Editor's note: As you read this, you may notice that the cast doesn't quite match up with what's described on, say, PPC Wiki. There's a reason for this: retconning. Shae and Jo's author dropped out, so I (Neshomeh) stepped in to take her place. Then everyone got busy and fell away from the PPC until I was pretty much the only one left, so it never got done. Since I was the last writer standing, I got to make up what happened to my characters and thereby everyone else's.
Tungsten's note: Well, folks, it's finally here. This is the first part of my (multi-chapter) assignment on Ravenkiss's "Subjugation." I'd hoped to make it one long mission, not sliced up into chapters of my own, but I couldn't get very far into the fic without having to headdesk; as a result, this is the first of what will probably be four parts. Afterwards, the mission will be taken over by the other marvelous and eternally damned members of the group, and Agents Suicide and Diocletian can go have a rest. Most likely in the Psych department.
Yes, Diocletian. I know what you're thinking: isn't she supposed to be incurably insane? Well, keep reading, and you'll learn why the SO should never deny his staff members a proper vacation.
The intro was written by the marvelous Kiwi, to whom we are all in debt. Go thou and worship her. Oh, and stock up on the Bleeprin. You Will Need It.
Aftoktonia: Greek for "Suicide."
Agent Gunny McDougal, Department of Mary Sues, Anime Division, frowned thoughtfully as she and her partner, Wayne Garamond, made their way through the twisting grey corridors of HQ. Something was... not right.
Well, more so than usual, at any rate. She thought it might have something to do with the fact that the halls seemed to be rather more crowded than she was used to. Several agents were talking nervously in clusters, obviously worried; Agent Calomel of the Harry Potter division was sobbing into her blue-and-black Ravenclaw scarf, while her partner tried to console her with a chocolate lembas wafer. Even the various minis were restless, shuffling nervously up and down the halls and hissing at random passerby.
She wondered, as the pair made their way through the corridors, whether this odd sense of unease had anything to do with the terse e-mail they'd just received from Upstairs. Something in the pit of her stomach told her that she would be finding out directly.
As they rounded a corner, Gunny caught sight of a familiar head of blue hair.
The young woman to whom the blue hair belonged turned, caught sight of Gunny, and smiled.
"Hey guys," she said, nodding at them each in turn as they caught up with her and her partner, Flip. "We can't talk now, we've been called to see the SO," she said, with an apologetic grimace.
"You have?" Gunny was surprised.
"So have we," Wayne spoke up.
Rez blinked, and exchanged a glance with Flip.
"That's odd. I wonder what's up?" Flip asked rhetorically. Wayne shrugged.
"I expect we'll find out when we get there," he said.
"No doubt about that. Shall we?" Rez indicated the long stretch of hallway with a broad sweep of her arm.
The four assassins made their way to the elevator, and crammed in with a third team, who ignored the lot of them in favor of arguing quietly betwixt themselves.
"I haven't done anything!" the female of the pair insisted.
"Are you sure?" her partner asked. "They could've found out about that time where you—"
"I'm positive!" she fumed, cutting him off mid-sentence. "You, my friend, have been mocking the Narrative Laws of Comedy – I'm sure this is somehow entirely your fault!"
"Are you going to see the SO, too?" Wayne asked, recognizing the pair as Agents Shae and Jo, assassins from the Harry Potter division.
Shae blinked in surprise.
"'Too'?" Jo repeated, shifting her somewhat irate gaze from her partner to Wayne.
"That's where we're all going," Rez piped in, indicating herself and the three others.
"See, maybe this won't be so bad, if he's calling other people..." Shae said in a placating tone of voice.
"No. It'll probably be worse," she muttered, scowling.
Before an ominous cloud of doom could descend upon the occupants of the elevator, it ground to a stop. The doors swished open, accompanied by a pleasant and satisfied-sounding ping! The six assassins piled out and hurried down the hall. Rez and Gunny exchanged a glance. The two women shared the sneaking suspicion that, any day now, the elevators would begin wishing their passengers a pleasant day, which would invariably lead into long and drawn-out discussions about whether people really wanted to go up, wouldn't they prefer a nice "down," or maybe a bit of "sideways"? That was all well and good in the main office building of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, but here in PPC HQ, it would lead to inevitable consequences, probably involving flamethrowers and an unhealthy amount of napalm. Bad enough that the consoles were possessed of a keen sort of inexplicable intelligence – it would be complete chaos if the elevators were to develop similarly.
The grey hallway that usually did its best to snare and entrap unsuspecting passersby was unusually obliging, in that it retained a uniform, hallway-like appearance. Not only that, but the door to the SO's office was, oddly enough... open. As one, the six assassins hesitated on the threshold, unsure of how to proceed at this most unlikely of occurrences. Something fishy was definitely going on. Getting to the SO's office was never this easy, even if one had specifically been called to see him.
Wayne, sufficiently disturbed by the peculiar ease with which they were given access to their boss, actually attempted to turn about and make a swift getaway back to the elevator. He was prevented when the unusually tired-sounding psychic voice of the SO spoke up irritably.
What are you lot waiting for, an invitation? Get in here.
There was a brief comical interlude as Shae, Gunny, and Flip all attempted to enter at once and got stuck for a moment in the much-too-narrow doorway. Jo shoved them from behind, causing them to stumble gracelessly into the neat, sparsely furnished office. Jo entered much more sedately, followed quietly by Rez and Wayne.
The Sunflower Official's office was, as ever, devoid of chairs. It did, on this occasion, however, contain one tall, long-haired agent of the male variety. When Gunny saw him, she gave a barely audible squeak and twitched ever so slightly as she suppressed the urge to perform an anime-style flying tackle-glomp, something which she knew wouldn't go over very well, considering both the circumstances and the object of her attentions. Wayne, noticing this, frowned slightly and moved to stand next to her, putting himself between his partner and the other man.
The other agents lined up similarly, each standing next to the other in a neat line facing the desk behind which their very tired-looking boss sat. Rez, on the extreme right end of the line, noticed a small bottle of Stolichbleepka on the floor next to the SO's pot, into which one trailing root was submerged.
That probably wasn't a good sign.
Thank you all for being so prompt, the talking flower began.
An expression of gratitude?! Mental alarm bells began to go off with varying intensity in each of the assembled assassins' heads.
It seems that there is a particularly... problematic... mission, and your names came up in the lottery. I'd like to apologize in advance for any trouble this will cause you.
The Sunflower Official, apologizing!? The mental alarm bells became full-blown klaxons, and several of the assembled agents had to fight the very strong urge to just run away.
