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lightofdayeTitle:Why They Call It Knockturn Alley
Rating: NC-17
Characters & Pairing:Harry Potter/Pansy Parkinson, Severus Snape
Word Count: 2,300 words
Content: Explicit Sex, Inexplicable ressurection of Snape, Prostitution, Sex, blowjob, vaginal sex, amazon position, drinking, smoking.
Disclaimer: The characters, settings and HP Franchise as a whole are owned by JKR and not by me. I make no profit from writing this piece of fanfiction.
Summary:Harry takes a wrong turn
A/n: Written while drunk for the January 2020 edition of![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
firewhiskeyfic, for the prompts: "Severus Snape", "Knockturn Alley", "Frostbite" and "Iceplay". It was then Edited while sober. A note on editing, I've endeavoured to clean up typos, wrong and missing words and grammar errors while doing as little as possible to the fic otherwise. The fully drunk version is available here
I'm proud that in the public vote for the round, this fic was awarded the 'Best Smut' prize and shared the award for 'Best Use of Prompt' with two other fics. This means it won these stunning banners bysdk.
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The skies above Diagon Alley were dark and grey and darkly grey, like steel or stone. In a proper story the skies would have been dropping snow upon Harry Potter; little fluffy flakes that would pile up picturesquely on the streets and cover the cobbles and make everything look smooth and perfect.
In the reality, it was mostly rain with occasional bouts of sleet and hail and what was forming on the ground was such a mess; it was mixing instantly with the muddy footprints and earth being tracked about and becoming a kind of thick slippery slush.
We meet Harry, with his head bowed, trying to make his way home to the Leaky Cauldron, the gateway back to the real world, and the only Floo equipped place available to the general public. Harry had made the journey before many many time and could almost do it in his sleep, which was good because after weeks of around the clock investigation and 366 solid hours of stakeout (thanks to the promised back-up never showing up) Harry was practically asleep on his feet.
He’d made the journey home, to his empty, one person flat, many many times, but this time, this time he took a wrong turning.
He went down Knockturn alley instead.
This was a mistake, as he quickly realised. A good Auror did not go down Knockturn alley, except on official business, to keep an eye on all the dark magic that went on and was sold there.
And not just dark magic either, there was another reason that Molly Weasley had not wanted any of her sons to go down there that was entirely unrelated to the dark arts, Harry had been shocked to realise when he grew up.
Knockturn alley. It should have been obvious from the name, Knockturn alley: full of knocking shops.
The wind went straight through the fabric of Harry’s cloak, it was worn and threadbare, he’d been meaning to replace it, or reinforce it will spells at least. He had the money, but what he never had was the time.
Work, work, work and more work, and overtime. It wasn’t forced but it was what was important in Harry’s life. His ‘saving people thing’ as his friends said, shaking their heads and tutting as if it were a bad thing.
It was a bad thing he supposed. At least as far as his friendships and other relationships were concerned or weren’t concerned he supposed as they didn’t exist.
Let’s backtrack. The winds were piercing Harry’s cloak and all his clothing to the bone. The hail was coming down hard and the wind was blowing right into his face with stinging force. It was this and only this, as he later claimed to himself that was the one reason to run off of the street and into one of the buildings that was still miraculously open for business past 1am in the morning.
The door led him into what looked like a cross between a shop and someone’s living room. There were many attractive people strewn over and in armchairs, and sofas, and pouffes. There were numerous small fires burning in many grates and the walls flowed with soft furnishings and drapes. It was… cosy. And just by the door there was a curving expanse of wood, polished smooth and with a large, old fashioned cash register bolted down in the middle of it.
There was a man behind the till. A greasy-haired, sallow-faced man, who was looking at the new customer with a strangle mingling of intense dislike and sharp, cruel amusement.
Harry stared. Flabbergasted at the madam of the house: Severus Snape.
“What are you doing...” the word he wanted to utter was alive, but the sarcastic jibe he would receive in response was beyond his ability to cope with so he substituted the word… “Here?”
“Really? That’s what you’re asking?” Snape sneered with practised contempt. It was worse than Harry had expected. “”Where else would I hide that the famous, saintly Harry Potter would never venture in to find me?”
