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Page history last edited by PBworks 17 years ago

What Do You Get For the Death

Eater Who Has Everything?


Author: NA44

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing(s): Lucius/Harry, implied Draco/Harry

Warnings: PWP, Non-con, BDSM

Spoilers: none

Summary: Happy Birthday, Lucius Malfoy.


Nominated Category:

Best Slave!Fic: Books - Slash,


Best Holiday/Celebration,


Best use of toys - Slash


Draco popped another handful of Pepper Imps into his mouth. "Open it, Father," he said, between crunches.


I looked at the square envelope he'd handed me. "My birthday isn't until tomorrow."


"Oh, I think you should open this one now," he said, grinning, swigging from a bottle of butterbeer.


I lifted an eyebrow at what he was consuming. "You know, they say that if you eat those two at the same time they'll explode in your stomach and kill you."


He swigged again. "Urban legend."


The envelope was silver, with a black ribbon sealing it. I turned it over in my fingers. "And why should I be in such haste?"


"Well, the party Mother's throwing for you tomorrow will probably take up most of your time tomorrow night. I think you won't want to be distracted to properly enjoy this one." He crunched another handful of sweets. "Plus, I have to have your gift back at Hogwarts by tomorrow morning."


This time I gave him the benefit of both eyebrows. "You're giving me a gift that you have to take back? How unusual, Draco. Not to mention gauche."


He wiped butterbeer foam off his upper lip as he stood and came near me. "Trust me, Father." Leaning in, he whispered in my ear, "I know the sort of thing you like."


He licked my jawline. Just once.


And then, smiling, turned and left the room.




Yes, apparently he did know.


I studied the envelope a moment longer. It had the shape of a howler, but not a howler's characteristic red color.


I hate red.


Especially red with gold.


It only took a finger inserted under the ribbon to snap the seal. Instantly the envelope quivered in my hand, leapt into the air, and began to unfold itself-- there seemed to be no enclosure in the envelope-- and refold itself in silver paper intricacies until an origami crane hovered in the air just before me.


It waved one paper wing in a gesture that clearly meant Follow me before it headed for the door of the room.


The origami guide never got particularly far ahead of me as it led me through the mansion; I had to open any doors it came to before it could move further on. I had an urge to stick my tongue out at it; it had such a giddy little air that was positively irritating.


But I did want to know where Draco was having it lead me.


I was in the guest wing-- presently empty, party guests not scheduled to arrive until tomorrow-- when the crane flew to one particular door, gave a little shudder, and unfolded itself until it was a plain square of paper, the creases in it already smoothing themselves out, and two words appeared upon it where it hovered, in black scrolling script: Have fun.


The crane had stopped in front of the door to the guest rooms that my wife refers to as the Sable suite, but which I'd always thought of as The Rooms We Did All In Black Just In Case Voldemort Ever Needs A Place To Crash.


Opening the door, I found that Draco had already lit candles-- the only bit of non-black decor in the room, natural beeswax. They hovered, gently rising and falling, flames flickering a bit in the slight draft from the open door.


Nothing appeared to be otherwise changed, in this outer, sitting area of the suite.


Not surprising.


And the door that led to the bedchamber beyond was open, and a single candle floated before it.


Also not surprising.


The bedchamber had its share of lit candles hovering within, and my present was on the bed.


Oh... oh, my.


My son certainly knows how to shop.


He looked no older than Draco. I could not tell if his hair was brown or black from the shadows in the room, and it fell over the black blindfold that obscured the upper half of his face.


But his mouth... his mouth was open, a perfect red flower of distress as he breathed in and out, a little too quickly to be asleep or unconscious, and yet there was something that told me he was not fully alert either. His arms were slack where they'd been put, restrained at his wrists to the upper posts of the bed by burgundy cords that were, on closer inspection, velvet sheathing over lengths of chain, rune-covered padlocks clasping the ends.


Of the rest of him I could only see the upper torso, boyish but not unimpressive slender musculature visible under lightly tanned skin. The rest of him was hidden under a thin silver coverlet that contrasted with the black bedclothes. Nice touch, that.


