Darkfest revealed! My fic: Lucius/Harry, NC-17

[ravenna_c_tan]

Well, the reveal has taken place at hp_darkfest! Here is my story. I'll be posting the author's notes for it, and also a sequel of sorts as a gift for melusinahp in a little while, too...

This is too large to post as one post, so I've broken it into three.

Title: Balanced on the Sword's Edge, Part One
Author: Ravenna C. Tan
Pairing: Lucius/Harry (with some other side pairings that I won't list for fear of spoilers)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 24,000 total
Warnings: Consensual sex, nonconsensual sex, and dubious consent (yes, all three). Rape, sexual slavery, piercing, whipping, bondage, blood, forced exhibitionism, double penetration, first time.
Summary: Harry Potter never escaped Malfoy Manor after being brought there by the snatchers (though Ron, Hermione, and the rest did, taking Draco with them). Without Harry there, the Battle of Hogwarts went quite differently, and now, after several months as Lucius Malfoy's personal pet, Harry's mind, body, and soul are quite different than they were as a schoolboy. He clings to his prophesied purpose, though, and knows he must stay alive to have a chance to fulfill it.
Disclaimer: Non-commercial fanfic.
A/N: Thanks to clauclauclaudia and strickens_girl for beta-reading! The needles are there as a tribute to Sanguine, a Serpent Knotted Sable by Amanuensis, the granddaddy of all Lucius/Harry fics.

Prompt:
"For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest." -- Lord Byron

Part One: on LJ on IJ
Part Two: on LJ on IJ
Part Three: on LJ on IJ




"Is that what you want me to be?"

The words leave Harry's lips before he's quite aware that he's spoken them—not loudly, no, for Malfoy's ears alone, but by rights he should not have spoken at all. He has always been a headstrong, impulsive boy, and for all Lucius Malfoy's vaunted "training," some things cannot be changed.

One thing the training has taught him, of course, is to expect a blow after such a comment, and he flinches as Malfoy turns on him. Here in their alcove, no one else has heard, but Harry expects no leniency.

But the look in Malfoy's eye is less one of anger than hurt. Harry blinks, meeting that stare, wondering when it was he started being able to read Malfoy's expressions. He sees, or at least thinks he sees, a vein of vulnerability exposed there. He files the information away, as Lucius Malfoy masters himself and his face becomes as impassive as his Death Eater mask. Malfoy merely casts a Silencing Charm and then turns his attention back to the spectacle before them.

Freed by the charm to stop worrying he might blurt out something worse, Harry follows Malfoy's gaze to the dais in the centre of the stone courtyard. Draco is there with Rabastan Lestrange, the scars on his skin easily visible since he is mostly naked and lit by a bright light from above. This is the Dark Lord's favourite form of theatre and attendance is mandatory. They gather in this cloister, the ancient stone a harsh environment for anyone who must spend the evening, as Harry does, on his knees. They watch from niches and alcoves, some from balconies, others seated in the open, closest to the action. Harry is never able to get a good count of exactly how many Death Eaters there are. His eyes wander, trying to guess—they wear their masks only for the first few minutes, but he does not know all their faces—but his attention is inevitably pulled back to the pair in the centre.

Lestrange has trained Draco to perform. To beg for his cock. To come on command. Tonight he has dressed him like a witch, his hair grown out and curled by charms, his face made up with rouge and lipstick, some kind of lacy garment hanging from his elbows. Harry wouldn't have thought it of his old rival in their schooldays, but done up like this, and also lying on his back with his legs spread, begging incessantly to be fucked by his master, Draco exudes a disturbingly feminine aura. Everything about him is womanly, well, except for his flat chest and the rampant red cock that bounces against his belly.

Lestrange is dressed in leather, his trousers undone and his own cock hanging out, pendulous and so large that he does not stay erect without direct stimulation. He crawls over Draco, silencing him by stuffing his cock into his mouth, smearing lipstick across Draco's cheek as he pulls out after just a few thrusts.

Harry cannot help but blush. His question was genuine. Is this what he is destined for? Lucius Malfoy treats him like a possession, like a pet. He is allowed no clothing except a skimpy triangle of cloth that hides his privates when they go among the other Death Eaters, and at the Manor is he often not allowed even that. Harry has gleaned that his cock, like all of him, belongs to Malfoy, and Malfoy alone. Malfoy wants to see his possession and admire it when he can, but guards the sight of it from others.

What Harry does not get, though, is that although Malfoy keeps him nude, and has once or twice used his arousal to "train" him, he has never attempted to fuck Harry. Malfoy has never made him use his mouth, has never even hinted at wanting his arse, and the times he has demanded Harry's hand have been few and far between. Perhaps once every few weeks, he will wrap Harry's hand around his cock and order him to make him come, punishing him if he is not pleased with the orgasm, if it didn't come quickly enough or if he feels sore after. Come to think of it, Harry has only earned a reward that way once... he's confused and dreading the next time. Some of the things Malfoy considers a reward might be seen as a punishment by some... and vice versa. It's a muddle in Harry's head.

The scene in front of them turns into an interrogation, an examination, as Lestrange insists Draco detail for all present why he deserves to be fucked, and whether the fucking should be as punishment or reward. Aha, Harry thinks, so he's not the only one who has to figure this out. If as punishment, Lestrange says, he will take him unprepared, whereas if Draco has earned a reward, he will not only use lube and stretch his "pretty little boycunt" beforehand, he will let him come.

