Author/Artist: Ravenna C. Tan
Prompt: 32. “When you think night and day and every moment only of pleasing me, things will be very easy for you.”
Prompt submitted by: scarletladyy in the Harry_Submits Fest on Livejournal
Word Count: 10,109
Warning(s) (Highlight to view): *Scarletladyy said “I absolutely adore dark!fics and I’d prefer this to be non-con.” This is about equal in darkness as my last Lucius/Harry. Sexualized torture. Mind games.*
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thanks to my beta-readers, Slashpervert and Amanuensis! Postwar, pre-epilogue, canon-compliant.
Summary: Three years after the end of the war, Lucius Malfoy kidnaps Harry. He keeps him captive and uses and abuses him. Harry is desperate to escape, but does Malfoy have some motive for kidnapping the savior of the Wizarding World besides perverse revenge?
The Harry Submits fest reveal has taken place! So now you can all tell I’m the one who wrote this twisted, hot, wrong Harry/Lucius. *grin*
Comment here or visit the original fest post!
On Livejournal: http://harry-submits.livejournal.com/140758.html
I have always hated him. I have always wanted him. I remind myself of these things every time I touch him, every time I allow my mouth to touch his shivering flesh or his heated brow, every time I am careless with a tooth and taste the coppery tang of his tainted blood, every time I sully myself with my cock up his arse. His screams are purifying. I tell myself this when I am caught in the throes of passion, helpless to resist to urge to violate him. He is the slave; I am the master, but I am no less bound. He is the captive, I am the captor, but we are both trapped. And the more he resists, the stronger my urges grow.
Potter stirs from sleep. He is tangled in the bedsheet, as if even in slumber he cannot stop struggling against his bonds. He is naked but for the bracelets at his wrists and the twists of muslin around him. He sits up abruptly, gracelessly, and I wonder again at the unfathomable magic that stirs my loins at that sight. I always preferred my men well-groomed, perfumed, and sleek as dancers. Yet the sight of this ungainly creature, hair askew, myopic eyes blinking, only inflames me more. I want to flatten him into the bed and rut until my cock is in him and tear at him mercilessly until I am spent.
If I should choose to give in that urge, it would not be the first time. Which is no doubt why the instant he wakes enough to realize where he is, he swallows and a flicker of fear crosses his eyes before they narrow again.
He prefers waking in the dungeon. He prefers when I try to break him with whips and needles and fire. He loves to fight. It is what he was bred for, like a war stallion.
Very well. Perhaps it is not such a mystery why I desire him so. My cock throbs in a most undignified way under my robes as I cross my legs, maintaining as cool an appearance as I can. “Lord of Ice” they used to call me in the Slytherin common room. I lift the teacup to my lips, but never take my eyes from him.
He swallows again, wary, nervous. Wondering what the rules of the game will be today and whether he can score even a pyrrhic victory. Oh yes, I see all this in his eyes. He is so very easy to read. One cannot even call it Legilimency; I need not see into his mind, when it is all written on his face! He knows he will lose. He knows I will have him in whatever way I wish. So he makes up his own rules in his head to convince himself he still has some measure of control, some way to win.
I know this mindset well enough myself; it is how I survived months (oh admit it, years) of humiliation and abuse at the hands of the Dark Lord. I would set achievable goals. If I make it through today without hearing Draco scream, I will have won. If I make it through this dinner without either Narcissa or myself being put on display, I will have won. If I do not cry out when…
You understand. So, yes, I see these bargains being made in Potter’s head. It makes the game all the more fun for me, as well, I must admit. I should have broken him long ago. I should have crushed him. But it gratifies me so deeply to bend and twist his will rather than breaking it. I am a weak man and I know it. But if I cannot indulge my vices now, when doing so is for the good of the world, then when can I?
“You have a choice to make, Potter,” I say, and he flinches slightly at the word “choice” as if it were the crack of a whip and not a nearly whispered word. I slip my wand from my sleeve and conjure two phalluses. They settle at the foot of the large bed where he can see them easily.
One phallus is tapered marble, large as a centaur’s but smooth and graceful, an objet d’art. The other is iron, not large at all as these things go–it is smaller than I am–but rough-edged, square-knobbed, and flaking with rust.
He stays silent. That much he has learnt.
“Your choice is either to amuse me with the marble one, fuck yourself with it, make yourself come, or I will amuse myself by forcing you to take the other.”
He disappoints me for a moment when what I see in his eyes is fatigue rather than fire. That will not do. Resignation is not unexpected, but resignation is not surrender.
Perhaps it is time I told him why I hold him here. Perhaps it is time I enlisted his help.
No. Not today. Not when his skin is still warm from sleep and his belly quivers slightly as he looks at the choice before him.
He runs a finger along the marble one, then the iron one and its dragon-scale pattern, as if considering. My own length jumps inside my trousers as if his fingers were touching it.
The fatigue is there in his voice. “Why are we doing this, Malfoy?”
“It’s not your place to question.”
“No, seriously, I know you get off on it. That much is obvious, and I figure it’s me because, well, it’s me.” He actually blushes as he says this, as if even after all this time, he finds his fame an embarrassment. “But–”
“Choose,” I say, as I stand, and I am gratified that he breaks off and actually looks scared. I ponder whether his question is merely a delaying tactic or if he truly is beginning to suspect that there is more to this than merely Lucius Malfoy is a criminal pervert. He was nearly an Auror when I took him, after all.
“Choose,” I insist. All other issues are pushed aside as my need to dominate him dominates me.
He drops his gaze to the implements on the bed and runs his hand along the marble one again. When he looks up again, though, the fire has been rekindled. “Fuck you, Malfoy. If you want me, come and get me.”
Ah, those words are like a spell, a charm that makes me move with such speed, shedding my outer robe and covering his body with mine, upon him before he can even slip from the bed. (He has already tried to escape the room many times and failed, but I doubt that means he will cease trying.) He twists and squirms under me, a ball of snarling heat that I must conquer. Some days I conquer him with strength, others with guile, some with magic, sometimes all three. Today I do it with sheer will. Eventually I get my hand on the back of his neck, forcing him face down into the pillows, my knees between his, spreading him wide for me.
