Chapter Text
[CH-1: Tonks Part 1]
Harry Potter was snoring loudly. He had been sitting in a chair beside his bedroom window for the best part of four hours, staring out at the darkening street, and had finally fallen asleep with one side of his face pressed against the cold windowpane, his glasses askew and his mouth wide open. The misty fog his breath had left on the window sparkled in the orange glare of the streetlamp outside, and the artificial light drained his face of all color, so that he looked ghostly beneath his shock of untidy black hair.
From the edge of his bed, hidden beneath an Invisibility Cloak, Nymphadora Tonks watched him sleep, and thought, not for the first time that evening, that he looked terribly young.
The mattress gave a small, traitorous creak beneath her as she stood, and Tonks went very still, but Harry only snored on, oblivious. The Cloak pooled around her in soft, liquid folds, its hem just brushing the floor. Borrowed for the night from a slightly reluctant Mad-Eye, who had grumbled about interior surveillance and proper paranoia in equal measure before handing it over. Six-hour shifts, every other night, and most of them spent exactly like this: sitting very still in the corner of a teenage boy's bedroom
The room was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of rubbish. Owl feathers, apple cores, and sweet wrappers littered the floor, a number of spellbooks lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled robes on his bed, and a mess of newspapers sat in a puddle of light on his desk. The headline of one read:
BLACK STILL AT LARGE
The Ministry of Magic confirmed today that Sirius Black, who escaped from Azkaban fortress last year, remains at large following his dramatic flight from the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in June.
"We are pursuing every available lead," said Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. "Let me assure the wizarding community that the full resources of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement are devoted to Black's recapture. It is only a matter of time."
When asked how Black managed to escape from inside Hogwarts itself, despite the presence of dementors at the school, the Minister declined to give specifics, citing an ongoing investigation (cont. page 4, column 1)
Tonks had read it already, of course. Everyone had. The Prophet had been chewing on the same bone for a fortnight now, dressing up the same scraps of speculation in slightly different clothes.
A second newspaper lay beside the first. This one bore the headline:
WEREWOLF TEACHER SCANDAL: HOGWARTS PARENTS DEMAND ANSWERS
Most of this front page was taken up with a large black-and-white picture of a thin, tired-looking man who blinked uncertainly at the camera before raising one hand, as if to wave it away, and shuffling out of frame.
Questions are mounting in the Wizarding community over the judgment of Albus Dumbledore, after the revelation that Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, knowingly employed a werewolf to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts during the past school year.
Remus Lupin, who resigned from the post following the exposure of his condition, had been entrusted with the care of hundreds of schoolchildren despite the well-documented dangers of lycanthropy.
"One does wonder," said Ministry source Dolores Umbridge, "whether a man of his age ought really to be shaping young minds. There are those who feel a fresh approach at Hogwarts is long overdue." (cont. page 2, column 5)
To the left of this paper sat another, folded so that a story bearing the title HIPPOGRIFF VANISHES FROM EXECUTION SITE was visible.
Ministry executioner Walden Macnair arrived at Hogwarts School to carry out the lawful destruction of a dangerous hippogriff, only to find the creature had vanished from its enclosure under circumstances the Ministry has called "deeply suspicious."
"The beast was properly secured," said an irritated Macnair. "Someone interfered. You don't lose a hippogriff like a set of house keys."
Hogwarts gamekeeper Rubeus Hagrid, who had been keeping the creature on school grounds pending appeal, expressed surprise and delight at its disappearance. "Musta jus' pulled himself free, din' he?" said Hagrid, who was visibly emotional. "Beaky always was a clever—"
But the rest of this story was obscured by the large birdcage standing on top of it. Inside it was a magnificent snowy owl. Her amber eyes surveyed the room imperiously, her head swiveling occasionally to gaze at her snoring master, then at Tonks, as if to say that she, at least, was not fooled by Invisibility Cloaks and would thank Tonks not to forget it. Tonks gave her a small, apologetic wiggle of her fingers from beneath the silvery fabric. Hedwig clicked her beak impatiently, but Harry was too deeply asleep to hear her.
A large trunk stood in the very middle of the room. Its lid was open; it looked expectant; yet it was almost empty but for a few old sweets, empty ink bottles, and broken quills that sat at the very bottom.