Draco's litany of the services rendered to his master in the past week or so nearly makes Harry as sick as the thought that no matter what Draco says, Harry is going to be forced to watch. It's far from the first time Malfoy has brought him to one of Voldemort's little entertainments, but it's the first he's seen that is quite so... degrading. And the first that involves someone he knows personally.

He feels the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, though, as he becomes more and more sure that regardless of what Draco says, Lestrange is going to punish him. He spirals down into his own thoughts, wondering what Malfoy will require of him tonight, whether his comment will have earned him pain, deprivation, or humiliation—or all three. Whether Malfoy will do it in the drawing room or the so-called dungeon, each being quite different in Harry's experience. The drawing room is still fairly new; Malfoy has only punished him there twice.

So absorbed is he in his own thoughts that Harry misses, in the end, what infraction it is that condemns Draco to punishment. With great ceremony, Lestrange binds his hands and blindfolds him, but not before Draco's cheeks are streaked with tears. No gag—the screams are part of the entertainment. The blond is lifted into a kind of sling, his legs bound open, while Lestrange puts some form of covering over his own cock and then greases it. Harry is puzzled by this—hadn't Lestrange promised to take him without lubrication? Is that a condom? Lestrange's comments to the onlookers make clear his purpose, though, which is to spare himself the pain which the unguent he has applied will cause. Harry doesn't catch the name of the potion but Lucius lets out a soft hiss, the only indication he has given that witnessing his son's degradation hurts him. Well, that and the glare Harry is still trying to understand. Draco screams like he is being torn open. He cries. From some of the words he sputters, Harry gathers that the unguent burns, too.

Harry is not sure what is more horrifying, that after a while there is a pool of blood collecting from the spatters on the stone under Draco's arse, or that the act actually becomes boring to watch. Some of the bolder Death Eaters yawn and strike up conversations with their neighbours, further encouraged by the fact that their Lord himself has ceased to pay attention. Now that Draco is no longer screaming, the drama has gone out of the scene. And Rabastan, Harry overhears one of the others nearby say, likes to take his time. He'll be an hour at least, fucking the boy.

But Lucius Malfoy cannot leave before it is over or it will look as if he has fled from the sight. And if Lucius cannot leave, neither can Harry.

Harry shifts on his knees next to Malfoy's chair. From their alcove they are in the direct line of sight of Voldemort, but hidden from those on either side of them. The man has gone rigid in his effort to appear unruffled by what they are being forced to witness. Harry can feel the crackle of his magic. Not good. If Lucius cracks, it can only be worse for him. And besides, that look in Lucius's eyes has given Harry an idea.

No leap into battle was ever more fraught with danger than the attempt he makes now.

He nuzzles against Lucius's thigh, rubbing his cheek along the butter soft leather of his trousers, his own heart hammering.

Harry dares not look up, dares not try to see if Voldemort has noticed the slight motion, nor what the look on Lucius's face is now.

He knows his foray has been a success when a hand lands lightly on his hair, then settles warmly at the base of his neck, kneading slightly.

Perhaps another half hour goes by, and Lestrange at last finishes with a great bellow. Draco is utterly limp, perhaps unconscious. Rabastan pulls out, his too-long cock streaked dark, but that is not the most horrifying thing to Harry. Worse is the sight of the pearly mess on Draco's stomach where in spite of being brutally raped he has come after all.

* * *

They Apparate directly to the dungeon, Harry all too aware that Lucius's arms around him are like a lover's, pulling him close, enfolding him in his cloak, his own near-nakedness emphasised by the scratch of Lucius' clothing against him. He had worried that Lucius would snap when, after the performance was over, the Dark Lord himself climbed onto the stage and found his release in Draco's ravaged arse. But Lucius had remained stoic. In a weird sort of way, Harry is almost proud of him.

He can smell the air of the cellar, dank and cool, before he even opens his eyes. He looks up and tries to say something, but the Silencing Charm is still at work. Lucius rubs a finger over Harry's lips, which cease moving.

"I should gag you the next time we go there. The things you say!" He slaps Harry across the face, bone-jarringly hard, but no less than Harry expected. "No, Potter, I do not wish you to turn into a gibbering slut, though if you've some secret wish to trade places with my son, I'd be all too happy to try to engineer such a thing!"

Harry tries to speak again, but he can only speak with his eyes, pleading with Malfoy to listen, to stop for one moment and realise what Harry has realised—which is that they could help each other. They could.

But Malfoy does not lift the charm until he has bound Harry to the whipping post and removed the skimpy garment that had covered Harry's genitals. And then Harry is conserving his energy for the beating he is about to receive. He hears the lash move through the air as Malfoy tests it.

"Do you know why I'm whipping you?" he says, although he sounds tired, not eager at all.

Harry's brain struggles to work. "Because I spoke out of turn? And..." He hazards a guess; these games are never as simple as they seem. "And because I insulted your son with my comment?" Surely it's not because he nuzzled Lucius's leg. He'd thought Lucius would be pleased by that. Was he wrong?

He is surprised to hear a bit of a chuckle. "Good answers, which show more of your training has sunk in than you'd like to admit, Potter. Perhaps there will be a reward for you soon. But, no. It's time you learnt a different lesson altogether, which is that if you are to be mine, to use as I will, you'll be the recipient of the violence and cruelty I cannot afford to unleash upon others."

Incredibly, the next thing he feels is not a line of fire on his back, but Lucius' caress on his hair, his neck. It is terribly confusing and he does not know what to say.

