Chapter 1: Attic Cleaning
The heat in the Burrow’s attic was a solid, woolen thing, thick with the smell of old wood, damp wool, and the ghosts of a hundred forgotten Sundays. Dust motes swam in the thin blades of light cutting through the warped dormer window. Molly Weasley wiped a forearm across her sweaty brow, leaving a grey streak. This was a foolish errand. Arthur wouldn’t miss a box of dusty old Defence texts, not really, but the order from Hogwarts had specified “outdated editions,” and the Hogwarts library fund was having a drive. Every little bit helped.
She heaved a crate labeled “F&G Experiments – DO NOT OPEN” aside with a grunt. Her fingers brushed against something cold and smooth, tucked behind a broken vanish cabinet.
A house-elf.
He was curled in on himself, a knot of wrinkled skin and dirty pillowcase, sleeping in a nest of shredded newspaper. Kreacher. She hadn’t seen him in months, not since Harry had mentioned the elf was mostly living at Grimmauld Place again. What was he doing here?
He stirred, his large, bat-like ears twitching. Bleary, bloodshot eyes opened, swimming with confusion before settling on her. They hardened instantly.
“The blood-traitor Weasley matron,” he croaked, his voice like gravel shifting in a tin. “Disturbing Kreacher’s rest. Kreacher was dreaming of his mistress.” He began to pull himself upright, a series of painful-looking unfolds.
Then Molly saw it.
The pillowcase he wore was torn along one side, gaping open. And there, hanging between his spindly legs, was an appendage of such grotesque, impossible proportion that her mind simply refused to process it at first. It wasn’t arousal. It was just… there. A heavy, veined weight of flesh, utterly at odds with his frail, hunched frame. It defied anatomy, defied sense. The two large testicles beneath it looked painful, like overripe fruit ready to split.
A hot, sudden flush climbed Molly’s neck. She’d borne seven children. She was no stranger to the male form, in its practical, familiar utility. This was something else. Something from a medieval woodcut of demons. She should look away. She should utter a firm “good day” and march back downstairs to her knitting and her stew.
She didn’t.
Kreacher followed her gaze. A strange, rusty sound escaped him—not a laugh, but a dry hack of bitter triumph. “Kreacher disgusts the pure-blooded witch,” he wheezed. “Kreacher’s shame. His burden. A curse from the old families, for his failures.” He made no move to cover himself. His bulbous eyes watched her with a kind of vicious curiosity. “Does the Weasley woman want to see more of the Black family’s dirty secrets?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Molly said, but her voice was airless, thin. The attic felt smaller, the air hotter. Her heart thumped a strange, irregular rhythm against her ribs. It was horrifying. It was fascinating. It was the most alien thing she’d ever seen, and a part of her, a part she had buried under years of wool sweaters and motherly concern, was violently, shamefully awake.
He took a shuffling step forward, the weight between his legs swaying. “Kreacher is used to the stares. The disgust. Mistress said it was a mark of his… potency. A Black legacy even in their servants.” The words were spat, but there was a perverse pride there too. “She told Kreacher it was a weapon. A truth too ugly for polite witches to bear.”
Molly’s mouth was dry. The dusty silence of the attic pressed in on her, a audience of dead things and old memories. This was madness. This was revolting.
“Why are you here?” she managed, grasping for normalcy.
“The cloak,” he muttered, eyes drifting to a moth-eaten velvet cloak draped over a trunk. “Master Regulus’s cloak. It smells of him still. Kreacher comes to remember.” His gaze snapped back to her, sharp and challenging. “The Weasley woman is not remembering. She is looking.”
She was. She couldn’t stop. It was a car crash. A train wreck. A foundational reordering of what she knew. Curiosity, thick and tar-like, coiled in her gut, mixing with the heat of shame. Her own life, so orderly, so known, felt suddenly like a pale watercolor. This was a splash of violent, vulgar oil paint.
“Does it…” she heard herself whisper, then clenched her teeth. Stop.
Kreacher’s lips peeled back in a grimace that might have been a smile. “Does it what? Function? Oh, yes. A curse must have a purpose.” He inched closer. The scent of him reached her—old tea, mildew, and something deeply, musky animal. “Would the Weasley woman like proof?”
This was the moment to leave. To reclaim her sense, her dignity. To be Molly Weasley, mother, wife, pillar of something wholesome.
Instead, a lifetime of being only Molly Weasley screamed in protest. A lifetime of being defined solely by others’ needs. Here was something that asked nothing of her but her shock. Her revulsion. Her… attention.
Her hand, of its own volition, rose from her side. It hung in the dusty space between them, trembling slightly.
Kreacher went very still. His breath hitched. The bitter pride in his eyes flickered, replaced by something ancient and hungry and just as shocked as she was.