I drew it away to see what lay beneath. Nothing disappointing here, either. His ankles were not restrained, and he drew up one knee slightly as the coverlet whispered over his skin. The little noise that came from his throat almost distracted me from my inspection. Dark curls at his groin, definitely not older than Draco, obvious from the absence of much hair growth anywhere else. Thighs, calves as nicely outlined as the rest of him. And not lacking in the blessed-by-the-god-Priapus department, either.


He made that noise in his throat again.




Happy Birthday to me.


I reached forward and wrapped my hand around his jaw, lightly. He inhaled a little more deeply; I saw his mouth trying to form a word. I ghosted my index finger over those parted lips.


This time he said it. It wasn't much more than a whisper. "Draco?" No lust-filled moan that, nor nervous query. No, I was rapidly forming the impression this little morsel had been drugged, fed something just strong enough to keep him disoriented and pliant, but not insensate.


Thus the blindfold. What a pity. How I wanted to see the rest of his face, see if his eyes were fear-filled or merely glassy with the drug's effects. Wasn't there a spell for temporary blindness? There was, but I'd forgotten it.


And he had called Draco's name. How very interesting. Was this my son's lover, friend, minion? Had Draco told him they were going to play a little game?


And then the boy said, "Draco, please..." He slurred the last word. "...Don't have to-- don't have to do this..."


Or perhaps not.


"Not Draco, little morsel," I murmured, as I pushed the tip of my index finger between his lips and touched his tongue. He moaned, and I realized my question had been answered: if the boy was capable of making noises like that, Draco certainly couldn't be foregoing fucking him.


But this wasn't one of those two shadows that Draco had following him at school. I knew them, the sons of Darius Goyle and Rudi Crabbe. Was this another of Draco's Slytherin compatriots? Or had he found this lovely thing elsewhere, showing itself off in true Gryffindor fashion, or more quietly hiding its feathers in Hufflepuff house, perhaps?


I pushed the finger deeper into his mouth. "Suck it."


He made a noise of "Nnnnn..." but didn't try to pull away. Too disoriented to quite accomplish that, it seemed.


"You'll do it, if you know what's good for you, little morsel."


Again, that lovely, distressed moan. Then he closed his lips around my finger and started sucking, using his tongue after a moment without needing that specific urging. Good.


I hadn't given him a task that required a lot of experience, but still, I could tell the action wasn't completely unfamiliar to him. That was all I had wanted to know.


I withdrew my finger after a moment, leaving him to gasp a little. "Yes, that's very nice. I'm going to give you something else to suck on, now. Don't disappoint me, petit."


I was momentarily glad he couldn't see me just then-- my haste to get my mouth over his, my tongue into his mouth, meant I wasted no time on devilish smiles or predatory leers before getting there. I was probing the back of his throat with my tongue, hearing the moans muffled now, and feeling them as well, and that was simply lovely, even as I could feel him trying to respond to my command. Oh, he was the very essence of helplessness, wasn't he?


The texture of his skin... nothing so seductive has ever been manufactured that will equal the soft resiliency of a youth's skin, layered over developing muscle at that time when baby fat has almost completely left the body. I moved my hands over his chest, down his sides to trace where the back muscles began, and I heard, felt his breathing increase in pace, through his nose since I had so thoroughly taken possession of his mouth.


I let his mouth go so that I could more directly appreciate where my hands were moving. Straightening, I swept my fingers back to his chest, to tease the darkened circles that were his nipples, which were already hardening under my fingertips. Another moan from him.


And another slurred syllable: "...please..."


As I traced down the milk lines of his chest and belly, preparing to center in on his navel, again I wondered which question I should be asking myself: why Draco had picked him for this, or why Draco had picked him for this. I didn't get the impression this boy had come to Draco and confessed a fantasy about me. His drugged state belied that.


But if Draco was having him, what had prompted him to share?


His belly was quivering as I traced about his navel. Time to think about that later.