“Well I did.” Harry shot back.
“Yes, you did. Not enough girls throwing themselves at your feet?” Snape jibbed. “Well I have girls aplenty here. Or boys if that’s your preference. For a considerable fee, I do occasionally work myself. If a celebrity comes in that is.”
“I’m not a celebrity!” Harry said hotly.
“Oh well, you’ll have to take a pick of the girls then,” Snape said with another sneer and a wave around the groom.
Harry looked around. Seamus was wearing leather trousers (nothing but) and avoiding his gaze. Cho was wrapped in a kimono by one of the fires. Susan Bones was wearing a negligee that was distractingly see-through and it’s lines distorted by large breasts. Parvati and Padma shared a settee. Katie Bell was also avoiding his gaze but not because she was embarrassed in anyway. Harry realised she was only here to service other women. A distinction he figured that she could charge a lot more for, though to fewer customers.
There were others as well; a haughty blonde Harry vaguely recognised as being in Pansy’s gang of Slytherin girl at school and in pride of place, centre stage and lording over the others was Pansy Parkinson herself. She was still slightly pug-faced but with curves and a posture that ruled the roost in spite of it.
Harry was struck by just how many of his classmates and school-mates had become prostitutes for some reason, it struck him as quite unlikely.
“Nine galleons,” a voice intruded upon Harry’s reverie.
“What?”
“We charge a cover charge,” Snape said coolly. “Even to you. Non-celebrities are extra, of course.”
“What makes you think I am partaking of your services?” Harry said.
“You’re still here,” Snape said.
“I,” Harry said with all the dignity he could muster. ”Am trying to avoid frostbite, that’s all.”
“Then you have to buy someone,” Snape responded bluntly. “This is a brothel, sir. Not a shelter.”
“Fine. Her,” Harry said pointing in what he supposed was a random direction.
“Twenty galleons.”
“It was nine a minute ago!”
“That was the cover charge, Ms Parkinson is our most skilled associate. Her skills are charge commensurately.”
Harry baulked internally at the price but bravado was carrying him forward at this point. He wouldn’t back down in front of Severus Snape of all people.
He plonked down the coins in numerous neat piles and Snape efficiently made them disappear into the till, which closed with a solid and final sounding clunk.
Pansy sashayed over to him, and Harry realised the price as well founded. Everyone’s eyes, customer and client and host alike followed her progress with rapt attention.
“Well?” Pansy said tugging at the edge of his robes. “We have business, haven’t we? Let’s go.”
Harry was summarily dragged away by Pansy’s magnetic presence and a firm grip on his robes. They traversed the room and up a small amount of stairs in to a room dominated by a soft lush looking double bed with four posts.
He took a moment and stared at Pansy up and down. She was wearing translucent cloth; the only solid parts were a bra built into the dress and knickers barely visible through the cloth.
Dark hair fell past her shoulders, unbound, and large expressive eyes regarded him with gentle amusement that showed through the professional’s mask.
Though harry knew, purely by theory, that the true professional would hint at an emotional connection and depth while still remaining detached.
He figured that Pansy was a professional, a true professional, a true gorgeous, sexy skilled professional that he was going to use to the utmost of his ability.
He moved closer to kiss her, his mouth moving towards her’s.
She slid away from him chuckling and laughing.
“You’ve not been here before have you?” she said, amusement tingeing her voice. “We don’t kiss. Not there.”
“Where do you kiss then?” Harry said gruffly.
“Take off some layers and I’ll show you.”
Harry shed his cloak and robes, leaving him in only a shirt and trousers. Once he’d kicked off his shoes at least, his socked feet enjoying the soft sable carpets on the floor.
Pansy stepped close and pressed her lips to his shirt collar, leaving an obvious, lip-shaped mark of lipstick there. It wouldn’t come out, Harry knew. He didn’t care.