"Something tells me we're not going to be getting a raise," Rez muttered darkly, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes slightly at the be-suited flower.
Your powers of deductive reasoning are, as always, impressive, Agent Montrose, it said dryly, turning its "face" in her direction. However much I hate to repeat myself, I must reiterate that if you really want a raise that badly, you'll have to take it up with the Clover. It's not my department.
"Problematic how?" the long-haired man, one Agent Suicide, spoke up for the first time, directing the briefing back on course.
The sunflower turned to him and waved one frond vaguely. You recall "Celebrian"? The story which made your current partner the quivering wreck he is today?
"Yes, but I thought that Dafydd and Constance were—"
No, I'm not sending you into "Celebrian." That particular nightmare is, thank the Gardener, over. However, a new problem has recently come to our attention—a Harry Potter problem, to be precise. The SO straightened its bowler with a nervous shudder. There will be no assassination. It is strictly an observation mission, so you will leave all weapons behind.
All seven agents shifted uneasily upon hearing this, and Suicide even opened his mouth to protest, but the flower cut him off once again. The story is called "Subjugation," and it features a hermaphroditic Professor Snape and EvilRapist!Dumbledore. I will say this once again: you will not bring any weapons AT ALL.
There was a very small pause prior to the explosion of loud protests, cries of anger, outrage, and declarations of intent to murder that this announcement elicited.
"But we don't do Harry Potter fanfic!" Gunny wailed, horrorstruck at the very idea.
"This is your fault entirely!" proclaimed Jo, poking Shae viciously in the chest.
"Don't you dare blame this on me!" Shae said heatedly, waving Jo's hand away in irritation.
"You tempted fate with all those 'at least it's not "Celebrian"' comments!"
"You said them too!"
"You want me to PPC bad slash!? I don't do bad slash!" Wayne was sounding more than a little frantic.
"I will kill the Suethor! I'll do it with my bare hands! And possibly some sort of spork!"
"This is the mission we were short-listed for!?"
"No weapons!? Are you insane!?"
And so on.
The Sunflower Official, no doubt as a testament to how strained its own faculties were at the emergence of this latest threat against canon, remained uncharacteristically silent through several minutes' worth of its employees' apocalyptic outrage. It was actually quite a few minutes after the shouting and carrying-on had died down entirely before it spoke again.
Flip had passed through her angry fury into a sort of shell-shocked despondency, and Rez had abandoned loudly outlining various creative death threats in favor of attempting to encourage her partner back into some semblance of normalcy. Gunny was faced with a similar problem, and she rubbed Wayne's back encouragingly whilst whispering meaningless yet well-intentioned platitudes at him as he hyperventilated and tried not to think about the implications of "hermaphrodite!Snape" and "EvilRapist!Dumbledore." Shae and Jo, on the other hand, were pointedly ignoring each other at this point, and were instead simply glaring at the SO as they waited for it to continue. Suicide, perhaps the calmest of the lot, merely regarded his boss with a sort of weary resignation, waiting to be dismissed so that he could get on with the job.
As there are twenty-four chapters to this particular mission... the SO paused briefly, as though expecting some sort of protest. When it became apparent that none was forthcoming, it continued. I felt it would be best to involve more than one team. I would like to recommend that you all use the Room of Requirement as your base of operations throughout the mission, and that you switch off on a regular basis at that.
I have also been assured by Intelligence that Canon Analysis Devices are, for this mission, completely unnecessary. This particular... author... apparently could not accidentally step on canon even if someone shoved her directly into it. I am sure Makes-Things will thank you for sparing the devices as well.
Also, in recognition of the highly troubling nature of this assignment, you will all be compensated with a full month's supply of Bleepka – upon completion of the mission, naturally. Are there any questions?
The room was silent, save for one or two instances of audibly troubled breathing.Very well, then. If you've no questions, please kindly— The SO was interrupted by a loud *BAMPH!* and the subsequent appearance of a small brown barn owl, which fluttered in agitation right above its desk. A roll of parchment dropped from the bird's talons onto the desk-space in front of the Sunflower, and the bird itself settled with much dignity atop the computer monitor. The SO, distracted momentarily from dismissing the agents, picked up the roll in two of its leafy tendrils and broke the seal. Unfurling the parchment, it quickly read the contents, and then thrust the missive vaguely at the gathered agents in front of its desk.
It seems you've all been invited to the HFA for an after-mission celebration, they were informed as Shae took the proffered parchment. Think of it as a sort of congratulatory mini-vacation. Now get out of here and get to work.
With that, they were dismissed with the SO's usual abruptness. It appeared as though, with the mission briefing out of the way and the terror of the upcoming task firmly passed on to its underlings, the Sunflower's normal snappishness had returned. As they turned and filed silently out the door, it spoke up one last time.
Agent Suicide, a word...
While the Scythian remained in the SO's office, the six remaining agents formed a huddle just a short way down the hall. Shae had unfurled the parchment and was holding it in the center of the circle so that they could all read it.
To all Agents,
The staff of HFA would like to invite all agents participating in this most gruesome task to the fanfiction university for an impromptu revel a la fanon Death Eaters evening of tea and relaxation in thanks of a job well done upon completion of the mission.
As OFU heads are forbidden from going on missions with the PPC, Miss Brin is disappointed that she will not be able to witness the death of the nasty fic, but would be happy to attend the public exorcism, then escort any agents to said revels at HFA.
(scribbled in with a different handwriting, which is tall, spiky, and the i's are dotted with little bats)
Lord Voldemort (Sr.) asks himself why he was not invited to such an event as the public exorcism of his servant, Severus Snape? He asks himself if he is not wanted at the PPC? He will be attending anyway, with Brin and Nagini, of course, and asks himself which sweater vest goes best with his nice dress robes...
(parchment has been wrenched away, and, for good measure, anti-jinxed.)
Right... We'll be there.
Miss M. Brin,
Coordinator of HFA
"What public exorcism?" Rez wondered aloud, blinking at the little bats on the parchment.
"The one we'll be organizing to celebrate the de-Suing of Snape, I would think," Jo answered thoughtfully. The fact that the HFA coordinator had mentioned an exorcism – something none of the agents had even thought of – went un-remarked upon. Continuity blips in and around HQ were so common it was really no surprise that one of the potential guests for such a gathering had known about the event before any of the actual planners.
"That's the best thing I've heard all day," Flip piped in, recovered somewhat from her shock at the very exciting news of a shindig at the HFA.