Slowly, giving her every chance to pull back, he leaned his brittle body forward.
The tips of her fingers made contact.
The skin was unexpectedly soft, like old velvet stretched over stone. The heat of it was a shock, radiating up her arm. It was heavy, solid, a fact of flesh and blood that mocked all her quiet fantasies. This was no whispered romance. This was crude, undeniable reality.
SHE TOUCHES IT.
The contact was electric. A jolt shot up her arm, a static shock of the utterly forbidden. Her fingers, calloused from years of cooking and cleaning, traced the thick, roping vein along the side. It throbbed under her touch, a slow, powerful pulse.
IT WAS HOT, HARD, AND HUGE. SHE HELD IT IN HER HAND AND LOOKED AT IT IN AWE.
The sheer scale of it, the weight, the impossible reality of it in her grasp, short-circuited something in her brain. This wasn't desire. It was something darker, more primal. A conquest. An understanding. Her breath came in short, sharp puffs, stirring the dust at their feet.
Kreacher made a sound, a choked gurgle deep in his throat. His knobby knees trembled. "The Weasley witch… defiles herself," he whispered, but there was no conviction in it, only a desperate, awe-struck hope.
"Shut up," Molly breathed, her voice low and rough, a tone she used to scald pots, not to talk to house-elves. Her other hand came up, cupping the heavy fullness beneath, feeling the dense, warm weight of him. A strangled gasp escaped his cracked lips. His head lolled back, thumping against a wooden beam.
She looked from the obscene flesh in her hands to his face, contorted in something between agony and ecstasy. This was power. A terrible, reversed power. He was bound to serve, but in this, he was the master, and she was the novice, completely out of her depth and thrilling to it.
"Your mistress," Molly said, her thumb moving in a slow, experimental circle. "Did she ever…?"
"Never!" Kreacher cried, his body jerking. "Mistress was pure! She would have burned Kreacher for this! She would have cursed his flesh from his bones!" Yet he pushed his hips forward, a minute, begging thrust into her hands.
The hypocrisy of it, the sheer, twisted history of it, fueled her. Molly, always so sure of right and wrong, of clean and dirty, found herself in a vast grey space. Her grip tightened. "But you thought about it, didn'tt you? Her seeing this. Her being… impressed."
Kreacher moaned, a sound of pure wretchedness. His hands, with their long nails, dug into the rotten wood of the trunk beside him. "Kreacher is a wicked elf… a filthy creature…"
"Tell me," she commanded, and it was her mother-voice, the one that brooked no argument, but warped into something new.
"The witch is right," he sobbed, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on his face. "Kreacher is wicked. He dreamed. He dreamed of showing Mistress his burden, his curse, and having her… having her not look away."
Molly leaned closer. The musky, animal scent of him was overwhelming. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. She could feel the heat of her own body, a pooling, forgotten warmth, answering the heat in her hands.
The acknowledgement hung between them, thick as the attic dust. It wasn't desire that coiled in Molly’s stomach, but a terrible, liberating recognition. Two secrets meeting in the dark. His, swinging grotesquely in the open. Hers, a locked box deep inside, now springing open.
His tears were real. The shame was real. And it called to a shame in her, one she’d never named. The shame of feeling unseen, even in a house full of love. The shame of wondering, sometimes, what other hands might feel like. Not Arthur’s. Others. Different.
“Look at me,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, yet it echoed off the low rafters.
Kreacher’s weeping eyes slid down to hers. The defiance was gone, burned away by confession. Now he just looked ancient, and terrified, and waiting.
Slowly, deliberately, she released her grip. Her hands felt cold without his heat. The worn floorboards were hard and gritty against her knees. A shudder ran through her, part chill, part something else entirely. She heard his sharp, inward gasp, a sound of pure disbelief.
SHE KNEELED BEFORE HIM.
The perspective shifted violently. From above, he had been a pitiable, strange thing. From here, he was a monolith. The dusty hem of his pillowcase. The knobby, pale bones of his knees. And rising like some twisted idol, the massive, veined evidence of his curse. Her breath hitched. This was worship of the darkest, most honest kind. No lies. No pretense of beauty. Just a terrible, fascinating truth.
Just a terrible, fascinating truth.
The silence in the attic was absolute now, a held breath. Dust settled in the stripes of light between them. Molly looked up the length of him, her eyes wide, her lips parted slightly. She could smell him, that musky, animal scent, mixed with attic decay.
Kreacher stared down, his chest heaving. The bitterness in his eyes had melted into something else—a raw, stunned panic. He had confessed. She had knelt. The script of their worlds had been torn up.
“Witch,” he croaked, the word a question, an accusation.
