Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7871842.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J.K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Lucius_Malfoy/Harry_Potter
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Lucius_Malfoy
  Additional Tags:
      Drama
  Collections:
      Ink_Stained_Fingers
  Stats:
      Published: 2005-05-06 Words: 7260
****** Brothers in Arms ******
by Hijja
Summary
     Harry had never thought he would ever surrender to a Death Eater,
     until Lucius shows up in his cell. But when Lucius offers him a deal,
     Harry has no choice but to reconsider.
Notes
     This story was originally archived at Ink_Stained_Fingers, which was
     created in 2002 as a home for Harry Potter slash fiction. To preserve
     the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an
     Open Doors-approved project in January 2015. We e-mailed all authors
     about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached
     everyone. If you are (or know) this author or artist, please contact
     me using the e-mail address at the Ink_Stained_Fingers_collection
     profile.
     Author's notes: Written for the Beloved Enemies Anniversary
     Challenge, and inspired by Anne Phoenix’s brilliant ’Small Price to
     Pay’, with even more thanks to Anne, Emmy and Leni Jess for the beta.
"And what, precisely, am I supposed to do with that?"
I shoot Rodolphus Lestrange an angry look before returning my attention to the
cell at the end of the corridor and its single occupant, chained to the far
wall.
Lestrange shrugs.
"According to Bella, our Lord entertained the thought last night of giving him
to you to turn into your slave."
I snort and glare at the prisoner. He can't see us - the torchlight doesn't
reach beyond the end of the corridor, but it highlights him. Black, tangled
hair. Lanky frame. Pale arms pulled up above his head by black metal cuffs.
Bloody perfect. The invincible Harry Potter. And even at the door of death he
has to make himself a nuisance.
It's not that I couldn't very well imagine breaking him - the traditional way,
that is. If I remember those insolent eyes in the Department of Mysteries,
looking at me as though I were his equal, or - even more insulting - his
inferior. Oh yes, I'd like to shatter that arrogance, bathe that haughty face
in tears of pain and force pleas for mercy out of that mouth. In fact, I've had
alarmingly detailed visions to that end, during those endless months at
Azkaban.
But that...
"Though I believe that between Bella and us, we can nudge his mind in another
direction, if you're so averse to it," Lestrange offers when he senses my
anger.
I glower darkly at the cell door.
"I did not become a Death Eater to touch a Mudblood's child." The mere thought
is repulsive, even if the brat is the Boy Who Lived.
Lestrange shrugs again.
"Bella or Walden would destroy him, and as for me..." He shakes his head and I
return his bemused look with a wry smirk of my own. "Still drawn to women
exclusively. Apart from being a Mudblood, he should be your cup of tea."
"Our Lord should just throw him to Snape then," I snap. "His hatred for the
brat is almost pathological, and he's definitely twisted enough."
"But then it's you our Lord is displeased with, isn't it?"
Yes, I think angrily. Just because I took the initiative and organised our
escape from Azkaban while He didn't lift a finger and expected us to stew in
our cells and agonise over our 'failures'.
"I did not expect reprisals for returning into His service," I snarl, failing
to hide the bitterness in my voice. Lestrange puts a hand on my elbow.
"I, for one, am glad that you got us out, Lucius, and I'm sure the others
agree. I'll do what I can to help if you really want to get out of this...
affair."
I look at the cell with its disreputable inhabitant again.
"We'll see."
He follows my gaze.
"He doesn't look like much of a threat, does he?" he remarks. "Perhaps our Lord
should just kill him and be done with it... singling him out will only increase
his reputation. After all, what has he ever done, apart from being lucky?"
My rational side tends to agree, and yet I can understand the almost physical
itch that goads the Dark Lord to try and wring any kind of victory out of this,
his 'nemesis'. I know it because I feel that desire burn in my own veins.
"Don't tell me you're pitying him," I sneer.
Lestrange shakes his head with a slight frown.
"Believe me, I don't. His father was one of the greatest bastards ever to walk
Merlin's earth. And yet, he seems awfully... young for all of this."
Despite the reassurance, there is a touch of wistfulness in Lestrange's tone,
and I understand where it comes from. Rodolphus will never have a child - over
a decade of imprisonment in Azkaban has damaged Bellatrix too much, and yet he
will never look at another woman. Lestrange does not pity Potter himself, but
his death will remind him of his own losses.
"Go and deal with him, then," he says and turns away. I wonder at the strange
tone of his voice as I listen to his footsteps drifting off in the distance.
Even on his most lucid days, Lestrange's moods can be unsettling.
