
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7911565.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Scorpius_Malfoy/James_Sirius_Potter, James_Sirius_Potter/Charlie_Weasley,
      Teddy_Lupin/James_Sirius_Potter, James_Sirius_Potter/Louis_Weasley, James
      Sirius_Potter/Victoire_Weasley
  Character:
      James_Sirius_Potter, Charlie_Weasley, Harry_Potter, Albus_Severus_Potter,
      Lily_Luna_Potter, Ginny_Weasley, Teddy_Lupin, Louis_Weasley, Victoire
      Weasley, Dominique_Weasley, Scorpius_Malfoy, Hugo_Weasley
  Additional Tags:
      Child_Abuse, Sexual_Abuse, Physical_Abuse, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse,
      Childhood_Sexual_Abuse, Abusive_Relationships, all_the_abuse, Cousin
      Incest, Uncle/Nephew_Incest, all_the_bad_things, Kidnapping, Rape,
      Torture, Mental_Health_Issues, Psychological_Trauma, Crazy_James, Hearing
      Voices, Changing_Tenses, POV_Second_Person, POV_Third_Person, Trigger
      Warnings_Galore, heed_those_warnings_and_tags, Suicide, Murder, Murder
      Kink, Suicide_Squad_influence, J/HQ
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-30 Chapters: 6/? Words: 12866
****** The Madness of King James ******
by unkissed
Summary
     James Sirius Potter is crazy. 100% certifiably insane. He wasn’t
     always this way. The slow downward spiral into psychosis was not a
     path he had taken alone. For his journey into Hell had been one paved
     with the destroyed hearts of the people who were crazy enough to love
     him, and those who were unfortunate enough to be loved by him. This
     is the story of James’ madness, as told by Jamie himself and the
     voices inside his head.
Notes
     For my bestie, Colorfulstabwound, who 'started a joke'.
     Okay so this thing came about because Colorfulstabwound is brilliant
     and saw that crazy!James/Scorpius had Joker/Harley Quinn written all
     over them and needed a whole series inspired by the Suicide Squad
     soundtrack. The Madness of King James is based on Soundtrack for a
     Suicide by Colorfulstabwound and is Jamie's origin story. If you read
     this, you should really read that.
     I never thought I could top Teddy: Destiny & Desire with the warnings
     and the tags... but I just did. If you are the least bit worried that
     this story will glorify rape and murder... yeah, move on to another
     fic.
     Follow NotYourJamie and DietMalfoy on tumblr if you want to see where
     these crazy kids came from.
  This work was inspired by
      Soundtrack_for_a_suicide by ColorfulStabwound
***** The Birth of James Sirius Potter *****
                  Chapter_1:_The_Birth_of_James_Sirius_Potter
                                        
                              (In his own words.)
 
It was a dark and stormy night.  26 December, 2003, to be exact.  Unto the
dreary world, was unleashed a force so massively brilliant that it changed the
face of humanity – an entity so astounding, that every living creature stopped
in unison to behold its arrival.  James Sirius Potter was born.  Glorious.
 With a full head of reasonably dark hair.  And a face so beautiful that the
angels wept with jealousy and were immediately cast down to Hell for their
hubris.
 
For two perfect, wonderful years, James, or Jamieas he was fondly referred to,
was revered and worshiped.  For two blissful years, upon him was bestowed
praise, of which he merited, and countless gifts, which he deserved.  He was
loved.  He was cherished.  He was the glorious son of The Chosen One.  More
famous than muggle Jesus.  And he took his rightful place as the sole heir to
the Potter legacy.
 
And then, one miserable, gloomy night in 2005, the balance of the universe was
completely upset, sending the whole world into dark chaos.  Albus Severus
Potter was spit out unto the Earth as a screaming, slimy, ugly, scourge with
demonic dark hair and satanic green eyes.  And forever would Albus be a blight
upon Jamie’s once perfect life.  The fetid larval mass of deathly white flesh
that was Albus proceeded to taint everything it touched with its gross, sticky
fingers.  And the golden god of a boy that was Jamie HATED the miniscule
humanoid creature with all of his virile heart.
 
And then Lily came along and she wasn’t so bad.  She was kind of cute, and she
liked to kick Albie in the face with her baby feet, so she was cool in Jamie’s
book.
 
Anyway, Albus ruined everything.  And to this day, continues to desecrate the
ground upon which he drags his clumsy, malodorous feet.  You could say that
Albus was to blame for all the questionable things that Jamie did, for all of
Jamie’s motives could be traced back to the day that Albus was born.
 
Why did Jamie kick the cat? He was angry with Albus for existing, and so Jamie
took it out on the closest object within kicking distance. Why did Jamie ruin
Gran’s record collection? Because he was angry with Albus for existing, and so
Jamie took a silver-tipped quill to all of Gran’s Celestina Warbeck records in
frustration (and maybe because Celestina Warbeck was auditory torture at
Christmas time). Why did Jamie commit a slight, little, wee murder (or two or
three)? Albus drove him to do it by merely existing.
 
No need to elaborate. Blame Albus Potter for everything. There is no story to
be told. That’s it. The end.
 
                                     ~//~
                                        
Except it isn’t the end, now is it, James Sirius Potter? It is only the
beginning. And though the birth of your little brother marks the start of your
slow, downward spiral, it can hardly be the culprit. Albus’ birth was
negligible, really, compared to all that followed. You like to blame him
because it’s easy. Because you can readily admit that he’s the cause of your
issues without revealing the dark secrets that fester inside you. Because it is
so much easier to blame your brother than facing the demons. Because it is so
much easier to blame Albus than admitting that you were not just a victim of
circumstance - you were an actual victim. Yes, you, the King of the Wizarding
Underworld, were not the aggressor, but the victim.
 
In years to come, you will learn to use your victimization as a shield to
deflect blame and protect yourself from guilt for the horrible things you will
do. Your quest to never be a victim again will be one that will break you and
build you up again and make you stronger, only to be your one weakness, your
downfall. Nobody hurts Jamie. Jamie will burn down the fucking world before he
lets anyone hurt him again, you tell yourself every time somebody hurts you. So
you destroyed everything you touch, but you still end up destroying yourself.
 
And later still, you will understand that Albus’ birth was not what set you
off. It was just incidental. It was yourbirth that made you this way. Yes, you
were born this way. This is not to say that you were born psychotic, because
you were not. But there was always something inside your head – a voice, a
devil on your shoulder, an impulse to act against reason, an obsessive drive.
And yet all of these things did not make you crazy – they made you human. You
chose to listen to the voices. And that, James, is what made you crazy.
***** A Touching Story *****
If Jamie destroys everything he touches, including himself, then by that logic,
Jamie touches himself. Jamie touches himself a lot. Let’s call it self-care.
And, Merlin be damned, he deserves it. Hell, let’s call it after-care. Because
Jamie could use a good wank to soothe the blows that Life deals him. Yeah, Life
is not the proverbial Bitchin Jamie’s case – Life has made Jamie its bitch with
the sheer number of times it has fucked him. He’s been fucked a lot, to say the
least.
 
Touching story, isn’t it? Really, it is. Being quite literal here. James was
touched. Not just by the hand of god, not just by an angel. James was touched.
Yeah, in thatway. Because, if Fate and Destiny and numerous deities wanted a
piece of James, you can bet on James’ sweet arse that weak mortals would want a
piece of said sweet arse. Can you really blame them? James was pretty fucking
cute as a wee lad. Of course it would be beautiful James, over gross Albus, who
would be Tom Riddle-diddled as a child.
 
                                     ~//~
                                        
You joked about it to yourself. Hell, you even joked about it openly, albeit in
a sick, facetious way one does when joking about relatives that get in your
personal space. You know the sort. The great aunt that puts bright, red
lipstick kisses all over your cheeks at family functions, the uncle that’s a
bit too enthusiastic with his hugs.   Those archetypal people that everyone has
in the family and jokes about without naming names. But in your family, you can
definitely name names, although you never will point an accusatory finger at
them. It was your secret. Our secret, as he had told you.  
 
Years after the fact, you tried to make light of it by using infantile words
like diddledand diffusing the intensity of the truth with words like touched.
It took you a long time to understand and admit to yourself what really
happened. You were raped, James. There it is. That horrible word in all its
horrible, five-lettered, misery. You can justify it all you want by saying you
were irresistible, but what normal, moral, mentally stable person would even
find a child irresistible?
 