Then Lucius steps away and the first blow falls, lashing from shoulder to buttock and making Harry scream.

At least this time all Harry has to do is take it. There is no counting, no test, no going back to the beginning if he makes a mistake. He is just there to be the living, screaming target.

His voice fails somewhere after twenty lashes, where he cannot even draw breath to scream any longer, and he realises that he is sobbing, too, chest heaving... he does not remember starting to cry. He feels the heat of Lucius growing near, though, and flinches instinctively from the touch of a hand atop his shoulder.

"Hush. I'll cut you down in a moment. It's easier to do this if you're still standing." And Harry feels the healing charms passing over his skin. They feel like... approval. And he is far too tired to resist.

He finds himself enfolded in Lucius' cloak once more, and then Apparated. He keeps his eyes closed, waiting for the next order, but it does not come. Lucius pulls him down, until they are both lying on their sides, Harry spooned in Lucius' embrace, and they both sleep.

* * *

Harry is honestly not sure how much time has gone by since Voldemort's victory at the Battle of Hogwarts. He is forbidden to see the Prophet, and he can only guess by the weather...surely it is nearly Christmas? Out there in the Wizarding world, life goes on somewhat as normal, from what he can tell. Voldemort has named a new minister, his puppet to be sure, that much Harry knows. The anti-Muggleborn efforts that had begun last year are continuing, he knows that, too, from hearing the chatter before and after the entertainments that Malfoy brings him to. These meetings and entertainments are for Voldemort's inner circle only, and they talk freely amongst themselves about certain things.

He lies still, thinking about the night before, trying to fit it into his picture of Malfoy and the Death Eaters. That Malfoy still cares deeply for his son, and that Voldemort and the others will use that to test him, to humiliate him if possible, is clear. At the time when Harry fell into Malfoy's clutches, the man was wandless and desperate to get back into Voldemort's good graces. Ron, Hermione, and the others had escaped, taking Draco with them, but Lucius had held on to Harry and did not let go. In the end, Voldemort had given Harry to Lucius, to train and make docile. And the traitorous Draco, when he'd been captured during the Battle of Hogwarts, had been given to Lestrange rather than killed. They might need him, after all, to help breed the next generation of purebloods—at least that is the rationale for not killing him that Harry has heard spoken.

Harry does not stir, but settles under the blanket of hopelessness that wants to descend. He doesn't know what's happening outside, doesn't know what's become of the Order or the rest of the Horcruxes or Ron and Hermione. So there's no reason to despair, is there? Everything out there might be just fine. Well, okay, not fine, but he has no reason to give up yet... and besides, he has a plan now. Or at least, an idea. Thanks to Malfoy and the chink in his armour that Harry thinks he has found.

Lucius murmurs sleepily against him and Harry stiffens as the realisation hits him that they are in a bed. Possibly Lucius's bed. "Very well, my pet," Lucius says, as if continuing a conversation from last night without pause, "if you were to have one reward, what would it be?"

Harry lets out one short, bitter laugh. "I suppose a wand or my freedom would be too much to ask for?"

"Indeed," Lucius says, shifting to uncover Harry from the cloak and let it slip from his own shoulders. Now they are lying atop it, Harry in nothing, Lucius in rumpled clothes, and Harry can see they are in the master bedroom. He has never been in here before.

His cheeks flush; he cannot help it. And he cannot hold back the comment that comes forth. "I thought you didn't want me to become a... a slut."

Lucius' eyes narrow, but he says nothing.

"There's too much I don't know!" Harry blurts out. "I don't know what you want! I've tried to go along with all your 'training.' Your tests. Please just... if you want to make me into a... a sex toy, just get on with it."

Now comes the chuckle. "You sound almost as if you're asking me to," Malfoy purrs. "Is that why you rubbed your cheek on my leg last night? Because watching them rutting aroused you?"

Harry rolls to his side, facing his captor but still hiding his eyes by bowing his head. He knows rolling away from him would bring punishment. He needs to buy time, and see if his idea will bear fruit. He needs to keep Malfoy talking. And maybe to keep him happy. But he's no good at lying. Every time he's tried, Malfoy has read him like a book. "No," he says softly. "No, I... you had gone so rigid. I thought... If you were trying to look nonchalant it was failing. And... and so I thought maybe a little distraction would be good."

Malfoy is silent so long that Harry dares a glance up. The man is staring at him, all kinds of thoughts moving busily behind his eyes.

"It made me sick," Harry goes on. "Draco... doesn't deserve that. No one deserves that."

He sees a flare of anger go through Malfoy's expression, but he does not flinch. The anger is not aimed at Harry, anyway. "There are many forms of violence," he says cryptically. "Many forms of control. Many ways to break a wizard."

At first Harry thinks he is referring to Draco. Later he thinks he was referring to Harry, to the training he put Harry through. It is much later that Harry realises that Lucius was talking about himself.

* * *

To Harry's great relief, there is nothing sexual in the training that morning, other than the nudity and the occasional touch, which Harry has grown used to. Once in a while Lucius will reach over and stroke him to hardness, as if rearranging the flowers in a vase when one has drooped, but that is as far as it goes. Harry thinks maybe he understands this part of belonging to Lucius, that having him around is like... having a living piece of sculpture on hand. Lucius even says things from time to time, praising his beauty like a work of art. At first the comments made Harry feel ashamed, because he thought that was what they were supposed to do, but now he thinks maybe Lucius just really likes the way he looks. Not because he's Harry Potter, the failed saviour of the wizarding world so much as that he likes what he sees. And as Harry has learned, being looked at isn't painful. And by now, it's not even blush-inducing. That morning, Lucius sticks to the routine he has trained Harry to, Harry crawling after him down the grand staircase to the breakfast salon, kneeling at his feet during the meal.