His skin is pristine. I am always careful to heal him afterward. The blank canvas is so much more beautiful to paint upon the next time.
I force him open with my fingers, not because I have any pretense of stretching or preparing him for the phallus, but because I love the visceral violation. He jerks as if in pain as one long finger slides into him and I know the pain is purely psychological, not physical. After all I’ve done to him in the months he has been my captive, even this simple invasion is still powerful.
I speak the spell that locks his bracelets together. Useful things, Goblin-made, they ensure if he touches my wand that it gives no response and that I can control his hands whenever I wish. Else he would likely have succeeded in escaping many times over.
“Shall I be merciful and coat the iron phallus with something to ease the way?” I ask.
His laugh is bitter. “Do you truly fancy yourself merciful or is that just a con?”
I grin as I move my fingers inside him. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s only too likely that ‘something to ease the way’ will be my own blood or spunk,” Potter says.
I laugh. “You think you can predict me? Oh no, Potter, I have something better in mind.” I charm an oily slickness onto the thing and it leaves a spreading, reddish stain on the bedclothes.
I wear a glove as I work it into him, none too gently of course. He feels the effects of the oil as soon as it touches him, the burning at his anus, but he does not anticipate how painful it will be inside him. I force it in.
His scream is so satisfying I nearly come at the sound.
When the scream ends, he is panting and banging his head against his clenched fists, unable to escape the intensity of the burning sensation that now extends inside his gut. I reach under him to find the potion’s other effect is also in full glory; he is as erect as Gryffindor tower, and leaking clear fluid as freely as a drooling troll. I stroke him and he screams again–the stroke is a sensuous one, but the intensity of all sensation at this moment makes him scream anyway.
I fuck him with the iron phallus for several minutes, until he is good and raw, then I Vanish it. He collapses, quivering and still suffering the internal fire, tears on his cheeks though he never sobs. He tries to look at me through his wet lashes.
“Mercy,” I say. “Is it in the eye of the beholder?” I levitate the marble phallus between us and then Summon a vial from the side table. I pour the pearlescent contents liberally over the stone cock and then free his hands. I levitate it toward him and he grasps it reflexively.
“The potion you see here is the antidote for the internal fire,” I say. “The only way to alleviate the pain you feel is to bring the two into contact. I would say you’ll need to work it fairly deep. Hm, and by now you may be feeling the effects in your own phallic channel. Yes, you’ll have to work it in quite deep, in good quantity, and then ejaculate in order to cleanse the channel.”
The look in his eye is wonderfully murderous as he shifts his position, onto his back, and tentatively rubs the head of the sleek marble against his ravaged arsehole. I see the moment of realization as the pain lessens there and he sees I have not lied, and then his look darkens even further as he realizes I have gotten him to perform both sides of the choice.
He moans helplessly as the phallus slides in, too large to be comfortable after such rudimentary preparation and yet so soothing. He discovers that pumping it in and out soothes still further, and it is not long before his eyes are locked with mine as he fucks himself and pulls on his cock, shivering with the need to come. All pain is gone except for the burn in his organ itself and the cry of ecstasy he gives as he comes, as he gives in, as he gives me everything I asked for, again nearly makes me spend my own seed.
Yet, I hold back. I hold back until he is lying limp, sweat-soaked and weak from exertion, too spent event to pull the phallus free of his own arse. I roll him to the edge of the bed, letting the implement fall where it will, bending him over. I hold him in place now not with magic but with his own inability to resist. I use my thumbs to spread his cheeks and look upon the slick hole that is my due.
My cock plunges in. It was worth the wait.
* * * *
I’ve hated him since the first time I saw him. And that feeling only grew with each meeting, between the way he treated the Weasleys, to the way he treated Dobby, to… I can admit it now… the way he treated his own son. Lucius Malfoy has always been a bully, a bully whose cruel exterior is a shell for the coward hiding inside. I gained a tiny–very tiny–amount of sympathy for him when I realised that the return of Voldemort was certainly the last thing he wanted, but you make your bed, you lie in it.
That tiny amount of sympathy vanished, of course, that day we met in Knockturn Alley. I was nearly done with Auror training, itching to take my exam and get out there on my own, when I made the mistake of looking into some suspicious activity on my own.
As I lie here in Lucius Malfoy’s bed I know how stupid it was. I know how foolish and headstrong and idiotic. I thought I was ready to start real field work. I thought I’d prove it.
I’d walked right into his trap.
It could have been worse, I tell myself. If one of the surviving Lestranges had trapped me, I would be long dead. As long as I am alive, I have hope. I can take anything that Malfoy can dish out. He enjoys hurting me, but he always heals me. He enjoys assaulting me, but I keep telling myself anything that does not kill me makes me stronger. I am no less a man and no less a wizard for having been the sex object of a very sick criminal.
And I will get out of this. I will. Somehow. I’m sure there must be people going mad looking for me for one thing. Ron. Ron knows where I went last. They’ve probably overturned every stone in Knockturn by now.
Not that it’ll do any good. I have no idea where we are. I assume Malfoy Manor, but on the few occasions I’ve been able to try the windows or doors they don’t open. I’m beginning to think they’re not even real. Sometimes I wake up in a dungeon cell, bare rock for walls and just an iron grating separating me from my captor, other times I’m in this bedroom. I realize that they could be the same room, just spelled differently. I never see him enter or leave. He always puts me to sleep before he goes.
This means I have no idea how long I’ve been here. The windows sometimes show sunlight, sometimes night, but I might be sleeping for days or weeks at a time for all I know. He feeds me potions that seem to keep me from needing food or water.
I thought to refuse them at one point, to hunger strike. He “fed” me through the other end, then.