As I step out of the shadows, I recognise the guards and incline my head.
Augustus Rookwood nods coolly, while Andrew Goyle throws me a grin.
"I'm here to see our guest," I state the obvious. "You can call it a night." A
faint clink of chains sounds inside the cell. Yes, let him worry.
"Remember that our Lord doesn't want him damaged yet," Rookwood emphasises,
ever eager to ingratiate himself with our Master. Goyle just lifts thick
eyebrows at him in exasperation, and I entertain the idea of leaving a
pronounced mark on Potter just to see the contemptible bureaucrat cringe before
the Dark Lord, knowing Rookwood would not have the nerve to accuse me. But then
it wouldn't be worth getting an ally in trouble along with him.
"Let's go," Goyle says and waves for Rookwood to precede him, giving him no
chance to linger.
I wait until they're out of sight before unspelling the cell door and entering.
Potter stares at me coldly, body leaning heavily against the wall to take the
pressure off his chained arms. He's still wearing his battered Hogwarts
uniform, though the silly glasses are gone. The scar on his forehead stands out
in an inflamed red line against the bone-white skin, a sure sign that the Dark
Lord has been to see him.
It had been so ridiculously easy to walk into Honeydukes the evening preceding
a Hogsmeade weekend, casting Imperius on the owners, and ordering them to gift
Harry Potter with a certain ChocoGalleon after making his purchase. All that
was left to do afterwards was to sit back and wait for the Portkey to deliver
him.
I walk up to him and stare at him for a long minute. I have dreamed about this
ever since they brought him in two days ago. The urge to go down to the
dungeons, to gloat, to hurt, to break that little overrated half-blooded
creature for the shame it has brought on the Malfoy name had been almost
overwhelming. And not only that - he has disgraced me, stood up to me again and
again, and I have never suffered a wizard to challenge me without exacting
revenge.
He looks back defiantly, but with a wary glint in his eye. At last, I backhand
him across the face with all the strength I can muster. The impact throws his
head back against the wall with an audible crack. He doesn't make a sound, but
his lip has split and blood paints his teeth as he snarls at me. My hand stings
from the force of the blow, but the hot rush of pleasure at causing him pain is
so intense it's almost disconcerting.
"How courageous!" he spits, stained lips curling in contempt. "To bad you
weren't quite that brave in the Department of Mysteries."
I raise an eyebrow and slowly draw my wand. He tries to keep his expression
blank, does quite an impressive job, to be honest, but cannot suppress a muscle
twitching in his cheek. His eyes dart from my wand to my face. Giving him my
most chilling smile, I cast a Silencing Charm over the cell.
Never fear, child. I will destroy you tonight, but not with magic.
"Now, Mr Potter, I think you'd like to know what brought me here," I drawl, and
register how he relaxes a fraction when no curse is immediately forthcoming.
"I'm here to acquaint you with the fate my Lord has in store for you."
"Oh, are you?" the brat drawls back with considerable bravado. "And Voldemort
needed to send one of his high-and-mighty because that'll come as such a
surprise, considering that he wanted to kill me ever since I was a baby?"
Tapping my wand against his cheek, I watch him tense again.
"Do you really think it's prudent to aggravate your situation with impudent
behaviour, Mr Potter? Or are you just fond of pain?"
At that, a small frown knits his brow.
"Neither," he retorts. "But it won't make a difference, right? You and your
master-" it comes out with just enough emphasis to make it an insult rather
than a fact, "- will make it as hard on me as you possibly can, no matter what
I do. Do you think I'll crawl before you just so you can get your kicks?"
I marvel at his matter-of-factness. He does have a point, of course, but I
think he underestimates how much his cockiness makes me want to crush his ego
into dust.
"It may come as a surprise to you, then, that the Dark Lord does not intend to
kill you for the time being," I reply.
"No?" He cocks his head slightly and shifts his wrists in the shackles.
"No," I confirm with a sardonic grin. "He insists on your complete degradation,
to make up for your past infractions."
He knits his brows severely. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that he wants your mind broken and your will utterly subjugated to
another's. To mine, Mr Potter," I add with relish. Even if I'm hating the
prospect itself, I long to see his composure shatter. "He plans to give you to
me."
He pales visibly, but still keeps a steady voice.
"Oh, really... should I feel honoured? I would have thought that any mediocre
minion with a talent for the Cruciatus Curse would do."
Yes, this is as delightful as I had hoped. Such obnoxious innocence practically
begs to be destroyed.
"You misunderstand, Potter. The Dark Lord doesn't want you broken by torture.