Her hands, resting on her thighs, curled into the fabric of her skirt. She didn’t speak. A flush burned across her chest, visible above her neckline. This was it. The line. To cross it was to leave Molly Weasley behind in the dust below.
He took a shuffling, hesitant half-step closer. The movement made his heavy flesh sway. It brushed against her forehead, a whisper of heat.
She flinched. But she didn’t pull back.
Encouraged, trembling, he lifted the weight with one gnarled hand. His expression was one of grotesque concentration, like handling a dangerous and unfamiliar artifact. His bulbous eyes were fixed on her face, watching for disgust, for the spell that would surely now strike him down.
He guided himself forward, the soft, veliny head nudging against the bridge of her nose, then sliding down to the curve of her mouth. Her lips were sealed, pressed into a thin line. She could feel the heat, the alien softness of the skin, the formidable solidity beneath.
A low whimper escaped him. “Kreacher is… Kreacher is…”
He moved his hand away, leaving the massive weight supported only by her face. For a second, it just rested there, a impossible intimacy. Then, with a sudden, convulsive jerk of his hips, he slapped his cock on her lips.
The impact was a soft, shocking slap of heat and skin. It didn't hurt. It just... happened. The world narrowed to the press of him against her mouth, the salt-and-musk taste of skin, the overwhelming sense of scale. Her eyes, wide open, stared at the veined landscape before her, cross-eyed.
Her eyes, wide open, stared at the veined landscape before her, cross-eyed. The world was this heat, this smell, this impossible weight. Her mind had emptied into a white static. There was no thought, only a stunned, animal awareness.
A thick, salty bead of moisture welled from the tip and traced a path over her top lip.
“Molly?”
The voice was muffled, distant, a sound from another galaxy. It meant nothing.
“Molly, love? Are you up in the attic?”
Arthur’s voice. Cheerful, ordinary, floating up the stairwell through the floorboards.
The static in her head exploded into a screaming alarm. Every nerve ending fired at once. She jerked back as if scalded, her skull connecting with the edge of the vanish cabinet with a solid thunk. Pain, bright and sharp, lanced through the fog.
“Ye—“
Molly began to say, a reflexive, pathetic attempt at an answer to her husband’s call, to manufacture normalcy from the madness.
Then Kreacher stuck his cock in her open mouth.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t deliberate. It was a frantic, jerking motion, a convulsion of panic from the elf as Arthur’s voice shattered their forbidden space. The soft head bumped hard against her teeth, and the shocking, solid heat filled her mouth, silky skin and iron weight, stifling her gasp, her scream, her very breath.
She gagged instinctively, her body seizing. The taste flooded her senses—salty, musky, profoundly animal, mixed with the dust of the attic. Her eyes watered. Her mind, for one second, was nothing but white noise and the overwhelming fact of him.
“Molly? You up there? Ron’s left his Chudley Cannons playbook, thinks it might be in a box…”
Arthur’s voice was closer now, feet on the stairs below, the creak of the lower ladder.
Kreacher froze, his entire body rigid. His bulbous eyes were wide with terror, locked on the attic hatch. The bitter, proud elf was gone, replaced by pure, primitive fear. He was still inside her mouth.
Molly’s hands flew up, not to push him away, but to grip his bony hips, her fingers digging into the scarce flesh. It was a signal, a desperate command for stillness. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Her own panic was a cold engine in her chest, but it was suddenly secondary to the logistics of discovery.
A thick, involuntary swallow moved her throat. The action brushed her tongue against him.
Kreacher shuddered, a tremor that ran through his thin frame and into hers. A low, stifled moan leaked from his nose. He looked down at her, at her wide, watering eyes staring up from her knees, her mouth stretched around him. His terror morphed, just for a flash, into something dizzyingly powerful. He saw his own monstrous reflection in her gaze, and it was not disgust he saw, but a wild, shared complicity.
With a wet, soft pop, she pulled back, her jaw aching. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to him for a second before snapping. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the taste embedded in her.
Footsteps on the ladder now, the hatch groaning as weight pressed against it from below.
“YES, DEAR, I’M UP HERE.”
Her voice was too bright, a brittle bell in the thick air. She cleared her throat, eyes locked with Kreacher’s. He was trembling, a leaf in a storm, his monstrous flesh already softening slightly in the shock of imminent discovery.
“I’M GONNA BE A WHILE.”
She said it slowly, each word a deliberate nail sealing a coffin. Her hand, moving as if independent of the woman forcing this calm tone, reached out. Her fingers curled around him again, feeling him jump at her touch. She squeezed, a firm, possessive pressure. A reminder. You are mine in this. You are not to move.
“DON’T WAIT FOR ME, LOVE.”