"Good idea, that is," Gunny added. "We can work out the details while we're... waiting for our shifts," she swallowed nervously as she remembered the circumstances which would be leading up to the exorcism.
"The details of what?" Suicide had finally rejoined the group.
"Public exorcism." Wayne's voice was tight, but he seemed to be breathing more or less normally now. "For Snape. Poor sod."
"Sounds mildly amusing. I wasn't working here yet when they had the last one," Suicide admitted.
"I don't think any of us were," Shae spoke up. "But that's not the point now, sadly."
"Right. How the hell are we going to organize this?" Jo demanded, suddenly business-like. No one questioned what "this" referred to.
"Well..." Gunny began, but trailed off. She was a little startled a moment later to realize that the others were waiting for her to continue.
"I guess... since there are twenty-four chapters, we'll each take six of them? The three teams who aren't working can wait in the Room of Requirement, like the SO suggested. I guess we can do our exorcism planning there."
"Sounds like a plan to me," Rez said, nodding in agreement.
"But how do we divide the fic up? Should we each do six chapters in one go, or trade off every other chapter?" Flip asked.
"Six in one sounds good to me. And if no one objects, I'll go ahead and take the first shift. The sooner I get in, the sooner I'll get out," Suicide spoke up. Something in his manner brooked no room for objections among the others.
"I'll drink to that. We'll take the second chunk," Gunny spoke up, indicating herself and her partner, who still looked vaguely green about the gills.
Rez and Flip exchanged glances with Shae and Jo, who both shrugged. "I guess we'll take the third bit, then, if that's all right," Rez said.
"Right. Shall we meet up in the Room of Requirement in the fic once we're all ready?" Jo asked.
"Sounds like a plan," Suicide responded. Everyone else nodded their heads in agreement.
Author's Note: I say without any exaggeration whatsoever that this story is one of the most painful things I have ever read. The sheer audacity, the slaughtering of Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore, the abuses to canon—I'm very glad that I only had the first six chapters, or I wouldn't have been able to do it.
People, please. Slash is one thing, and so is mpreg—whatever floats your boat. But writing a travesty like this—corrupting one of the kindest, noblest characters ever written, turning him into a monster—you can't call something like this fan fiction. Christ! Why don't you just open a bondage parlor and let us all off the hook?
I know what people say about objections to fanfic: if you don't like it, don't read it! And Lord knows, the PPC is hardly a lifetime occupation for a student from Chicago. But stories like “Subjugation” highlight something very important to all fanficcers: that we're being allowed to romp in someone else's playground, and if we keep fouling it up, the playground's owner is going to kick us all out. I wouldn't be surprised if J.K. Rowling joined the list of authors who take legal action against fanfic—defamation of intellectual property, if there is such a thing. If not, there ought to be.
* * *
“They can't do this to us!” Suicide raged, kicking viciously at the console. In the presence of the other agent teams, he had been calm and collected, something he'd learned from Iatrokles: never let the others see your fear. Now, in his own response center, he was free to be a raving maniac. His partner Diocletian, newly recalled from Medical, merely watched him with an expression of vague amiability, humming under her breath.
“They can't send us into this—this—” Words failed him. He brandished the printout of the chapter like a spear, scattering pages left and right. “—this monstrosity! Dumbledore isn't a rapist! What kind of a sick mind thought this up?”
He rounded on Dio, who was now watching the wall as though she expected it to finish a highly entertaining joke she'd heard it telling. “You can't even hear what I'm saying, can you,” he said despairingly. “A partner who's cuckoo on regular occasions and hopped up on dried frog pills—who are they kidding? We can't survive this.”
“But does it eat the socks?” Diocletian said curiously. Suicide groaned.
The Greek tossed away the last few pages and sulked over to the equipment cabinet, digging through it for something to end his misery. Diocletian drifted over and watched curiously, occasionally whistling a nonsense tune; she didn't even blink when Suicide pulled out a bottle of tequila and took three hefty pulls, gasping for breath as the alcohol burned his throat. “All right,” he said hoarsely, setting down the bottle, “If you're coming with me, you've got to be armed. SO says no, but I'm not going anywhere near that thing without a weapon. What do you want?”
“Get back the Venus arms,” his partner responded with a smile.
“Can you understand me? What kind of weapon do you want?”
“Mop,” Diocletian said calmly.
Suicide fought down the urge to facepalm. “Whose bright idea was it to give me a delirious partner? Look,” he snapped at Dio, “How the hell am I going to work with you if you can't understand what I'm saying?”
“Mop!” his partner insisted. She pointed at the weapons cupboard. “Mop!”
“Have we even mentioned janitorial supplies today?” the exasperated Greek shouted. “Can. You. Under. Stand. ME?”
Diocletian looked crestfallen, but only for a moment. She pushed past Suicide and reached deep into the locker, pawing through the black hole of sharp and deadly objects. With a triumphant cry of “Jam tomorrow!” she stepped back, pulling a brass-capped wooden pole with her. As the staff emerged from the locker, Suicide could see a long bundle of thick white strings at the end. It was, in fact, a mop. He groaned and massaged his forehead, wondering exactly how many gods hated him and how they'd managed to agree on this particular punishment.
“Mop!” Diocletian repeated cheerfully, waving the item at him. A white luggage tag taped to the pole fluttered in front of Suicide's face, and he quickly snatched it and read the words awkwardly printed in blue ink.
“'Mop, Final Fantasy VII. Wielder: Cid Highwind. +2 damage on all physical attacks, +5 resistance to status ailments.' Well, whaddaya know.” He scratched his head, watching the chipperly loony Diocletian hug the world's most deadly cleaning implement. “Good pick, Dio. Should be easy to hide, too; I'll set us to be disguised as cleaning personnel. There should be plenty of those in the Wizengamot hall. But remember . . . ”
Suicide theatrically raised one finger and pressed it to his lips, making an elaborate pantomime of “We have to be quiet.” Diocletian giggled and shouted “Burnt crunchy bits!”, but was shushed once again by her partner. Like a little kid, she grinned and clamped her hands over her mouth, hopping up and down with excitement while Suicide programmed the disguises.
Taking a deep breath, the Greek plucked the remote activator off the console and opened a glittering blue portal in the air. Once again motioning Diocletian to be quiet, he slung his backpack onto his back and stepped through . . .
. . . into Hell.
* * *
The Wizongamot was in an uproar.
So far they had managed to keep the entire sordid business hushed up and out of the press, but it was only a matter of time before some nosy reporter caught wind of a devastating scandal.