That would be easily accomplished, and no victory." I can hear the lethal tone
in my voice and wonder for a moment what he'll make of it, if he's even going
to notice through his impending outrage. "No, he wants you humiliated and
defiled, an active participant in your own destruction." I pause for a moment.
"Lust and pain, Potter, are a far more potent combination, and will have the
additional advantage of making you hate yourself even more than you will hate
me."
This time he just stares, mouth half open in shock, until realisation sets in
and pure rage contorts his face.
"You- you sick, twisted piece of-"
I backhand him again, and this time when his head connects with the wall there
is a smear of red on the stone and a moment of concussed silence. A bruise mars
his cheek, dark against deadly pale skin. Impatiently, I raise my wand.
"Ennervate!"
His face twists in pain before the eyes open into a weary, pained look. He
swallows hard, once, twice, and the blood that has threatened to spill from the
corner of his mouth disappears.
"Have I made it sufficiently clear that your attitude is unacceptable?"
"You're-" he slurs, and glares, and falls silent. I smirk, and the moment of
self-restraint vanishes. "How can you say that?" he snaps. "How can you even
think it? I'm going to school with your son, for God's sake!"
"And you've made all the wrong enemies, Potter," I state coolly.
"Oh, so you're saying if one of your Auror enemies decided to... to rape Draco,
that would be all right, then?"
Again, I am forcefully reminded of the fact that this creature is as far
removed from aristocratic wizarding society as one can be without being a lowly
Mudblood himself.
"Potter, I ensured that Draco would be protected from harm from the hour of his
birth. Whether I - or his mother, for that matter - am far away, dead or
imprisoned, anyone attempting to lay a hand on my son would die a lingering and
supremely agonising death. Among true wizards such magic is common enough, even
without the kind of flashy self-sacrifice your mother seemed to favour." I curl
my lips in mocking pity. "Please do not try to blame me for the fact that none
of your 'guardians' - not even a wizard as supremely powerful as Dumbledore -
has bothered to provide you with a similar level of protection."
Of course Dumbledore would never approve of steeping an infant so deeply in the
Dark Arts no matter what the advantages. But Potter doesn't know that, and the
look of hurt confusion on his face is just too precious. And yet, he catches
himself quickly enough, gives me an extremely cold look and doggedly returns to
his previous line of thought.
"At the risk of giving you another flimsy excuse to beat me, Malfoy, but even
though I've always considered you an evil bastard, I didn't take you for a
rapist." He sneers contemptuously. "You're not even that ugly - can't you think
of someone who'd have you voluntarily, or just remember that you're actually
married?"
He stares right into my face, practically daring me to hit him again. But
though I enjoy making him suffer perhaps more than I should, why resort to
something as unsubtle and Mugglish as physical violence when words will cause
him just as much pain? Especially since I suspect he'd rather be knocked cold
than think about me touching him.
"This is where your Muggle blood and upbringing show again, Potter," I scold
mildly and enjoy the raw hatred blooming on his face at the tone. "What the
Dark Lord has in mind is nowhere as simple or crude as 'rape'. It is a time-
honoured wizarding art of revenge, a test of wills, and power, and
determination."
"Art?" He spits out the word with acidic venom.
"Yes, indeed. An art which, if performed properly, will reduce a loathed enemy
to a mindless pet that will crave my every touch, and do whatever it is told no
matter how despicable. A creature so dependent that every hour spent outside my
presence will feel like being cast away from the presence of a deity."
After such a creature has been broken, it is quietly disposed of - abandoned in
a nameless dungeon like Caradoc Dearborn, or quickly strangled in their bed
like Anne Weasley. There is neither honour nor pleasure to be gained from the
torture of such a pet, who will not comprehend any longer why it's being hurt
despite obeying every order given to it. Although I'm not sure whether the Dark
Lord is aware of such subtleties.
I don't have to try for a threatening tone. The very thought of doing that to
him makes my insides tighten in anticipation. Not for the end result, but for
the process. For a moment, I wonder whether the Dark Lord realises how much of
a temptation his intended humiliation is for me. The thought that he might be
able to look so deeply into my convoluted feelings surrounding the issue of the
'Boy Who Lived' would be far more humiliating than if he just played on my
well-known loathing for the intimate presence of a Mudblood.
A Mudblood who now, after the first shock has passed, draws himself up as much
as the shackles allow, and hisses as if he were speaking Parseltongue: "I'd
never!"
"I've succeeded with wizards far better trained than you, Potter," I shut off
his protests. That's nothing but the honest truth after all. "There is great
prestige to be gained among the Dark Lord's circle from the breaking of such a
prize."

