Victory Parade (an Anti-Romance)

Victory Parade

by Leni Jess

Harry woke cold, but the headache pounding his temples - a metal mallet, not a rubber one - took up all his attention. He kept still, his eyes closed, though it was hard not to scrunch his eyelids up against the pain, to work out what had happened, who or what had happened it, and how bad things were. Also to deceive any watcher into thinking him unconscious as long as possible, of course; give him time to recover, if he could.

Cold. Lying on a hard stone floor. He might, please Merlin, still be in Hogwarts; the school had plenty of floors left bare for different reasons. No grit grinding into his skin, so it was a carefully maintained room. Ah. Naked. Right. Bad. No feel of his glasses' wire frames digging into his forehead. Blind? Much, much worse. No wand in his open fingers, no sense of its warmth just out of reach. Also bad, but not as bad as knowing he would not be able to see, surprisingly. He still had his wits, though no one would think it from what he had already done.

He had been stupid enough for one day, sneaking up on the knot of enemies muttering about Gryffindors. Draco Malfoy had been one of them; Malfoy was probably watching him now and rubbing his hands, if that wasn't beneath a Malfoy's dignity. Though this one had a long way to go to match his father. Lucius Malfoy might have allowed his master to shove him into Azkaban, but he had fought hard and cunningly to avoid it, and kept his commander's cool quite well. Better than Harry, but Harry had just been an easily-deceived idiot who nearly got his friends killed in pursuit of false dreams.

Harry needed to practice a lot of things, just like the younger Malfoy. A lowering reflection, and on this performance he couldn't say he was ahead.

Whatever was going to happen would give him practice rather than kill him, he hoped.

The headache had receded a little, the cold not at all, and he was getting stiffer. Better to make the first move himself than to get a boot in the ribs to revive him. He rolled slowly on to his back, not hiding the wince. He'd already had the boot, or boots, it seemed.

Opening his eyes didn't do a lot of good. He struggled to focus on a dark form nearby with a pale blob on top. Malfoy.

The blob moved and a voice issued from a faint pink hole. Predictably, childishly, gleeful.

"Dear Potter. How good you look, crawling in the dust."

Harry thought but was careful not to say, 'That's a lively imagination you have there.'

"And how much better you're going to look soon."

Shit. Not lethal though, by the sound of it.

The voice became dreamy, caressing its thoughts. "I'll enjoy seeing that; so will everyone. Potter properly on display. It would be lovely if little Mr Creevey took photographs, but in case he forgets I think we will. Won't you look fine on the front page of the Daily Prophet?"

Going to be bad, if Malfoy got what he wanted. So long as Harry survived, however, he could deal with it. Then later with Malfoy. And, very faithfully, with Colin Creevey, if he did something irrecoverable.

Harry blinked.

The dark form moved with unexpected briskness and a moment later magic dragged Harry to his feet. When he nearly fell the magic grabbed him, but didn't support him properly. Malfoy wanted him standing, but was happy to watch him flail about. No way.

Harry set his teeth and got his balance, useless eyes half closed.

"Look at me, Potter!"

"If you told me where you were," Harry said between stiff lips, "I could try."

"Blind as a bat?" Malfoy sounded disconcerted rather than pleased. "Shit. Have your glasses, then."

They moulded themselves unkindly across his nose and hooked themselves over his ears. He ignored the tiny discomfort; the relief, and the sense of having some control again, was overwhelming.

Malfoy was about where he had expected, and Harry focussed as required. Malfoy was fully dressed, though a little dishevelled, leaning against the wall now in a reasonable imitation of his father at masterful ease. Having seen the real thing, Harry wasn't impressed by the imitation.

"I'm looking," he took the risk of reminding Malfoy after a moment.

The smirk broadened to a smile.

"Now look around, and see your new wardrobe."

Malfoy's eyes directed him. Laid on a study table, which was set on a carpet, unlike himself, was a bewildering mixture of - materials, things, Harry wasn't sure.

"Tidy them up, Potter," Malfoy cooed, "lay them out nicely, take a good look, then put them on."

The wand in his right hand flicked demandingly.