When he first captured me, there was more torture of the standard variety. Whips. Knives. Burning. But as time has passed there has been more and more sex. And, at first, that was all about him getting his rocks off. I thought I understood that.
But now that’s not enough either. Now he’s expecting me to get off, too. If I don’t, then… well, except I always do. Eventually. I know that’s going to fuck me up inside… mentally, I mean. I’m sure I’ll have to see a Healer about it for years after I escape here. Thank goodness Ginny and I are separated right now. We always said we’d try again after she plays professional Quidditch for a while and after I climb the ranks of the Auror corps. I promise myself I won’t be one of those pathetic sods who can’t get over it. She loves me but I won’t ask her to put on a blond wig and spank me to get me off. I won’t have to, because I’ll do whatever it takes to get over this.
Once I get free.
For now, I do whatever I can to stay sane. Except scold myself over how stupid I was. I can’t get past that. It’s my fault I’m here, for going without backup, and I know it.
“Good morning, fuck toy,” he says, though I haven’t opened my eyes yet.
This is a new thing. He stopped calling me “Potter” a few days ago. My eyes are still shut, but his hand finds mine under the covers and he drags it to his cock. My fingers curl reflexively around it. Even limp like this he feels large and my breath stutters a little as he goes hard in my hand.
“Stroke me, fuck toy,” he says. “Do you think I should fuck your arse or your throat this morning?”
I don’t answer, but I lack the will to stop my hand moving. I’m too busy trying to figure him out.
“You’re being taciturn this morning. Fuck toys should be more fun, or at least polite,” he growls. “Say ‘good morning, master.'”
I swallow but say nothing, thinking, Here it comes. Whatever it is.
“You may substitute any other suitable honorific, if you like,” he says.
I shake my head, refusing to even voice my refusal.
His hand is in my hair, pulling me upward. In another moment the head of his cock forces my lips apart and he is so deep in my throat that I cannot breathe.
This is apparently his strategy, as he holds me in place until I am struggling to get free, my whole body a spasm of aborted breath.
“You can breathe when you say it,” he says, and pulls my head up, off his flesh.
I gulp at the air, then, before I know it, his cock is choking me again.
“Not quick enough,” he says. “One might think you were still foolishly trying to defy me.”
This time I black out from lack of air. When I wake, it is with every muscle feeling strained.
He shakes me, his hand still buried in my hair. “I am still waiting.”
This time he just whispers a curse and my throat closes, my own body betraying me, and although I see spots before my eyes, whatever spell he is using to asphyxiate me won’t apparently let me black out completely. The spots, though, I wonder if they mean brain damage, and whether that is something he can or would heal. Fear finally spurs me to claw at him, trying to signal that I’ll do as he asks.
He strings it out a bit longer, then finally releases the spell. I collapse across his legs, stretched out before him in the bed, and what comes out when I can finally speak is this: “Please, master, please don’t do that.”
His chuckle is low and raises the hackles on my neck. “Genuine begging for mercy! And here I thought you didn’t believe I had any. Well, that does please me. However, you still did not follow instructions. How shall I punish you, fuck-slave of mine? Hm?”
If not for the “hm?” at the end, it would have been a rhetorical question. But he nudges me to answer. “H-however you see fit to punish me,” I answer, hoping that’s good enough.
In the mood he is in, it is not. “I plan to fuck you anyway, as that is your function, to be the repository for my lust. And I almost think you enjoy the pain in some purely self-sacrificing way. Gryffindors always think the suffering makes them noble. When will you learn that it does not? Ah, but it is true, isn’t it, that pleasure debases you far more than pain does?”
I’m pretty sure that one was rhetorical. I gasp as I feel the lubrication charm fill me suddenly.
Lucius settles back against the pillows. “Ride me, fuck-slut. Ride me until I coat you inside with my seed.” He pushes me to move and I sit up. He pulls the covers aside and his cock stands up, ruddy and ready.
The twists of metal around my wrists jerk upward and I feel myself pulled as if by an invisible winch overhead until I have no choice but to straddle him. One of his hands steadies his cock as I settle against it, my eyes closed tight.
“It’ll only hurt for a moment, you know,” he says. “If you say something sweet now, I’ll make it so it won’t hurt at all.”
I grit my teeth and shake my head and he thrusts up into me. He’s right, compared to some of the forms of pain he’s put me through, this hardly seems worth complaining over. Except that he is fucking me, that is his fucking cock inside me, moving, inside my body, and oh God, fuck…
My own cock rises as the bracelets jerk me up and drop me down on his shaft. There’s no pain now except the knowledge that I am being violated again. And that my body is growing used to it. I can feel the pressure building up behind my own balls.
And yet I cannot come just from his cock inside, no matter how pleasurable it is. Perhaps he knows this. I don’t know. I open my eyes when I hear a clicking sound, when I feel something brush my thigh.
I jerk when I see what it is, a mechanical spider, pewter and gold, cleverly fashioned to have eight bending legs, each one hairy on the end like a bristle brush. If it were to draw its legs in, it would be no larger than a biggish pocket watch.
However, at this moment, its legs are not in. It crawls determinedly up my cock and then uses two legs to hold around the head. Two more brace it against the glans. It waves at me with one bristly “arm” and then I gasp as it plunges that limb straight down into the slit.
“Any hole of yours is mine for the fucking,” Malfoy says. “No matter how small.”
A whimper escapes me, for this is a pain unlike any I’ve felt before, a pain that speeds me toward completion. I find myself moving up and down upon his cock in time with the thrusts of the little charmed device, caught in the sensation, needing it, wanting it. He begins to come at the same moment I do, thrusting hard into me, his hands on my hips even as my own cock paints streaks of white across his face and belly, leaving the metal spider dripping with it.
His tongue snakes out to lick the come from his cheek and his half-lidded eyes stare into mine.
“When you think night and day and every moment only of pleasing me, things will be very easy for you,” he says.
“Why?” I say. I barely think about what I am saying. “What happens then?”