He took the shirt off as well at her prompting. She guided him backwards onto the most comfortable bed in existence and smiled, a slow luxurious smile. The warmth of her body as she clambered over Harry sent a wave of desire rushing through him. Stirring him, sending all the blood rushing downwards in torrent, as the tips of her shapely breasts, only contained and emphasised by thin soft fabric, brushed over his bare chest.
Then with a laugh, she withdrew. And while Harry panted she moved over to a drinks cabinet. She pulled out two glasses, a bottle of Firewhiskey and with her wand, conjuring up ice cubes to go with the whiskey.
Do you want a drink, dear?” she said huskily. “Ice?” I could use it on you. Some people want that.
“I’ve had enough cold,” Harry growled. “That’s why I’m in here, I want to get hot and sweaty.”
“Well, that’s usually how it ends up” Pansy said with a shrug and moved back towards him leaving the whiskey on the sideboard.
She didn’t kiss on the mouth. She did kiss everywhere else on the body, as it transpired. She kissed his neck, feeling the breath rushing through it, she kissed his throat and his shoulders. She moved downwards, kissing his chest, if what she did to his chest could be called kissing. She sucked and she gnawed; Harry was helpless to restrain her, his hands dug into the soft bedding as she bit his chest and nipples. He growled and groaned but soft licks and swipes of her tongue followed the bites, soothing him as much as it aroused him.
“You like that don’t you?” She said huskily at one point. “You like me treating you nastily. No one does, I bet. Famous man with a sob story, everyone treats you like you’re precious, I bet.”
She got gentler as she went down though. By the time she reached his trousers and used her lips and tongue on his cock she was hardly rough at all. She licked him from stem to tip in one long lascivious stroke of her tongue, she cooed over his balls and sucked on them. She wrapped her lips about them and her checks hollowed with the effort of sucking them.
“Fuck, god, fuck, fuck!” Harry intoned as she worked him into a lather. His hips raised from the bed, pushing up into the warmth of her throat as she sucked him deeply. Her practised throat not gagging at all.
Harry swore. Pansy laughed after she’d released her cock from her all consuming mouth. he’d been close, he’d been so close. But she left him hanging. Story of his life.
“Now, now, you wouldn’t want to waste your money on just my mouth now would you?” Pansy said sardonically. “Or maybe you would. But me? I was looking forward to a ride.”
And a ride was what she had, though one unlike harry had had before. She didn’t straddle him. Instead she seized him by the ankles and hoisted his legs into the air and then back so that his ankles were nearly alongside his head.
“Put yourself where you want to be, Harry,” she said, in teasing tones, and Harry placed the tip of his cock against her pussy. He couldn’t kid himself, though he had never been here before he knew enough about the trade from legal law enforcement briefings. She would be using lube to keep herself nice and easily fuckable but when the heat of her encased his cock he could kid himself that she was as genuinely turned on by the action as he was.
Pansy Parkinson rode him. She took him, there was no other word for it. With her hands on his ankles there, she was in complete control, riding him hard and fast, slamming down on him with no regard for finesse or rhythm or anything other than slamming him over and over, her wet pussy squeezing and milking his helpless abused cock.
Harry hardly noticed when he came, the experience was one long head-rushing, brain emptying experience that left it him drained and mewling helplessly in Pansy’s bed.
A while after, when he’d stopped gasping for breath, Pansy handed him a firewhiskey, the ice cubes that she’d put in it were now barely slivers. She knocked back her own and was settling in bed next to him, smoking from a long handled cigarette.
“It’s five extra galleons to stay the rest of the night,” She said briskly. “But we do as much as you’re able through the night, so it’s a bargain.”
Someone the return to formality snapped Harry out of his trance.
“I don’t want that.” He said brusquely.
“Of course not.”
Harry put his clothes back on. Pansy looked at him, dragging in smoke and exhaling it steadily.
“Repeat custom offers a discount.” She said, as Harry pulled on his cloak.
“I don’t want that.” Harry repeated.
“Of course not,” Pansy said again with a little more edge to it.
Harry found his own way down the stairs. The greasy hair bastard at the desk said nothing: not one word about repeat custom, or special offers or even his patented insults.
He knew Harry would be back without a word needing to be said.