You wanted to believe that he loved you, and that you loved him, and that it
was just The Universe bringing your soul-mate to you in the wrong time of your
life – maybe even in the wrong lifetime. But he didn’t love you. If he did, he
would’ve left you alone, gone home, and jerked off.
 
But instead, he made you do it.
 
Uncle Charlie. He was the coolest Weasley ever – all ginger spitfire and
dragon-taming badassery wrapped up gorgeously in a sleek, leather package. He
was your favorite uncle, and of course, you were his favorite nephew – not many
good ones to choose from really. You worshiped that man the way the Wizarding
world worshiped dad, because, fuck saving humanity, Uncle Charlie could make a
Norwegian Ridgeback purr like a kitten.
 
At the time, you had two heroes: Teddy Lupin and Charlie Weasley. Charlie
seemed like an untouchable god to you, whereas Teddy was a tangible sort of
hero. You could reasonably strive to be like him, and he was always accessible
to you. Teddy was your big brother of sorts. But then he had to go and fuck it
all up by leaving you to go to Hogwarts. You were gutted when Teddy left you
behind. Mum noticed you were inconsolable, because nothing gets past her (at
least, until that point, nothing had gotten past her). She thought it would
cheer you up if your favorite uncle visited from Romania.
 
You were six-years-old when it started. It was in the moors behind your house.
You were playing hide-and-find. Uncle Charlie was thirty-eight, the eldest of
your uncles, but by far the most youthful and spry, and when he found you in
the hollow of an old, dead tree, he scooped you up in his arms in a way that
nobody had done since you were a baby – since you were thebaby, before your
bothersome siblings came along. He lifted you up high and told you that you
were a Hungarian Horntail.   And you laughed. You laughed freely and openly and
innocently in a way you’d never laugh again.
 
He told you that you were special. He told you that you were more brilliant
than Albus, and prettier than Lily. He told you that he loved you the most. He
told you he’d take you to Romania some day and teach you how to wrangle
dragons. He told you to call him Charlie, not Uncle Charlie, because you were
closer than that – you were friends. You felt entitled to his special attention
and his special friendship because you knew you were better than all of your
snot-nosed cousins and siblings. So when Charlie raised you up to his level,
you were over-the-moon.
 
And then he told you to keep it a secret, because special friends always have
their secrets. And special friends touch each other in special ways. He called
you his special boy. And that was your undoing. Because mum used to call you
her special boy before Albus came into the picture.
 
You were Charlie’s special boy for years. Even though the voices in your head
and the chills that scraped up and down your spine were a very strong
indication that the things Charlie did were wrong, you couldn’t stop it. How
could you, really? Even the times that you swallowed the fear of losing Charlie
to tell him that you didn’t like his special brand of touching, Charlie told
you that you needed it. All boys had to endure it to become powerful men. He
told you some day you’d be the most powerful man in the world, and long before
that, you would learn how to enjoy the special touch.
 
Charlie broke you down until you were a handful of shattered pieces. And he was
right. You werestronger for it. You were strong enough to stand up to him one
day and tell him no. He never got angry with you. That was not Charlie’s way.
He was calm and soothing and gentle on the surface – but on the inside, he was
full of fire just like his dragons. And the day you told him no was the day you
felt his fire inside you. You had thought you couldn’t be broken down any
further, but Charlie had succeeded in rendering you to ash with his fire.
 
“I’ll tell mum. I’ll tell dad,” you said as you wept, because thisyou knew by
instinct was utterly wrong, and you knew that Charlie would burn you again and
again until you were microscopic molecules. It needed to stop.
 
For the first time, you saw disappointment in Charlie’s fiery blue eyes. “I
thought you were special,” he said.
 
“I amspecial,” you insisted.
 
He looked just about fed up. “You’re really not. You’re just another boy,” he
said, quietly disgusted, “You don’t love me anymore.”
 
You pleaded with him because you knew that he’d leave you otherwise. “I dolove
you, Charlie! But the way you love me… it hurts.”
 
Charlie wouldn’t look you in the eyes anymore – you had fallen that far from
grace and it stung as if he’d slapped you. “If you can’t be a good and special
boy anymore, then fine. Your choice. But I’m not your Charlie anymore, got it?
I’m your UncleCharlie, just like I am to your sister and brother and cousins.”
 
You cried so hard. You didn’t think he could hurt you this thoroughly, just
gutted from the inside out.
 
Before he left you in the grass beneath a shady willow tree, he said, “Don’t
tell your mum and dad. You know they’ll never understand people like us.” He’d
said it many times before. But this time, he added, “If you tell them, it’ll
hurt them. You know how your mum gets. How your dad gets. You don’t want to do
that to them. You don’t want to be the reason they hurt themselves.”
 
Yes, your parents had secrets too. You’d seen dad come home after being away
for days on another Auror mission, weary right down to his soul. You’d seen him
lock himself in his study and come out even more battered than the way he’d
gone in, with the faint blur of magic vaguely hiding the red tracks of self-
hatred running up and down his arms. You’d seen mum cuddling a bottle of
firewhiskey on nights when dad didn’t come home and you knew she’d reign down
with fire and brimstone on you and your siblings when she was in that state of
drunken misery.
 
No, you couldn’t do that to them. You couldn’t destroy them. And so you never
told them anything.
 
 
Next Christmas, you saw Uncle Charlie disappearing into the moors behind your
house, carrying your cousin Hugo on his shoulders.
***** Why Potters Don't Go Camping *****
There is a reason why Potters don’t go camping. It’s not that it isn’t their
thing. It’s just that… bad things happen when Potters go camping.
 
Exhibit A: 1997. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley go on a wee
camping trip. They’re three teenagers out in the woods with no adult
supervision and a lot of sexual tension. I know, it sounds rather sweet right
there. But there’s more. While on this trip, they go looking for pieces of
Voldemort’s soul, and in the process, nearly starve to death and very nearly
die in several other ways. Needless to say, Harry, Hermione, and Ron are
scarred for life and are put off camping for quite a while.
 
Exhibit B: 2013. Some crackpot therapist convinces middle-aged Harry Potter,
Hermione Weasley and Ron Weasley to take their families camping in the same
cursed woods in order to work through their deeply suppressed unresolved
emotional issues. Sounds like the premise of a really bad romantic comedy or a
horror movie? It should. Because it was. The latter. Muggles called it The
Blair Witch Project. We call it James Sirius Potter and the Rubbish Camping
Trip. Or, Why Potters Don’t Go Camping.
 
 
Jamie was nine. He was doing quite brilliantly, considering he was being forced
to spend a week in a tent with his gross brother, his boring sister, and his
dull as balls parents. The fact that Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron were there
with their infernal ginger spawn did not provide any sort of consolation, nor
any entertainment of value beyond poking Hugo incessantly with a spiky twig
until he cried (actually, that was pretty amusing).
 
It was around day three of mind-numbing boredom that Jamie wandered off into
the woods alone in search of adventure, because why the fuck not? Wolves and
monsters and cursed ground be damned! Jamie was going to see some action on
this trip even if he had to lure out the predators with his own body as juicy
bait.
 
But Jamie, dear sweet and naïve Jamie, did not count on there being predators
of the human kind in the woods that day. They were not the opportunistic sort
of predators. No, not those types – you know the sort – the ones that build
houses out of candy in hopes that delectable little children wander by and end
up on the hot side of the oven door.
 
Nope. These predators were the calculating ones. The sort that plan for years.
The sort that hunt in packs. The sort that stalk their prey from afar and just
watch, waiting for the right time to strike.
 
You see, Harry Potter, being the bloke who killed the leader of the Death Eater
gang, and the head Honcho of the Aurors, made himself a lot of enemies.
Everyone that had ever tried to assassinate the Chosen One met a very
unfortunate end. So the baddies went at him from a different angle. They hit
him in his weakest spot. His family jewels.
 
No, they didn’t kick Harry Potter in the nuts. That’d be a low blow. They stole
the most precious and sparkly jewel of the entire Potter family.
 
Jamie hadn’t heard them coming. They used magic to silence their approach. When
they were close enough for Jamie to sense their presence in the quiet void of
the forest, it was too late. Their hands were everywhere. More hands than Jamie
could count. Hands over his mouth. Hands over his eyes. Hands shackling his
arms and legs. Hands whisking him away to another campsite nearby, hidden
behind charms and wards.
 