He laughs. “You’ll have to trust me to find out.”
“There’s not much chance of that.” I hiss as the spider withdraws from my cock, scraping a bit as it does.
“Then you’ll have to wait until I’m ready to tell you.”
Tell me what? The secret to the universe is purple socks? This is just another mind game, isn’t it?
He cleans us both with his wand before I disengage, which means when I do, my body clings to him like it’s trying to keep him inside.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he says, as he applies whatever charm it is that makes me fall asleep. “Contagio servorum nefarium, cum nefarium.”
I literally think about that phrase for weeks, at least in the fleeting times when I am awake. At first I am not sure I hear it right, but I hear him say it twice more, once whispered into my ear as I swallowed his come, and once murmured against the back of my neck as he pumped my arse full. At that point I realize he has said it before, too, often while I’m screaming, so I had never caught the words before.
Latin was something I was supposed to get before Hogwarts, I guess, if I’d had a proper pre-wizarding education. It’s the fact that he says it as he’s coming that I begin to wonder if it’s a specific sort of spell. “Contagio” sounds like contagious, like maybe he’s giving me a disease? “Servorum” sounds like servant. And “nefarium,” well, that sounds like “nefarious.” And cum sounds like, well but even I know that “cum” in Latin is more like “become” or “is” than, um, yeah.
The disease of evil servitude is evil? I’m clearly missing something.
* * * *
Draco is beginning to suspect I am up to something. But there is no way I can explain to him that what I’ve done was to spare him. If the truth is told, I will have destroyed the family name beyond any hope of repair, something I only narrowly avoided previously, I know. Yet, this time, even if the truth does out, at least Draco will be spared the horror. It took all my guile, all my restraint, to save him from the taint. I consider it a miracle still that he survived the war without being Marked.
I have taken to sleeping next to Potter once he is charmed unconscious. Anything to hasten the process. I am fooling myself, surely, as there is no evidence it helps at all.
We are too different. He is too virtuous, perhaps. Or too stubborn. The spell cannot take hold until I break his will, I suspect. Oh, these thousand small surrenders he has given me, I had hoped they would be enough to wear through his armor.
I hope it still. Failure is not an option for me this time. Not with all Narcissa has done and sacrificed to keep Draco free. Not with all I myself have done. We cannot fail in this.
We are at tea, entertaining a junior minister for commerce and the powerful chair of the War Orphans Charity Fund, when I catch a suspicious look of Draco’s. Narcissa covers it with a laugh, drawing the attention to herself. It is not until after our guests have departed that we speak of it, of course.
I summon him to my study.
“Draco,” I say, “we Malfoys have only each other to rely on.”
I cut him off with the smallest gesture. He is seated on one of the leather wing-backed chairs near the fire. I am standing. “Therefore when one of us observes another erring, or revealing what one should not, it is incumbent on us to say something, no matter how bold or inappropriate it might seem.”
He says nothing this time, waiting for me to go on, but his look is thoughtful.
“You shot a glance at me today, one that others might have witnessed. Such behavior cannot be condoned. We must seem above reproach.”
Draco nods in complete agreement, but I am unprepared for what he says next. “You are quite right, Father. My glance was ill-timed. But in fact it was to… inform you, no matter how bold or inappropriate it may have been, that you did not seem, in fact, above reproach.”
“Was the sum I offered them not enough?”
“It was not that at all, Father. It’s merely… you seemed to me to be showing signs that could be interpreted by an observer, that…” Here, he falters. Up until that moment he had been so smooth, so perfect.
“That I what?” I prompt.
“That you spent the afternoon dallying with a… a mistress. Or a whore.”
I am unable to school the surprise completely from my face. I am speechless for a moment.
A moment is all he needs. He gets to his feet. “So be careful, will you? One must keep up appearances. Let me have a look at you before the next one of these meetings, will you? If mother isn’t available?”
“I… I… will–”
And then he is leaving with a nod, fleeing me, to be sure, but with all proper deference.
I did not find out what evidence he saw, but perhaps it does not matter. I must be more careful. And clever, clever Draco. He did not accuse me of having a lover, but merely warned me that others might conclude that I did.
I must be more careful.
A surge of pride goes through me. My son is finally developing the skills he will need to take my role once I am gone. Or once I step down. Perhaps I will, once I have protected him.
Unlike Potter, Draco is highly susceptible. All it would take is one moment of weakness on my part, one moment of surrendering to the evil that burns in my blood, and he would be ruined, utterly ruined.
I will not make that mistake. Potter will save us all from that.
* * * *
If I had to guess I would say another month has gone by, but it is so hard to tell. I almost wonder if the entire thing is happening inside my head. Or Malfoy’s.
I wake to find him sucking my cock. That… is somewhat surprising. He does not normally give pleasure without some sort of price and as he quickly, expertly brings me to the brink, I cannot help but dread what that price might be.
He lifts his head and I cry out from the loss of the sensation, I am that close. His lips are swollen and his grin… it is a look I would have cherished on any lover’s face, on Ginny’s, or even on Seamus’s, that one time after the victory party…
“What do you want, Malfoy?” I whisper, my throat tight with desire.
“I want you to surrender,” he says. “When you surrender completely, this will end.”
I sigh. “You’ve said that before. And I don’t know any better what you mean now than before. Do you mean die?”
“Oh, no no no,” he says, one hand stroking my cock now as if he were soothing a pet. Which he is, I realize. “No, you most definitely cannot die, or this is all for naught.”
“This,” I say. “This… seduction?”
He laughs. “Funny you should call it that,” he says.
I grasp at straws. This is the chattiest he has been in a while. “Servorum?”
He shakes his head. “Serve me. Surrender.”
“Surrendering is one thing I never learnt to do, Malfoy,” I say. Well, that’s not completely true. I did sort of surrender to death that one time, but it was a bargain, you know, my life for everyone else’s, right? Surrender to me always meant you give up with no hope of getting anything in return.