Silence from below. Then, the blessed sound of retreating footsteps, the groan of the ladder easing. “Right you are! Soup’s on the hob when you’re ready!”
The footsteps faded. The ordinary world of soup and husbands and playbooks receded, leaving only the attic and its two conspirators, suspended in sin.
The breath Kreacher had been holding escaped in a ragged, wet sob. His legs buckled, but Molly’s grip on him held him upright. She guided him back, just two steps, until his back met the solid, reassuring bulk of the vanished cabinet. He slumped against it, his chest heaving.
Molly didn’t let go. The panic that had frozen her was melting, replaced by a different heat. A furious, focused intent. He had put himself in her mouth. The violation had been mutual, an animal act of shared terror. Now, the fear was gone, and only the act remained, hanging between them like a challenge.
She leaned forward, her eyes on his. Her other hand came up to cradle the heavy sac beneath, weighing it in her palm. He whimpered, a high, pitiful sound.
“Quiet,” she murmured, her voice low and rough. It wasn’t a request.
THEN SHE LICKED THE TIP OF KREACHER’S COCK.
A flat, broad stroke of her tongue, collecting the bead of moisture that had gathered anew. Salt and skin and something uniquely, fundamentally him. She held his gaze as she did it, watching the confusion and awe and horror war in his watery eyes. She was claiming the taste, mastering it.
He made a choked noise, his head thudding back against the wood. “Mistress… Weasley…”
“Not mistress,” she corrected, her breath hot against him. She licked again, a slower, more deliberate exploration of the silky head. “Just Molly. Here, now. And you’re just Kreacher. Not a Black elf. Not a cursed thing. Just this.”
Her mouth opened, and she took him in again, but this time it was her choice. Her tempo. She didn’t try to take his impossible length, just the head, letting her tongue swirl and press, learning the texture, the give and take. It was clinical and obscenely intimate at the same time. She was cataloging him. Memorizing him.
His hands fluttered at his sides, claws scraping the wood. He didn’t know what to do with them. Touching her head felt like a transgression too far, even now. So he gripped his own ragged pillowcase, twisting the fabric, his knuckles white.
Molly worked him with a pragmatic intensity, the same focus she used to debone a chicken or scrub a stubborn pot. In, out. The slide of her lips. The soft, wet sounds that seemed deafening in the silent attic. He began to harden again, fully, the sheer mass of him becoming a more formidable presence in her mouth. A low, continuous groan was vibrating in his chest, a rusty engine turning over.
She felt a sudden, powerful surge of control. This thing that had stunned her, this weapon of a pure-blood legacy, was responding to her. To Molly Prewett, who used coupons and worried about her sons and whose wildest secret had been a fleeting glance at a wizard in a gardening catalogue. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking gently, and his whole body arched, his feet leaving the floor for a second.
“The witch… the witch will make Kreacher… Kreacher cannot…” he babbled, a chant of impending ruin.
She pulled off with a slick sound. A string of saliva broke and landed on her apron. “You can,” she stated, her voice husky. “You will. And you’ll look at me while you do.”
Her hands went to the clasp of her own robes. The practical, floral-patterned wrap came undone with a simple tug. She shrugged it off, letting it puddle on the dusty floor. Then her cardigan. She sat back on her heels, wearing only a simple cotton blouse and skirt, her hair coming loose from its bun, her face flushed. She was profoundly, ordinarily Molly, kneeling in the dust before a creature of nightmare.
The contrast was his undoing.
She took him back into her mouth, deeper this time, challenging her own gag reflex, embracing the slight burn in her jaw. Her hands stroked the length of him she couldn’t accommodate, pumping in time with her mouth. She looked up, her eyes watering, and found his. He was staring down, mesmerized, his mouth hanging open, showing yellowed teeth.
“Kreacher is… Kreacher is…”
His chant dissolved into a sharp, strangled cry. His bony fingers finally tangled in her hair, not guiding, just clutching, holding on as if she were a cliff edge. His hips stuttered, pushing forward in tiny, helpless jerks.
She tasted the change before the climax, a bitter, metallic prelude. She held fast, her hands still moving. His cry broke, shattering into a series of ragged, sobbing gasps as he pulsed into her mouth. It was less an orgasm than a seizure, a violent expulsion of decades of bitterness and servitude and lonely, twisted pride. He shook through it, his legs giving way completely, sliding down the cabinet until he was sitting on the floor, pulling her with him.
Molly took it, swallowing mechanically, the act itself more important than the taste. It was the seal. The proof. When the tremors subsided, she slowly pulled away, wiping her lips with her fingers. She sat beside him, their shoulders not touching, both of them staring at the opposite wall, breathing the same dusty, spent air.