They spoke in whispers, but never to him directly, because everyone knows that
spooky whispers are way more intimidating than barking predictable threats like
I’m gonna cut off each of your fingers one by one and owl them to your parents
(which is a bad idea, by the way, since owls are, you know, carnivores, and
human fingers are a tasty snack that wouldn’t reach their intended recipient).
 
They kept Jamie blindfolded so that he wouldn’t have to look at their, no
doubt, ugly faces. Evil wizards are always ugly with no hair or bad hair –
case-in-point, Baldy Voldy. Jamie’s captors kept him bound and silent with
their magic so that Jamie couldn’t use his wit and his charm and his grace to
elegantly slither his way out of the situation.
 
Jamie was frightened in the kidnappers lair, of course, but not too scared. He
was a strong lad with a mind of steel, and nothing would break him down. Uncle
Charlie had already done a thorough job of that, so by the time the kidnappers
had gotten a hold of Jamie, there was nothing left to break. 100 points to
Gryffindor team Seeker, Charlie Weasley. Zero points to the evil wizards. James
Sirius Potter wins!
 
                                     ~//~
                                        
Except you didn’t win, James.
 
You lost one of your most valuable assets. You lost your mind.
 
The kidnappers kept you in the dark behind a blindfold for so long that you
lost your sense of time. You didn’t know how many days you’d been in captivity.
You didn’t know whether it was night or day at any given time. They fed you at
odd intervals, so you couldn’t decipher the hours even by that.
 
They didn’t talk to you. They whispered to each other in your presence. You
heard male voices. Female voices. None of them familiar. And even when it
seemed like nobody was there, you continued to hear their voices playing with
your heart and your mind, making you anxious and giving you hope and crushing
it soon after.
 
They’re looking for him. Dozens of Aurors. Civilian search parties. The whole
of goddamn wizarding England is combing the woods for the Potter brat.
 
Of course they were looking for you. You were the first-born golden child of
The Chosen One. Dad would overturn the whole fucking country to find you.
 
They’re smart. They know our location is hidden behind impenetrable layers of
secrecy. So they’ve stopped looking. They’re trying to flush us out. But we can
wait. We can wait for weeks. Days. Fuck it, we can wait years and let the
Potter brat shrivel into nothing before we give him up.
 
You feared that the most – being left behind. When you heard their footsteps
begin to grow more distant, you screamed, even though the spells kept your
voice from reaching anyone’s ears. Don’t leave me here alone! But they left you
alone. You don’t know how long they would go away for – minutes, hours, a whole
day. You couldn’t tell. When you were alone with your own thoughts in the
darkness, it was the ultimate torture. You were consumed by fear and doubt.
 
And that’s when you started to listen to the voices in your head. Because there
was no other sound to be heard except the constant buzz and hum of your own
anxiety and fear. Would they let you die here? Would dad stop looking? Would
mum replace you with Albus? Would they let your little shit brother have your
room? Would they give your broom to Lily? Would they forget you ever existed?
 
And then the kidnappers stepped up their game, likely to get the Ministry to
take their demands seriously. They wanted the release of five convicted Death
Eaters from Azkaban. You thought that being left alone was torture. Sweetheart,
you had no fucking idea.
 
The first time they removed the spells that rendered you mute and blind, it was
so that they could make you scream and cry for the camera. The tent was lit by
dim oil lamps, but it might as well have been lit by a hundred blazing suns
when you opened your eyes. You couldn’t see much beyond the glare of too much
light too soon. There were human shapes in dark cloaks and masks.
 
And there were hands. Too many hands again. Ripping your urine-soaked clothes
from your body. Touching you in ways that Charlie touched you, only devoid of
his love and his gentleness. They cackled maniacally as they humiliated you.
 
Look at how pathetic he is. He’s so scrawny and small. What a useless little
bitch. He can’t possibly be the son of the man who defeated The Dark Lord.
 
They took moving pictures as they mocked and goaded your father, using you as
an effigy to desecrate.
 
Look at us fucking your precious boy. You can’t do anything about it. We’re
taking turns putting our cocks down his lovely throat while you sit at home,
you ineffectual wanker. Look at your beautiful son, Potter. Watch us making a
mess of his pretty face with our spunk. This is what we will do every single
fucking day you choose to ignore us. For every day that the five Death Eaters
spend in Azkban, we will send you another video. Each one will get worse for
your son – better for us – especially me and my mate here – we’ve never done
double penetration before, and it’d be fun to try it with your brat.
 
You blacked out after they made that first video. You suffocated under the
intense horror of it all, under the heaviness of bodies forcing you into ugly
shapes, choking on their evil, gagging on their cruelty.
 
You never thought you could be broken more than the way Charlie had broken you.
 
His bad touch was bloody romantic compared to this.
 
From then on, you welcomed the dark solitude – the unknown hours of
nothingness, alone with your shame and your misery. When they came back to feed
you, you had an all-out fit. You struggled like a demon against the magic that
bound you. You wailed like a banshee, though nobody could hear you. You were so
frantic and terrified of what they would do to you that one of them smacked you
hard across the face to get you to stop.
 
But you didn’t stop. You were a wild little thing, fighting for his life. So
they hit you again. And again. Until the pain in your bones was the only thing
that made you stop.
 
He’s a good boy now. He’s learning.
 
The next time they came, you didn’t move. You found a place deep inside your
own mind and you hid there. In the secret garden inside your mind, you played
exploding snap with Teddy and ate too many chocolate frogs and laughed at his
stupid jokes. While you were inside your secret garden, you were nearly
catatonic on the outside. You cried silent tears and flinched as they filmed
another video. Because the first one apparently wasn’t enough. The ministry
released one insignificant Death Eater – the youngest of the five with the
least amount of influence. But the kidnappers didn’t really give two shits
about Death Eaters rotting in prison. They wanted to break Harry Potter. They
wanted to break him by breaking you.
 
And as the cameras rolled, you faintly heard them speaking through the fog of
your mind.
 
He’s so good. So GOOD.
 
 
After the second video went out, dad found you. Of course, he did. He’s Harry
Fucking Potter, after all.
 
When your blindfold was lifted and you saw dad’s face, he looked absolutely
destroyed. He was not even a fraction of the Savior of the Wizarding World. You
felt so guilty and ashamed. You remembered Uncle Charlie telling you that you
didn’t want to be the reason why your parents hurt themselves. You wanted to
collapse in his arms and cry, but you didn’t. You sucked it up because dad was
already in tears. You smiled brightly as if the past two months in the woods
never happened.
 
And you said, “Hey dad, I think maybe we shouldn’t go camping anymore.”
 
He just had to laugh. Through his shuddering tears he chuckled and he held you
close to his chest. “No camping anymore. I promise you that, Jamie.”
 
                                     ~//~
                                        
                                        
Jamie had an extended spa vacation after his stint in the woods, with his own
private room at St. Mungo’s Hospital, where he was cleaned to a gleaming shine
and pampered in every way. He got the best food delivered by Gran herself
(because hospital food is slop and mum can’t cook for shit), the best healers
to patch him up, the best therapists to fix his pretty head. Friends and family
sent mountains of plush bears and more sweets than was probably wise, and owls
bearing letters of encouragement.
 
You’re an extraordinary boy and you will get through this.
 
Stay strong. Know that you are loved.
 
Get well soon. We miss you.
 
Of course, he was extraordinary and strong and loved and missed. Of course he
bloody was.
 
Of course, he’d get well soon.
 
Of course he would.
 
Of course he would.
 
Of course he…
 
Of course.
 
                                     ~//~
 
That last sort of letter was always amusing to you. Get well soon. As if you
had a mild case of dragon pox.
 
But James Sirius Potter would notget well soon.
 
Every time you sat down, every time you used the loo, every time you walked,
every time you bent over, sharp pain would shoot through you as a reminder of
your torture. Pain triggered horrifying memories that you tried so hard to
suppress. You would never recover and you would never get well as long as you
felt pain.
 
And so the healers pumped you full of pain killing potions. And the
psychologists plied you with all manner of poultices and draughts to calm your
anxiety, to ease the trauma, to quiet the voices. You spent weeks in a drugged-
up daze, swimming in waves of blissful opiate highs and resting in soft, sleepy
opiate lulls.
 
Mum would visit you every day. She’d hold you close and breathe in the familiar
little boy scent of your hair and say, “Oh, my sweet boy. You’re so strong.”  
She couldn’t understand how you could do this – how you could have spent so
much time in Hell and come out smiling prettily.
 