Harry pushed back into the storm and the cold and thought it was about what he deserved.
Rating: NC-17
Characters & Pairing:Harry Potter/Pansy Parkinson, Severus Snape
Word Count: 2,300 words
Content: Explicit Sex, Inexplicable ressurection of Snape, Prostitution, Sex, blowjob, vaginal sex, amazon position, drinking, smoking.
Disclaimer: The characters, settings and HP Franchise as a whole are owned by JKR and not by me. I make no profit from writing this piece of fanfiction.
Summary:Harry takes a wrong turn
A/n: Written while drunk for the January 2020 edition of
firewhiskeyfic, for the prompts: "Severus Snape", "Knockturn Alley", "Frostbite" and "Iceplay". It was then Edited while sober. A note on editing, I've endeavoured to clean up typos, wrong and missing words and grammar errors while doing as little as possible to the fic otherwise. The fully drunk version is available here I'm proud that in the public vote for the round, this fic was awarded the 'Best Smut' prize and shared the award for 'Best Use of Prompt' with two other fics. This means it won these stunning banners by
sdk.---
The skies above Diagon Alley were dark and grey and darkly grey, like steel or stone. In a proper story the skies would have been dropping snow upon Harry Potter; little fluffy flakes that would pile up picturesquely on the streets and cover the cobbles and make everything look smooth and perfect.
In the reality, it was mostly rain with occasional bouts of sleet and hail and what was forming on the ground was such a mess; it was mixing instantly with the muddy footprints and earth being tracked about and becoming a kind of thick slippery slush.
We meet Harry, with his head bowed, trying to make his way home to the Leaky Cauldron, the gateway back to the real world, and the only Floo equipped place available to the general public. Harry had made the journey before many many time and could almost do it in his sleep, which was good because after weeks of around the clock investigation and 366 solid hours of stakeout (thanks to the promised back-up never showing up) Harry was practically asleep on his feet.
He’d made the journey home, to his empty, one person flat, many many times, but this time, this time he took a wrong turning.
He went down Knockturn alley instead.
This was a mistake, as he quickly realised. A good Auror did not go down Knockturn alley, except on official business, to keep an eye on all the dark magic that went on and was sold there.
And not just dark magic either, there was another reason that Molly Weasley had not wanted any of her sons to go down there that was entirely unrelated to the dark arts, Harry had been shocked to realise when he grew up.
Knockturn alley. It should have been obvious from the name, Knockturn alley: full of knocking shops.
The wind went straight through the fabric of Harry’s cloak, it was worn and threadbare, he’d been meaning to replace it, or reinforce it will spells at least. He had the money, but what he never had was the time.
Work, work, work and more work, and overtime. It wasn’t forced but it was what was important in Harry’s life. His ‘saving people thing’ as his friends said, shaking their heads and tutting as if it were a bad thing.
It was a bad thing he supposed. At least as far as his friendships and other relationships were concerned or weren’t concerned he supposed as they didn’t exist.
Let’s backtrack. The winds were piercing Harry’s cloak and all his clothing to the bone. The hail was coming down hard and the wind was blowing right into his face with stinging force. It was this and only this, as he later claimed to himself that was the one reason to run off of the street and into one of the buildings that was still miraculously open for business past 1am in the morning.
The door led him into what looked like a cross between a shop and someone’s living room. There were many attractive people strewn over and in armchairs, and sofas, and pouffes. There were numerous small fires burning in many grates and the walls flowed with soft furnishings and drapes. It was… cosy. And just by the door there was a curving expanse of wood, polished smooth and with a large, old fashioned cash register bolted down in the middle of it.
There was a man behind the till. A greasy-haired, sallow-faced man, who was looking at the new customer with a strangle mingling of intense dislike and sharp, cruel amusement.
Harry stared. Flabbergasted at the madam of the house: Severus Snape.
“What are you doing...” the word he wanted to utter was alive, but the sarcastic jibe he would receive in response was beyond his ability to cope with so he substituted the word… “Here?”
“Really? That’s what you’re asking?” Snape sneered with practised contempt. It was worse than Harry had expected. “”Where else would I hide that the famous, saintly Harry Potter would never venture in to find me?”