They are alone this time. Narcissa has been sent to France with a group of Death Eaters who are making inroads to overthrow the Ministry there. Harry is not supposed to know that. He tries to pretend that he doesn't. There are no other guests today, though from time to time other Death Eaters and Ministry officials come for a meal or stay over at the Manor.

Harry has learnt not to stare at Lucius while he eats, though the aromas of freshly baked croissants and steamed milk with chocolate and fatty rashers of bacon make Harry's stomach growl out loud. It is not so different, he tells himself, from how it was with the Dursleys, who made him cook their breakfasts quiet often, and then Petunia would sometimes let him eat nothing other than a bowl of gruel. At least Lucius will feed him, if he is good. Lucius keeps him a little bit hungry all the time, giving him daily potions that ensure his health and nutrition, but they do not convince his body that he has eaten enough.

It makes eating anything a bit of a treat. Lucius holds out a piece of bacon without looking up from the newspaper. Harry keeps his hands behind his back, but rises up on his knees to take it gently—very gently, he has learnt—from Lucius' fingers. He chews it with great satisfaction, and tries to keep silent, but a little happy noise escapes him.

Lucius' eyes are looking at him then, steel grey, and Harry stares back, transfixed for a long moment before he remembers--bollocks!--he is not supposed to look up during breakfast!

He bows his head, but he has also learnt he is not supposed to apologise either. Unless asked to. Unasked-for apologies are like trying to wheedle out of the punishment he deserves. And he deserves whatever punishment Lucius intends to give, regardless of why. Last night's lesson is well-imprinted, he realises. If Lucius chooses to give him violence or hardship, it doesn't matter why. He will, and Harry must take it.

That part's simple, after all. His mind has accepted it, the way it has accepted so many preposterous things in his world, like flying brooms and benevolent werewolves.

He feels himself trembling, his body gearing up for another lashing like last night's, sweat prickling under his arms, under his balls.

Lucius merely clucks his tongue and goes back to reading the paper. A bit later, a buttered croissant falls to the floor in front of Harry. Harry waits for the snap of Lucius' fingers, and then bends over to eat it, hands still behind his back. He does not leave a single crumb or smear of butter on the parquet floor. It would be humiliating to eat off the floor, he thinks, except this floor is cleaner than some plates he's eaten from.

He ponders being beaten. Actual violence from Lucius has been very rare, and last night the first time it came in such an unadulterated form. Usually there would be a lash or a spank as punishment, a consequence spelled out in advance. But last night was not punishment. It had been... use. The thought that Lucius had needed it flickers through his head.

That is... new.

After breakfast, they move to Lucius' office for a while. Harry knows this part of the routine, too. He closes his eyes as Lucius levitates him onto the desk. Ropes snake out and bind his wrists and ankles, stretching him taut along the polished wood, and Lucius sets about using him as part of his desk blotter. He pours a bit of ink into the well of Harry's belly button, pushes a few newly sharpened quills into the crease where Harry's thighs are pressed together. Blocks of wax and the seal with the Malfoy crest sit upon his chest.

Harry has learnt not to move. If he does, the ink will spill, and there will be punishment. He feels like he got away with one infraction already, with the looking up at the breakfast table, and he just hopes this won't be one of the days where at the end, Lucius cashes in all the mistakes.

From time to time, Lucius strokes him with his fingertips, or with the soft edge of a quill, especially right along his ribs. Harry has learnt not to move.

After writing his third letter, Lucius takes up the wax and melts it with a small, conjured flame. He lets the drops fall on Harry's skin, making Harry clench his teeth hard against crying out. It is far from the most painful thing he's felt, but it is sharp, so sharp, and it continues to burn as it sits there for long seconds on his skin before it hardens.

Lucius begins to let the drops fall only onto Harry's nipples, and soon Harry is making sounds, desperate sounds, because he must have some outlet, or he will squirm and spill the ink and....

Lucius makes a shushing noise, banishing the wax from Harry's skin quite abruptly and then sealing his letters without molesting Harry further with it. Gone is the ink, too, and Lucius plucks the quills away. He chuckles. Harry cannot help but make an inquisitive noise.

"If I am not careful, you will end up exactly like..." Malfoy breaks off then and starts over, though Harry has heard the slip. "You will end up a slut. You are half hard right now. Would you come if I let Lestrange at you?"

Harry shakes his head, not sure if he's supposed to answer the question, or if it's rhetorical. Then Lucius' fingers are wrapped around his penis, stroking him to his full length.

It feels different this time, less cursory, more.... well, more sexual.

"When was the last time you came, Harry?"

Harry has to gasp for a few moments to find his voice. "You... you allowed me to come ah... about a month ago."

"Allowed you to?"

Harry blushes hard and dark like a sudden storm cloud. "Forced me to," he corrects himself, then realises that doesn't sound like he's speaking very well of his master. "That is, I came because you wanted me to, about a month ago."

"And before that?"

Harry looks up in alarm, pulling unconsciously at the bindings, making them tighten around his wrists. "Um... I don't remember a time before that." Is there some lesson of Lucius's he's actually forgotten?