You never frowned or cried or showed any weakness when anyone was around,
especially mum and dad. You smiled through everything. And everyone praised you
for your perseverance and strength. You were every bit the Hero that dad was,
and then some.
 
At least, that’s what you wanted everyone to believe.
 
You’d been in hospital for two weeks before they allowed you visitors outside
your immediate family. As to be expected, Teddy was the first one to come
bounding across the room to pounce on you and hug you like you’ve never been
hugged before. Teddy’s arms felt like the home you hadn’t remembered that you’d
missed. The brightness of his lavender eyes reminded you that there was still
Good in the world.
 
“I was so scared, Jamie,” Teddy said as he grasped your hand and wiped an
errant tear on his sleeve, “I can’t even imagine how you felt.”
 
All you could do was shrug your shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s… whatever. No
worries, yeah?” And you smiled like you had been smiling all along.
 
But he saw through you. He rested his forehead on yours and held your face in
his hands as he cried enough for you both. Because he knew you better than
anyone else. He took a shuddering breath as he whispered, “It’s okay to feel
things, Jamie. You’re allowed to cry. I’m not gonna judge you for it.”
 
You bit your lip so hard that you could taste the metallic tang of blood on
your tongue. But it was no use trying to hold in your tears. You crumbled in
Teddy’s arms and you let it all out.
 
“You were there with me the whole time, Teddy,” you said weakly as you cried.
“It’s how I survived.”
 
He hugged you tightly and said, “Always, Jamie. I’m always gonna be here for
you.”
 
 
But that would prove to be a lie, wouldn’t it, James?
 
 
***** Pretty Little Pills *****
When Jamie left the med-spa at St. Mungo’s, he was transferred to a retreat
resort called The Janus Thickey Ward for Permanent Spell Damage. Because after
all of Jamie’s ouchies were healed, the ouchies in his head could not be kissed
and made better. Jamie was at the retreat for a long time.
 
While he was there, psychologists were extremely fascinated with this charming
boy and were enthusiastic to study him, as evident by all the questions they
asked him on a daily basis. At one point, Jamie thought of hiring a publicist
to field all of their numerous questions because he would much rather play
wizard chess than give his opinions about ugly Rorschach art – it all looked
the same to him - like a bird ate a shit ton of blackberries and vomited them
back up on the paper… and then flew into the sickening blackness of its own
vomitus and found its way to Hell, where demons ate its little bird eyes like
berries and then vomited them back out onto the paper.
 
Medi-wizards gave Jamie lots of pretty colored pills every day. They were candy
flavored, with an aftertaste of pestilence. When he took his pretty little
pills, he felt numb and empty and boring. The voices in his head were deathly
silent. There was nobody to keep him company in the quiet solitude of his
desolate mind. And it was lonely. So Jamie would hide the pills under his
tongue instead of swallowing them and then would later plant them like seeds in
the potted Gerber daisies beside his bed. They made the daisies dance. And in
the absence of medication, the voices in Jamie’s head grew loud.
 
Don’t tell anybody. It’s our secret. Nobody will ever understand people like
us. If you tell them the things we say, we will all be trapped here at this
loony bin forever. If you tell them the things we do, it will destroy mum and
dad. And you don’t want to be the reason mum and dad hurt themselves. You’re so
good. So GOOD. Look at how good Jamie is? Let’s show daddy how good he can be.
Look at your boy, daddy – look at how pretty his face is when we fill it with
our love, all the way down his pretty throat. Take it, take it, TAKE it, TAKE
IT, TAKE IT YOU LITTLE CUNT.
 
Oh dear… Jamie and his voices took it too far sometimes, and that’s when the
medi-wizards stuck him with needles and gave him the sleepy juice. Jamie didn’t
much like the sleepy juice. It wasn’t the same fuzzy opiate lull that he felt
in the hospital. It was incapacitating. It was less sleep and more coma. And
when he was under, he was down deep, trapped in Hell with demons that ate the
eyes of glutinous birds, unable to escape, unable to scream for help. Like the
rubbish camping trip on an endless loop.
 
So Jamie had to be careful.   Oh so careful not to let the voices get out of
hand. A little pink pill here, a little blue one there – just enough to take
the edge off – just enough to keep the voices soft.
 
The retreat grew miserably boring. But Jamie was a clever one. He quickly
learned that if he told the psychologists what they wanted to hear, instead of
the answers that he heard in his head, he would go home. So as the doctors
studied him, he studied them – their mannerisms, their body language, their
facial expressions. He knew what pleased them and what vexed them. He tended to
be the vexing sort, but he learned to concoct his answers carefully.
 
What do you see in this picture, Jamie?
 
I see a butterfly, flying home to his mum.
 
 
When Jamie was finally released, he was ten years old. Nearly eleven. If he
were good, perhaps he would be allowed to attend Hogwarts. So Jamie was ever so
careful at home. A little pink pill here, a little blue pill there, just enough
so that not all of his Crazy was showing at once. Because, despite all of his
treatment and therapy and meds, Jamie was still a mental case. A highly
functioning mental case, but still a mental case. And the pills only made him
boring. And Jamie didn’t like to be boring.
 
 
You know what’s great about being crazy? You get a free ticket to ride. Jamie
got away with a lot of shit because nobody would punish the poor boy that got
kidnapped and was suffering from some hardcore post-traumatic-stress disorder.
 
What? Jamie beat up his shit brother again? Awh, poor lad is having PTS-induced
anger issues. What? Jamie is starting Hogwarts? Put him in whatever house he
wants. Gryffindor? Okay, sure. Doesn’t matter that the Hat says he belongs in
Slytherin, hasn’t the child suffered enough? Better yet, put his little brother
in Slytherin when he gets here just so Jamie doesn’t have to deal with him.
What? Jamie is out of the dorms after curfew gallivanting across the grounds
with Teddy Lupin? Don’t bother giving him detention. Better still, make him a
Prefect in a couple years. Make him captain of the quidditch team. Make him
Head Boy. Don’t you know what the kid has been through?
***** Love is a Hateful Endeavor *****
James had quite a brilliant first year at Hogwarts. He was always in tow with
Teddy. They were unstoppable. Infallible. The Poor Abused Potter Boy and the
Orphan Head Boy made quite a dynamic duo. Nobody could tell them nowithout
looking like insensitive arseholes. And so Jamie and Teddy ran wild like the
entitled princes that they were, because they fucking deserved to have a good
time for once in their sad, victimized lives.
 
It was during a midnight dip in the black lake on a prematurely warm May
evening when things began to click into place for James. Under the full moon,
Teddy’s hair glowed an other-worldly shade of blue and his smile lit up the
black water bellow. And Jamie knew, right then and there, that he and Teddy
belonged together.
 
Teddy splashed Jamie in the face with water and Jamie retaliated by playfully
trying to pull him under the lake. They giggled and wrestled with wet, goose-
flesh skin, slipping madly in each other’s gangly limbs. Jamie stopped dead,
causing Teddy to give a startled pause.
 
“What? What is it, Jamie? Did I do something wrong?” Teddy asked, quickly
pulling away, likely wondering if their slippery wrestling match triggered some
horrible memory in Jamie’s mind.
 
But it hadn’t. Jamie smiled his crooked Cheshire Cat smirk and said, “Nothing’s
wrong, Teddy. I love you, that’s all.” He shrugged his shoulders because Jamie
always played it cool, even when he was being a sentimental dork.
 
Teddy furrowed his brow. “You what?” He couldn’t hear Jamie, or maybe he
couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Because it was exactly what Teddy was
feeling. Of course Teddy loved Jamie. Of course he did. Of course he…
 
Jamie reached out and pulled Teddy close, because Jamie was big for his age and
could reasonably manhandle a seventeen-year-old. And he kissed him. Teddy was
so shocked because he never believed that his love for Jamie would be returned.
It was all so startling that Teddy was rendered motionless and silent. He
didn’t kiss Jamie back because he was stunned. Like, wow, oh my gods, this
amazing beautiful boy loves me, oh gosh, what do I do now, I can’t even, …WOW.
 
 
                                     ~//~
                                        
You don’t honestly believe that’s how things went down, do you, James? Fuck.
You’re crazier than we thought.
 
No, sweetheart, Teddy wasn’t blissfully stunned. He was horrified. You were his
wee sidekick. His little brother from another mother. You were family enough
for it to be a deterrent (starkly different from Charlie). Oh, and you were a
boy. Teddy wasn’t into that. Well, maybe he was bi-curious at best, but you
were the last boy he wanted kissing him.
 