The three members who sat in judgment glared from on high in their severe black robes. Not a man among them was under ninety years old. Though bent and very frail looking, these were three of the most powerful men in the wizarding world.
Suicide and Diocletian emerged in the great stone chamber, dressed as a generic witch and wizard; both carried buckets of Mrs. Skower's Magical Cleaning Solution, and Suicide's customary quiver of short spears had been very handily camouflaged as a bundle of fresh torches for the corridors. Diocletian leaned on her mop and watched the proceedings with her now-customary sense of vague interest, while Suicide pulled out a scroll of parchment and a quill. Great. He was stuck with the charge list, apparently.
As the fic got underway, a frightened mini-Aragog skittered out of the scene and away down the corridor. Diocletian made a motion towards the spooked Wizongamot, but Suicide clamped a hand on her arm and kept her from dashing off after it. In her current state, who knew what she'd do with an Aragog—eat it, perhaps.
They glared down at the problem before them with dread; glancing back and forth between the two men standing before them.
The first wizard was a member of their own august body. He was one of the most powerful, most respected wizards to hold the title of Grand Master in the last century: a venerable paragon of virtue, noble of family, and unimpeachable of character, a man who had fought for the side of Light for over one hundred years. Under other circumstances, it is he who would sit at the head of this council.
Suicide stuck his tongue beneath his teeth and slowly, painfully charged for “ridundensy.”
The other was a mere child of thirty-seven, of a poor, unimportant family. One who had freely admitted to once having been under the sway of the Dark Lord: though none could deny that the boy had returned to the Light, and paid a very heavy price.
“Calling thirty-seven-year-olds 'mere children'. I'm thirty-seven,” he muttered. The Greek could see the scene quite clearly, although he tried hard not to. Standing before the Wizengamot were Albus Dumbledore—alive, a nice change from his last Potterverse mission, although still entirely uncanonical—and a nervous-looking Severus Snape, whose lips were clenched as though he'd been sucking on a lemon.
An undescribed wizard by the name of “Alginon Dupree” called the Wizengamot to order, announcing that they were sitting in judgment on this most sensitive matter. "We are here today to pass judgment on the grave accusations made by Professor Severus Snape against Grand High Wizard and Headmaster of Hogwarts School, Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster Dumbledore, you have been accused of the crime of rape against the person of Severus Snape. How do you plead?"
“The frightening thing,” Suicide commented to his insensible partner, “is that the author actually has something resembling knowledge of Wizengamot procedures. Stop staring at the wall, Dio, it's not going to answer back.”
“Millennium hand and shrimp?”
“Sorry, haven't got any.”
“Bugrit.” Professor Dumbledore calmly entered a plea of not guilty, addressing the presider by a friendly nickname. Diocletian poked Suicide in the arm and gestured to Dumbledore. “Note spelling?”
"Yes, now, we will hear Professor Snape's version of the alleged incident." The man in the middle of the gathering turned back to Professor Dumbledore. "In difference to your age and position, you may sit while the testimony is given Headmaster."
"Thank you, Algi." Dumbledore nodded and with a smile at Snape strolled over to a chair that a pair of Aurors had brought out for him. They were the only other people in the courtroom. The two rather large men in red robes moved back two steps to flank the older wizard like an honor guard. He looked like a king, reclining in the chair with his robes spilling majestically about him.
Suicide groaned quietly. Diocletian poked his arm again, looking a little puzzled at her partner's bad attitude. “Saw it all the time at home,” he whispered to her, while she listened with an air of vague puzzlement. “Some of the vases that we got from the Athenian traders were graphic as hell. The more majestic-looking male gets to be dominant.”
Dio blinked. “Bugrit,” she repeated after a moment.
“Pretty much. Once with a horse."
Snape rose to give testimony. According to the Words, he was nervous and frightened, unable to believe what was happening to him. Voldemort was dead—why did he have to go through this kind of torture? When had the world gone mad? “When Ravenkiss got a 'net connection,” Suicide muttered, charging for "makin Snape a wus."
The realization that he was scarcely affected by being raped frightened him by itself.
He had been brutalized more times then he could remember, used by Malfoy, Voldemort, and the Death Eaters. While still fairly innocent in school, he had been trapped in the Prefect's bathroom and gang raped by Sirius Black, James Potter and Peter Pettigrew.
Some instincts are deeper than mere sanity or insanity, and the desire to survive is one of these. Diocletian clapped one hand over her partner's mouth as his voice rose to a scream. The assembled Wizengamot twitched, but Dio was dragging the struggling Suicide back into the shadows, and nobody could be seen. The wizards shuddered as the Author reasserted her hold, and the story continued.
So did Snape's angstologue. He had been raped again and again, usually by Gryffindors, but also by Lucius Malfoy. He'd used silencing spells to keep himself from screaming in the middle of the night. (Diocletian shook Suicide, forcing him to calm down and scribble “Raip as sors ov drama.”) But it was Dumbledore's betrayal that had really been the last straw for him.
As soon as the Ministry realized whom the accusation was against, they had informed him that the matter would be turned over to the Wizongamot!
He suspected that everyone he had spoken to at the Ministry had been obliviated.
Diocletian poked Suicide once more and pointed to the charge list. “Holy turtle amulet,” she commented, tapping the word “raip.” “Peach nelly!”
“'s not my bloody fault English is spelled weird,” Suicide grumbled, scratching out the word as the OOC monologue went on. And on. And on.. He had been placed in an isolation cell, he had been discriminated against, the morning sickness had been a—
The quill pen went crunch in Suicide's massive fist as the Words announced a pregnancy. Diocletian frowned slightly, pulling the shards of quill out of the skin of her partner's hand, but otherwise seemed undisturbed. Suicide groaned; he could feel a massive headache rising in the back of his skull.
Children were all too rare in the Wizarding world, especially one by such a powerful man as Albus Dumbledore. The first words out of the mediwitch's mouth after she had done the paternity test had been, 'You do understand that abortion is not an option under these circumstances?'
“Kill. Kill. Kill.”
His rights had already been curtailed, but that did not matter. Severus did not want to terminate the pregnancy. As strange as many would think it, he wanted the child. Already felt protective over the tiny new life growing within him. What he was fighting for was his freedom.
Dio gingerly extracted the charge list from Suicide's left hand, where it was being crushed. Producing a pen of her own, she scribbled something illegible and stared up at the ceiling for a minute, apparently debating something. Suicide watched her dully, grateful for a distraction from the Words. Snape was beginning his testimony. Both agents were vaguely aware that they ought to be cavorting or making funny comments, perhaps in an MST-style manner, but somehow they didn't feel like it. There just weren't many funny things you could say about something like this.