Harry is not sure what to make of the chuckle he receives in reply. "I find it difficult to believe you never masturbated behind the curtains of your four-poster in Gryffindor tower?"

"Oh." Harry's blush is more crimson now, bright as a beacon. "The last time before... I came here... Hmm." He has to really think about it. "Um, the end of sixth year. Er, as you say, behind the curtains." He and Ginny had been snogging down by the lake, and he'd wished that either of them had mustered the courage to touch the other... there. But even a pair of Gryffindors didn't charge into that breach fearlessly.

Lucius turns his head so that they are looking into each other's eyes. Harry's startled to see a kind of... wistfulness there. The hand around his cock strokes more vigorously now. "Do you want to come now?"

Panic forestalls his answer, as he is trapped between yes and no.

"It's a simple question, Harry."

"But... but it depends on what you want," he stammers. That much he's learnt.

"I want you to answer the question."

Harry swallows hard. "If... if it means I'm turning into... a whore, then... then no. No, I don't want to come at all."

Lucius nods, as if he's pleased with this answer. Harry wasn't at all sure that the answer was the right one—he still isn't, since after all, if what Lucius wanted was the wrong answer so that Harry could be punished...

Lucius' hand moves more quickly, deft fingers forming a ring just under the sensitive edge of the cockhead. "No, Harry," he says, voice calm and impassive. "I do not want you to... to turn into that. You've gathered by now that everything I do is to control you in some fashion. To control your body, as well as your thoughts. I have fed you, sheltered you, seen to what needs you have to keep you alive. You do not need to come to stay alive."

"No," Harry agrees. "No, I don't."

"But do you want to?"

"I don't know!" Harry's cry is anguished. "I can't... I can't answer without knowing the consequences."

"Ahhhh, so you have learnt some things after all." Lucius chuckles again, and to Harry the sound is like distant thunder, safe enough for now but possibly foreboding storms. "I am not sure I want you to come. I do so enjoy looking at you, rampant like a lion on a standard. There is a potion I could give you which would make you hard all the time. But after a few days of that, you'd be damaged beyond repair, and I would have broken my toy. No, Harry, I will not do that to you."

Harry is not sure why, but he feels the opening instinctively. "You take... you take good care of me," he says, gasping a little as his arousal reaches a peak. "But I don't.... I don't think the same can be said of... of..."

Lucius's grip tightens almost painfully as he finishes the sentence Harry cannot. "Of my son and his master." He practically growls and then lets go Harry's cock as if burned. Harry whimpers openly, so close to completion he is no longer coherent.

"Lestrange is killing him with lust, wearing him out like a sword wears out its sheath if drawn too often." His voice is cold as he speaks. "Intercourse, the entry of one body into another, is meant..." He falls silent, speechless in the crackling freeze of his outrage.

He stands. "If I fuck you, Harry Potter," he says, hands on the blotter, "I will have a very good reason for it."

Harry's mind is hazy, whirling, trying to understand. He recalls what they witnessed with Draco. "For punishment?" he asks. "Or reward?"

Lucius clucks his tongue, his rage suddenly passing like a summer storm. "That would depend," he says, cryptic as ever. "My goals... can change."

Harry blinks. He often gets the feeling whenever the Slytherins around him talk that what they say has two meanings. The one that is obvious, and the one that is more important and therefore hidden. This time he thinks—he hopes—he has heard the hidden meaning.

"I want to help you rescue Draco," he says, looking up into Lucius' gaze. "That's what I want."

Lucius examines his face. "Do you want it more than you want to come?"

Harry lets out an involuntary whine as Lucius runs one finger up the ridge of his still-straining cock, but holds firm. "Yes. Yes, of course."

"I think what you really want is for me to trust you."

Harry swallows. "Well, yes."

"But can I trust you, Harry?"

Harry forces himself to keep looking up this time. "You can if you know what I want, what I'm... up to. You know I want to defeat the Dark Lord. That's not news, is it?"

Lucius' eyes narrow. "My position is precarious. The Dark Lord himself has only recently begun to respect me again. And he would have Narcissa or Draco killed immediately if he thought I was the slightest bit disloyal."

Harry frowns as Lucius's strokes become long once again, but his mind is not on his cock. "But he doesn't respect you," Harry says finally. "He wouldn't force you to watch... things like what we watched last night if he did. Don't you think he's just waiting for a chance to break you again?"

Lucius growls. "Ah. You mean that there is pleasure to be had in watching a pet grovel and obey, and sweetness to be had in punishing them, too, if one is a sadist."

"Well, yeah, that's... that's what I've learnt... from you, anyway," Harry says, wondering if perhaps he's pushed too far with that comment.

"A nice fantasy," Lucius says after a pause. "But there is no way to rescue Draco. And we cannot risk it while Narcissa is abroad in any case."

Harry notices Lucius says "cannot," not "could not." The man would leap at an opportunity if one presented itself.

"Well, you know my mind, then," Harry says. He is so very close to coming, now. His entire body trembles. "If given the chance, I would rescue Draco. I would kill the Dark Lord. If you had to choose between your wife and your son, would you...?"

Lucius hisses. "I ask myself such questions all the time. It is exactly the sort of puzzle the Dark Lord would pose himself. He might as well ask whether I would prefer him to cut off my left arm or my right." He shakes his head. "Though, honestly, Narcissa is less in need of rescue. She has the greatest chance to defend herself and to survive. Draco has none."