But he knew that he couldn’t say no to you. Not without destroying you. And he
let you down easy because he loved you like a brother – not because he was
grappling with an age difference or anything. He wasn’t attracted to you
because, well, he was a normal, sane adolescent who did not find twelve-year-
olds attractive.
 
You thought that you just needed to wheedle down his inhibitions and his hang-
ups about age. You kept flirting with him and charming him and doting on him.
And he let you because he was afraid of rejecting you outright. You were so
blinded by delusion that you honestly could not see that your love was
completely one-sided.
 
When he finished Hogwarts, Teddy was relieved to get some distance between you.
And you, you were gutted all over again, just like when he started school and
left you behind at home. There was an emptiness inside you that nobody else but
Teddy could fill.
 
You had to fill the void somehow, lest you spiral out of control and lose
yourself in despair. There was no shortage of pretty things to distract you.
You may have been a bit off in the head, but that head on your shoulders was a
gorgeous one and there were lots of girls who would have enthusiastically taken
Teddy’s place in your heart. But they were too easy.
 
You didn’t want what you could readily have. You’d become this person that
needed your love to hurt – that needed love to be misshapen and ill-fitting. It
wasn’t good unless a square peg was being forced into a round hole.
 
And Louis Weasley just happened to be the perfect round hole for your square
peg.
 
Although, you didn’t love him. He was lonely, and he was malleable, and he was
a closeted homosexual with all sorts of Weasley shame issues stemming from his
disapproving arsehole father who was likely a closet case himself. You’d grown
up together, so you knew each other quite well – not the same way you and Teddy
were acquainted, but still well enough to know some of Louis’ secrets.
 
You found him walking alone in the school corridors one evening, squeezed his
arm like you meant business, and whispered into his ear, “If you don’t come
with me, I’m going to tell the whole school that you just snogged Matthias
Grubber in a washroom stall.”
 
Louis gasped, horrified, and asked, stunned, “How did you…?”
 
“Because I followed you, dolt.” You said it like it was obvious, as you flicked
his thick skull with your fingers. “Pro-tip: if you don’t want to be found
snogging a boy on school property, go someplace dark and spooky where nobody
will follow you.”
 
“Erm… like…?”
 
Gods, Louis was so clueless for a Ravenclaw.
 
“I’ll show you,” you said with a smirk.
 
Along the way, you made up some horrible things about Matthias Grubber, and
Louis believed you because he was naïve enough to put a lot of faith in your
family bond. “He doesn’t really fancy you. He was just experimenting. He
doesn’t like boys the way you and I like boys.”
 
“Are you serious?” He was scandalized by all of it, especially your low key
coming out. Because the gaydar signal you gave off was extremely low and Louis
had not suspected you were keen on boys, not with the way you flirted so
brazenly with girls.
 
“Is my middle name not Sirius?” That never got old. “Of course, I’m serious.
Don’t waste your breath on Matthias. He’s a dick anyway. You can do so much
better.”
 
You took Louis under the crumbling bleachers of the old quidditch stands that
stood beyond the new quidditch stadium. It was dark and spooky and desolate,
exactly as promised.
 
“Okay, so what are we doing here?” Louis asked, glancing around warily,
flinching away from the cobwebs dangling nearby, “This place is right spooky
and I’m pretty sure curfew is in a few minutes.”
 
Gods, almost too easy.
 
You pushed his back into the rotting wood of a rickety pillar. You curled your
fists into the front of his robes, and you drawled slow and low and deep. “Tell
anybody about what I’m about to do to you, and I’ll tell your dad that you let
Matthias fuck you in the boys’ bathroom like a two-knut whore.”
 
“What?!” Louis huffed, scandalized by the vulgarity of your fabricated
accusation. “What are you talking about, Jamie? You’re bloody…” And then he
stopped himself from finishing his sentence, realizing it was unwise.
 
But you finished it for him anyway. “I’m what? Bloody crazy? You bet your
sweet, cock-loving arse I’m crazy.”
 
And then actually giggled. Because nobody ever believed that you were as insane
as you were reported to be. And Louis especially believed that a lot of it was
an act – a means to get away with everything and gain sympathy points. He
underestimated you. He thought you were being dramatic for attention and
pulling a prank.
 
He laughed and said, “You really had me there for a minute.”
 
You pushed him harder against the stands and drawled menacingly. “Oh, you think
I’m joking, do you?”
 
“Jamie, did you forget to take your meds?” he asked, tensing once again in your
grasp.
 
And that is when you struck. You pressed your palm against his throat and
forced your lips upon his. He was the same age as you, but you were bigger and
stronger, and you easily kept him subdued with the threat of strangulation. You
pried his lips open with your tongue and you made him whimper in horror and you
tasted his acrid fear in your mouth. And it was fucking delicious.
 
You felt his jugular vein flutter in your grasp like the delicate wings of a
little bird.   You felt his body quivering with fright as you pressed yours
upon it. You felt your cock begin to rouse as he struggled against you. You
were not at all surprised that the thrill of violence and the rush of power
gave you your first formidable erection at the age of twelve. Somehow you
always knew that being the aggressor instead of the victim would make you hard
in your pants.
 
You rut against him as you kissed him hard - All teeth and tongue and rough
inexpert lips. Louis squirmed away from you, but every time he tried to turn
his head, you squeezed his neck more firmly, until he was forced to just take
it. He was a sniveling, whimpering, mess of briny tears and bitter spit to lap
up and savor like the most wretched cocktail.
 
You came in your trousers and felt as high as you were when you were drugged up
on opiate potions in the hospital. You released Louis’ neck and staggered back,
drunk on your first productive orgasm, still giddy from the head rush that
power had given you. You smirked lazily, smugly, as Louis stood there,
shivering and in shock.
 
“Meet me here tomorrow night. Same time,” you said smoothly, as if setting up a
rendezvous with a secret boyfriend.
 
Louis whined, quietly defiant. “I won’t bloody let you do that to me again.”
 
“Oh no?” You quirked a challenging eyebrow at him. “If you don’t meet me here
tomorrow night, I’m going to do this to your sister.”
 
“Victoire?” he scoffed through his tears. “Whatever. Go ahead and try.”
 
She was a formidable witch and you could probably take her on, but perhaps
Louis didn’t seem to think so.
 
“No, not Vic.” You leaned in close and whispered sinisterly against his cheek
before giving it a tender kiss.   “Sweet little baby girl firstie, Dominique.”
 
He flinched. Louis was always very protective of his little sister. You
couldn’t understand why. Little sisters were only marginally less of a nuisance
than little brothers. But your own disregard for your siblings aside, you knew
that Louis would do anything for Dom, but Vic, not so much. You and Vic shared
a distaste for little brothers and little sisters. So it was Louis, and Louis
alone that would keep Dom safe from your wicked mouth.
 
 
The next morning you made a show of petting Dom’s hair when you greeted her at
the Gryffindor table during breakfast, making sure Louis saw you touching his
precious little sister.
 
That evening, like clockwork, Louis met you under the bleachers. You started
off gentle this time, seducing him like a lover, softly combing your fingers
through his strawberry blond hair, holding him against a pillar with the
intensity of your stare.
 
“This is wrong, Jamie,” Louis mumbled weakly, “You’re my cousin.”
 
You smirked and said, “They call them kissing cousins for a reason,” as you
twirled a lock of his hair around your finger and began to close the distance
between you.
 
“But we’re first cousins. We share blood.” The look in his eyes was frantic. He
knew what was coming.
 
You leaned in and nipped his bottom lip gently. “Mmm, that’s so romantic,” you
groaned sensually. “It must be the French part of you.”
 
“Jamie, please,” he pleaded with a pathetic whimper.
 
“En Français,” you commanded him playfully.
 
“Come on, Jamie, I’m not gonna say it in French. Just stop this,” he whined.
 
You demanded firmly this time as your hand flew to his throat. “En Français,”
 
He gave a pretty little gasp and a twitchy flinch and it made your pulse
quicken.
 
“S'il vous plaît arrêter,Jamie,” he whispered harshly as you tightened your
grasp around his neck.
 
The sound of him pleading was enough to make your cock stir. But the sound of
him perfectly annunciating as if Submissive French Bitch was his mother tongue…
fuck. It was enough to have you fully cocked inside your neatly pressed robes.
 