Harry approached the table cautiously, but not concerned in the way Malfoy might expect. This was going to be just some other damned thing.

A few minutes later his ears were burning, despite his resolve of indifference. He could feel it, along with the heat in his cheeks and even on the back of his neck.

The - stuff, he could not call it clothing - on the table might have suited someone who worked in what Dudley called a strip club, if he or she was well enough paid. Taking another steadying breath, Harry decided these had been made for a he. It said wonders for what Draco Malfoy did with his spare time, perving at poor bastards who had to dress up for the likes of him, or find a worse way to make a living.

The only - garment with any solidity was the - pants. Black, shiny, small. It might help to think of them as a miniaturised version of what he had seen on television on brown young men who rode boards through magnificent waves. Very miniaturised. At the sides the pants would be maybe two inches broad. There was a pouch at the front Harry supposed would turn out to be barely adequate, but from that to the narrow strap across the back there was only a fine band of material, stitched into a roll. Harry lifted his lip, and dropped the thing. The designer had taken every opportunity to be obvious. He wasn't going to think about wearing it just yet.

He had already set the four shackles aside. He knew what they were for. It was a wonder they weren't engraved with Malfoy's initials. Perhaps he didn't have the balls to assert his ownership of the scene he planned to create.

There was a singlet. Black fishnet, low-necked, wide-meshed, and ornamented with roses in Gryffindor red and gold. Malfoy had a very pedestrian imagination, Harry decided. Unfortunately he also had a good eye for what would make Harry look a fool.

There were, shit - stockings, of a finer mesh, and a garter belt, he supposed the girls would call it. Black, of course, with lace, of course, and more damn-fool roses.

There was a broad black velvet strap with leather thongs at each end, just long enough to go round his neck. With a rose embroidered on the front. Good thing this wasn't happening to Remus. He wouldn't think of Sirius's reaction to that collar. At least it had no choke chain attached, was just ornamental.

He wondered how Malfoy expected him to wear those high-heeled shoes, not even a strap to hold them on at the ankles. You could break something, trying to walk in those.

Everything was shiny new, never worn. Harry supposed that if he was going to look a fool, he would at least be a clean fool. Aunt Petunia would approve. He smiled wryly at that thought; imagining the look of outrage on her face was calming.

Recalling how little make-up his aunt wore, he was sure his face as Malfoy wanted it would appal her too. He wondered if Malfoy knew more than he did about applying the contents of all those tubes and jars. If not, Harry was going wherever Malfoy wanted looking a clown as well.

Impatiently Malfoy said, bored at last with his careful inspection, possibly guessing he had calmed right down, "Stop dawdling and get into them, Potter!"

Harry shrugged and propped himself up against the table to make skinnying into those tight pants a little easier. He supposed the garter belt was meant to go over them; it looked waist size, though there was little difference on a boy.

He put that on next, twisting to fasten the hooks into the eyelets at the rear, very aware of Malfoy watching every turn of his body. The singlet could go on last - no, that better be the shoes. After Malfoy was satisfied with the cosmetics. Those shoes were designed to crucify anyone's feet.

Getting into the stockings was surprisingly difficult. They had seams at the rear, and Malfoy wanted them straight. He offered to assist, and Harry's hasty, unthinking rejection made him grin in a worrying way. Harry swallowed down his horror at the idea of Malfoy getting his hands full as well as an eye-full.

At last they were aligned to Malfoy's satisfaction - Harry was ready to swear they had been set right at least three tries ago - and Harry fastened the three dainty clips on each side. That final pressure tautened the stockings enough he could really feel them against his skin, the mesh creating diamonds that would soon be patterned in his flesh. The hair on his legs lay fairly straight by now, after all that effort, but that was an incidental benefit; Malfoy didn't seem to mind in the least if it was ruffled every which way. Harry could just be glad he wasn't particularly hairy, and that it was straight, fine hair.

He was starting to feel very strange. Too bad. The idea was to get through this.

He pulled on the singlet. It came to just below his waist, half obscuring the top of the garter belt, he thought. Already getting used to Malfoy's demand for neatness, he straightened the straps on his shoulders, settled it, feeling it brushing his skin. One silky twist of fine thread twitched at his left nipple; he shrugged slightly, hoping to abate the distraction. It moved aside, but now another piece of the mesh was teasing on the right side. All right, ignore it, if he could.