And there are many who would gladly overlook that the boy has Muggle blood if
they were presented with the chance to perform like trained animals before the
Dark Lord. I give him a look of pure loathing and add, out of sheer spite,
"And considering how unprepared you are for any kind of resistance, there is
very little risk to my status involved."
He perks up at that and latches on to the most improbable interpretation.
"So if I win this, I'll be free?"
Oh please, Potter! I snort mentally. You're trying to out-Gryffindor Godric,
aren't you?
"No." I shake my head. "There is no way you could 'win', but if you should,
you'll get to die with a shred of integrity intact."
"Oh, great!" His mouth twists in disgust. "Why would I even bother, then?"
Even chained in a dungeon in the realm of his enemies, he's wrapped in the safe
haven of his pride. I look at him, at the cold, accusing eyes, the defiant
posture, and tell him with undisguised honesty,
"You would, Potter. It's what you are."
He stares at me in surprise for a moment, before his face turns into a bitter,
hateful grimace.
"And have you any idea how much I hate your kind venting their rage on me just
because of what I am? Although you wanting to rape me because of it is
certainly a new one."
"And what makes you think I would want this, Potter?"
The question makes him pause and still for a moment, and I realise that
confusing him is almost as amusing as shocking him.
"Like hell, Malfoy. I could see how much you got off on telling me about it."
I bow my head slightly. "And yet, there is one aspect that makes the Dark
Lord's plan almost as repulsive to me as it seems to you."
He frowns and bites his bottom lip in what he would probably honestly defend as
an innocent gesture.
"I see," he finally nods.
I raise an eyebrow and study him carefully. "Do you?"
He shrugs. "I'm male." The self-assured words tease a chuckle out of me, no
matter how hard I try to suppress it. His frown deepens. "What's so bloody
funny, Malfoy?"
"You are," I grin. "Your absolute naivety. I couldn't care less about the
gender of the person I'm asked to practice my arts on, but what on Merlin's
green earth makes you think I'd ever voluntarily touch the spawn of a
Mudblood?"
He scowls and opens his mouth, and then closes it again. Bright child. You
surely don't want to voice your outrage about the fact that I'm not looking
forward to fucking you.
"All right, then," he finally grinds out, with an almost adorable angry 'v'
etched between his eyebrows. "You've established that you wouldn't touch me
with a barge pole, I've established that I'd rather be messily dead than be
touched by you..." He looks up, stamping said letter even deeper. "So why are
we having this conversation?"
"Because," I remind him softly, "the Dark Lord desires it."
"And great Lucius Malfoy can't weasel himself out of it?" he sneers.
I raise my wand again to watch him shrink back against the wall inadvertently.
"The Dark Lord," I point out, testing the strength of the Silencing Charm one
last time, "is less than pleased about my organising the second mass breakout
from Azkaban without his express consent."
Potter mutters something under his breath that sounds like "Idiot!", and I
smile thinly. I won't argue with that, little Harry.
"He is also less than pleased about the fiasco in the Department of Mysteries,
and my conduct during his state of... discorporateness," I add. "But yes, I
could probably tweak his mind in a different direction."
"So why-" He stops and the outraged mask descends on the overly treacherous
features again. "What do you want, then? For me to crawl and beg and plead with
you not to rape me?" He shakes his head in frustration and winces when the cut
on the back of his head bumps against the wall. "You know, Malfoy, that would
have worked hell of a lot better if you hadn't told me before how much you hate
the thought."
I shake my head in amusement. Time to move in for the kill. Let's see whether
he's just a fraud who's succumbed to his own fame, or whether there really is
that invincible core to Harry Potter that everybody insists there is.
"I've told you everything so you can make an informed decision about the
proposal I'm about to make you, Potter."
If he weren't chained already, I'm pretty certain he'd throw his arms up in
exasperation.
"Prop...? Malfoy, I'm sitting here in this lousy dungeon and I can't even move!
What could you possibly want from me? You're not going to let me out and help
me to off Voldemort, are you?"
If I were Gryffindor, dead stupid and suicidal, perhaps.
"Not likely, Potter," I drawl. "But not completely off the mark, either."
His sudden, desperate look of hope is scorching, as if he'd thrust a burning
torch in my face. It dies slowly when I continue.
"Don't get your hopes up, Potter. What I want from you is a distraction. At the
moment, a lot of my 'comrades' are very upset about our Lord's refusal to break
them out of Azkaban. They feel indebted to me, and those who came to an
arrangement with the Ministry after the Dark Lord's defeat sixteen years ago
are not necessarily very enthusiastic about seeing their new lives disrupted,
and the wrath of our Lord hanging over them for their 'disloyalty'."