Nearby, on the floor, lay a purple leaflet emblazoned with the words:
Issued on behalf of The Ministry of Magic
KEEPING A LEVEL HEAD IN UNCERTAIN TIMES
The Wizarding community has been the subject of much rumor and speculation in recent weeks. The Ministry of Magic wishes to assure all citizens that there is no cause for alarm.
-
Sirius Black is considered extremely dangerous. Under no circumstances should Black be approached.
-
Reports of unusual activity should be directed to the Improper Use of Magic Office in the first instance.
-
All sightings should be reported immediately to the Magical Law Enforcement Squad. A reward of ten thousand Galleons has been offered for information leading directly to Black's capture.
-
The Ministry assures the public that the security of our community remains, as ever, beyond question.
Harry grunted in his sleep, and his face slid down the window an inch or so, making his glasses still more lopsided, but he did not wake up. Tonks watched him a moment longer, then took a careful step away from the bed. The floorboard near the trunk groaned under her weight until she stood beside his chair.
Up close, Harry looked even younger.
A strand of black hair had fallen forward across his forehead, stuck slightly to the misted glass. Tonks eased one hand out from beneath the Cloak and brushed it aside with the tip of a finger, revealing the scar underneath, thin and pale in the streetlamp light. It was such a small thing, really. You could have mistaken it for an old scratch from a cat if you didn't know.
It wasn't fair, Tonks thought, even though she knew it was stupid and childish, and would help no one. But it wasn't fair that Harry was all alone because of Dumbledore's rule. Do not approach the boy. She had nodded along with the rest of them when he'd said it, as one did, with Dumbledore, but sitting here now, with Harry's breath fogging the glass an inch from her ear, the rule struck her as rather cruel.
Tonks was no fool. It would have been impossible for her not to see the way Harry's 'family' treated him. Just this evening she'd been forced to watch the great purple lump of an uncle muttering at him, and the aunt's mouth going thin and disapproving over the breakfast washing-up, and it didn't take much imagination to picture how that sort of thing might have gone when Harry was not the tall and well-built eighteen-year-old now drooling on the windowpane in front of her.
Criminal was what it was.
She'd said as much to Mad-Eye, who had grunted and said Dumbledore had his reasons, and that Tonks's job was to watch, not make contact. Dumbledore had been quite clear at the last meeting: under no circumstances was anyone to approach the boy directly. No visits, no letters beyond the necessary, no friendly waves over the back garden fence. She still couldn't see the reason for it.
An alarm clock ticked loudly on the sill, showing one minute to eleven. Beside it, held in place by Harry's relaxed hand, was a birthday card. Hermione Granger, Harry's little friend Tonks thought he had a crush on, had scribbled, "I expect we'll be seeing each other quite soon" inside the card.
Ronald Weasley's card was there too, propped against the lamp, with a scrawled, "Dad's trying to get us World Cup tickets!!! Will write when I know. Happy birthday, mate."
Tonks wished she'd thought to get him something. Dumbledore's rule said no contact, but it hadn't said anything about a wrapped parcel turning up at the foot of his bed while he slept.
She'd half a mind to nip out and grab something now. But she couldn't leave Harry, not even for a second. Mad-Eye would have her arse if he found out.
Tonks chewed on the inside of her cheek and thought about it. She didn't need to nip out anywhere, did she? She didn't need a shop, or a parcel, or even a bit of ribbon.
Because if Nymphadora Tonks couldn't approach Harry Potter, then she wouldn't be Nymphadora Tonks, would she? And nobody would be any the wiser, including Harry himself, if his bestest friend Hermione happened to drop in for a surprise visit and give Harry the birthday gift all the boys his age wished for.
It was, Tonks thought, possibly the best idea she'd had all summer.
She didn't know Hermione Granger terribly well, having only seen the girl in passing, but she had a good memory for faces, and a Metamorphmagus didn't need much more than that.
Tonks felt the familiar warm tingle at the roots of her hair, and then down the bridge of her nose, and then across her cheekbones. Her hair came down heavy and frizzy around her shoulders, brown instead of pink; the world dropped a good few inches lower than it had been a moment before, on account of Hermione being a fair bit shorter.
Time to wrap his gift, thought Tonks, slipping the Cloak from her shoulders and tossing it on Harry's bed. Her auror robes, shirt, and jeans went next, leaving her standing in Harry's room in nothing but cotton underwear, that while sensible and practical for guard duty, was not what a girl would wear as a birthday gift.