“You just don’t understand it,” he says, and licks my cock in one long stripe. “You’re close, but you’re not ready to break yet.”
“If you’re trying to break me, why don’t I ever wake up in the dungeon anymore?”
“I told you, Potter, because you Gryffindors find the pain ennobling. It’s pleasure you find debasing.” He drops his head and suckles just the head of my cock and I see stars, ever fibre of me throbbing with the desire to come.
“Pleasure… and servitude.” He sits up between my legs and slips something silver around my balls. He puts another one, a silver hoop that tightens to fit around the base of his cock and balls, onto himself.
Then he lies back himself, propped up against goosedown pillows, covered in silk. “You’ll come when I come,” he says, and gestures at his own erection. “Suck me until you make me fountain and you’ll do the same. Fail to coax an orgasm out of me, and you’ll have to wait.”
I repeat my usual mantra to myself. This doesn’t make me less of a man. This doesn’t make me less of a wizard. Nothing I do here defines me. They taught us that in Auror training, in case we were ever taken prisoner, though they never thought we’d have to use it for something like this, I’m sure.
Then for a moment, I’m not sure. There must have been Aurors captured by Death Eaters. What kind of suffering were they put through? The Longbottoms were driven made by long exposure to Cruciatus, but…
As I stick out my tongue and take a tentative lick of the salty, hot flesh I wonder if this same thing didn’t happen to others. Maybe Malfoy made a habit of this sort of thing and we just never knew. Or maybe the Death Eaters all did, each in their own way, and this is Malfoy’s.
But why? After his parole from Azkaban, after the restoration of the Manor, why would he risk all that by kidnapping me?
He has forced his cock into my mouth many times, but this is the first time I’ve done this quite like this. I’m not really sure what to do. I lick, I try to close my mouth over the whole thing. My own cock responds as if I’m licking myself, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out, right?
Except that the sensation is unfamiliar, or the charm doesn’t work perfectly, or I’m just pants at it. Or I’m thinking too much about Malfoy and how to escape. Whatever it is, quite some time later my jaw is aching, my eyes are watering, and both he and I have been on the brink of coming for so long that my balls hurt nearly as much as my jaw.
He jerks my head back at last, his fist in my hair, and removes the ring from his own cock. He shoves me back and I fall against the bed, its expanse so wide I am still nowhere near the edge. He grips himself, up on his knees, and pumps slowly. He hisses, whether in pleasure or pain I can’t tell. Both, maybe.
Then he moves his hand faster, sudden quickness making it a blur, and he throws his head back as he comes all over the sheets.
He swipes us both with quick cleaning charms and does his hair with another few flicks of his wand after he climbs from the bed. He sounds refreshed. “Ahh, that was lovely. I’ll let you try again tomorrow, my dear.”
He passes his wand over me again, and the aching and soreness everywhere subside except in my cock.
“As you can guess, you’ll find no relief by your own hand, so long as you wear that ring.” He sounds gleeful.
“As you wish, master,” I say, and it comes out sounding remarkably sincere.
He eyes me for a moment, as if waiting for something sarcastic to follow. I say nothing more.
* * * *
“Did you see?” Draco says at breakfast, as he pages through the Daily Prophet. “Both Lestrange brothers caught.”
“And killed,” I add, as I butter a piece of brioche with a charm. “They would not go quietly, or so the story goes.”
My son looks at me over the top of the paper. “Do you believe it? That they resisted and had to be killed?”
I shrug. “It is certainly believable. Neither of them was in for a light sentence, if it came to it.”
“Especially not if they kidnapped Potter,” Draco replies. “Although he hasn’t been found.”
I take the toasted brioche and examine it before biting into it. “No? Perhaps they shouldn’t have killed the Lestranges then, if they suspected they knew his whereabouts.”
“What do you think happened to him?” Draco asks, his casualness too forced to be believed. Draco has always had an unhealthy interest in Potter, but then, perhaps that is another thing that is my fault. I started him down that path.
“Who’s to say he didn’t tire of being Harry Potter?” I answer. “Perhaps he decided to disappear. Perhaps he’d had enough of being the Chosen One. Probably fell in love with some exchange student from Beauxbatons and is living anonymously and happily in some villa in Alsace.”
Draco puts down the paper. “You don’t believe a word of that.”
“No, I don’t. But as I know nothing more, why not indulge in imagination? Come, Draco, yours is not so dull as all that.”
He looks away from me at the perceived slight, his cheeks faintly pink.
“Are you going with your mother to that charity hospital ball?” I ask. “Wasn’t she matching you with some suitable witch for the occasion?”
Draco stands. “Yes, Father. She’s off seeing about a dress for tonight now, in fact. Good day to you.”
Good day, indeed. They will be away for hours and I will have Potter to myself. I must be getting close. I must.
When they are well and truly gone, I seal the door to my rooms so that not even Narcissa could enter. From there, I walk to the mantelpiece. The silver cock ring is sitting there, looking like nothing more than a discarded bit of jewelry. I pick it up and touch my wand to the eye of the dragon carved into the mantelpiece.
A moment later I am transported to the holding room deep under the Manor where Potter is asleep. He stirs as I strip and approach the bed as if he can sense me near, yet cannot quite wake.
I should not be dallying with him. I should be trying every possible way to complete the transfer of the spell, but I cannot help myself. I was denied pleasure for so long. What harm could it do? My cock stirs as he does, as if it scents him. By the time I climb onto the bed, I am rampant and already leaking slickness in anticipation.
My plan was to have him try again to bring me off with his mouth, or try that as many times as necessary until he learns to do it.
But perhaps I will fuck him just a little. Just for a little while.
I conjure the lubrication inside him and watch as he squirms in his sleep. One hand clutches at the blankets and he frowns, as if trying to fight.
I curl myself around him, side by side, until my cock is nosing up against his hole. The charmed lubricant is copious and oozes from him onto the tip of my spear and I rut against him with slow rocks of my hips.