I wanted to see if I could get him to pull at his wrist restraints, so I increased the pressure of what I was doing to his belly, and he obliged me by gasping and moving his hips; it would have been a twist of most of his body if he'd had more of his faculties about him. And yes, there, I saw the tendons in his forearms rise as he tried to move his arms-- not, it seemed, with any real attempt to test the chains, but as if he'd forgotten they were bound there. This renewed knowledge also reinvigorated his distress, and he turned his head in little angles there on the pillow, as if he were unaware that he was blindfolded, and was trying to find the proper direction to see something, anything.


Ironically, at that moment, the words for the spell came to me. But now I rather liked the blindfold.


I reached out and captured one of his hands in mine, leaning forward to press a kiss onto the center of the trapped palm, and then lick at it. His hand twisted half-heartedly, as if he was not quite aware that if he broke my grip, he still could not get his wrist free to escape me.


On his palm, I could taste his sweat intensely: salty, iron tang almost as intense as citrus, all with an underlay of handsoap. It made me want to lap him up like cream, work my tongue over every sensitive place on his body... and the way I would do it, they would all feel sensitive.


It occurred to me that, with him unable to see anything, I didn't need to be calculating about when to remove my own clothing.


Though as I disrobed, I knew that I was planning after all. When he felt my bare flesh on his own, he wouldn't have any doubts what was going to happen to him, if he had had any to begin with. But I would take my time through this, until he doubted again, or until the drugs made him forget just how long he'd been in this position.


Already I was terribly hard. Well, I would just enjoy that, then, and try not to be too impatient.


Returning to the bed, I kissed the tendons in his wrist, just above the binding, and then began to tongue my way down his arm, following the line of one blue vein in the underside of his forearm, barely visible in the candlelight. When I reached the hollow at the crook of his arm, I applied both teeth and tongue to get him squirming again, until he was verbalizing another set of wince-like groans. Only when I heard him moan, "No...", pushed beyond that near-silent endurance to pleading again, did I relent.


But only to repeat the process on his other arm.


To do this, I had to straddle his body, and at first I did not touch him with anything but my knees at his sides as I leaned over to tease the skin of his arm with my mouth. But as he twitched and made those small uhn sounds in his throat that were so terribly addictive, I was finding, I settled further over him, wondering when he would realize that what I was doing to the hollow of his arm should have been less distressing than the prospect of another naked form pinning his to the bed.


Gently I bit my way down his bicep, sometimes not so gently, until I was at the curve of his underarm, tasting the heavier flavor of his sweat here as well, rewarded for my efforts by the way he tried to squirm away from my tongue. Good, I liked them ticklish.


It was the hollow of his throat that drew me, however: I could see the pulse just to the side of it, like a signal lamp. I kissed the hollow, then burrowed deeper into it and began licking in earnest. I could tell he was finding it harder to breathe, which gave me no reason to relent: I liked them breathless as well.


The discomfort made him twist his body again, and he seemed to remember that his feet were free; he had pulled both of his knees up, and I felt them graze my back, but he really could do nothing to hinder me in any way. The drugs had him too disoriented for that.


I lifted my face to look at his again. Again his mouth was open and panting, flush to his cheeks that I could just see. I stroked a fingertip across the material of the blindfold.


It was just slightly damp.


Oh, this was so delicious. Whatever Draco was planning to wheedle out of me in exchange for this present, he could bloody well have it.


I couldn't resist touching the dampness on my fingertip to my tongue, though it was almost too minute to be tasted.


It made me want to leave him sobbing, though, so there would really be something moistening that blindfold.


This boy was in no state, drugged as he was, to properly appreciate an all-out session of pain/pleasure contrasts. No point in trying to accio any of my collection of toys to this room; there's something unsatisfying in using a whip, or cane, or any such disciplinary device on someone who isn't hyperaware of what is to come, who cannot appreciate the sound it makes as it moves through the air, the long moments between blows, and particularly, the knowledge that the punishment does not even need to be incurred by any transgression, other than the audacity to possess such a tender body that it needs to be marked, such a lovely voice that it needs to be heard whimpering, howling, begging, counting.