"So you're really considering a palace revolt, Malfoy?" I have his undivided
attention now. "Why?"
"The displeasure of the Dark Lord is a dangerous thing, Potter, and I refuse to
take the role as punching bag, like Wormtail, or Avery." I pause for a moment,
realising that I'm speaking to him almost as if to an equal. I hate explaining
myself, but well, he deserves to know why he's supposed to let himself be
destroyed.
"During the Dark Lord's first reign, I was proud to follow a man who would
build a glorious new wizarding society on the ruins of omnipresent Muggle
hubris," I state. "Now, I have a hard time reconciling that idealism with a
Dark Lord obsessing over a mangy halfblood boy whose only achievements were a
dead mother with a talent for protective magic, and incredible amounts of
luck."
He snorts at that, but it's more an expression of amusement than protest.
Something in him does agree with my verdict, it seems.
"I want to pass on to my son an ancient and respected name, and the Malfoy
inheritance." Putting the feeling into words for the first time is almost
magic, as if the speaking it aloud made it real. "I don't want to see my wife
forced to scheme in the shadow of her mad sister to protect me. And most of
all, Potter, I have realised that there are far more subtle ways of wielding
influence than through the Unforgivable Curses. Not that using those is not
enjoyable, but I prefer to have my name bandied about the Wizarding World as
something other than a curse word."
I don't believe the Dark Lord can win, I realise with a sudden jolt as I listen
to my own words. Not after all this time. Not preoccupied and damaged as he is.
I give the chained boy before me a hard stare. One more thing this damnable
child has to atone for.
"But to assuage your curiosity, Potter - what I'm proposing is to go through
with my Lord's plan, even if it is supremely distasteful."
"Go through with it?" he whispers, so softly I have to strain to hear him. "But
you said-"
"It will assure him of my loyalty, and you-" My gaze swipes over him, assessing
his spread-out figure. "Knowing my Master, he will be fully preoccupied with
your suffering, and with observing your descent into hell."
For the first time, I see a glimpse of true, undisguised fear flitting over his
face. Oh, yes, boy, you have reason to fear!
"You're able to resist the Imperius Curse, aren't you, Potter?"
A shadow falls over his worried expression for a moment, before he nods
hesitantly.
"Ah, yes, impressive," I drawl with a touch of mockery. "But what I want from
you is to take the Curse without resistance."
What little colour there has been in his complexion drains out at that. "Why-
" he whispers, then swallows audibly before trying again, "why would I want to
do that, Malfoy?".
"The Dark Lord fears you, Potter," I point out with some impatience. "Even that
blinkered old fool Dumbledore believes that you will be His downfall. And that
prophecy-"
He opens his mouth to protest, but I cut him off.
"I don't care about your precious details, Potter - but it does state that you
will defeat Him, correct?"
He chews on his lip a bit more, and I can practically hear his mind running
over the words my Lord would so crave to hear.
"That I can defeat him," he amends at last.
"Just as I thought. The Dark Lord will never rest easy in your presence unless
you're reduced to a powerless, mindless thing. But a broken pet cannot combat
Him as you are destined to do, Potter. The Imperius Curse will allow me to
implant a mental compulsion - a 'trigger', if you prefer the Muggle phrase -
which will restore you temporarily to a semblance of rationality and will
permit you to fight when the Dark Lord least expects it." My eyes burn into
his. "But you will have to let me do this - it can't be accomplished without
your consent."
He gives a near-hysterical laugh at that.
"I don't believe you, Malfoy!"
No, you little fool, you're scared!
"You practically admitted you'd be humiliated before Voldemort and your cronies
if you failed to subdue me, and that's why you're trying to bully me into
letting you cast Imperius on me, so I won't even have that chance."
Stupid little idiot.
"I've broken older, far more experienced wizards than you, Potter - that
Muggle-lover Arthur Weasley's cousin, and Caradoc Dearborn of Dumbledore's
precious Order. For a halfblood virgin child like you, there is no chance."
He shakes his head again, harsh and determined, and repeats, "I don't believe
you."
Cocking my head to the side, I revel in the thought that comes to mind at that.
Part of me had hoped it would come down to this ever since I set foot into his
cell to find him helpless. It's one of the rare occasions where I do approve of
his Gryffindor obstinacy, for giving me such an opportunity.
"Are you challenging me to prove how easily I could break you, Potter?" I
inquire in the most velvety rasp I can muster. Stepping almost close enough to
brush up against him, I watch a shiver run through his entire body. He shakes
his head wildly.