"On the 31st of August of this year, I had been called to the Headmaster's office on the pretense of discussing some arrangements for the Welcoming Feast. I had been there for perhaps twenty minutes when," He swallowed. "When Headmaster Dumbledore stood up from behind his desk and came to the couch. He sat beside me, his leg touching mine. I am uncomfortable being touched in such a familiar manner, so I tried to move away, but he followed, soon he trapped me against the arm of the couch."
The Scythian's face was beginning to turn pale under its bronze coloring. Dio continued scribbling, then showed him the charge list: most of it was now obscured by a chibi-style cartoon of a teenage fangirl with a duck on her head. She pointed urgently at the cartoon and poked Suicide for the fourth time, this time using her pen. Suicide glowered at the picture.
"He placed his hand on my right thigh and told me that he thought that I was a, he used the term 'hottie'. He suggested that since I would not have to spy anymore that we could, deepen our relationship." Snape closed his eyes and shuddered. "I told him that while I was flattered that he found me attractive, I was not interested."
“Soup!” Diocletian whispered. “Souffle, supreme, submarine, subaquatic, subaquaeous, suit, lawsuit, tsunami—”
“What the hell are you trying to say?” her partner hissed.
"You are saying that Headmaster Dumbledore did not respect your wishes?" Said the Magistrate.
"He raped me." Snape reminded him angrily.
"Had you given the Headmaster any reason to believe that you would be amiable to his advances?" Asked the Magistrate.
"No, none." Snape said flatly. "How could I? He has never even hinted that he had this, desire before he attacked me."
Diocletian pointed to the picture. “Soup,” she repeated again, a little sadly. “Tsunami.”
“All words containing the su sound. So?”
"Are you quite sure that you did not inadvertently give him some sign that you were interested? According to our sources your sexual preference does lean more towards other men."
"As it happens, sir, being homosexual does not necessitate promiscuity. I do not spread my legs for everyone I meet with a 'Y' chromosome." 'Not willingly,' He thought bitterly. "Besides, I have always thought of Headmaster Dumbledore as a father figure." Snape glanced in the old man's direction, but could not meet the eyes of the man he had once revered. "I never considered him as a perspective sexual partner."
Suicide stared hard at the picture, then at Dio, who was jigging up and down with impatience. “You're trying to tell me something, right? Su. Sue. Something about Sues. But this isn't a Mary Sue story, it's a slashfic—and that isn't a picture of Snape, anyway.” Dio jabbed at the picture again. “Looks like a teenage fangirl. A fangirl with a duck on her head. Su—Suethor? Is that supposed to be the author?”
"Yet, he seemed to believe that you might be interested." The Magistrate insisted.
"I told him an unequivocal 'no'." Severus countered. "He looked angry, at least I though it was anger. But he grabbed my arms and pulled me into a kiss. He was stronger then I would have thought possible. I tried to push him away, to reach for my wand, but he took it from my sleeve and tossed it across the room. We struggled. He told me to stop fighting, said that he knew that I wanted him, that I was just playing hard to get."
“But the only person who has a duck is the Duck Man—” Diocletian nodded violently, and shook the paper for good measure. Suicide's brow furrowed. “You're saying that the Suethor is like the Duck Man?” Another nod. “A blind spot in reality?”
Diocletian grinned and folded her arms, looking proud. Her partner growled exasperatedly. “You had me play bloody charades for ten minutes just so you could say that? What the hell is wrong with you?”
"When I continued to protest, he used a spell to remove my clothes and pushed me onto the floor. He, I was under him, with my legs forced apart. He spoke a spell and bound my hands over my head, and then he opened his robes." Snape had to stop, he had to compose himself, stop trembling at the memory of Dumbledore's face, blue eyes blazing with lust, and the sight of that massive engorged cock about to penetrate him.
“Reference,” Dio retorted. “Refer, refine, referee, refence.”
Suicide groaned. “Another one? Okay, those all share the ref sound. What do you mean?”
"I could not move. Headmaster Dumbledore grabbed my hips and he, forced himself into, my, my….vagina." The last word was little more then a whisper as his pale face flushed red with shame.
"Vagina?" One of the judges, a pinch-faced man with only a few wispy white hairs and a myriad of liver spots, looked completely puzzled at that.
His partner was practically jumping up and down now. “Refine!”
“Ref—” a thought struck Suicide. “You mean riff?”
“I'm not riffing this piece of crap!” Suicide exploded, albeit quietly. He was too exasperated to pay attention to what was happening in the Wizengamot, which was probably a good thing. Dio nodded and pointed to the Words.
"The Dark Lord," He still could not bring himself to call Voldemort by name. "Found out that I had betrayed him. He had sought to punish me. When I was held captive before he was destroyed by Potter, he turned me into a hermaphrodite." Feeling nauseated, angry and disgusted Snape was trying not to burst into tears at having to admit to such a humiliating punishment. Worse yet, there was no way to reverse the condition.
Voldemort had sentenced him to spend the rest of his life as a she-male freak!
Suicide stopped dead. “Aftoktonia?”
“Aftok—you little minx!” A second later, Dio found herself engulfed in a rib-cracking hug. She gagged and beat one fist on Suicide's shoulder, but the relieved Scythian was too busy cursing happily to pay much attention.
“Ack! Put me down, you jerk!” Dio choked. Suicide, suddenly aware that he was hugging, dropped his partner abruptly. Dio landed on her rear and glared up at him. “Yeah, would you mind not doing that in the future?” she grumbled, massaging her rib cage with one hand. “Do you know how hard it is to distract you for ten minutes?”
Suicide grinned. “Nice one, Dio. How long were you faking it for?”
“Since yesterday morning.” The ex-Sue clambered to her feet, still moving gingerly. “I figured it was the only way I was gonna get any kind of vacation. In retrospect, the Medical Department isn't the best place to kick back. Just my luck I get plugged in on this thing.”
“So why didn't you say so, instead of making me play guessing games?”
“Look at the Words.”
Suicide did so. “HOLY SHIT.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
"Dumbledore held me down, he, started thrusting, I told him that he was hurting me, I," He did not want to admit what happened next. "I begged him to stop. He laughed and he, bit me, bit my breast." His arms pulled tighter against his chest. "I do not know how long it took but I, felt him ejaculate inside me."