No, if I used him like that, I wanted him to be aware of all of those things.


Not that I couldn't be satisfied with simply a good thorough fucking of this little morsel, but now I was really, deeply interested in making him sob for me, and not just in passion.


I plucked one of the floating candles out of the air.


I decided to start at his belly.


I took my weight off his body entirely, settling at his side. I wanted to show him just what struggling would earn him.


Tipping the candle in my hand, I let a few drops of melted wax fall upon his belly, just below his navel. He inhaled, choked suddenly, and it became a yowl that would do an injured cat proud.


Yes, that would do very nicely.


Before that small splash could cool, I dripped more wax beside it. He yowled again, the sound containing just a touch more disbelief than actual pain, as if to ask what in the hell did I think I was doing, goddammit.


But there was pain all the same. Beeswax melts at a higher temperature even than paraffin.


He felt the line of melted wax drops moving up to his nipple, and before it even hit there, it had brought him to enough awareness for him to start struggling. Yes, he remembered that his lower body was free to move. And tried to use it, twisting, trying to escape what I was doing.


That didn't prevent me from spattering the wax upon his nipple, though I had to bring the candle closer to insure the drops went where I wanted them to... which of course, meant that they had less cooling time on their way down. Poor thing.


He hissed, turned the noise into ow, tried to turn away further. Which meant that the other nipple was now presented quite prominently for me to drip wax upon to it. Which I did.


It took several more drops, on or around that nipple, accompanied by his protests, which were now being delivered as nnnnn sounds through clenched teeth, before he had the cleverer idea of bringing one knee up to his chest, trying to hinder me from getting the hot wax on that terribly sensitive skin. The candle dripped onto his knee when he did that, but though he obviously didn't think that was fun, clearly it was nowhere near as bad as having those same drops on his chest.


Unfortunately, by bringing his knee up like that, he'd exposed a great deal more for me to torment.


By moving my hand only a few inches, I was able to drip the wax onto the back of his exposed thigh, and then down that slope to the curve of his buttocks, which was sensitive enough. But more importantly, I knew that he knew where I was going next.


Yet he didn't react quickly enough, perhaps thinking that I wouldn't possibly do that there, or perhaps just too affected by the drugs to be quick, and melted wax kissed the skin of his scrotum before he jumped and gave another cry, his knee jerking down to protect himself from more of the same. But now I had to show him that such actions were not only not going to be helpful, they were going to earn him worse, and I let the wax splash precisely over the shaft of his still-soft cock, and as he once again tried to bring his leg up into a position that could prevent me from doing that again, stammering "F-fuck..." as he did so, I dripped the wax upon his scrotum again, and the wail that came out of him was enough to make anyone come, right there and then.


He panted, twisted, felt the wax in a new place every time he did. Each time he tried to avoid being touched by the melted wax in whatever new tender spot I'd found to torment, I found another one, exposed by his movements. I'm sure he'd never stopped to think about how little the backs of the knees are ever toughened, before, or the skin just beneath the toes, or the underarms of course, or any one of a dozen other spots.


I didn't use it anywhere on his face. It wouldn't do to miss and drip it on the blindfold, which would retain the heat for longer than desirable.


At last, even in his drugged state, he began to understand. He collapsed on the bed. on his back, thighs pressed together but otherwise no longer trying to move to escape the drops of wax. When I dripped it directly into his navel he inhaled, bit his lip hard, but did not move. Another. Still motionless. Another. I moved the candle to his nipple again, then back down to his thighs, and lastly another few drops along the length of his cock. He hissed his discomfort, and trembled with it, but otherwise stayed still.


I gave his mouth a quick kiss. "Very, very good, petit."