Tonks transfigured the cotton into black lace, propping up Hermione's smaller chest with a cute bralette and splitting the younger girl's perky little bum with a thong before she tiptoed over to Harry. She knelt at the foot of his desk, lowered herself to her hands and knees, and crawled forward into the dark space beneath. She came up between his knees and gently pressed his sleeping legs apart to make room for herself between them. Her hand slid inward as his thigh gave way beneath her touch, and the soft heel of her palm came to rest upon the long heavy weight that lay sleeping beneath his pajama bottoms.
Oh my god, thought Tonks. She scooched closer on her knees. The shape under her palm was warm even through his trousers. It was thick, and long, and a whole lot bigger than she was expecting. Her fingers spread slowly, tracing the outline, and she lost track of the end of him before she even ran out of hand. Her pinky reached its limit, and yet, there was still more of him beneath her thumb.
Tonks pressed her thighs together. Her fingers crept up to the soft elastic band at his waist, and she hooked her thumbs beneath it, pulling Harry's pants down slowly.
A trail of dark curling hair appeared first, the soft springing curls thickening into a dense patch at his thick base, and then, Harry just kept going. No matter how far she pulled the elastic, he kept coming, more and more of him, until halfway down his thighs, his full, heavy length spilled into her cupped palms.
Tonks' mouth fell open.
Hermione's borrowed hand, while a touch slimmer than her own, was no daintier than any other young woman's. And still, kneeling there, she could not bring her fingertips to meet.
Oh wow, she thought, a little stupidly. Oh wow. Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow.
She pulled the shaft toward her face, and the spongy head bumped softly against her cheek. Tonks let out a small wondering breath against him. Harry was still soft and floppy enough that she could manipulate his length easily.
No holding back now; Tonks inhaled deeply, filling her nose with hot male musk as she rubbed Harry's huge cock all over her face. She didn't stop to think about what she was doing or how it might seem to anyone else. There was nobody else. There was only her, and him, and so she was content to rub his dick on Hermione's face.
She had been tasked with protecting Harry, but being watched wasn't all Harry needed.
Tonks' teeth nibbled at her plump lower lip, and her free hand drifted to her own chest. Her smaller borrowed breasts felt suddenly tingly and needy beneath the transfigured lace, and she pressed her fingers into one and squeezed, tweaking the small hard nipple through the thin fabric with her thumb.
"Nnngh," she moaned, very softly. "Your cock smells so fucking good."
Tonks blushed, realizing it was the sluttiest thing she had ever said aloud in her life, but there was no one in the room to hear them save the sleeping boy himself. She looked up the long, and still growing shaft toward Harry's heavy hanging balls, and leaned forward, lifting her flushed face up to let the warm sack melt over her face. Her borrowed body responded with a fresh hot tingling pulse, her smaller nipples drawing tight beneath the lace. She fumbled with the front of her transfigured bralette, heard the small unsnapping of its clasp, and pulled the cups down to expose Hermione's smaller perfect tits. The areolas were puffy and pinker than her own usual tanned skin, the nipples poking out in two small eager nubs that were already afire with the grinding of her thumb and forefinger. Tonks pressed her face deeper into Harry's warm sack and pinched her nipple harder.
It wasn't a conscious decision to open her mouth and start sucking. No one had ever made her want to be this absolutely shameless for them, but she wanted — no — she needed to make tonight special. Harry deserved nothing less on his eighteenth birthday.
So, while she had never approached blowies with much enthusiasm before, finding them too sleazy and too awkward with the boys she let try, Tonks went at her new task with enthusiasm.
Above the desk, with his head still leaning against the window, Harry smiled. I'll make this the best birthday he's ever had, the thought drifted through his mind like smoke, and his eyes opened. He didn't move. It had taken a lot of practice not to react to the thoughts he heard. The gross thoughts of Dudley made him want to gag; the boring thoughts about drills from Uncle Vernon made him want to sigh; and the bitchy thoughts from Aunt Petunia about the neighbors made him want to laugh.
Tonight, the thoughts belonged to the woman under the Invisibility Cloak. Nymphadora Tonks, though she hated the name. Harry had known about Tonks since her first shift, six weeks ago. He'd known about all of them. He heard them the way you heard a conversation at the next table in a crowded pub: not trying to listen, but not able to stop. Their thoughts simply arrived in his head.