Harry gasps as a sort of cruel light comes into Lucius' eyes. "You've thought of something," he says.

"Yes," Lucius admits, and slows his hand's pace even more. "But it will require sacrifices on both our parts."

"I'm not afraid," Harry says automatically. Besides, what does he have to lose?

"But I am," Lucius says quietly.

He says nothing more about the plan he has in mind, and Harry knows better than to ask. He wonders, though, if Lucius's idea is what prompts him to finally say, "I want you to come, Harry. I want you to come, now."

* * *

That night Harry is given only potions for dinner. Malfoy is entertaining guests--someone other than Death Eaters, Harry supposes, since Harry is hidden away in an upstairs room rather than being made to pose or heel.

The waiting makes him uneasy. The room is a small guest room, with a single bed made up with very soft, very blue sheets, a single balcony whose glass doors are locked, an undersized writing desk in one corner with empty drawers, not a quill or piece of parchment to be had. There is one narrow door to a small washroom, and nothing of note in there to be found.

He is not restrained in any way, other than the door being locked and the windows being sealed. There is a small fireplace and it burns merrily, and Harry watches it for a while as if it were the telly.

He ends up climbing into bed for lack of anything else to do. The sheets are soft against his bare skin and his muscles have a lassitude that he wonders about. From the potions? Or from having come so very hard earlier?

Harry is only aware of having fallen asleep when he wakes suddenly many hours later. The room is dark, the fire burnt out, and he is sure he heard a noise.

He turns his head suddenly and there is Lucius, limned by moonlight through the glass doors. "Do you trust me, Harry?"

Harry makes a noncommittal noise. Lucius seems almost as if he Apparates to the bed, but no, he has just moved quickly in the shadows, and Harry finds his chin in Lucius' hand, the wizard's robes pooling around them. His scent is of whiskey and burnt wood and something masculine that makes Harry's heart break—an echoing sense memory of James from Harry's infancy, perhaps? His breath catches.

"Do you trust me, Harry?" Lucius insists. He has been in his cups tonight.

"I... I don't know if I can," Harry stammers when Lucius's grip borders on pain. He hurries to explain himself, as if that will matter. "Y-you don't exactly have the best track record, I mean, what with the diary and Dobby a-and everything else between us..."

Lucius' eyes are large and close. "You're going to have to trust me, if we're to succeed."

"Oh." Harry has no idea what to say, or to think, about that.

Lucius does the thinking for him. "Listen to me. Either you trust me, and you go along with what I say, even if I do not reveal the plan to you, or not all of it right away, or you must believe that I have one extremely elaborate plan whose only possible goal would be to humiliate you in a remarkably complicated way."

Harry shifts a bit under Lucius' weight. "Well, but... that is what I believe. Or did. Um, until earlier, I mean. What else was I supposed to think about the... the training and all?"

"Hmm." Lucius eases back. "That's true."

Harry presses the point. "Why don't you tell me the plan, and we can hash it out together, and improve its chances of success that way?"

Lucius chuckles. "Mr. Potter, I was under the distinct impression that your strength was in improvisation. Leave the planning to those who are suited to it."

"All right." Harry sags. "Does it matter if I trust you, if I have no choice but to go along with you?"

Lucius' answer is silence, and Harry wishes he could see Lucius' face clearly, but he cannot.

He barely feels the moist warmth of Lucius' breath on his lips before the kiss descends, warming him and opening him and leaving him gasping. Lucius has touched his cock a thousand times since Harry was given to him, but he has never kissed him before. "If you trust me," comes the soft whisper, "it will be so much better for you."

"What will?" Harry forces himself to ask.

"This." Lucius finds one of Harry's hands in the folds of his robes and eases it until Harry's palm cups the steely bulge in his trousers.

"I thought.... I-I thought... you said..."

"I know what you thought, and what I said," Lucius breathes into his ear. "Change of plans."

Harry finds himself shaking quite against all effort to calm himself into a steely, Gryffindorish acceptance. Lucius's caresses on his hair and cheek only make it worse. "Y-you're going to..."

"Hush. No. I'm not going to. Not now. Not until you trust me."

"Oh." Harry blinks. That makes a strange sort of... sense.

Lucius kisses him once more, then rises. "I shall expect you at breakfast."

And then as suddenly as he had arrived, he is gone, this time by Disapparition. It takes Harry a moment to realise that he is to spend the night in this room, in this comfortable bed, and not chained to the pallet in the cellar where he has usually slept. He lies awake, contemplating all Lucius has said.

And not said. Right? Slytherins. What they don't say is as important as what they say. Harry knows that. But try as he might, he cannot figure out anything more of the puzzle. Lucius has changed his plan—changed his mind—and is going to fuck Harry. That much is clear. Why? Something to do with with Harry's offer to help rescue Draco. But he's not going to do it yet. Why? Because... if he did just do it, then Harry wouldn't trust him. And Lucius wants him to trust him.

Part of him says that the moment he starts to trust him, Lucius is going to fuck him, and that will be the end of all dignity, all sense of self, all rightness. Because Lucius will have some way of betraying him, just when Harry finally lets his guard down. It's all one elaborate deception.

Just like Lucius said Harry would think it would be.

Hmmm. Harry lies stewing in scepticism, about Lucius' motives, about his own thoughts, about everything. When his brain finally runs aground, he is stuck with the images of Draco's rape behind his eyelids. He shudders, hearing Lucius' words in his head. Lestrange is wearing him out like a sword wears out its sheath. How much more can Draco withstand before he is worn down to nothing?