"Stay away from me!" There is a distinct panicked flicker in the swamp green of
those eyes. "You don't want to touch a Mudblood, remember?"
"Ah, Mr. Potter, but I won't have to." I lift my wand and run the tip lightly
along his cheek. If the touch weren't designed purely to inspire terror, it
might qualify as a caress. "How easily your kind forgets that we are wizards."
"No!" His eyes widen in panic, and exhilaration spreads through my system.
There is sheer beauty in his terror.
"Don't beg me, Potter - not yet. Wait until I give you reason."
With a nasty grin I cast the first spell at the boy, and he yelps, half in
surprise, half in outrage, at the discorporate touch that ghosts over his
chest. Invisible Fingers is one of the simplest spells in existence, perfect
for picking misplaced ingredients out of a boiling cauldron, for example, but
also for... other things.
Other things that ignorant, superstitious Muggles once personified as Incubi or
Succubi in the Old Times, without realising their kind had been made victim by
a wizard. This one, however, Muggle-bred and raised, figures it out quickly. Or
perhaps even Gryffindors have some sense of hands-on humour after all.
"Take it off, you sick fuck!" He glowers and then squirms and bites down on his
tongue as the illusory fingers cruelly pinch his nipples.
Nicely put, Potter. But you should know better than to provoke me, now
shouldn't you?
I flick my wand again in response, and cast the spell a second time. This time,
the spell-fingers lightly encircle his cock. He makes a choking noise and
flinches hard enough almost to wrench the chains from their fittings. I smile
down at his panicked, disbelieving eyes with feral delight. This would be fun
for the expression of outraged innocence alone. The fingers continue their
work, and the bulge at the front of his trousers becomes ever more pronounced
as they do.
At last the strained silence is broken, and Potter's voice is pained and shaky
when he hisses at me.
"All right, Malfoy, I get the message. Now let me go!"
The drift perhaps, but not the message, I sneer inwardly, fold my arms over my
chest and lean back to enjoy the show.
His stare changes from angry to incredulous to horrified as I make no move to
call off the spell. The fingers begins to stroke his erection with less
tenderness than before, kneading the hardening flesh until they wring an
involuntary gasp out of their victim, followed by a continuous, mumbling stream
of 'bastard' and more colourful invectives. And then they continue until
Potter's cock is straining frantically against the confines of his clothing,
and his head has fallen back, eyes tightly closed to shut out my presence.
Which is, in fact, the only form of resistance left to him. His mouth, however,
is half-open in an almost ridiculous expression that I wish he could see - it
would heighten his mortification.
Playing him is easier than picking Chizpurfles out of a dirty cauldron. Too
easy, I muse as I watch him twist and whimper under the onslaught of magic.
He's been too sheltered to have experience, and is far too young for self-
control.
And yet, it's not enough to see him surrendering himself to a surge of lust
beyond his control. Something in the way he tries to flee from the realisation
of what is happening to him and who is engineering it is... irksome. You'll not
escape that easily, Potter.
Once again, I flick my wand to cast the same curse a third time.
This time he jerks and screams as another set of fingers appear, buried
knuckle-deep in his arse. His eyes fly open, almost black with horror and a
pain that is more discomfort than agony, but exacerbated tenfold by shock. But
they are soft, slick fingers that do not breach but tease, do not hurt but
seduce. When the tips of those illusory digits brush by his prostate, he wails,
a sharp noise that cuts through the quiet of the dungeons like none before.
He struggles against the shackles so violently that dark trails of blood run
down his wrists, desperate to combat the sensation of fingers kneading his cock
with brutal pain. Which just won't do. He's by no means ready to appreciate a
pleasure-pain contrast of this magnitude, and I'm not looking forward to
expending energy on advanced Healing Charms. Pointing my wand at the shackles,
I cast a cushioning charm of the kind used to prevent pressure on burns. His
hands will still chafe, considering the way he pulls on the chains, but it
won't be enough to drown out his burgeoning arousal. Depending on how he is
wired, it might even increase it.
His expression, at the moment when he realises that there is no way left to
resist the sensations that swamp his body and he just gives up, is more
beautiful than I could have imagined. Watching this degree of self-abandonment
is a gift in its own right. He gives himself over to sensation and begins to
fuck himself on those magical fingers with sharp, jerky movements that ooze
desperation. With another spell, I transfigure the tip of my wand into a fanged
snake mouth, and when I touch it to a nipple its teeth sink into the already
swollen nub. He sobs, an inarticulate sound through clenched teeth, and then
his head falls back and he screams, hoarse and glorious. The tightly coiled
twin sensations of agony and pleasure reverberate so strongly on the surface of
his consciousness - or what is left of it - that they wash right through my
wand and spill into me in a delicious surge of heat despite my very limited
Legilimency skills.
