The Photo Album
The Photo Album
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Title: The Photo Album
Author: Kemis
Pairing: JP/HP
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It\'s the summer after fifth year. Harry is riverivet Drive,
feeling
terribly alone, so he takes out the photo album with the pictures of
his
beloved parents
Spoilers: All books
Warnings/kinks: Incest (sort of),
wanking and Harry\'s 16, so he might be a minor depending on the age of
consent in your country.
Disclaimers: Not mine, they’re Rowling’s.
*sighs* What a pity.
Notes: This fic is very weird. I like it well enough, but it
me at 1am focing me to
get up to write down a few notes. I’m not sure if Harry is sane here.
Probably
not. *
oliver_baston and
Nimori for the beta.^_^
Notes(2): I just noticed I had mistaken the unbetaed and betaed versions of
the fic and uploaded the unbetaed one. Sorry!>.< *hides away*
/…/ = thoughts, memories,
whatever…
* * *
Harry sat on his bed in the
small second
bedroom at number four, Privet Drive. It was night, and a fat lazy moon
cast
its light through the open window. He sat there, playing idly with his
wand. He
was alone.
Hedwig had gone out to hunt
some late
dinner, so he was alone.
His relatives were inside the
house.
Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were already asleep in their bed. Dudley
was
still awake, or at least as awake as he could be lying on the couch at
two in
the morning in front of the telly after eating a whole black forest
cherry
cake, which wasn’t much. Therefore leaving Harry alone.
His wand fell, clattering on
the floor,
rolling under the bed.
Sirius was dead.
And Harry was alone. He
didn’t have any
family left.
He reached his arm over the
old
nightstand and took his photo album. He didn’t bother to pick up his
wand.
The boy opened the album,
skipping
through the s tos to the last part, the section that contained the
pictures of
his parents in their teens that Remus Lupin had gifted him with for his
birthday.
/You’re so much like your
father,
Harry./
There were pictures of his
mother
studying in the Hogwarts Library, sitting near the lake under the sun,
chatting
with other girls. She always smiled at him, waving from the photos.
Harry touched softly with his
fingertips
the cool surface of the page. A beautiful stranger, that’s what she was
to him.
/What was her favorite
color? Was she
a good cook? Did she sing lullabies to him? Had she a job? Which
perfume did
she use? How were her hugs? How were her kisses?/
A beautiful stranger of whom
the only
memory he had was her death.
/How was her death?/
He would have smiled bitterly
if his face
hadn’t been too numb to even move his lips. It was a sad case when you
had to
thank the Dementors for providing you of the only memory of your mother
you
had.
Harry slowly turned the page.
And there,
the pictures of his father.
/Yeh a lot like yer dad…/
His dad. James Potter. The
Quidditch
star. Tousled hair, thick round glasses. He had his broom or a snitch
in all
the pictures save one. He must have been Harry’s own age on these
photos.
/Before or after the
Defense OWL when
he harassed and humiliated Snape?/
Sometimes he was grinning
happily. Sometimes he was leering
arrogantly.
/You’ll soon find out some
wizarding
families are much better than others, Potter…/
Sometimes he was smirking
with a
malicious gleam in his hazel eyes.
/You look so much like
your--/
/Stop it/
The boy hugged his knees to
his chest. In
spite of everything he had found out, he still loved his dad. Did it
make him a
bad person, not caring about the cruel things his father had done?
Harry turned the page again.
This was his
favorite picture. No brooms, no nasty smirks, no nosy friends. Just his
father,
lying on the grass under a familiar tree - /their tree, Harry and
James’ /
- taking a nap. Every few minutes he would wake up to slowly stretch
his lean
body - /so similar to Harry’s own body/ - and he would smile at
him. A
sated, sleepy - /sensual/ - smile that made his hazel eyes
glitter in
the light.
He often dreamed of going
back in time to
his father’ seventh year to meet him - /right there, under the
tree, like in
that picture/.
But
the dream kept changing. At times Harry punched him for being
a bully.
/C’mon, freak, start
running! We don’t
want ‘Harry hunting’ to end before it starts!/
At times he just sat down
beside him and started
talking, trying to get to know him.
/strong arms around him, a
deep voice
whispering soothing nonsense in his ear, a hand stroking his hair/
At times the hug felt
different, was
different.
/strong arms around him, a
mouth
sucking his earlobe, a hand stroking his back, sliding slowly downward
to cup
his bottom/
And those were the times that
he woke up
to a sticky bed. Fortunately Aunt Petunia had left him in charge of the
laundry
this summer.
Harry squirmed, uncomfortably
aware of
the heat pooling low in his belly. Was it so wrong to wish for the
touch of the
father he never got to know?
/Yes! Yes, it is!/
The father everyone talked
about,
/You look so much like
your father,
Harry/
the father so well known and
respected,
/Amusing man, you father,
wasn’t he?/
the father he loved.