Half the candle was burned down by now. I started back at his nipple and began to connect the wax droplets together, making a confluence of the candlewax over his body as if I were tracing blood vessels throughout it. In reality, I just wanted to have one continuing line of wax to see if I could peel it off in one string. From his chest to arms, and back down to his belly and his groin, I covered him. There, at his groin, I tested him by lifting his cock away, revealing his scrotum again, despite the tight press of his thighs together. He didn't move, having learned obedience despite his disorientation. He whimpered and pulled at his wrist restraints as I liberally covered his balls in candlewax, and the tension in his legs was making him shake, but he did stay still.


I released his cock, drew a line of wax up its shaft until I reached the hardened patch of it just above his groin, and blew the candle out.


I bent over his chest, over one nipple, where I'd dripped the wax most thickly, and peeled it from his skin with my thumbnail, dipping my head close so that I could follow it with my tongue, soothing the little hurt still left in the miniature semblance of a burn. He moaned, so prettily that I did it again. "There we are..." I consoled him between licks.


The lines of beeswax, I removed an inch at a time with my fingernail, and followed them with my tongue, licking his skin at whatever pace appealed to me: I particularly enjoyed lingering over his nipples and his belly, which got him breathing quickly again.


As my mouth got closer and closer to his groin, I noticed his cock beginning to stir at last. I peeled the line of wax from it, my tongue tracing the same line, and that was all it took to complete his erection, which strained upward, angled above his belly. Very convenient for me, as I began to flake the wax from his scrotum, trying not to hurt him and make him lose that lovely hard-on with too much pain. He gasped wordlessly but flagged not a degree.


I took his balls in my mouth, first one, then the other, sucking at each in a way that was meant to be much more than soothing. As I mouthed them, I pushed his thighs apart so that I could move to lie between them, continue what I was doing. He made no attempt to resist. Good boy.


As a reward, I licked up the underside of his cock, and then took it into my mouth completely. Again, the taste of him, adolescent frightened/aroused boy-sweat and all, was delicious and unparalleled. If I NEVER have to put up with another male lover or whore who thinks that scented colognes or aftershaves make them smell desirable, instead of reeking like insect spray, it will be too soon.


A momentary trickle of saltier fluid over my tongue, just a hint, and I slid my tongue over the head of his cock to gather up the rest of the drops of precome that were leaking from it. He groaned as I did, and then made a more anguished sound as I teased the slit open, triggering a rise in his hips. He tried to bring one knee up but met the pressure of my body draped over his thighs and that stopped him.


The tension that had held him seemed to drain from him then, not because of orgasm-- not yet-- but because once he realized I was no longer hurting him, he no longer needed to stay alert, no longer needed to do anything but give himself over to what he was feeling. He could counter the drug somewhat if the need was great, but not when his entire body urged him to lie back and go along with the experience.


Again, his breathing was deep and a little rapid, open-mouthed as his head shifted this way and that, and I could feel his balls tightening. Still lying over his thighs, I reached beneath him and spread his buttocks apart with one hand, probing at the opening of his anus with one finger, circling it lightly, so that I could hear his breath catch. He was tight, tight enough to make me wonder if Draco was actually using him like this. Either way, it was still going to be a pleasure to have him.


I pulled my mouth away. My impulse was to reach for my wand, and use Accio after all, but I thought for a moment: if my son was clever enough to anticipate my wants in something like this, he was probably also adult enough to think about needs as well.


There, on the bedside table. The jar was dark blue glass, looking black against the black table, and that was why I hadn't noticed it before. The gel inside was odorless and colorless. My thoughtful boy.


I slicked him up with it, not particularly careful about it-- well, deliberately uncareful is how I should put it, probably. As I pushed one lubricated finger into him, that same, small noise came from his throat that he'd been making at the very beginning, and once again, I heard him moan, "Draco?..." in a voice that held misery and pleading and betrayal, and yet for all that, held a touch of need as well.


Oh, I was so glad I was at the raw fucking stage already. I couldn't have held off for anything right now.


I greased my cock with more of the gel, in lieu of reminding myself to take it slow. I didn't want to tear him but I wasn't disturbed about making him scream. Hardly.


I pushed his thighs apart, and then his knees back, and before he could regain that tension I had positioned the head of my cock at his opening and was starting to push through the ring of muscle. Particularly good lubricant, that. I was all the way inside him in short order, and he'd barely had time to tense.