Yes, just like this. It was almost like this the night Narcissa and I made Draco. Only I had pleasured her well beforehand and then she only pretended to be asleep while I took her.
To think I’ve hardly touched her since, to think that the sensual enjoyment of my own wife is one more thing that being a Death Eater stole from me… Well, if I think on those things too much I shall go mad. Better to concentrate on the here and now.
Easy, easy, I push and push and push, in no hurry, softening his flesh bit by bit. I wonder if I can control my magic as finely as my desire, as my flesh, and I very gradually lift the Sleeping Veil from his mind. Yes, there, the deeper I press, the more of me he accepts, the more awake he shall be.
He gasps as I breach him fully at last, awake, but not awake enough to hold back the wanton moan that escapes him, nor to stop his own body’s response, thrusting back against me. Needy, greedy thing. It is a delicious moment.
The next moment is delicious, too, as after another second of wakefulness he realizes what is happening and stiffens. Tightens. His entire body clamps around my cock like a fist, one moment of resistance that feels like heaven to the part of me lodged in him.
And then, he gives in. The tension drains away. I slide myself more deeply into him, murmuring wordless encouragement. My hand finds his cock before I quite realize what I am doing, and then I am stroking him like a lover. He is already hard, too, and I stroke in time with my thrusts, kissing the back of his neck and whispering into his ear.
I say nothing of consequence. Just enough to remind him I am there, that I am the source of his pleasure.
I make love to Harry Potter. I bring him to orgasm with my fingers, just as I would a lover I esteemed, just as I plant my seed deep within him.
I cannot help it. I turn his face to kiss me, while my cock is still in him, and I encounter a salty wetness I had not expected.
“Tears, Harry? Is it gentleness, then, that brings you low, at last?”
He tries to hold back a sob and fails. I draw him into my arms. He is crying, sobbing, helplessly wracked with tears. I hold him against my chest and hush him. I tell him all will be well.
This, I think, this surely must be the breakthrough I’ve been waiting for.
Yet, I am disappointed. After he cries himself to sleep and I lower the Veil once more, when I heal him and check his skin for any signs of change, there are none.
The fact that it did not work does not stop me from making love to him in a similar manner for several days running, though. It is too good, too sweet, to give up. I don’t even miss the chains or the whips. I don’t even miss challenging him or playing games. Just knowing that I can make Harry Potter cry with the pleasure of my cock alone is enough. I abandon all plans to train him, to teach him to please me, all plans to torture him or test his mettle. I don’t make him beg for release. I make love to him as I would a wife, were she as winsome and helpless and moved by my prowess.
* * * *
After a week–or what is functionally a week, anyway–after seven times of Malfoy doing nothing but fuck me until we’ve both come, I am at my wits’ end. My existence has been reduced to this. Awakening to intense pleasure, and need, and God, I don’t even think he’s using magic now, I just need him, need him to make me come. That’s all there is in my world. He barely speaks to me now. There are no games to thwart, no tests, just fucking.
I’m growing used to this, though, too. At first I can barely speak. But after a week I finally muster the sense to try talking to him again.
He’s taking his time this time. Fucking me with long, slow strikes.
“What are you waiting for?” I plead.
“Are you that close already, my dear?” he asks.
“No, not that, I mean, be serious, Malfoy. What are you waiting for?”
“Are you back to thinking I plan to kill you?” He sounds puzzled.
“Is this truly it? Your grand plan for kidnapping me? Just so you can fuck me? You… you called me ‘fuck-toy’ before, but that was just to make fun of me, wasn’t it. Now, though…”
He laughs. “Yes, now, you see what we are both reduced to. Lust. Of all the evils, though, do you not think it the least evil of them?”
I don’t really want to have a philosophical debate with the man rogering my arse, but it’s better than nothing. Maybe I’ll learn something. “Is it?”
“It most certainly is, which is why it was the one that old Tom Riddle had the least use for,” Malfoy says. “Greed for power, envy of others good fortune, sadism, the joy of the kill, indulging his anger, and on and on. Riddle indulged in evils large and small, but very, very rarely in lust. In fact, I would say he had no taste for it. There was only one circumstance under which he would deign to be… sexual at all.”
“R-rape?” I prompt.
“Hardly,” Malfoy says. “Some even begged him for the privilege. Though of course some knew not what they were in for.”
“As Death Eaters?”
“When being Marked,” he says. “Now hush, and let us finish. I daresay you’ll come this time from my cock alone.”
Is he saying that Voldemort fucked the other Death Eaters when he Marked them? Is that where this twisted sex thing comes from? Contagio servorum nefarium, cum nefarium. What’s the connection?
I do not get long to think about it before we are finished, and he puts me to sleep once more.
* * * *
I know Draco is truly ready to take over as Lord of the Manor when he convinces Narcissa to entrap me.
The two of them have plotted their ambush perfectly. A high-ranking minister is to come to dinner here at the Manor, I am told. I am to be at my best. The house elves fuss over my robes, my hair, my accoutrements, distracting me thoroughly from any other preparation that might be taking place.
When I step into the parlor, they seal the door behind me, identical stern looks upon their faces.
It is those looks which alert me. “Oh,” I say. “Is the minister merely a ruse? Or are we to have a family row just before she arrives?”
Narcissa sets her prim little jaw. “A ruse, but a necessary one. Lucius, dear, it has been singularly difficult to catch your attention of late.”
“Has it?” I shift my gaze to Draco. “Are you both feeling neglected, then?”
“It is not ‘us’ that is neglected,” Draco answers, “but your duty to the family image. You’ve missed far too many appointments in the past few months, Father, and been late for many more. If it were merely Mother and I, we’d not care a whit. But whoever has caught your fancy has made you careless. Careless enough that people are beginning to talk. And you know the very ‘concerned’ gossips who corner mother at tea parties are not concerned over her well being at all, but are merely twisting the knife, and the moment she leaves are all atwitter with speculation about whom you must be…” Here he runs out of steam, as he struggles to find a word of proper decorum. “Dallying,” he finishes, with a frustrated huff.