/Freak! Freak! Freak!/ Harry felt tears stinging in /You look so much like And how much did he miss him? /strong arms around him, But maybe, since Harry looked /You’re so much like your Yes, he could, he could close /James…/ The right hand that had been /What are you-- Ah!/ The left hand had found his /James, oh god, James what /You know it, you want it/ One of those /brilliant/ /Wait! I don’t--/ But it was too late, the hand /Hnn… James/ Harry was moaning, /Like a whore in heat, /yes/
his eyes.
your father./
Could the
pain in his chest grow stronger, the screams of his heart grow louder?
hand stroking
him…/
so much
like him, maybe he could close his eyes and his hands would become his
dad’s
hands, his touches, his dad’s touches.
father/
his eyes
and pretend and the hand that was petting his hair was James’. The hand
that
was stroking his belly soothingly was James’ too.
in his hair
was resting on his cheek, comforting. But wait, why was the other hand
slipping
under his t-shirt on his chest?
left nipple
and was teasing it, pinching and twisting it. Harry gasped. The right
hand left
briefly just to reappear on his other nipple, working it to a hard
knot. The
boy bit his lips to stifle a whimper.
are you
doing?/
hands
began to slowly move down on his chest, his belly, to stop over his
belt.
was already
on his cock, rubbing it through his jeans, then through his boxers and
then
there was nothing between them, there was only skin on skin, warm and
sweaty
and it was gripping his erection.
look at you/
gasping and biting his lips
because he
couldn’t scream, he wouldn’t scream.
God, now the hand was moving,
up and
down, stroking, gripping and releasing and playing with his slit,
spreading the
precome over his skin and stroking again and again, too fast, too slow
- /you
like it, don’t you?/ His hips were moving too, short thrusts in
that grip.
And now fingers were on his
lips,
releasing them from his teeth and then slipping inside, in his mouth,
massaging
it - /suck, whore, suck/ - and he was massaging them back,
sucking
greedily, laving the fingers with his tongue, and it was a good thing
too,
because when the hand on his cock abandoned his task he couldn’t cry
out like
he wanted to do.
But the hand was running over
his inner
thigh, forcing his legs open and he wasn’t sure where his clothes were,
but it
didn’t matter, the hand was now cupping his balls, squeezing slightly
and
rolling them in their sac.
Abruptly the fingers left his
mouth and
he wanted to protest but he just couldn’t, because now the other hand
was back
on his cock, back to its dance of stroking and gripping and the fingers
were
joining too, only lower, at his entrance, circling, probing and
slipping
inside.
/Oh, god!/
One, then two and he was
breathless,
arching upwards, his hips twitching and then thrusting madly back and
forth,
back and forth, back and forth.
/James/
/My little whore, writhing
and panting
on the bed, wanking as he thinks abouhis dead father./
The fingers crooked and
twisted inside
him, like they wanted to make a point. Harry moaned again, thrashing on
the
bed.
/Yes… More, please, yes,
James,
James!/
The hand on his cock pumped
harder, the
fingers scissored, twisting around.
/You’re disgusting.
Perverted freak./
His eyes shot open and
suddenly
everything crashed down on him, the moon-tinted darkness, his wanton
gasps
overwhelming the silence, the photo album – /No. Please, not this,
not
this…/ - still open on his father’s picture.
The wave of shame hit him
painfully,
almost as strong as his arousal - /Oh, Lord/ - but instead of
squelching
it, instead of putting it off they mixed and mounted and it wasn’t
possible, it
couldn’t happen, it shouldn’t happen - /It couldn’t
be!/ - shouldn’t, but it was, god, it
was.
Like nitro and glycerin they
mixed and
rushed through his veins, dangerous blend ready to go off, pulsing and
throbbing in time with the strokes on his cock and the vicious thrusts
of the
fingers in his ass and then, then the fingers moved and they found the
detonator hidden inside of him and it was all over.
Everything exploded, powerful
and
devastating, and the terrible blast wrenched his seed from his body and
a weak
cry from his bitten lips.
/jamesjamesjamesjames!!/
Harry lay on his bed panting,
the walls
still echoing, the silence ringing in his ears. His breathing was still
labored, his body trembling, his come glistening weakly over his
stomach and a
bit over the photo of his father.
The guilt and the shame would
come to
haunt him soon enough, he knew all too well. But for now his mind was
floating
in the peaceful numbness of the afterglow and it didn’t seem that
important.
Slowly he managed to raise an
arm and he
wiped the photo clean with the corner of the sheet - /more dirty
laundry
anyway/. Distantly he thought to ask Hermione to teach him that
Impervious
charm of hers, hoping it worked for more than just water.
-End-
Reviews, please? Pretty please? *puppy dog eyes*