Of course, once I was in him, he could tense all he wanted to. And he did. But it made no difference; I could begin thrusting without any difficulty at all.


And he cried out, as well. Not with pleasure. Nor was that a hindrance.


Hearing him weep, "Draco..." once again, this time nothing but an entreaty for mercy, still left me undisturbed. It was no call for help, that cry. No, he'd had this kind of treatment at my dear boy's hands already, that was clear. I didn't find it jarring to hear him beg me with my son's name.


Indeed, I'd always told my son to give gifts based on what you'd like to have yourself.


And I last I was able to lose myself in nothing but my own senses, and not any calculation: his panting breaths, his whines, the muted clunk of the cushioned chains shifting on the bedposts as his wrists twisted, the smell of rut on both of us, sight of his mouth gasping, all accompaniment to the tightness pulling me along, friction tugging at my cock as I assaulted him to his depths, my balls tightening as I worked closer and closer to orgasm. And I wanted him to come, as well, now and not later, despite the pain, to burn that onto his brain so that he couldn't forget this even if the drug proved amnestic.


I wrapped my fist about his cock, my fingers still slippery with the gel, and pumped at him in the same rhythm that I was driving into his arse. I had my other hand at the small of his back, and I'm sure I was hurting him with that alone; I couldn't keep myself from dragging him into my thrusts with that hand, and yet I didn't let up what I was doing with the other hand either. I can think of no better word to describe what happened but that I wrung orgasm from him, his knees pushed into my sides as if trying to control what was happening, unsuccessful of course, his hips being lifted as I cored him like an embryonic wasp devouring its host from the inside, until he erupted all over my hand with a shuddering, sobbing exhale, and I, gasping no less violently, filled his body with my sperm like it would save his life.


I could be flippant and say it was the best orgasm I'd had that week, or pretentious and say it was the best I'd ever had...The truth is, it was certainly one of the most memorable. Profound enough that I didn't want to separate from my gift's sweet body for quite some time.


The first thing I did move was the hand at the small of his back. I reached up to touch the blindfold.


And it was soaking. Oh, I was starting to get hard again already.


I wanted to tear off the blindfold and suck the salt water from it, and then lick what tears were left pooling in his eyes and lashes from their source.


Releasing him, pulling away quite reluctantly, but consoling myself that the night was young yet, I reached into my discarded clothing and pulled out my wand. "Oculus Caecitas," I murmured, aiming the spell at the boy's face. I could remove it when I was done with him, or even earlier if I chose.


I pulled the blindfold down his face so that it hung loosely about his neck, where I could more easily turn it and work at the knot. It didn't take much to loosen it; magic wouldn't be necessary.


And he was blinking at me, no confusion yet on his face, as if he thought that it was merely a completely darkened room and there was nothing to see.


Yes, he was a pretty youth, not pretty in the same way as Draco, who is almost androgynous with his sharp features. No, everything about him said boyish, innocent, right down to the irises of his eyes, neither pale or dark, but intense even in the dimness, a green or perhaps blue vivid like a child's crayon drawing of eyes. And still deliciously wet. I bent down.


And saw the scar, and stopped.


Oh, it...


...COULDN'T be.


...How long since I'd seen him last?


Adolescents grow up so quickly.


Draco, you...bloody...BLOCKHEAD!


Furious (but still hard, it was true), I rose and seized my clothing. I pulled it on, giving the task as little attention as possible as I stalked into the outer room of the suite, slamming the bedroom door behind me. "Bunthorne!" I snarled.


The house elf poofed into being in front of me. "Yes, Master Lucius?"


"Get my son in here. NOW."


I thought all the most unappealing thoughts I could in the intervening time to get my mind off my erection and the enticing creature in the room behind me, so convenient...NO. I thought about blancmange, not helping, about the time the sewer under the manor backed up, better, how Narcissa's mother would be present at the party tomorrow night... there, that seemed to be doing it.