It had started that night by the lake with fog clouding his eyes, fighting to hold on to the one thought that mattered — Sirius was innocent — we'll be okay — I'm going to live with him — and forcing the words out through frozen lips.
"Expecto patronum!"
By the feeble light of his formless Patronus, Harry had seen a Dementor halt, very close to him. It couldn't walk through the cloud of silver mist he had conjured. A dead, slimy hand slid out from under the cloak. It made a gesture as though to sweep the Patronus aside.
"No — no — he's innocent… expecto — expecto patronum —"
Harry could still feel them watching him, hear their rattling breath like an evil wind around him. The nearest Dementor raised both its rotting hands — and lowered its hood.
Where there should have been eyes, there was only thin, gray scabbed skin, stretched blankly over empty sockets. But there was a mouth. . . a gaping, shapeless hole, sucking the air with the sound of a death rattle.
A paralyzing terror had filled Harry that night. He hadn't been able to move or speak. His Patronus flickered and died.
White fog had blinded him, but he had to fight. . . Expecto Patronum. . . he couldn't see. . . and in the distance, he heard the familiar screaming. . . Expecto Patronum. . . he groped in the mist for Sirius, and found his arm. . . they weren't going to take him. . . .
But a pair of strong, clammy hands suddenly attached themselves around Harry's neck. They were forcing his face upward. . . He could feel its breath. . . It was going to get rid of him first. . . He could feel its putrid breath. . . His mother was screaming in his ears. . . She was going to be the last thing he ever heard —
Harry thought he was remembering the night his mum had died. And he was. But it wasn't his memory he was seeing.
It was Tom's.
After that night, Harry started to remember more and more. The memories came at odd hours, sudden and vivid. A lifetime's worth; starting in a dirty room in an orphanage by the sea, more than fifty years ago, where sea winds whipped through the gaps in the window frames, making the glass rattle in and the thin curtains shift.
Harry couldn't sort them. He couldn't slow them down. They simply arrived full of murder and magic, and Harry let them come because fighting only made it worse.
He knew he should have been revolted. He was revolted. But the revulsion always seemed to arrive late, like a prefect turning up after the hex had already landed. Harry wasn't just watching the memories. He was living them. Everything that Voldemort had felt in those memories, Harry felt when he relived them. The thrill of watching witches beg; the rush as wizards too weak to stop him losing their loves and then their lives.
It was like a drug to Voldemort.
Harry always knew the Dark Lord was evil. But knowing and feeling it was two very different things. Some night, Harry would wake from a memory, hard as a rock under the covers, his cock aching from the phantom echoes of the Dark Lord’s joy.
To a monster like Voldemort, power was pleasure.
Underneath the desk, Tonks smeared precum over Harry's swollen head with her thumb before she leaned forward. Her pink lips parted, tongue flattening against his shaft as she dragged it up the underside of his shaft, before taking him deep into her mouth with a wet, hungry gasp. She sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, while her tongue swirled around the head, teasing the sensitive spot just beneath the tip, and Harry groaned.
Tonks pulled back with a wet pop, before diving back down, taking him to the back of her throat this time. Her free hand slid up his thigh, cupping his balls, and rolling them gently in her palm.
Harry’s hips jerked involuntarily. He closed his eyes, and suddenly he was somewhere else, with another daughter of House Black sucking him off.
Bellatrix Black, young and beautiful, her eyes blazing with devotion, was kneeling at his feet, staring up at him with eyes so wide and worshipful they barely looked sane. Harry knew, with Tom's certainty, that she had never been happier than she was in that moment. That she would have crawled across broken glass for one more second of his attention. That she loved him more than anything she had ever loved or would ever love again.
And Harry — or Tom — or whoever he was just then — had looked down at her and felt nothing but pride. The way you might feel watching a well-trained dog perform a trick.
A violent gagging noise brought Harry back to the present. It was not a sound Bellatrix would have made, no matter how inexperienced. Tom didn't have the wand length for that.
Harry opened his eyes, and he was back in his room, breathing hard, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. Tonks was choking herself on his cock. Her throat fluttered around him as she swallowed, and Harry reached down to grab her hair.
Tonks froze with her nose buried in a thick nest of dark curls. Harry didn't move either. He had a choice to make now. He could pretend to still be asleep; reveal that he was awake, and play along with her little plan; or grab her by the hair and call her out. . .