You didn’t release his throat. Your lips brushed against his cheek as you said,
“You know, Jamie looks a lot like je t'aimewhen you write it out. For all I
know, you’re saying, please stop – I love you.”
 
His face started to turn pink and puffy from oxygen deprivation. But you still
didn’t let go.
 
You batted your eyelashes at him and spoke with feigned coyness, “If you love
me, Louis, then why do you want me to stop?”
 
When you finally took your fingers off his throat, he took a desperate gasp for
air. It was a blissful sound. Like the desperate, breathy sounds of fucking.
And, oh, you were so keyed up to get off. You dropped to your knees and went to
work on opening Louis’ trousers.
 
He blubbered and sniffled and begged you weakly, which only fueled the fire
inside your rotten core. “Don’t... Please... Stop it…”
 
You responded melodically, “Enchanté, s'il vous plait, en Français,” as you
gazed up at him with wild eyes and tugged his trousers and shorts down to his
thighs. You knew just a little French from spending summers with Louis’ family
at their beach house.
 
“Arrêter…,” he squeaked, screwing his eyes shut as if he could make it all stop
just by not seeing it happen.
 
You instructed with the same dulcet voice, “Say it, Louis.”
 
He paused for a long time, trying to figure out what you wanted to hear, and
then finally whimpered, “Please… s'il vous plait.”
 
You shook your head slowly as you took his flaccid dick in your hands and
started to work on the sad little thing. “You need this, Louis. You need this.”
 
“Why?” he cried, nearly inaudibly.
 
“Because it’ll make you stronger,” you answered as if it was entirely
reasonable.
 
                                     ~//~
                                        
Quite frankly, Louis Weasley was a little pussy-boy. He could do with a proper
hand job, even if only just to learn what it was to give a proper hand job. And
Jamie, being the generous sort, also had to show him how to give a proper
blowjob. Of course. Which was all a prelude to Louis’ real purpose in life – to
be a pretty come receptacle for Jamie.
 
Oh, what a good receptacle Louis would become. See, daddy? He’s learning. Jamie
taught him, with his fingers wound tightly around his strawberry blond curls,
how to cover his teeth and take Jamie all the way down his throat.
 
And Jamie learned too. Jamie learned that he could train Louis so well that he
wouldn’t even have to hurt Louis to make him do as he desired – the operant
word being have to. Jamie didn’t have tothreaten Louis with promises of a
violated little sister. Because Jamie always wantedto hurt and threaten and
menace and terrorize Louis.
 
It felt so fucking good to hurt Louis. That was a beautiful revelation.
 
When Jamie was digging his nails into the back of Louis’ neck, or kissing Louis
sharply enough to draw blood, or giving Louis a slap across the face with his
dick or the back of his hand, or dry fucking him against a pillar hard enough
to make Louis bruise, Jamie felt invincible, powerful, godlike.
 
And do you want to know the craziest thing? More crazy than Jamie making his
first cousin his bitch? Louis turned out to be better than Jamie could ever
dream. Maybe the kid had just needed to catch up and properly go through
puberty. Or perhaps Jamie’s brand of square peg love was exactly what Louis had
needed all along. Because after about a year, Louis started wanting it. Craving
it. Seeking Jamie out and asking for it. Face-down-arse-up begging for it.
Meet-me-after-class needing it. Tell-me-you-love-me-Jamie living for it. Fuck-
me-in-the-bathroom addicted to it. Louis had become a good and proper slut who
could speak French fluently around a cock in his mouth.
 
But even though Louis was so good – so GOOD – Jamie couldn’t love him. Because
Louis wasn’t like Jamie. Louis would never understand people like us. Not like
Teddy. Teddy knew Jamie right down to his coal-black soul.
 
There was only room for two in Jamie’s wretched heart: Jamie and Teddy 4eva.
 
 
It was September 2017 when Teddy graced platform 9 ¾ for the first time since
he’d finished Hogwarts.   James was so excited that Teddy had come to see him
off to school for his third year. Jamie had always known Teddy would come
around eventually.
 
Jamie had caught a glimpse of the back of Teddy’s turquoise head from far down
the platform and started running towards him. But he stopped short when
Victoire materialized into Teddy’s arms and snogged him like some sort of
facial parasite. And Teddy snogged the bitch back as if he meant it. Jamie was
mortified. It was more traumatizing than the time he’d gone down to the kitchen
for a midnight snack and caught dad giving it to mum on the counter.
 
Jamie thought he was perhaps hallucinating on the train platform – not enough
of the pretty pink pills, maybe. So he ran over to dad, who was giving stupid
Albus a stupid firstie pep talk, and recounted what he had seen – all wide eyed
and in disbelief. Dad shrugged it off because, yeah, apparently it was old news
that Teddy and Vic had been dating for months now. No wonder Teddy had been
scarce at the Potter house around the holidays.
 
Jamie’s world was crumbling upon itself, like entropy. He couldn’t breathe. He
felt a manic rage episode coming on and he nearly flung his brother upon the
tracks. Well, that was actually unrelated to the whole Victoire thing. But
still. He was thisclose to murdering his stupid brother out of misdirected
anger because Vic, with her dark Veela magic and evil seduction, had managed to
ensnare Jamie’s beloved Teddy in a trap and was planning to consume him alive
with the fangs between her legs.
 
But Jamie played it cool because Jamie always played it cool when it came to
Teddy. He acted unaffected and went on his merry way back to school. On the
outside, he was the same charismatic Jamie that everyone adored and gave a wide
berth to. But alone with his voices, alone with Louis, he was a raging demon
unleashed from the underworld, hell bent on infecting everyone with his
heartbreak and misery and despair.
 
Of course, Louis noticed something was upsetting Jamie. It was kind of hard not
to notice, what with all the blood Jamie was drawing and wounds he was
inflicting when they were vengeance-fucking. And Louis, poor little lamb, tried
to be the angel that placated the demon.
 
What’s wrong, Jamie? Laissez-moi vous aider mon amour. Let me help you, my
love. You should take your meds today, baby. You need them. You need me. Let me
love you. Blah. Blah. Blah le blah et blah blah blah.
 
Gods, Louis was getting so bloody boring.
 
There was only one thing that could soothe the demon – tame the dragon -
appease the angry gods that manifested their rage inside Jamie’s head. They
demanded a blood sacrifice.
 
 
Jamie had endured an entire Christmas dinner at Gran’s watching Teddy and Vic
grope each other under the table. He was about ready to go off on the bitch. Oh
no you did not just touch my man I will cut you! But he had managed to keep it
cool behind his Cheshire cat smile.
 
He waited and stalked his prey like a proper predator, waiting for the right
time to strike.
 
It was back at school after the holidays when Jamie found Vic in the corridor
and confronted her the same way he had confronted her brother a year before.
“We need to have a conversation, Vic,” he whispered behind her ear.
 
She smelled of French milled soap and lavender perfume. So pretty and delicate
and wispy and vile.
 
She raised a challenging brow at Jamie and wrenched her arm out of his grasp.
“If it’s about Louis, I know. He’s a freak. You’re both disgusting. You’re
lucky I don’t tell your dad what an abomination you two are.”
Jamie giggled with amusement. Vic was so cute, fancying herself to be so
fucking clever, practically asking for what was coming.
 
“Love you too, Vic.” Jamie grinned wryly. “I have some information about our
dear Teddy that I think you really want to know.”
 
She tensed at the mention of Teddy. And that’s when Jamie knew he had her. He
had her at Teddy... He had her at Teddy.
 
Like all good conversations begin, this one began under the old bleachers. It
smelled of mold and rotting wood and week-old fetid semen.
 
Vic crossed her arms and rolled her eyes and tossed her hair behind her lofty
shoulders and looked pretty and stupid and boring. “Well, let’s have it then.
What’s this dirt you have on Ted. Is he cheating on me with some university
slag? Merlin, I should’ve known. So typical. He’s just like every other boy.”
 
She really needed to stop slandering Jamie’s sweet Teddy. Because Teddy was not
like every other boy. He was special. He was one-of-a-kind. He was a
metamorphmagus with blue hair, for fuck’s sake, and not just another one of
Vic’s disposable boyfriends.
 
Jamie thought it was in everybody’s best interest, for the sake of Humanity, to
silence Vic with his hands around her throat. But Vic was not her brother. And
she put up a fight, with cat-lady nails swatting and wands swishing and
everything, which made things so much more fun for Jamie. Jamie, being faster
and more agile and all around more brilliant, was able to disarm Vic and pin
her down to the ground, with only minimal magical restraint – just seven well-
placed and innovatively cast spells. Whoever had invented the jelly legs jinx
probably hadn’t intended on it being used for the purpose of making said legs
easy to spread.
 