It is a good speech, an excellent one, were I merely a straying husband disgracing his wife before her peers and were Draco merely the upstanding progeny attempting to protect his legacy.
But there is so much they do not know. “I apologize,” I say with a deep bow. “My intent was never to harm the family’s image nor to degrade your mother.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” Narcissa says, and I can hear a rough edge in her voice that one normally never hears.
“No, no, you misunderstand,” I say. “There is no affair. There is no… Beauxbatons exchange student on the side.” But even as I say it, I question the statement. It is far more a lie than I am accustomed to relying on. It should not have taken this long! I have been too slow. “I am engaged in a project, a very important project, for the Draco’s sake and the sake of the family.”
Narcissa’s look is pure scepticism. Draco merely frowns. “What sort of project?”
The time has come to tell him. I can keep it a secret no longer. “I believe we had best sit down for this.”
They exchange glances. Narcissa nods and he follows her lead. But of course she must know what is coming.
We seat ourselves at the table, me at the head, one of them to either side. A house elf pours wine. None of us touches it. They wait for me to speak.
I drag back my sleeve to show the Dark Mark. “The Dark Lord is gone, but so long as this remains, he can still return.”
Draco’s mouth falls open in shock.
Narcissa, though, gives me a stern look. “Lucius, whatever makes you think so?”
“I know so. It is not he in name, perhaps, not Tom Riddle, but evil can and will rise again. Unless the worm buried in my skin dies with me. Or…”
“Worm!” Draco cries out.
But Narcissa hushes him. “Lucius,” she says. “You’ve never spoken of this before.”
Of course I have not. It is an unspeakable topic. “But of course, my darling,” I say, “you knew what was necessary to Mark each Death Eater this way?”
She shakes her head, though whether it is truly that she is ignorant or merely that she wants to force me to say it for Draco, I do not know. Well, we are far past the time to mince words.
“The Dark Mark is passed through sexual contact,” I say. “And the surrender of the Marked to the domination of the one doing the Marking.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Draco spits.
I round on him. “And don’t judge that which you know nothing of! Why do you think I fought so hard to keep you from being Marked? Do you think I relished going into that room alone with him? Each of us did it! Some emerged broken and bitter, like Snape, some changed forever, like your aunt Bellatrix, who mistook the Dark Lord’s spell for a twisted kind of love.”
Draco shakes his head slowly. “Father, not everyone…”
“Hush, Draco,” Narcissa says, blinking. “Go on, Lucius, dear.”
“From the day I took the Mark, I never again knew the pleasure of your mother’s company in my bed,” I say. “It was too dangerous.”
Draco is looking at me with new eyes, though his look says he might be wondering if I’ve gone mad. Narcissa, though, has a slight gleam of tears.
Draco pushes me. “So you haven’t had sex since before I was born?”
“I did not say that. I have had the occasional… dalliance. A whore from time to time, usually male, as that felt less… that reminded me less of her, and I did not take the dominant role. But I have always been discreet to the utmost…”
“Until now,” Draco presses.
“The Lestranges are dead, isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with…”
“So I am the only one left from the inner circle. I am the only one alive who bears the Mark.”
“I am not eager to die, you know.” I pick up my wine and swirl it in the glass. It is such a rich vintage as to nearly appear blue through the light.
“Lucius,” Narcissa says. “No one expects you to die.”
“Least of all me,” I say. “But don’t you see? There is one wizard who can help me, who can defeat the snake. I will not have to die if he can fulfill his destiny.”
“His destiny? You mean, Harry Potter?” Draco says, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
“Exactly. Harry Potter and I have been engaged in some very intense spellwork to try to… defeat the Mark. It is, I admit, very, very Dark, what we are doing. It is why no one could be told. Even Potter himself could not receive permission to do what we are doing. But neither could he pass up the opportunity to defeat evil once and for all.” I rise to my feet and raise my glass. “To Harry Potter! The hero of us all!”
Neither of them joins me in my toast. Well, the news has no doubt been a bit much for them.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” I sweep from the room in what I feel nearly matches one of my old grand exits. Yes, very soon, all will be restored to the way it should have been. My wife will love me again, I will once again be a true husband to her, and our son will take his place as rightful Lord of the Manor and carry on our line, untainted.
* * * *
I waken suddenly, which is not the way things have been lately. I sit straight up, and there is Lucius Malfoy, a bit wild-eyed, stripping hurriedly out a very fancy dress robe. When he is down to just the gauzy under robe he climbs onto the bed with a rather sharp-looking dagger in his hand.
“My apologies for the suddenness of this, Harry,” he says, “but they are onto us. My apologies also for indulging myself a bit and for not concentrating solely on our work.”
Our work? What work? “Er, that’s all right Mr Malfoy,” I say. “But, um, could you tell me a bit more about this work and then maybe it could get done faster?”
“You’re the Chosen One,” he says as he climbs onto the bed and kneels beside me. “The Boy Who Defeated Evil. Twice.” He holds up the dagger. “Now, it will be thrice.”
That dagger is too sharp to be safe. I feel sweat prickling on the back of my neck. “Thrice. Right. What do you need me to do, then?”
His eyes darken like a storm cloud. “I’ve told you, and I’ve told you again. Surrender.”
“Surrender.” I must sound sceptical because his expression darkens further.
“Perhaps I am a failure after all, if you still don’t understand after all this time.”
“You could help by telling me what ‘Contagio servorum whatever’ means…?” I try.
“Or maybe it is that I am too weak. The Dark Lord was strong. He took me by surprise that first time and I gave myself to him. Perhaps all that time defenceless, wandless, at his and the other Death Eaters’ mercy reduced my capacity permanently…” He sounds like he’s talking to himself as much as to me by the end there.
“Mr Malfoy, Lucius,” I say, “What does Contagio servorum nefarium cum nefarium mean?”