“Ah-ah-ah—you know how Upstairs feels about that—” Dio whispered soothingly as she pinned Suicide's arms behind him. “Calm, calm, calm . . . “
“(Content censored for extreme unsuitability)”
"And what happened after this?" The oldest member prompted him to continue. Severus swallowed and tried to bring his emotions back under control. "He sat back and gave me a pat on the leg, he said, I was the best lay he had had in years. That after he had rested a little, he would, make use of the other hole."
"And you took this to mean?"
"He was intending to forcibly insert his member into my anterior excretory cavity."
"Pardon?" Phillip asked looking confused again.
"He was going to fuck me up the arse." Snape sneered at the feigned shock on the men's faces.
Thankfully, Sue strength does not disappear with the application of Logicillin, since there are so many species which can legitimately have that kind of muscle power. Even so, Diocletian was finding herself hard-pressed to—for the second time that day—hold her partner back. The abuses against Canon washed around them as Snape detailed his escape (unlikely) and subsequent discovery of pregnancy. “Riff, riff, riff,” Dio crooned, stomping hard on her partner's foot as she did so. “Riff it, and we'll get through . . . “
“That's what I told the rookie,” Suicide said after a moment, relaxing—very slightly.
“Oh, you got a rookie?”
“An Elf. From 'Celebrian'.”
“Ouch—poor guy.” Dio released her hold on her partner's arms, feeling a bit guilty as she did so. The red anklet from the Sue Tracking Center was glowing warningly, and she knew she'd probably have to report to FicPsych for an extra Logicillin dose when this was over. “How's he working out?”
Suicide shrugged. “All right, I guess.”
"And you are sure that Headmaster Dumbledore is the father of the child that you carry? By your own admission you had been forcefully taken by a number of Death Eaters just a few weeks prior." Phillip asked insistently.
Those words almost set Suicide off again, but Dio hastily shoved the charge list into his hands. “'Rape' is spelled R-A-P-E,” she commented, handing him her Bic. “And keep an eye out—more bad stuff coming up.”
"They used contraception spells. Lucius Malfoy was intending to impregnate me on Halloween night, to use a ritual to create a powerful heir to replace his son Draco since the boy had rejected the Dark Lord.
“You do the charging, Dio. I can't spell half this crap anyway.” Suicide glared at Hermaphrodite!Snape, who was obviously doing his best not to break down crying on the witness stand. Carefully, Suicide pulled out a litmus strip and waved it in midair. There was a sound like bacon frying, and the strip sizzled and burnt into ashes. Suicide inspected his blackened fingers with a detachedly critical air. “Hmmm.”
“I don't think we're going to resolve this in one day.”
“Did you bring the—”
“Yep. The rookie tried to take it away last mission, though.”
Diocletian looked flabbergasted. “Tried to take away your Bleepsinthe?”
“Good grief, no wonder you're so upset. I would have given him a set of donkey ears, Sue tracking or no Sue tracking.” Diocletian flopped onto the cold stone floor, setting the Mop aside and stretching out her legs with a sigh. “Did he try to stop you eating the kangaroo jerky?”
“Nah, I hit him with a Dibbler pie a few missions ago. He never objected to my jerky again.” Suicide considered for a moment. “Not while awake, anyway. You'd be amazed at the stuff I hear when he thinks I'm drunk and unconscious.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“Put it this way: the letter H will forever give me nightmares.”
“Do I want to know?”
“No. Give me the damn alcohol.”
Tungsten Monk's note: I am deeply sorry for this chapter. Because of the nature of the mission, I had to excerpt some parts of the dreaded "consummation of the marriage" scene; while I skipped the worst bits, there are some parts that are probably not work-safe. Don't read this where somebody can look over your shoulder.
Disclaimer: "Subjugation" belongs to Ravenkiss, and she can have it. Suicide is the creation of Stephen Pressfield, but I borrow him here for the purposes of humor. Diocletian is my own. All Harry Potter characters and concepts belong to J. K. Rowling; please forgive the fanfiction community. This author knows not what she does.
Read on at your own risk . . .
* * *
"On that day, as I spoke of the feast he was looking very withdrawn, and quiet. I did go over to the couch and sit beside him. And I did touch him: simply a pat on the leg, meant in a completely platonic context. I was surprised when he leaned against me. I put my arms around him thinking he needed to be comforted. While I held him I did tell him of my attraction and that I wished to deepen our relationship, and then we were kissing."
A few minutes had passed. Diocletian, realizing that there are some things a man must do, had given Suicide the Bleepsinthe and was watching with interest as he proceeded to not drink himself into unconsciousness. Instead, he was taking little nips out of the bottle while staring with bloodshot eyes at the scene, and aside from that small movement, not twitching in the slightest. Curious, Dio produced a stick of jerky from her bag and waved it in front of his face. There was a snap that nearly took the tips of her fingers off, and the jerky vanished. She had no idea how a normal man could chew moodily, but this one was.
“ . . . butterscotch candy?” She said after a moment, proffering a bag.
Suicide pushed it away. “Quiet. Charge.”
"Professor, you have had your say, do not interrupt again unless you wish to be silenced and removed from the proceedings!" Severus ground his teeth, but said nothing more.
"I am sorry Severus, but the truth must come out." Dumbledore turned back to his fellows on the bench, "To be honest, I was rather shocked at his behavior. Severus was quite wonton."
Diocletian twitched as hysterical laughter welled up in her throat. Snape shuddered, and suddenly, a heavily depressed seven-foot-tall meat dumpling was lurking on the witness stand and oozing soup. What's more, while it was a dumpling, it was nevertheless very sexy. Very, very, extraordinarily sexy. The Author continued to narrate Snape's “wontonness” while the pastry stared balefully around it, and Diocletian clapped her hands over her mouth. This job was getting phenomenally weird.
"He crawled into my lap, spread his legs wide and rubbed himself against me. I admit that I should have had better control, but I just could not stop thinking about the fact that he was offering me a go at a complete set of both male and female genitalia, even a pair of rather large hooters."
There was an audible snarl from Suicide, somewhat muffled by his chosen snack. On the witness stand, the wonton was quivering visibly now. Diocletian unwrapped a second piece of jerky and stuck it between her partner's grinding teeth.
There was chuckling from behind covered mouths. Severus glared at them, hugging his chest tightly. "I fear my resistance to such exquisite temptation was nil. It was not long before we were on the floor shagging like bunnies."
Dio was once again finding herself in the position of Damage Control, and she did her best to do her duty. “Making Dumbledore a lustful old letch,” she narrated quietly as she scribbled at the charge list. “Creation of biological impossibilities, to whit, a fully fertile hermaphrodite. Giving Snape breasts. Characters so far gone that they couldn't touch canon if it mugged them in an alley. Giving an old man a heart attack. How do those sound?”