* * *

When Harry wakes, he is surprised to find something on his bed he did not expect. Clothing. A simple tunic, loose leggings. No underthings, no socks or shoes. The things are clearly laid out for him to wear, aren't they? His heart leaps suddenly to think of house elves being given clothes... being freed. No, that can't be what this means, but...

He dithers before putting them on. It could all be a ruse of some kind. Get him to put them on and then find himself beaten black and blue for daring to cover himself? With some trepidation, he dresses and then goes downstairs.

Lucius is already there, in his usual place, the newspaper in one hand and a cup in the other. There is a second place set at the table, but Harry does not see any other guest. It must be someone that Lucius does not want to see Harry naked. That explains the clothes. That might mean Harry shouldn't kneel either, though. He stands in the doorway, uncertain.

Lucius barely spares him a glance. "Sit." He makes a rough gesture with the cup, toward the empty chair.

Harry slips sideways into the chair, and food appears on his plate. He waits for the order to eat.

It does not come. The eggs are perfectly poached, steam rising from the creamy sauce poured over them. Harry reaches for his fork. When no rebuke comes, he takes up his knife as well.

They clink against the china as he cuts into the egg and the pastry shell underneath it. Lucius never looks up from the paper. When he is finished, he Vanishes the paper and leaves the room without saying a word.

Harry finishes the entire meal. He refrains from licking the plate, but it is the first time he's felt truly sated in as long as he can remember. Well, not counting how he felt after coming yesterday; that was different.

He finds he can leave the room. No one and no charm stops him. He walks in near silence up the grand staircase, the thick carpeting soft under his bare feet.

He does not know where to go nor what to do. It is habit, perhaps, or curiosity, or maybe even a bit of foolhardiness, that takes him to Lucius' study.

Lucius is writing a letter and making notes in an account book, exactly as Harry has seen him do countless times before. Well, not exactly, as this time he uses a glass inkwell, and a small brass stand holds the quills. Harry just stands there, staring.

At one point, Lucius looks up, eyes sharp. "Do you need something?"

"Er, no, I, er..."

"Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Er, yes, um, I'll just be going now."

Harry flees all the way back to the small room he slept in, though he props the door open with a wadded towel from the wash room. Strange. This is just strange. After months of having every day part of a routine, after months of dreading what form of lesson he might have to endure, but enduring them every day, Harry finds himself at a complete loss for what to do.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe Lucius is allowing him this leeway so that Harry will find a way to get rid of the Dark Lord. He knows Harry wants to do it, after all. And if Harry does that, then perhaps Lucius will be able to rescue Draco himself easily enough?

Seems far-fetched. Just to be sure, Harry tests the doors and windows of the Manor; none of them will open for him. So Lucius is not expecting him to "escape."

A week goes by this way. No lessons in tea service. No afternoons spent moving stones from one side of the garden to the other. A few times Lucius has guests and Harry is confined to his room, but otherwise, he has the run of the place. He eats breakfast and dinner with Lucius, but it is as if Harry has ceased to matter to Lucius. It's as if he's no longer worthy of the slightest bit of attention.

Harry tries again and again to replay that midnight conversation in his head. Was it something Harry said? Or is this the part where he's supposed to trust Lucius, and play along? But no, Lucius knows he doesn't trust him. Is that what it is? Lucius is hurt that Harry doesn't trust him?

That's daft. And this is all one giant mind game and it makes Harry's head hurt. Besides, he's found nothing helpful in his bolder and bolder explorations of the Manor, each day trying another door, searching another floor.

It is some time in the second week when Harry realizes they have missed the weekly entertainment at Voldemort's cloister. What did Lucius tell them? Did he beg off illness? Having not actually spoken to Lucius in over ten days, he has a long list of questions building up.

The next morning he leaves the clothes behind. The air feels chilly on his skin as he descends the upper staircase. He is no longer accustomed to the nudity and gooseflesh rises across his arms and shoulders.

In the doorway to the breakfast salon he pauses for a moment, taking a breath and steeling himself for what he is about to do.

He slides to his knees at the foot of Lucius' chair, exactly where he used to, his eyes trained on the design of parquet under it. A minute ticks agonisingly by, and he begins to wonder if he miscalculated terribly. He just wants... something. A bit of acknowledgment. To feel like he exists and is not a ghost...

A warm hand descends on his hair. A fleshy thumb sweeping along his forehead, caressing. Harry finds the breath he had been holding suddenly released.

It is enough. Lucius says one word, "Good." Spoken softly, not imperiously at all. And then, "Tomorrow."

He stands and leaves after that, leaving the Manor entirely. Harry hears him calling out the private Floo address of a high-ranking Minister and then the rush of the flames from the next room.

Now what? Harry thinks, but he feels aglow. He feels warm. He feels almost... happy. He doesn't even know what Lucius means by "tomorrow," only that the word feels full of promise.

Lucius does not return until late that night. Harry has spent long hours trying to decide where he should be and what he should be doing upon his return. He has settled for kneeling by the Floo and hoping that Lucius comes back the same way. Luckily, he does.

Harry's eyes are properly trained on the rug for an hour at least, but the moment Lucius emerges from the Floo he cannot help it. He is looking up, hoping to see some recognition, some approval, some emotion of any kind.

What he sees is first surprise, then a kind of... happiness.