Now for the velvet band. He settled it on his throat by touch and latched up the thongs, careful to allow himself room to breathe, silently praying that Malfoy wouldn't decide to make it a better fit. After his initial horror, how strange to be wishing for a mirror to help get this done quickly, right, so that Malfoy should have no excuse to touch.

The damned shackles, on his ankles first. They clicked closed, and of course would not reopen with his fingers on the mechanism. He settled them carefully over the stockings; no need to go out with rips, or ladders, or whatever. Then his wrists.

What was left on the table was the cosmetics collection, the impossible shoes, combs and brushes and what looked like hair ornaments, including more ribbons that his hair could accommodate, even long as it preferred to be. Maybe Malfoy meant to try different styles. Shit. Well, better the rotten little snake played with his hair than his cock or his nipples. Or his arse, either; Harry might have no experience, but no one could live in a dormitory for over five years and stay ignorant.

"Turn for me," Malfoy demanded.

He had been silent for a long while, content to watch Harry's struggles, no doubt enjoying the thought of his revulsion. Certainly unaware of the calculation Harry was having to try rather harder now to maintain.

Harry turned, using his Quidditch training to make it as graceful as possible. He felt as if being awkward in this - outfit, would make matters worse. If he had to look like a sex toy he would damned well look like a good one.

Without being told he lifted his hands to his shoulders, stretching, hollowing his back, allowing his chest to expand the fishnet, tilting back his head to throw the velvet band into prominence. The gleam in Malfoy's eyes said that might have been a mistake, but Harry simply rotated out of it. No more creativity.

Abruptly Malfoy left off his avid gazing and turned to the table. His wand summoned a mirror. A triple one. He indicated Harry should pull himself up a stool. Make-up call.

Harry sat obediently and looked at himself in the mirrors. His face looked normal so far, apart from the slight flush and the bitten lower lip, and the faint bruise blooming on his left temple. The messy hair was absolutely normal. He couldn't see much of his body, but he could see his nipples through the fishnet, already a little tight, not softly at rest. Damn. Nothing to be done, though.

"What is this stuff?"

Malfoy proved to know, at least, what he had provided. That fine tube was eyeliner, black; the other one something to draw on his brows, which seemed superfluous; they were black already. The small bottle with its elegantly shaped brush was silvery green stuff for painting on his eyelids; there was another pot of darker green, and Malfoy apparently intended him to wear both. The little pot was lip colouring. That brush was for putting it on. The tiny pencil was for outlining his lips. Oh, shit again. Precision make-up. Harry hoped the stuff washed off easily.

It took a long while, and by the time Malfoy was prepared to admit he was satisfied he had used his wand several times to cleanse the mess from Harry's face, and strained Harry's determination to the utmost.

They were both flushed.

Malfoy made him tip his head back a little, glasses off, and examined him for a long time.

Then he told Harry to put them on again and take a good look.

The thin wire rims didn't conceal much. Luminous green eyes, perilously near tears, were made larger, brighter, by the painfully achieved neat black stuff outlining them, by the graduated layers of colour on his eyelids, finished off with a small scatter of silver sparkly stuff. His brows were unnaturally neat, oiled into a flawless curve. There had even been a special comb for them.

Malfoy hadn't insisted on face powder. Perhaps he liked Harry's pale skin in its natural state. Merlin, what a thought; Harry pushed it away quickly. Malfoy had demanded blusher on his cheekbones, as well as the lip paint.

There was a small green piece of diamanté stuck just above his lip on the left, just this side of where the smile crease would be.

Harry didn't look like himself at all, now. He didn't look like a girl either, though; that was something. He did look what Malfoy happily called him, a pretty whore. Well, Harry knew some girls did this kind of thing purely for display purposes, not really advertising for custom; if they could, he could. Somehow.

Malfoy had told him, during that long session, what else he would have to do unless he could somehow get his wand back, or get someone to lift the mess of hexes Malfoy laid on him.