Her partner blinked—finally—and turned towards her, his glare lessening a little. “Holl manh? Wheh dhid hthah appen?”
“In about ten seconds, if that vein of yours keeps bulging like that.”
“Whah—” The pin dropped with the resounding *thud* of an impending beating. “I'm not old!”
“Eh, haven't you heard?” Diocletian, the Sueishly youthful, grinned as she stretched out on the stone floor. “Life ends after thirty-five. After that, it's aaaaaall a downhill slope.”
Suicide swallowed the lump of jerky and opened his mouth to say something very unfriendly indeed, but the pin—having dropped—was promptly picked up again. “Nice try, Dio,” he grunted. “Trying to keep me distracted. Doesn't work.”
Shit, Diocletian thought. “How about Bleepsinthe?”
“Already got it.”
“A nudie magazine?”
“My subscriptions are paid through next year.”
Diocletian began digging through her bag. “Butterscotch candy?”
“Nope. Look, Dio,” Suicide said. He sounded tired, and the red flush was receding from his face. “It's great to have you back, and all that. But I've had a bad feeling for months, and I think the Universal Laws of Bad Shit are going to poleaxe us any moment. So be nice—for once in your life—and let me glare, okay? You can riff if you want.”
"Remus is in Romania at the moment. But he was present when Professor Snape was rescued from the dungeons of Malfoy Manor. It was Remus that opened the cell door and told Severus that he was free. In response to this news, Severus…"
The ex-Sue was visibly disappointed. “You're going to pout?”
“Call it what you like. Personally, I consider it therapy.”
“I thought therapy was that thing with the straw targets, the M-16, and the little clicky—”
Suicide shook his head. “No, that's controlled demolitions. Or fun. Depends on which Psych Department doc you find under the desk.”
"Headmaster!" Severus gasped cutting him off. "I did not recognize him! You know that I was delirious at the time!" His eyes begged Dumbledore not to make him relive that humiliation.
After a moment's silence, Diocletian turned and looked back through the doorway to the Wizengamot. The Sueniverse, in face of the hideous impossibility about to be perpetrated, had forced Snape to revert to human (sort of) form; he was visibly trembling about something, and a quick glance at the Words confirmed what. Quick as possible, she dropped her bag on the floor and began rummaging through it frantically. Suicide, having returned to his glaring, stopped once more and looked at her curiously.
“Dio—what the hell?”
"Yes, Severus," The old man said gently, ignoring his silent plea. "You were quite delirious when you crawled over to him on your hands and knees and tried to perform oral sex on him."
Her hands touched the metal casing a second too late. There was an ear-piercing wail of agony from the CAD, a shower of sparks, and a grinding noise. Diocletian jerked backwards just in time; another fizz of sparks, and the handheld computer exploded quite spectacularly. There was no disguising it; the entire Wizengamot turned to stare at the two servants, who had appeared out of thin air and were now cursing and stamping on the remains of a burning satchel.
“Ohshit!” Suicide yelped. Grabbing his partner by the back of her robes, he scrambled backwards and hauled them both out into the corridor, slamming the door behind them. The two agents pelted down the hall towards the golden lift, Suicide practically dragging Diocletian, who shouted and tried to twist out of his grip. The Scythian didn't put her down until they were safely in the lift.
“My pack—” Diocletian began.
“Leave it. There's fifty experienced wizards in that room, and we can't do this mission if we're Body-Bound. I don't know what the Flowers do to agents who are captured by the canons, and I don't want to find out. My salary's already suspended for the next thirty years.” Suicide leaned against the wall and rummaged through his own pack. Finding his CAD, he checked to be sure it was still deactivated, then took a piece of duct tape and secured the switch in the Off position. “There could be some cultural contamination, so we'll have to go back later and pick up the remnants. Check the Words, would you?”
Diocletian reflexively winced as she stared up at the ceiling of the lift. Her eyes unfocused, and the Words were there.
"Professor Snape's female orifice did have some bruising, Albus. There were teeth marks on his, well, breasts also." Noted the magistrate uncomfortably looking at the report. His conscience was a rather tired old thing, which had been ignored for the 'greater good' many times, but it was still there.
“Ouuugh . . . “
Her partner handed her an economy-sized bottle of the white medicine, and Diocletian swallowed three tablets. Sweat was beading on her forehead. “I don't know if we can do this, Suicide,” she groaned. “I just came back to the frontiers of relative sanity. I don't want to go batshit all over again. I don't even like Mister Rogers.”
“No need to tell me,” the Scythian said matter-of-factly. Now that they were away from the scene itself, his eyes had stopped twitching. “Look, last time I did a Hogwarts mission, we stayed in the Room of Requirement. How about we portal ahead, pick up the charges at the wedding night scene, and then go get some sleep?”
“That would be nice.” Diocletian looked up at the Words. “Okay . . . Snape's defense crumples like Jack Harkness's vow of chastity, and he has to consent to being 'bonded' to Dumbledore. The marriage—'scuse me, bonding—takes place immediately, and they Floo back to Hogwarts. Dumbledore acts like a total pervert—” the noise of grinding teeth could be heard from the other side of the lift “—and has his way with Snape, in graphic detail. I think we can skip most of that.”
“It's the bonding that worries me,” Suicide said in a forcibly calm voice. “Doesn't the wizard world marry like everybody else? Fleur and Bill seem to be doing a standard marriage, talking about bridesmaids and cake and junk. So why are Dumbledore and Snape 'bonding'?”
Diocletian shrugged. “Bets the author's a Lestat fan,” she said. “Either that, or she was projecting her own horny rape fantasies onto JKR's characters and thought that bonding sounded more 'hawt'.”
“I'll take 'stating the obvious' for $200, Alex.”
“I'm so gonna smack you.”
“'Doctor Who stolen quotes' for $400.”
Diocletian grinned as the lift jerked to a halt. “Well, then. Once more into the badfic?”
“Further up and further in, Dio,” Suicide responded. His sharklike smile didn't reach his eyes.
“Don't give Rapist!Dumbledore any more ideas.”
* * *
"Would you like a lemon drop, my child?" Dumbledore asked gently, he was holding up the little silver candy dish from his desk, looking at him affectionately.
Two House-Elves, one darker than usual and scarred like a piece of roadkill, tumbled through a small portal into Dumbledore's office. Both were wearing tea towel togas with a cactus crest printed on them, and the unscarred one clutched a human-sized notebook in both arms.