His groin twitches violently, and I quickly redirect one finger to wrap around
the base of his cock, preventing his climax. He whimpers at the constriction
and thrashes wildly, completely beyond control. It takes several long moments
until he regains some semblance of rationality, eyes pressed shut again and
teeth digging painfully into his lower lip to prevent further sounds from
escaping.
"Now that we've reached this point, Mr Potter, let's do it properly," I murmur,
leaning close to his ear. "You may ask me - politely - to grant you release,
and I'll consider your request."
"Fuck you!" His voice grates in my ears, it's so filled with hoarse agony.
"As you wish," I shoot back nastily and allow the spells free rein over his
body again. "Just keep in mind that there are curses that can drive you to the
brink of madness far more insidiously than Cruciatus."
I listen to his strangled screams and watch the convulsions of his body as the
fingers attack his aching cock with new vigour, while others drive themselves
into him with such force that his eyes roll back.
With a cruel smile I move my wand so the magicked snake gains the freedom to
attack his other nipple as well. Tears stream down his face as the sensations
batter his self-control, and finally the pleas I demanded pour from his lips as
uncontrollably as did his curses earlier. I listen, transfixed by the sweet
exultation of victory, and watch.
At last, I flick my wand for the final time, to release the finger curled
around the base of his cock, and he finally comes with enough force to crack
his scream inside his throat. An unsightly wet spot forms at the front of his
trousers as he hangs in his chains, bonelessly, spent, and shuddering.
Stepping up, I grab hold of his sweat-drenched hair and wrench his head back,
glad for the black spider-silk gloves that protect my hands.
"Now, Mr Potter, would you like to repeat your claim that I won't be able to
bend your body and mind to my will?"
The tears that have spilled over are rapidly drying on his face. He shakes his
head weakly, and I can't determine whether he's trying to answer my question or
mindlessly trying to escape my grip.
"You will answer me properly, Potter!"
His face is a frozen grimace of self-disgust as he forces himself to wrap his
lips around the words. "No. You were... right." They're spat out like rotten
food that left a foul taste in his mouth.
"Very good." I pat his cheek, once, and step back.
"And now that we've established that I won't need the Imperius Curse to coerce
you to respond to me, what is your answer to my proposal, Potter?"
He hangs in his chains, head averted, and breathes painfully.
"What if I refuse?"
You never give up, Potter, do you?
"Then between Lestrange, Bellatrix, Narcissa and myself we will convince the
Dark Lord that his was an idea unsuited for a pureblood, and a Death Eater, and
he will in all likelihood engineer a fittingly nasty demise for you," I tell
him spitefully. "One in which I hope I'll be invited to play a part."
Still staring down at the ground, he whispers, again so quietly I can barely
hear,
"I can't, Malfoy. Not after what you did." He swallows painfully. "I can't."
"What I did was nothing, Potter!" I sneer. "No more than a little foretaste,
and nothing compared to what will happen once you're brought out to perform for
the public amusement of the Dark Lord and his circle."
He turns his head away, as if to bury his face between his shoulder and the
wall. His neck muscles are radiating the tension that thrums through his whole
body. Fanning his terror feels like perfecting an already delicious dish with a
final touch of an exotic spice.
"My, Mr Potter, what would your famous mentor Dumbledore say if he could see
you now, valuing the tattered remains of your pride above the freedom of the
Wizarding World?"
His head whips around, teeth marks marring his swollen bottom lip, and a wild
expression on his face.
"What do you expect from me, Malfoy? I'm only human!" He screams at me,
desperation breaking free at last. "Couldn't you be satisfied with my life? Do
you have to take everything?"
Already, it is more a plea than an accusation, defiance leaking away with every
word. Not far to go now, Potter - you're almost there, and you know it.
"Potter, you life was over the moment you took that Portkey in Honeydukes," I
snap. "You're a weapon - it's the only use you'll ever have. If you can't be
that, you're a hazard, a veritable death magnet. I'm sure your parents, the
Diggory boy and that mutt Black would agree, not to mention the scores of
people who only just made it out alive. Is there anyone who has ever befriended
you whom you haven't led to the door of death? Why don't you just cut out the
whimpering about the injustices of fate and accept it? Your life has been hell
from the start, and it will end accordingly."