Draco came in. He knew better than to look pleased, given what a short time I'd spent with his present, but he did look hopeful. "Yes, Father?"


"Draco. Is that not Harry Potter in that room?"


Now he smiled openly. "Yes, Father."


"Tied to that bed. Naked. As a present for me, from you?"


His eyes got a little wider, and his smile diminished somewhat. "Father, I ...was it not clear, somehow? Did I do it wrong? I was going for that cross between unmistakable yet subtle, like you've always--"


"DRACO." He stopped. "May I ask what in the name of all that is HOLY you meant by bringing me HARRY POTTER. Off of HOGWARTS property. To THIS HOUSE. Are you totally, barking MAD, boy?"


Draco did the completely unexpected. He grinned. "Yes. But only in the best way. The Malfoy way, Father dear." He came all the way over to me. "He won't say anything. He can't." And then he clutched my arm, almost resting his chin on it like a much younger boy. "I caught his best friend using an Unforgivable. Didn't confront Potter's friend with it, oh no. No, I went straight to Potter and told him what I wanted to keep it secret."


"Did you now." It came out neutral, not approving.


He nodded vigorously. "Isn't he nice," he almost hissed. "Enough to make you forget it's the Hero of the Wizarding World you're fucking. I mean, that was my motive at first. Harry Potter, Gryffindor Golden Boy who can't even stoop to normal do-gooder status by just being Dumbledore's pet, Dumbledore has to be his bloody pet-- of course I loved the idea of having him on his knees, glaring at me hatefully with his mouth full of my cock, having to suck me off anyway."


I was never going to have to question my son's parentage, it seemed.


"But it's even better than that," Draco continued. "Even as he hisses and curses me, and snarls at me through clenched teeth to get it over with when I'm fucking him, there's the part of him that can't believe he can get off on it, like he was more than human, wouldn't respond to those filthy things, oh no. And that eats him up, reduces him to fucking tears sometimes when I'm on him, stroking his cock while I ream him out, and he pushes them out of his eyes, saying, 'I'm nothing like you,' even as I'm making him lick his own come off my fingers. It's fucking paradise."


"How...long... have you been having him?" I was reluctant to interrupt. What he was saying was too fascinating to make him stop.


"Three months. Don't worry, Father. He's not going to be telling anyone if he hasn't so far. And he really doesn't want to see his best friend in Azkaban. It's more than my word against theirs; I've got proof."


I didn't ask him what that proof was. I was more interested in the other part of what he was telling me. "And you decided to share him with me because?"


Draco put a pout on his face. "Because I'm such a dutiful son." Then he grinned again. "Actually it was because I was afraid he might start to get jaded. Didn't want him to lose that self-disgust just because he was getting used to everything. I told him we were going to try something different tonight, and then made him drink Cordial of Endymion's Languor before I brought us here with the portkey. If I get him back by the morning no one will miss him; Potter and I have had a nice little arrangement worked out for the past couple of months so that no one notices he's gone most nights."


He squeezed my arm again, like the eager boy he was. "And we don't even have to Obliviate him, Father! We learned all about Endymion's Languor in Potions; he'll remember something happened, that there was someone besides me, but it'll have that dreamlike quality of remembering. Of course, he'll also know it wasn't a dream. I can't wait to see how he handles that."


I put my hand on the back of his neck, pulled his head back by the hair on his nape so that I could look into his eyes. "You're a brazen little fiend, Draco." And then I kissed his forehead. "Whatever shall I do with you?"


Again, he pouted. It looked so pretty on him. "You could say thank you."


"I can do better than that." I didn't let go of his hair. I brought my face close to his. "Shall we give him a memory to really cringe over, my dragon?"


His mouth opened, and instead of licking his lips in a calculated attempt at being lascivious, Draco had to use his tongue to prevent a droplet of drool from escaping his mouth. He gulped, laughed... and then nodded. "Oh, you... are good to me, aren't you, Father?"


"As I should be, Draco. As I should always be."


And, my arm about his shoulders, I pushed open the door to the bedroom.

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