Lucius crouches in front of him, boots creaking, robes slumping against the carpet. He reaches out a hand, cupping Harry's head and pulling him forward a bit. "What," he says, voice almost a whisper, "do you want?"

Harry stammers, caught like a mongoose looking into the eyes of a cobra. "I just... I got... bored. I miss... I miss you paying attention to me."

"And isn't that what I always said? You were an attention-grabbing brat who had to be the centre of everything?"


"Er, well..." Damn, had Lucius been right even then? "I'm just lonely. And... and I thought... I thought we were..."

"Were what?"

"Getting closer. You... you were starting to trust me."

Lucius nods solemnly. "But you weren't ready to trust me yet. And I doubt you are now."

Harry feels crestfallen. "But I..."

"Hush. Just because you want something from me doesn't mean you trust me. But I am quite sure you want something from me, Harry. Lonely? Bored?"

A little bit angrily, Harry answers back. "Confused. I liked it better when I knew where I stood with you."

"And where was that?"

Damn Lucius and his trick questions. Harry digs for an answer. "I, at least, felt like I belonged. Like you wanted me here. Like you cared..." He breaks off there, feeling suddenly like he has been lured onto dangerous ground. But it's true, isn't it? Lucius did care, at least about how he looked, and that he acted properly, and he even spoke of not mistreating Harry, too. Not in certain ways, anyway.

Lucius' eyes are surprisingly warm, then. "I do care," he says, and relief surges through Harry. His next question seems too mundane for the emotional peak Harry is on. "Are you tired of sleeping in the blue room?"

"Well, it is more comfortable than the cellar, but..." Harry hastens to finish, lest Lucius think he actually wants to return there. "But it's lonely down there, too."

Lucius nods. "Come upstairs, then. It's time we established a new routine for you."

As Lucius leads the way from the room, Harry is not completely sure whether he is supposed to walk or crawl... he decides to try walking and to accept whatever punishment may come his way if his choice is wrong.

But Lucius says nothing. Just leads him to the master bedroom and begins instructing him on the things a manservant is expected to do to ready his lord for a good night's sleep. He learns to remove his robes and hang them, eventually down to removing his shirt and breeches. Harry cannot help but blush as he notes the length and girth of Lucius' cock, as it juts prominently from his body, eager and flushed with blood. It is soon covered by a silk nightshirt, though, and Lucius makes no move to touch Harry, or to make Harry touch it.

Lucius declares that is enough, and conjures a low mattress at the foot of his own bed, with a blanket and pillow, for Harry to sleep on. Lucius completes his nightly toilette alone in the washroom, and Harry is not sure, but he thinks he may be flaccid when he climbs into bed. Harry himself curls up, thinking it's utterly daft that he should be so much happier sleeping like a pet on the floor than he was alone upstairs.

They return to the old routine of breakfast, and then to the study where Lucius again uses Harry as a desk blotter. His caresses are few, but warm, and only once over the next few days does he gently stroke Harry to hardness, using two fingers shaped into a ring. The afternoons, though, they do not resume training. Harry is not made to perform difficult physical acts, nor put into predicaments of pain, nor made to display himself. Often Lucius goes to attend some business at the Ministry, and Harry is left to his own devices for a few hours. Then there is dinner, which is consumed in a similar manner to breakfast, only Lucius does not read a newspaper. He looks at Harry while they eat, and Harry looks back, eating morsels of meat and other things directly from Lucius' hand, sometimes even cake from a fork or custard from a spoon.

Each night Lucius adds to the pre-bed ritual. Harry learns to brush out his hair, and, eventually, to wash his body with cloth and scented water. He blushes no less when washing Lucius's blond-furred scrotum while his erection is so hot to the touch, than he does when he washes that penis when soft and limp, the last dribbles of come from Lucius's relief still leaking from the slit. He knows it is for him, for wanting Harry, that Lucius is so hard to begin with, and that because of him, Lucius must relieve himself every night, else he would not sleep.

They attend another of Voldemort's performances. It is no one Harry knows this time, and the torturers are Macnair and Yaxley. The victim is a man, and the first thing they do is charm away his tongue. His cries are wordless then, as they brutalise him in various ways. A bit later, they charm away his teeth, and Yaxley fucks his mouth until the man is unconscious from lack of oxygen. They revive him long enough to establish a race, Macnair with his cock up the fellow's arse and Yaxley at his mouth, to see who can come first. Macnair manages it, pulling out and spraying Yaxley with semen while gleefully taunting him. Yaxley fucks the victim's head so viciously then that his neck snaps. Voldemort applauds and gives them the ultimate sign of his approval, climbing onto the stage so that they may suck him to hardness, both mouths working in tandem, and then he fucks the corpse with great sighs of intense satisfaction.

Harry's eyes are round with shock—it is the most gruesome display they have seen yet.

When they return home, neither of them speaks. The routine is soothing, Harry finds, as he removes Lucius' garments, one by one, his attention able to narrow to this one thing, to each detail.

He is not wholly surprised to find that tonight Lucius is flaccid while being washed. Harry turns down the bedcovers as he has been taught to, then chances a look back at Lucius who is standing behind him, waiting to slip into the place Harry has prepared. Harry catches his eye for just a moment and then climbs into the bed himself, holding the covers up for Lucius to follow.

Lucius does without hesitation or rebuke. He pulls Harry into his silk-covered arms, pillowing his head on his breast, and thus comforted do they both sleep.

(on to part two...)