Walk through Hogwarts. He could sit down occasionally, but essentially he had to stay in motion for twenty-four hours. He would be walking in his sleep before it was over. He had to stay in the public rooms; nothing more private than the Gryffindor common room. He couldn't cover himself. He couldn't accuse Malfoy; Harry's lip had curled at that confirmation of cowardice, but it had been a very small satisfaction.

His main hope must be that Malfoy wasn't as good at hexes and charms as he thought he was; that Harry could get out of this trap. That someone like Hermione could unravel the meshes, the chains, that bound him.

Not, please Merlin, Dumbledore or any of the staff. It was going to be bad enough exposing himself to his fellow students. The thought of Professor Snape looking him up and down scornfully, then turning on his heel with swinging robes, snorting something derisive, made him feel faint. He didn't like the idea of Professor McGonagall's pity, either. He certainly didn't need to owe Professor Dumbledore anything more.

With any luck he would stop being interesting long before the twenty-four hours expired. If necessary he could kill Colin Creevey, or smash his camera, if the brat took advantage.

Hermione and Ron were going to see him like this. That was bad. More important, really, than the Slytherins doing so. They hated and despised him already, and after five years he was truly indifferent to their opinions. His friends - what would his friends think? If Ron laughed, Harry would want to kill him. If he was as appalled as Malfoy undoubtedly expected, Harry would probably want to kill him for that too. And Hermione... Harry watched a blush rise up his cheeks, though staring at his image had not provoked one. Not like this one, any way.

"Really looking forward to it, Potter?" Malfoy taunted.

Harry didn't bother to respond.

Then it turned out Malfoy still wasn't finished. The hair stuff.

This Malfoy did himself and Harry suppressed his quivers, sitting absolutely still, watching from under drooping eyelids as Malfoy combed and brushed his hair into a style that emphasised its natural wildness. Then Malfoy applied two butterfly ornaments - neither Slytherin green nor Gryffindor red and gold, for once; really, had Malfoy no taste? These were silver. Slytherin again, he supposed. The butterflies clashed with the gold roses. Well, no one was going to run away with the notion that any of this was his own idea.

Finally Malfoy carefully separated out a small lock of hair by Harry's left temple and wrapped a red ribbon round it, tying it in a perky, decidedly silly, bow. It looked bloody awful. It also obscured the bruise somewhat.

Harry doubted if the mesh singlet would do much to hide the purpling marks now showing over the pale skin of his ribs. If Malfoy took those threatened photographs, Harry might make a point of trying to emphasise the bruises as evidence that he had not been a consenting party. It wasn't any consolation thinking of charging Malfoy with assault, or suing him for his back teeth, however. Malfoys would be bound to have better lawyers.

Though they hadn't yet sufficed to get Mr Malfoy out of Azkaban. Harry cheered up a little, or grew more reckless, and carefully probed that wound.

"Will this please your father, do you think?" he asked softly.

Malfoy's hands dropped, his face changed, his whole body stiffened. Suddenly Harry was alone with a wild animal rather than a self-indulgent boy.

The wand lifted, then Malfoy mastered himself enough to close his snarling mouth and lower his hand again.

Malfoy managed to say, "It will do nothing for the debt you owe my father, Potter. Nothing but your own destruction will repay that. It will please me a little, however, and later it might give him a laugh. Think of that, Potter, see the Malfoys laughing over dirty French postcards, of you, seeing you as the whore you're going to become. Not as pretty later, of course, but this will do for a token."

Harry supposed that was a declaration of allegiance to more than his father, but decided that there was such a thing as too much information. Malfoy hated him, and would do whatever he could to torment him, but for now he was not bold enough to do anything final.

To ensure Malfoy did not think he was impressed he responded, "I don't owe your father a thing, Malfoy. He chose his own boss, he obeyed orders - as well as he could, but it was a really, really stupid plan - even with me to help them out. And your father's boss gave him a bunch of zanies for helpers, notably, Malfoy, your mad aunt. Your mother must be so ashamed that her sister should be free after Bellatrix had put her husband in prison!"