It hits him squarely, and strikes deep. His eyes widen with pain at the words,
turning as dark as when my spell stabbed into him a few minutes earlier. There
is no resistance left in that expression, only complete vulnerability.
Yes, Potter. I promised I would not break you with magic.
"Please don't ask me to do this," he begs, in a dead, cracked voice.
"I won't," I tell him coolly. "The choice is yours alone, Potter - it has
always been."
Don't look to me for mercy, Potter, I have little enough of it, and none to
spare for you.
"It seems I have no choice, then, doesn't it?" His tone is dry and bitter,
though I think the bitterness is not wholly directed at me - he rails against
fate, against the supreme, merciless coincidence that made him what he is. "Do
you want this done properly as well, Malfoy? Want me to beg you to violate my
mind just like you did with my body?"
Oh, very good, Potter. No matter what it may feel like, you haven't been broken
by this. Your armour has acquired a few chinks, but you'll still be a hard nut
to crack.
"What I want from you, Mr Potter, is that you not resist."
He nods, teeth clenched and with a faint glint of wetness in his eyes.
"You did it on purpose, didn't you, Malfoy?" he asks when I prepare to cast the
Curse.
I tilt my head to the side and look at him expectantly.
"You had to draw it out, and show me what it would be like beforehand." He
stops, and chokes. "So that it would hurt."
A tiny flicker of pride ghosts through my chest, and I give him a quick,
appreciative nod.
When I raise my wand, his eyes shut tightly and a single tear spills down his
cheek. It takes quite an effort not to wipe it away.
"Imperio!"
Touching his mind is almost as unpleasant as the thought of touching his body.
His thoughts flinch under my own, and I can feel them coiled tightly around me,
held back from clawing at me only by an almost feral tenacity. It takes him all
of his considerable willpower not to lash out and forcefully expel me from his
mind. In what feels like the outmost, darkest of the labyrinthine corners of
his consciousness, I plant my orders.
You will submit to me when I order it!
You will return from the deepest, darkest hell of your mind to fight for me
when I order it!
You will die before revealing this pact without my consent!
When I disentangle my mind from the depths of his, he doesn't even look hurt.
But of course, he had to expect that I would not allow him to endanger me. Nor
would he want to, if my knowledge of human nature is anything to go by. He will
suffer horribly for his decision, and I can't help but respect him for it.
He gives me no sign of acknowledgement as I end the Curse, just stares at the
ground like a child whose precious crystal toys have all shattered on the
granite floor.
"Please, Malfoy, would you just... go?"
The flat tone of voice does not surprise me, but the politeness catches me
unawares. Perhaps I have done more damage than I thought. Or perhaps he has
figured out that, despite everything that has transpired tonight, the true
enemy isn't me.
"Certainly, Mr Potter," I reply softly, resisting the urge to touch his tangled
hair again, this time without violence.
I cast a cleaning charm on his trousers, a healing spell on the nasty bump on
the back of his head, and finally, after a moment's hesitation, another on his
bleeding wrists after unspelling the shackles. Perhaps that last one isn't
really necessary, but, well, he has given me all I could possibly have asked
for tonight.
I look at him one last time as he leans against the wall, eyes fixed unblinking
on the torch beside the door. He's so pale his cheekbones throw knife-edged
shadows over his face, lips one thin, dark line. He looks a decade older than
his years.
Then I leave the cell, renewing the wards on the door as I do so. There is no
need to stand guard - Goyle's and Rookwood's replacements will show up in a few
short hours, and he has made his choice and would not leave if he could.
I don't need to linger outside in the shadows to hear, or watch, him break down
and cry. I know he will.
Tonight I have covered all eventualities. If my Lord changes his mind or
relents in his irrational persecution of me, the boy will die, and I will have
gained a small measure of revenge for myself beforehand. If the Dark Lord
should insist on making me the target of his wrath, then there is always the
plan whose foundations I have laid tonight. I will rally my supporters in
secret, break my little pet in public, and set it on my unfaithful Master when
the time comes. And afterwards, I will reap my reward from the Wizarding World
for my role in the downfall of He Who Must Not Be Named, and no amount of
Veritaserum will be able to establish that Harry Potter's consent to the
Unforgivable has been forced.
And deep down, I realise I would prefer that option to being taken back into
the good graces of the Dark Lord. Not just because of my reputation, but also
because it would give me a change to again play with the little toy I have left
hanging in the dungeons behind me. It shouldn't feel so good to think about it
- generations of Malfoy ancestors would turn their collective heads in disgust
if they were privy to my thoughts.
It shouldn't feel so good - but it does.


                                   ~ finis ~

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