue: “I/you don’t
know.”
He felt her
smile. Her eyes had drifted to that little window above them. The clouds out
there had parted and was revealing more of the moon, making its shining
stronger and clearer.
Suddenly
she started. Harry looked at her in concern. “What is it?”
She didn’t
answer but jumped up, freeing herself from his protective arms. She leaned out
of the window. There it was again!
“Harry –
come see this!”
The window
was so small that she had to move for him to be able to see anything. “What am
I looking for?”
But before
she could answer him, he saw it for himself.
“A flash!”
he exclaimed in astonishment. “Over there by the outer perimeter of the woods!”
“Yes,” she
said, “what do you suppose it is?”
He turned
to her, still with a flushed face and his beautiful naked body outlined by the
clear moonlight.
“I have no
idea! It is over by the forbidden forest – right where the Hogwarts Grounds
ends and the muggle world begins.”
She shook
her head gingerly. “What does that mean?”
“It means
that this place is protected by charms, but not beyond that border. Beyond
that, muggles would see us, enemies woulrikerike unhindered.”
“So is the
flash beyond it, or well within it?”
“I’m not
sure,” Harry shook his heo:p>o:p>
“Should we
alert Dumbledore?”
Harry
shrugged. “It could just be a piece of
glass reflecting the moon. We should check it out from a safe distance before
we trouble the Headmaster.”
*
Anitra and
Harry entered the Gryffindor common room slightly out of breath. Neville’s jaw
dropped to the floor uncerimoniously. Ron looked at them with a wicked grin;
appaly tly they looked somewhat ruffled. And Hermione pinned them with a
slightly exasperated look that said ‘where-have-you-been-what-have-you-been-doing-and-what-if-you-got-caught’.
Harry
started without preamble.
“Anitra and
I need to check something out, and we need someone to divert Mr Filch and Mrs
Norris.”
Words
guaranteed to ensure silence. Until Neville spoke, sulkingly.
“I got it,
I got it. I’ll be the live bait.”
Anitra went
to him and kissed him soundly, somewhat to the mild annoyance of Harry.
“Cheers,
dearie. Don’t hurt yourself, now.”
The cause
and the plan were explained hastily and efficiently. Anitra got the distinct
impression that the three of them had done somet sim similar before. Neville
would attract Filch’s and the cat’s attention. Hermione would stand back and
watch the development, and the second it was safe to go, she would signal them
from the top of the second staircase. Ron, Anitra and Harry would then sneak
out underneath the Invisibility Cloak. They would hoot as an owl three times
and one time when they got back, thus signalling to Neville that he was at it
again. Then everything would be performed in reverse.
Simple.
Poor
Neville.
*
The plan
worked like a charm – so to speak. As soon as a flustered Neville came racing
by with Filch and Mrs Norris close on his heels, Hermione gave the signal and
the three of them proceeded to leave the school. Anitra, who was amazingly
spatially gifted, had noticed the angle and direction of the flash and led the
way over grass and turf. They were moving awkwardly despite the enlargement
spell Harry had subjected his trusted cloak to, compliments to the lack of any
light. The moon was their only means of illumination. The night was still and
cold, and the only sound that could be heard was Ron’s clattering teeth which
wasn’t due to the chilly air.
“Anitra,”
Harry whispered, “as soon as you have pointed the final bit of direction, you
stay put behind a bush or something. I don’t want you exposed to any risk in
case we’re dealing with a dangerous object.”
“Sweet,”
she whispered back, “but that’s not really up to you, dear.”
Ron, even
through his clattering teeth, couldn’t help thinking that this exchange of
words would have been completely the other way round had it been between
Hermione and himself.
Three pairs
of soggy socks later they arrived very close to the flash. It was clearly a
reflection. Every time the moon was free of the clouds, the object flashed at
them with the same intensity as the moonlight. One more hill and the mystery
would be witin their range of vision.
Anitra was
the first to see it. She squinted her eyes and declared:
“Well, it’s
a mirror all right.”
*
TBC
Next
chapter: The fondest wish... or is it?