He paused mid-ramble to see that hit the gold, then resumed. "Your father was out-gunned by his own side, Malfoy. All I did was drop the stupid thing while your aunt was having fun defying your father's orders. So he's in Azkaban. Wonderful. There should be more of it."

He paused warily to gauge Malfoy's mental state, then finished, "He was there before, and got out before, and no one seemed to be able to tell the difference. Unlike mad Bellatrix."

He contrived a grin. "In a way I'd like to see what your father does to her once he's loose again; he's not stupid, he knew very well whom to blame."

With any luck that might give Malfoy something else to think about. Being the object of this virulent hatred wasn't good, if this was Malfoy's first serious attempt at retribution. If he got away with it there would be worse; let him think of how to make his aunt sorry instead.

Malfoy closed his eyes and breathed deeply before saying with fragile calm, "Shut up, Potter, and get into the shoes."

Harry stood up and eased his feet into the things. He moved uneasily, one foot at a time, testing his balance. The slight unevenness in the stone floors wouldn't help. He found that if he centered his weight he could take small steps. Strides would be fatal. Well, that thong biting into the crease of his arse would probably remind him to move carefully.

Draco waved his wand, and gestured Harry towards the full-length mirror that appeared.

Harry managed to get in front of it without stumbling; only a few feet, but it was encouraging.

Then he looked.

Merlin. God almighty. Help.

The triple mirror had shown only the smallest part of the transformation. The complete picture was devastating. In a weird way, Malfoy did have good taste after all, except perhaps for that stupid red ribbon. Harry looked deathly pretty. All over. His slightness, the smoothness of flesh, the swell of slender muscle, his pale fine skin, the shine of his hair, the brilliance of his eyes, all were enhanced by what Malfoy had forced him to put on, and paint on.

Harry Potter looked at himself and admitted it: pretty. God. So pretty. Wizarding oaths learned from his fellows were inadequate before this dismaying revelation.

Perhaps he should be grateful for the ribbon; it introduced a discordant element, a note of buffoonery, that might save him from feeling like an odalisque in some sultan's harem. No harem manager would have made that mistake.

Harry swivelled around as best he could on the high heels, teetering a little on the last of the turn, determined to see and swallow down the worst. The back view wasn't nearly as disturbing, he decided. You could see that kind of thing on Muggle beaches, on men quite as much as on women. Except for the garter belt and stockings. Or so rare television programs had suggested in the past.

Harry was never going to forget this. No one could. He closed his eyes for a moment, seeing himself in the minds' eyes of hundreds of students for another nearly two years. Maybe he needed to look into the professional use of Obliviate.

"One last thing, Potter," Malfoy said softly.

Harry turned to see him laying aside a camera. Shit. So the Malfoys would have that image, Harry Potter revolving before a mirror for them, self-absorbed, apparently uncaring of the way others might see him.

"A little more ornamentation, I think, to make you more interesting."

Harry kept his eyes open to find out what this was.

"Over here," Malfoy ordered, flicking open the lids of some little boxes on the table.

Harry returned to his stool. Malfoy's fingers, holding something small, went to the lobe of his left ear - what was this obsession with his left side? - and his right hand picked up his wand, set the tip to the lobe. Harry exclaimed at the sharp cold sting, then Malfoy was fitting something. An ear-ring. Well, Lee Jordan had worn rings in his ears. The sting came again, and again, at the top of the curve of the same ear. This time Harry kept silent as well as still. How many damned earrings did Malfoy think he needed?

Another box. This time Harry could see something silvery bright dripping from his tormentor's fingers. Long, then. That went into the lobe of his right ear.

Malfoy stood back, surveyed him, smiled with satisfaction. "Very good. Now you can look, Potter."

Just one more damned thing, Harry reminded himself, and turned towards the triple mirror that gave such a good view of the whole of his face.

There were three round silver rings in his left ear, all different, but fairly plain. The one on the lobe was shaped like a Celtic torc, the ball ends not quite meeting below his ear. The one at the top was solid, but quite simple. The one just below it was more slender, with - he turned his head to confirm it - a single bead of silver sliding loose, pulling its weight down. Very pretty. Parvati would look great in them, they would look right with her dusky skin and her smooth long black plaits. On him they looked - weird?