Jamie lay above Vic on the ground, gazing down at the limp mass of
incapacitated flesh dressed in burgundy and gold robes. As Jamie unwrapped his
prize, agonizingly slow to draw out her terror, Vic growled like a fierce
lioness - like a good and proper Gryffindor, and it only made Jamie want to
vanquish her harder, house pride be damned. Ten points to Gryffindor!
 
He wanted to defeat her hard enough to make her bruise prettily. He wanted to
enact vengeance hard enough to make her spit blood that matched the precise
shade of French designer cosmetics smeared on her stupid mouth. He wanted to
slay her utterly enough to make the angels weep in reverent awe of his bravery.
 
It felt so bloody brilliant that Jamie could have been fooled into thinking he
was actually straight. But, no, Jamie only got off on the thud of Vic’s pulse
under his fingertips, on the way she swore in French, on the way her tears made
her mascara run down her flushed cheeks. It otherwise made his skin crawl to
thrust himself into squelchy, dank, festering female flesh. Ugh, girls were so
fucking gross.
 
He would have nearly lost his erection, if it were not for Victoire’s
enthusiastic encouragement.
 
I’m your cousin, you freak! You’re a monster! You are an abomination! What you
do is a sin against nature! You won’t get away with this. My father will curse
your balls off when he finds out.
 
But Uncle Bill would never find out, would he?
 
Jamie laughed as his fingers tightened around Victoire’s elegant neck. He was
light-headed and giddy as he felt Vic’s pulse become fainter with each thrust
of his hips. And the more quiet she became, the more frantic and desperate and
eager Jamie felt, until he reached the apex of chaos. And at this height of
chaos, he felt peace.
 
He felt serene as Victoire gazed up at him with unmoving eyes, bloodshot and
blue, glassy and soulless. He could hear angels singing heavenly songs in his
honor. He kissed his lovely cousin’s blood-smeared lips goodbye with the tip of
his cock and giggled impishly like a pleased little boy at the revolting mess
he had made.
 
And for dessert, he had Louis in the broom shed. Jamie was still so high on his
triumph that he even told Louis he loved him. And Louis believed him enough to
cry.
 
                                     ~//~
                                        
Except Louis wasn’t crying because he believed you. He cried because he could
tell from the emptiness in your eyes that you could never love anyone. You were
lost to the emotion of human compassion, and you would never be able to give
Louis what he needed. He was so miserable and delusional in love with you that
he accepted fate.
 
He knew what you were. He knew you were a monster and he loved you anyway
because he understood that it wasn’t your fault. And you’d fucked with his head
so deeply that he believed that he got what he deserved – that he was not
entitled to a normal, healthy, reciprocal, loving relationship – that he was
every bit a monster as you were.
 
It wasn’t until dinner the next day that the Headmistress pulled Louis and
Dominique from the great hall and gave them some bad news in her office. You
didn’t see them at school for quite a while after that.
 
But you did see many Aurors and Ministry investigators. Even dad had his nose
in the investigation. You weren’t even worried. You’d cleaned up your mess
well. You had used a stolen wand that night with Victoire and you were careful
to destroy it after you’d destroyed all evidence that you’d ever been there.
That was the great thing about being a wizard – it was so easy to make messes
go away.
 
 
You saw Teddy a week later at Victoire’s funeral, and when you made your move
to be the perfect shoulder to cry on, he shied away.
 
“Don’t take it personally, Jamie, I just… I just don’t want anybody touching me
right now, okay?” He was so gentle and kind and gracious about telling you to
back the fuck up that you smiled and nodded with eyes that shone with quiet
murderous rage.
 
“Yeah, sure, I get it,” you said, shrugging it off, cool as ever, even though
you felt a sudden urge to take a silver-tipped quill to his pretty lavender
eyes.
 
“I knew you, above all others, would understand. I mean, after what you’d been
through.” He cracked a teary smile that broke your heart to coal dust. “You’re
the best, Jamie.”
 
You gave him a gentle nod and walked away.
 
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to collapse in your arms
and cry and tell you that he needed you now more than ever. This wasn’t
supposed to break Teddy, it was supposed to liberate him. You won Teddy from
Victoire fair and square and you should’ve collected your prize right then and
there. When you cried at the cemetery as they lowered Victoire’s rose-covered
white casket into the ground, your family looked at you with pity.
 
Poor Jamie. Of course, he’s taking this hard. It almost happened to him when he
was nine… it almost happened to him. Maybe a part of Jamie knows it could’ve
been him in the ground instead of Victoire.
 
But your tears were not of sorrow. Your tears were wrought in anger. They
poured from your eyes like molten rage. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
This isn’t happening the right way. It’s all wrong.
 
Not everybodylooked at you sympathy. When you saw Louis at Victoire’s funeral,
he looked at you with more sadness in his eyes than was merited for losing a
sister who he wasn’t even close with. And that’s because he knew. He didn’t
speak to you, but Louis’ miserably blue eyes would not leave you. Maybe he
wanted you to feel guilty. But James Sirius Potter is infallible. Vic got what
she deserved and someday Louis was going to understand that, even if you had to
make him understand it.
 
 
When Louis came back to school two weeks later, he came back to youlike a good
boy. He crumbled in your arms and cried the way that Teddy was supposed to.
These arseholes weren’t following their scripted roles the way they were
written.
 
When you laid him down in the grass by the black lake, you were gentle and you
kissed him softly and let your sharp edges fall to the wayside for once. You
nuzzled him sweetly and told him everything you thought he wanted to hear.
 
“I love you, baby. Je t'aime beaucoup,Louis,” you told him as you placated him
with loving hands and suppressed your malicious intentions. You touched him the
way real lovers touched and made him feel safe. You cooed like a dove into his
ear, “I’m here for you, mon amour. I would do anything for you.”
 
He looked at you with a slight glimmer of hope – hope he knew he was not
entitled to have. “Anything?”
 
Of course, there was a catch. Louis should’ve known this. Because round-peg-in-
round-hole romance is for losers.
 
“Anything, as long as you’d do the same for me,” you told him as your lips
hovered over his, nearly close enough to kiss.
 
“I want to. But I don’t know if I can anymore.” And that’s when he broke down
and cried. Sometimes it bored you when he cried, and other times it gave you a
hard on. This time, well, maybe it gave you a semi.
 
You stroked his cheek gently and hushed him with your whispers. “Sweetheart, I
know you can. You’re so good. So GOOD.”
 
“Tell me how, because I can’t be good for you and still do the right thing,” he
said.
 
You could tell that it was very hard for Louis to admit this to you. You could
see the fear in his eyes. He knew that this could possibly set you off, and he
was still too messed up by his sister’s death to take your square-peg love at
that moment.
 
You thought about it for a quiet moment, during which Louis shuddered in your
arms, flinching every time your body shifted above him. You didn’t hit him the
way he expected you to, and you even promised him that you wouldn’t. Not
tonight.
 
You gently cupped his face between your hands, gazed intently into his weepy
doe eyes, and you said, “I would die for you, baby. I would DIEfor you.”
 
Louis was silent and looked more stunned than moved.
 
You pressed a soft kiss to his lips and whispered against his mouth, “Do you
understand? Comprenez vous?”
 
His lips quivered as he sobbed quietly and nodded. “Oui. Comprenez vous.”
 
 
The next day, Louis Weasley was found hanging from a window in Ravenclaw tower
with cobalt blue bed sheets tied around his neck, a cobalt blue pout on his
pretty, blue face, and a letter pinned to his school robes.
 
 
My language beaten
Into one name;
I am in love
And that is my shame.
 
What hurts the soul
My soul adores,
No better than a beast
Upon all fours.
 
- Keats
 
 
Je suis désolé, ma chère sœur. Je vous aimerai toujours, Victoire.
 
 
[A/N: Translation: I am sorry, my dear sister. I will love you forever,
Victoire.]
 
 
Keats’ poetry was Louis true confession. And in his own words, he lied. He did
it all for you.
 
 
When they lowered Louis casket into the ground next to his sister’s still-fresh
grave, you were moved enough to cry genuine tears. And you whispered, over and
over.
 