“Well I did.” Harry shot back.
“Yes, you did. Not enough girls throwing themselves at your feet?” Snape jibbed. “Well I have girls aplenty here. Or boys if that’s your preference. For a considerable fee, I do occasionally work myself. If a celebrity comes in that is.”
“I’m not a celebrity!” Harry said hotly.
“Oh well, you’ll have to take a pick of the girls then,” Snape said with another sneer and a wave around the groom.
Harry looked around. Seamus was wearing leather trousers (nothing but) and avoiding his gaze. Cho was wrapped in a kimono by one of the fires. Susan Bones was wearing a negligee that was distractingly see-through and it’s lines distorted by large breasts. Parvati and Padma shared a settee. Katie Bell was also avoiding his gaze but not because she was embarrassed in anyway. Harry realised she was only here to service other women. A distinction he figured that she could charge a lot more for, though to fewer customers.
There were others as well; a haughty blonde Harry vaguely recognised as being in Pansy’s gang of Slytherin girl at school and in pride of place, centre stage and lording over the others was Pansy Parkinson herself. She was still slightly pug-faced but with curves and a posture that ruled the roost in spite of it.
Harry was struck by just how many of his classmates and school-mates had become prostitutes for some reason, it struck him as quite unlikely.
“Nine galleons,” a voice intruded upon Harry’s reverie.
“What?”
“We charge a cover charge,” Snape said coolly. “Even to you. Non-celebrities are extra, of course.”
“What makes you think I am partaking of your services?” Harry said.
“You’re still here,” Snape said.
“I,” Harry said with all the dignity he could muster. ”Am trying to avoid frostbite, that’s all.”
“Then you have to buy someone,” Snape responded bluntly. “This is a brothel, sir. Not a shelter.”
“Fine. Her,” Harry said pointing in what he supposed was a random direction.
“Twenty galleons.”
“It was nine a minute ago!”
“That was the cover charge, Ms Parkinson is our most skilled associate. Her skills are charge commensurately.”
Harry baulked internally at the price but bravado was carrying him forward at this point. He wouldn’t back down in front of Severus Snape of all people.
He plonked down the coins in numerous neat piles and Snape efficiently made them disappear into the till, which closed with a solid and final sounding clunk.
Pansy sashayed over to him, and Harry realised the price as well founded. Everyone’s eyes, customer and client and host alike followed her progress with rapt attention.
“Well?” Pansy said tugging at the edge of his robes. “We have business, haven’t we? Let’s go.”
Harry was summarily dragged away by Pansy’s magnetic presence and a firm grip on his robes. They traversed the room and up a small amount of stairs in to a room dominated by a soft lush looking double bed with four posts.
He took a moment and stared at Pansy up and down. She was wearing translucent cloth; the only solid parts were a bra built into the dress and knickers barely visible through the cloth.
Dark hair fell past her shoulders, unbound, and large expressive eyes regarded him with gentle amusement that showed through the professional’s mask.
Though harry knew, purely by theory, that the true professional would hint at an emotional connection and depth while still remaining detached.
He figured that Pansy was a professional, a true professional, a true gorgeous, sexy skilled professional that he was going to use to the utmost of his ability.
He moved closer to kiss her, his mouth moving towards her’s.
She slid away from him chuckling and laughing.
“You’ve not been here before have you?” she said, amusement tingeing her voice. “We don’t kiss. Not there.”
“Where do you kiss then?” Harry said gruffly.
“Take off some layers and I’ll show you.”
Harry shed his cloak and robes, leaving him in only a shirt and trousers. Once he’d kicked off his shoes at least, his socked feet enjoying the soft sable carpets on the floor.
Pansy stepped close and pressed her lips to his shirt collar, leaving an obvious, lip-shaped mark of lipstick there. It wouldn’t come out, Harry knew. He didn’t care.
He took the shirt off as well at her prompting. She guided him backwards onto the most comfortable bed in existence and smiled, a slow luxurious smile. The warmth of her body as she clambered over Harry sent a wave of desire rushing through him. Stirring him, sending all the blood rushing downwards in torrent, as the tips of her shapely breasts, only contained and emphasised by thin soft fabric, brushed over his bare chest.