From his right ear dangled - a little forest of outline silver stars on chains of different lengths. He moved his head. Good God, they chimed. Faintly. Maybe no one else would be able to hear them.

He met Malfoy's eyes in the mirror and asked, "Finished then? Walkies?"

Malfoy looked faintly disappointed, but then cheered up. "You'll enjoy your outing, Potter," he promised.

His hand reached out and whipped away Harry's glasses.

"I need those," Harry couldn't help saying sharply.

He could just see the white teeth open in a grin in the pink mouth.

"You look so much better without them." He could hear the smirk.

Then Malfoy reached for the lip pencil and Harry's breath caught. When would he learn to keep his mouth shut? Malfoy hadn't meant to do more, until he tried to display indifference. He kept still while Malfoy outlined his trademark scar with the same pink that emphasised the shape of his lips. Great. Well, that probably looked terrible too, especially beside the red ribbon.

By the time Harry was out of Slytherin territory, the jeering crowd keeping its distance at Malfoy's repeated demands, he was finding it almost impossible to limit himself to the small steps that were the only safe way of moving in those fiendish shoes. He was not going to stumble for the bastards, though, and it seemed as if Malfoy didn't want anyone to push him down. Yet.

Though it was hard to navigate, he was glad Malfoy had confiscated his glasses. Their voices were enough; he didn't need to see their eyes, their smiles.

He recognised the Great Hall by its spaciousness and the repeated shapes of the long tables that barred the dimly shining floor and almost invisible walls. Merlin, it wasn't a meal time, was it? No. No one sitting at the tables. By now there were other people around, some voices he knew, more that he didn't, in this confusion of shame and anger and the overriding need to stay upright and graceful and damn whatever Malfoy intended him to look like.

He heard a very familiar voice and closed his eyes. Ron. Skirling with dismay and instant rage. It was not Ron who rushed up to him, though. He didn't need eyes to detect her distinctive scent, that always said Hermione. Unlike Ron she spoke softly.

"Harry. What has he done to you? Are you all right?"

"Charms. Hexes. Help me break them. He has my wand, my glasses. Twenty-four hours of this, but he's usually not as clever as he thinks."

"Get you to my room," she whispered.

He managed to fend off what he realised were her instantly discarded robes as they whirled around him.

"No. Can't cover up. Keep your robes. Out of here, do your prefect bit. Your room may be too private, but the common room should be okay."

He felt the press of bodies and turned, wild-eyed, feeling Hermione and larger, male hands steady him briefly, before they fell away. Were pushed away, probably, by one of Malfoy's many hexes.

At this range he could see the colours: red and gold. Some faces, concerned, mostly. A phalanx of Gryffindors. Quickly they worked out how closely the charms would allow them to come, how much shelter they could afford him.

Harry allowed himself to be guided towards the relative privacy of their common room, eyes closed, hearing laughter and jeers constantly until they were deep in Gryffindor territory. After that any raised voices, shocked or amused, were sharply hushed. He recognised Ron's voice doing that. He relaxed a little. Ron didn't think he had done that to himself. Hermione had never thought it. So he could live through this.

He had to open his eyes for the stairs, and eventually gave up closing them. It was difficult enough to walk without being wholly blind.

When at last they arrived he hadn't stumbled once, and had kept the burning in his eyes from becoming tears.

He had also decided that Malfoy would look best in something utterly see-through, and not pink, so that everyone could find out just how far down his blushes would spread. Maybe vinyl pants instead of silk; Malfoy the wizard would undoubtedly resent wearing artificial Muggle materials. And heavy workboots, maybe with fluffy baby pink or blue bedsocks peering out the top. Malfoy was pretty enough; what he needed was ridiculous.

That was for later, though. For now, he would see how useful his Invisibility Cloak would be, while Hermione worked on retrieving his glasses, and his wand, so they could study the charms that compelled him into this unnatural form, and get rid of them. No more nonsense about not getting his eyes fixed, either, just because people might say the Boy Who Lived was vain. Vanity was nothing, whereas vision was salvation. He was never going to be blind, or blind-sided, again.

~~The End~~