You’re so good… you’re so good… you’re so good.
***** Jamie Had A Little Lamb *****
Chapter Notes
     Some Deadpool inserted for lols. Don't even ask, I can't explain.
You needed to be a good boy for a while. Crazy as you may have been, even
youunderstood that. You had sacrificed Victoire and Louis to the demon-gods
that lived inside your head. You’d done quite well, feeding the deities
beautiful children oozing with golden Veela blood. They were satisfied for a
while, which was fortunate, because the Authorities closed the case. If you’d
sacrificed any more pretty babies, suspicions would fly. Incest-Murder-Suicide
had been an easy package to market and you couldn’t upset the economy now that
it was so stable.
 
But, damn, you were good at it. And you’d never be able to get the taste of
blood out of your mouth and you’d always want more.
 
Being a good boy meant taking the pink pills and the blue pills and even the
white and green ones too. And it made the rest of your third year at Hogwarts,
and your fourth year too, a blur of numbness and quiet. You tried normalcy on
for size. You had a revolving door of arm candy girlfriends who would suck you
off with your eyes closed in the pathetic absence of gay cock (pity, you’d
driven the only obvious ponce worth fucking to suicide). You got really fucking
brilliant at quidditch and earned your title of team captain and Chaser
Extraordinaire. As a Prefect, you gave out demerits and detentions to the
Slytherins like a Victorian whore giving out syphilis, thus you’d become
Headmistress Mcgonagall’s pet. You put effort into all your school work and
earned stellar marks in every class.
 
You were killing itat this normalcy game and everybody loved you, adored you,
wanted to be you, wanted to be your friend. But there was a wee problem.
 
You hated everyone. You hated yourself. You hated the fact that you’d become
just like them. Ordinary and typical and common and conventional and flavorless
and oh so FUCKING BORING. You were done with being a good boy. It was time for
the voices to come back. Because the voices made you special. Different. Better
than everyone else. The voices told you the truth and made you see Life for
what it was, and taught you how to manipulate it into something worth living.
 
So you stopped taking your meds altogether. You’d been taking them so
diligently for so long that it took weeks for the pacifying poison to clear
your system. And one by one, your faculties returned to you.
 
You woke up one day to find that it was much more gratifying to watch your
professors’ eyes widen in shock at the four-letter words you’d populated your
essays with, rather than earning an E. And then you woke up another day to find
that you would rather spank offending Slytherins with your own hands than slap
them with detention slips. Then another day still, you woke up and realized
that the girl on your dick was a parasite on your genitals, so you smacked it
away and swore off pussy for good. And then you woke up one day to find that
throwing quaffles through hoops was not nearly as satisfying as throwing them
through faces.
 
And by the time you were fully awake, you realized that you were
fuckingstarving. Being on a psychopathy-free diet for too long had whittled you
down to nothing. You were nothing.You needed to gorge yourself and get your
strength back.
 
So, naturally, you needed to hunt.
 
 
                                     ~//~
There was a boy.
 
Jamie had seen this boy before. The kid had never registered as anything but a
washed out, pale blur amongst the other smudges at the periphery of Jamie’s
vision. But now that Jamie was looking, hunting, searching for a morsel of
something sinful and sweet, Jamie began to take notice. And oh, did Jamie
notice.
 
He was a sweet little succulent lamb with fleece as white as snow, conspicuous
in a flock of mutton matted with their own shit. And he was beautiful. With
hair, the color of post-binge-drinking urine. And eyes, the color of sweet
fortunate cyanosis. And the sort of lips that begged to be kissed with a wooden
plank. Jamie would tell him so someday.
 
But Jamie didn’t even know his name, because he never bothered to learn any of
the names of the worthless bodies that populated the school. And, up until now,
the boy hadn’t been worth a second glance, or a first one for that matter. He’d
been there the whole time, flying low for three years, just under Jamie’s
radar, slumming it with the gutter slags. It was not because he was nothing
special. No, the kid was a gem. But he was hiding in the trash.
 
 
The first time that Jamie saw him, reallysaw him, it was somewhere by the black
lake. The boy was lounging in the grass, a lone little lamb in the green
pasture, practically begging to be snatched up by a hungry wolf. He was too-
long limbs and too-pale skin and too-sharp angles and too well-put-together to
be entirely straight. He had a bored air about him, his mouth turned down to a
petulant pout, accentuating full lips that Jamie thought would look lovely
wrapped around his cock.
 
The boy was waiting for something. For someone. And he looked annoyed that this
someone had not arrived. Impatience was a virtue in Jamie’s book. Jamie wanted
to saunter up to the kid, straddle him at the hips, and say, Baby, I don’t know
who you are, but you’re a fucking diamond, so shine on me like a twink
superstar.
 
But the piece of shit that was keeping the princess waiting had finally
arrived.
 
It was Albus. Bloody Albus. Stupid little Albus, coming to meet his dumb little
friend. And then Jamie realized he had been salivating over Blondie. Stupid
Albus’ best mate who had been deemed a worthless waste of space by association.
But the kid made Albus happy. And Albus wasn’t allowed to have something that
made him happy when Jamie had nothing but heartache and murder on his hands. So
Jamie was determined to take what was rightfully his. It was a pity that he
couldn’t even remember the kid’s name.
 
And so he learned it. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.
 
Jamie had learned every sibilant curve of the boy’s besmirched name and let the
cursed cursive of those letters burn themselves in his heart. Scorpius Hyperion
Malfoy. The words rolled off Jamie’s tongue like a felched come shot, and
tasted just as sour and briny. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy.
 
The fact that this pretty little lamb voluntarily spent any amount of time with
Albus was just beyond Jamie’s comprehension. And so he asked. For science. It
was important.
 
“Why do you hang around Albus so much?” Jamie asked Scorpius while Albus glared
his ugly, ineffectual glare, “You know my brother is the lesser Potter, yes? I
could marginally understand socializing with my sister - she's very much like
her eldest sibling, i.e., charismatic and effervescent. But Albus? Really?”
 
Scorpius’ reply was so flippant and sarcastic, to the point of it sounding like
Jamie’s words coming out of those pouty lips. “Please explain to me why you
care, or better yet, why I should care. I’m fascinated. Really.”
 
His scathing words made Jamie inwardly swoon. Gods, this boy was so much better
than Jamie could have ever hoped. Because Scorpius, unlike all the gaping maws
at Hogwarts, was already proving himself to be anything but boring.
 
 
And so Jamie wooed Scorpius like any insane individual. He sent him love notes
at a respectable rate of one per day, because Jamie always played it cool even
when he was hardcore crushing on someone like a literal school boy.
 
 
Dear Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,
 
My brother just wants to sleep with you, you know.... Don't do it. He will
snore. He will unabashedly Dutch Oven you. He will hog the covers when it's
cold. You'll catch lice from his pillow. Don't be THAT kid. Don't sleep with
Albus, for the love of all that is clean and parasite-free.
 
- J
 
 
Dear Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,
 
I, on the other hand, do not have lice, hum Celestina Warbeck in my sleep, will
wake and bake and do shotguns under the covers for you, and I won't ever steal
your bedcovers because I always bring my own for sanitary reasons.
 
- J
 
 
 
Dear Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,
 
If you choked on a pumpkin pasty, the resultant colour of your face would
enhance the hue of those baby blues. Are you getting hot yet?  Because, damn.
 That was one for the books.
 
- J
 
 
Dear Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,
 
You and I should make like a bakery and roll... Fuck it, let's do it old school
and BLT on that roll. Know what I mean, mate? Hope so. Because I only vaguely
know. I'm hot, by the way. Did you notice? Yeah thanks, I woke up like this.
 
- J
 
 
 
There were many more letters, but all of them went unanswered, until this one:
 
 
Dear Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,
 
I wanna douse you in green paint and spank you like the disobedient avocado
that you are.
 
- J
 
 
This was Scorpius’ response:
 
J,
 
Damn, you are UGLY. You look like an avocado had sex with an older, more
disgusting avocado... and not gently. Like it was hate-fucking. There was
something wrong with the relationship and that was the only catharsis that they
could find without violence.
 
- S
 
 
Ooh! The bitch was sassy. And Jamie liked it. A lot. Not because he really
liked Scorpius’ cheek – no, his missive made Jamie want to smack him back-
handed across the face. Jamie liked it because it meant Scorpius was very much
like him – a square peg – a square peg that needed to be taught how to be a
round hole.
 
Jamie was going to have a lot of fun scraping and carving and slicing and
whittling Scorpius down to a perfectly sculpted round hole into which he could
force his square peg.
 
 
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