“It’s the spell he spoke when Marking me,” he says. “At first I took it to be just servorum nefarium, cum nefarium which one could take to be just a motto: those who serve evil, become evil. But I put my memory in a Pensieve and watched it again, and that one crucial word, Contagio, makes all the difference. Give me your arm.”
I give him my arm, trying to be docile, but I cannot help but try to resist when he starts to cut a curve into the underside of my forearm with the tip of the dagger. Blood springs up from several places, not just where the tip touched. Magic. “Ow!”
To my surprise, he lets go, and then turns the dagger on himself, tracing the snake’s coil on the Dark Mark until it runs red with his own blood.
“Take the Mark, Harry,” he says. “You’re the only one who can defeat it.”
A moment later, I’m under him, our two bloodied forearms pressed together as he holds my hands above my head and kisses me.
“This will be our last time, Harry, I promise,” he says, as he thrusts against my arse, which he has not remembered to lubricate this time.
“Please, Lucius,” I say, “the charm, please…”
“Of course, of course, my love, my apologies…” He whispers the charm that slicks my insides and then a moment later pushes inside me. My legs wrap around him reflexively, and each thrust of his hips rubs my cock against his belly.
He’s never fucked me face to face before. I’ve ridden him, but we’ve never done it like this.
“Take the Mark from me, Harry,” he pleads, and tears are dripping from his face onto mine. “The world has asked too much of you already, I know, and you’ve saved my family, my son, already, I know. Yet, I ask it of you again, please. Please.”
What can I say to that? “Of course I will, Lucius, of course I will.” He dissolves in a storm of tears and come and blood.
And even though I hear the crackling sound that means magical defences are being breached, I cannot help it, I am so close to coming myself that I grab hold of his buttocks and rut against his stomach desperately. I scream with release just as the face of Draco Malfoy appears at the foot of the bed.
* * * *
I regret nothing.
I understand now that I must pay for my crimes of self-indulgence. That is why I am being kept here, though this place is far nicer than Azkaban. Could I have accomplished my goals some other way? Could I have won over Harry’s… I mean, Potter’s… help? Some way in which I did not commit crimes upon his body and stoke the fires of lust in my own? I do not know. In the end perhaps that was the only way for me to come to realize that the surrender needed to be my own. I doubt we would have accomplished it any other way. Indeed, suicide would have been my only option, and I would have lacked the fortitude for that. I know my limits.
We are safe now. That is all that matters. Draco is safe. And when my sentence is served, I shall go back and all will be well. I am content for now to look at the smooth expanse of my forearm and know that in the end I did all I set out to do.
* * * *
I Apparate to the now-familiar gate and it swings open for me. Standing upon the front steps is Draco Malfoy. He gestures and we walk together toward the back gardens. When he invites me, we often talk out here instead of in the house, where his mother lurks about like a ghost.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Doing quite well,” Draco says with a bit of a sigh. “I mean, for a madman.”
“Serving Voldemort could make anyone mad,” I say, as we walk.
“Hard to say when he started to lose it, though,” Draco says, with another resigned sigh. “I mean, he had to be a bit cracked to think ‘Contagio‘ was part of the marking spell and not the Dark Lord making sure he didn’t catch some venereal disease from my whorish sire.” He shakes his head. If there is one thing that makes the resemblance between him and his father dissipate like fog, it is the brutal realism that Draco burns with.
A realism I both appreciate and need to surround myself with. It is why these visits are therapeutic. “I hesitate to bring it up, but there are Muggle drugs to treat paranoia, you know. And you could put them in a potion so he wouldn’t know they were of Muggle origin.”
Draco nods. “We’re considering it. We want to be sure he’s absolutely stable before we try anything, though. I mean, as far as he’s concerned, he really was carrying the contagion of evil, he really did pass it to you, and you really are the only one who could possibly rid the world of it.” He gives me a sidelong look.
I shrug. “Who’s to say he was wrong, in some weird way? Your father was certainly haunted by the demons of his Death Eater days. Perhaps what he did to me exorcised them.” I pull back my sleeve to show him my forearm. The very fine tracery of scars is barely visible, here in the shadows of the rose garden. “They say another two or three treatments and it’ll be completely gone.”
His fingers trail lightly over the thin, white lines, in a touch that suddenly turns intimate when he looks up into my eyes. I’ve been wondering if a moment like this would come.
He brushes aside the hair on my forehead, then. “This one’s nearly gone as well.”
“I know.” I give a glance back at the house but if anyone is watching from any of the dozens of windows, I cannot tell. I lean toward his fingers and he cups my cheek. “Draco–”
He silences me with a tentative kiss. I kiss back harder, and he tastes fresh and new and like no one else I’ve kissed.
We lock eyes as I pull back. “He’d go mad if he knew we were doing this, wouldn’t he?” I ask.
“Well, not so long as you’re free of evil spirits,” Draco answers coolly.
“Oh, but I think I want to do evil things to you, Draco Malfoy.” My cock is throbbing in my trousers already.
Draco laughs. “I promise to do e-e-e-e-vil things in return, then,” he says. His hand finds its way to my crotch, one knuckle running up and down my lengthening shaft through the cloth. But then his voice turns serious. “If you’re sure it’s okay.”
“I’ve had nearly as much therapy as your father,” I say. “Come on. Who’s to say it’s not your turn to be the hero?”
He chuckles. “I rescued you once already,” he points out, but his palm has now taken the place of his knuckle. “That was enough hero-ing for me. Hmmm, I don’t suppose you’d say that sort of thing if you were merely transferring from my father to me either a twisted fetish or revenge fantasy.”
“You’re so easy to read, you know. It’s delightful. It’s the only thing that makes me bold enough to do this.” His hand slips inside my trousers.
“What man in his right mind wouldn’t want this?” I ask, thrusting into his hot grip. “See, I must be sane.”
“Indeed,” Draco says. “My standards in that area are considerably higher than they were in my youth.” He guides my own hand to his own lowered zip, and our words give way to touch.