Then with a laugh, she withdrew. And while Harry panted she moved over to a drinks cabinet. She pulled out two glasses, a bottle of Firewhiskey and with her wand, conjuring up ice cubes to go with the whiskey.
Do you want a drink, dear?” she said huskily. “Ice?” I could use it on you. Some people want that.
“I’ve had enough cold,” Harry growled. “That’s why I’m in here, I want to get hot and sweaty.”
“Well, that’s usually how it ends up” Pansy said with a shrug and moved back towards him leaving the whiskey on the sideboard.
She didn’t kiss on the mouth. She did kiss everywhere else on the body, as it transpired. She kissed his neck, feeling the breath rushing through it, she kissed his throat and his shoulders. She moved downwards, kissing his chest, if what she did to his chest could be called kissing. She sucked and she gnawed; Harry was helpless to restrain her, his hands dug into the soft bedding as she bit his chest and nipples. He growled and groaned but soft licks and swipes of her tongue followed the bites, soothing him as much as it aroused him.
“You like that don’t you?” She said huskily at one point. “You like me treating you nastily. No one does, I bet. Famous man with a sob story, everyone treats you like you’re precious, I bet.”
She got gentler as she went down though. By the time she reached his trousers and used her lips and tongue on his cock she was hardly rough at all. She licked him from stem to tip in one long lascivious stroke of her tongue, she cooed over his balls and sucked on them. She wrapped her lips about them and her checks hollowed with the effort of sucking them.
“Fuck, god, fuck, fuck!” Harry intoned as she worked him into a lather. His hips raised from the bed, pushing up into the warmth of her throat as she sucked him deeply. Her practised throat not gagging at all.
Harry swore. Pansy laughed after she’d released her cock from her all consuming mouth. he’d been close, he’d been so close. But she left him hanging. Story of his life.
“Now, now, you wouldn’t want to waste your money on just my mouth now would you?” Pansy said sardonically. “Or maybe you would. But me? I was looking forward to a ride.”
And a ride was what she had, though one unlike harry had had before. She didn’t straddle him. Instead she seized him by the ankles and hoisted his legs into the air and then back so that his ankles were nearly alongside his head.
“Put yourself where you want to be, Harry,” she said, in teasing tones, and Harry placed the tip of his cock against her pussy. He couldn’t kid himself, though he had never been here before he knew enough about the trade from legal law enforcement briefings. She would be using lube to keep herself nice and easily fuckable but when the heat of her encased his cock he could kid himself that she was as genuinely turned on by the action as he was.
Pansy Parkinson rode him. She took him, there was no other word for it. With her hands on his ankles there, she was in complete control, riding him hard and fast, slamming down on him with no regard for finesse or rhythm or anything other than slamming him over and over, her wet pussy squeezing and milking his helpless abused cock.
Harry hardly noticed when he came, the experience was one long head-rushing, brain emptying experience that left it him drained and mewling helplessly in Pansy’s bed.
A while after, when he’d stopped gasping for breath, Pansy handed him a firewhiskey, the ice cubes that she’d put in it were now barely slivers. She knocked back her own and was settling in bed next to him, smoking from a long handled cigarette.
“It’s five extra galleons to stay the rest of the night,” She said briskly. “But we do as much as you’re able through the night, so it’s a bargain.”
Someone the return to formality snapped Harry out of his trance.
“I don’t want that.” He said brusquely.
“Of course not.”
Harry put his clothes back on. Pansy looked at him, dragging in smoke and exhaling it steadily.
“Repeat custom offers a discount.” She said, as Harry pulled on his cloak.
“I don’t want that.” Harry repeated.
“Of course not,” Pansy said again with a little more edge to it.
Harry found his own way down the stairs. The greasy hair bastard at the desk said nothing: not one word about repeat custom, or special offers or even his patented insults.
He knew Harry would be back without a word needing to be said.
Harry pushed back into the storm and the cold and thought it was about what he deserved.