“He's in character,” Diocletian sighed, hugging the notebook as she watched Dumbledore. “For one brief, shining moment, he's in character. Canon analysis device, thou didst not die in vain.”
“Pencil at the ready, Dio. We're getting into the rape any minute now.”
“A woman's work is never done,” the ex-Sue muttered as she reached for the long pencil. The two of them watched in silence as Snape panicked and made a dash for the door, but the knob refused to budge. Evil!Dumbledore calmly reminded Snape that he was his “bond mate,” which caused Snape to shout angrily.
"Choice! You call this a choice? Either be bonded with you or face life as an inmate of St. Mungo's? This was the lesser of two evils." Snape glared at the older wizard.
"I do not think that I like being called a 'lesser' evil, Severus." The old man's eye had completely lost their sparkle.
Both House-Agents looked nervously at Suicide's pack, but the CAD had not managed to flip itself on and there were no explosions. They would have appreciated the distraction, though, as Evil!Dumbledore corrected Snape's earlier outburst—"When you were being a smart-ass to the council, my boy - you said I was going to forcefully insert my member into your anterior excretory cavity. You forget, I had already forcible inserted my member into the anterior cavity. That's your pussy, by the way."
“Sweet Xerxes on a stick. This hurts.” Suicide took the bottle of Bleeprin back from Diocletian and snarfed half a dozen pills at once. Snape made another escape attempt, and Evil!Dumbledore played hurt, demanding to know what was going on.
"I will not stay here!" The younger man yelled louder then necessary.
"Yes, you will, Severus." The voice was frighteningly calm. "You will come with me to the bedroom and our marriage will be consummated now."
“Suicide, do we have to—” Diocletian began.
“Yep.” Her partner's bulbous eyes were focused grimly on the scene. “Rapefic, sexfic, pr0nfic—the charges are in the sex scenes. We need to at least get some of them. Speaking of which, charge for making Dumbledore an evil rapist.”
“We've already got 'making Dumbledore a lustful old letch'.”
“Not the same thing.”
“Well, I'm not writing it again and again. I'd run out of pencil before we ran out of charges.” She put a little check mark next to the previous charge. “How's that?”
“Chances are, you're still going to run out of pencil.” Suicide winced. “Domestic violence coming up—”
"I would prefer not to have to resort to such threats, but I will not be denied. Now get that lovely little arse of yours into the bedroom."
"Damn it, Albus, how can you expect me to do this? To let you or anyone else touch me! First the fucking Death Eaters took turns with me for days at a time; hardly a month ago you raped me! I…"
Severus Snape was sprawled on the floor before he knew what had happened. He stared wide-eyed at Dumbledore as the pain flared and blood flowed from his split lip. The old wizard had struck with the speed of a striking snake. Snape had not even seen the blow coming.
Diocletian scribbled another check mark, the tip of the pencil nearly biting through the paper. Suicide was starting to develop an eyetwitch again.
A cowed Snape scuttled into the bedroom, followed by the Dumbledore replacement. With great reluctance, the agents followed. Diocletian recorded another charge as Snape decided resistance was futile, making both PPCers wince at the plaintive, helpless tone of the angstologue. The ceiling was beginning to change color as purple oozed out of the Words.
"Yes, Albus, please take me." He almost choked on the words as Dumbledore's finger traced his lips. Severus opened his mouth, allowing the slightly bloody finger to enter. He closed his eyes and sucked on it, delicately swirling his tongue.
Suicide began singing, rather off-key. “She tied you to a kitchen chair, she broke your throne, she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the hallelujah . . . “
“Hey, isn't that from Shrek?”
“Maybe. Hallelujah, hallelujah . . . “
“Is that a song or a plea for mercy?”
“Which one do you think?”
“Plea for mercy.”
Next came a description of the bedroom—the bed was soft, fluffy looking, piled high with numerous warm plush quilts. Most of these were in the Gryffindor house colors of red and gold. One even had the Gryffindor lion on it.
“Oooh,” Diocletian whispered, looking at the masses of red-and-gold quilts. “Think we can steal those?”
“Not after what they're gonna do,” Suicide commented. Diocletian winced and made a face, pawing at the air as if she was trying to swat a fly, and looked longingly at the Bleeprin bottle. Suicide shook his head and mouthed 'we'll need it' at her, making her pout.
Now the squick began in earnest. Evil!Dumbledore pulled open Snape's robes and began to fondle and grope him, unwrapping the bandages that the Stu had used to keep his breasts flat.
He kissed his frightened new plaything on the lips, pushing his tongue in, plundering his sweet mouth. He licked and nibbled the split bottom lip, tasting blood. Then he moved sensually down the slender form, kissing his neck, a lick over the collarbone, down his chest. Hungrily he licked a nipple.
Merlin he loved a nice pair of tits!
There was a smell of burnt paper, and the outside of Suicide's pack began to turn black as his entire stash of litmus strips fried instantaneously. Both agents shuddered and turned their backs on the nauseating scene. Diocletian put down another check mark, then another as Evil!Dumbledore began . . . well . . .
'You will not deny me, Severus.' He squeezed the limp organ, though this only garnered a grunt but no arousal.
“Hello, Clarice,” Suicide mimicked. Diocletian elbowed him.
Evil!Dumbledore got some response from the possessed Snape after he ate something else, and not with fava beans or a big Amarone. As there was no Amarone, the agents shared out a pitcher of Three Wise Guys (Bleepsky, Bleequila, and Bleeprum, garnished with powdered Logicillin and shaken in the backpack of an agent banging his or her head against the wall) and shielded their eyes. The ceiling was now dripping urple, and the edges of the world flinched with each movement of the drastically perverted canons.
“Making Dumbledore a lustful—” Suicide began.
Diocletian checked it off. “Having Snape get off on what is essentially rape.”
“Anal sex, no lube.”
“Having the other Slytherins train young Snape to be a bitch.”
“Dumbledore getting off on images of—screw it. Three more check marks, easy.”
“Make it four. He just stroked Snape's prostate.”
“That is not medically advisable.”
“'Erect and weeping cock.' Check it out, even his genitals are upset by this.”
“Maybe they don't appreciate being enhanced to horse size. Oh, ow. Making Dumbledore have the body of a Mr. Universe contestant.”
“Gotta say, though. At least Ravenkiss didn't say anything about 'engorgio'.”
"I have not yet begun to debauch!"
And with that, the chapter ended. Shattered, stunned, disgusted, disturbed, and with five pages of charge list and seventeen check marks, the agents slunk off.