Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/23902.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Lucius_Malfoy
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Lucius_Malfoy
  Additional Tags:
      Anal_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-05-10 Words: 1512
****** Certain Half-Deserted Rooms ******
by jeeps
It is covered by a sheen of oily black, translucent with the film of the
wizarding world's underbelly, having scraped through the filth of its denizens
before settling here on a corner of Knockturn Alley. It is no different than
the dozens of other corners to be found here — the alley's name as deceptive as
those who hoard its secrets, not an alley at all, but a bloated body extending
out into a twitchy, scurrying mass of unplottable arachnid legs. He only
recognizes the hotel each time by the particular pattern of stains around its
cracked foundation. Dripping Rorschach paintings of blood, come, or piss, it
doesn't matter; dry, they all look the same. The only thing that separates it
from any similarly seedy Muggle establishment is the lack of cockroaches.
Spells keep them away. There are always advantages to being a wizard, or so
Harry is told.
'As is to be expected,' was Lucius's only concession to aristocracy the first
time they had come here, before it had been stripped away for this particular
brand of madness the Dementors have left for him.
He takes Harry's hand now, a desperate clutch that ends with Lucius's nails
digging into his palm, and Harry's shuddering fingers curl around the raw
scrape on his skin. Lucius is not looking at him, but as the stairs creak
noisily beneath their feet Harry lags a pace behind and sees that the murky
twilight seeping in through the windows has darkened Malfoy's pale eyes. Not so
beautiful. Not so haunting; just dead. They scent each other out like
Thestrals.
They reach the top of the stairs and Harry's gaze catches on the interior of a
room, visible through a cracked door as they pass. A woman lies on twisted
sheets, a man on either side of her— no, not men. One has his mouth pressed
above her left breast, suckling with repulsive urgency like an overgrown, hell-
weaned child. The other is more languid, running his redrum-sated tongue over
her wrist; even from here Harry can see through the skin on her arm to the blue
veins underneath. Her head lolls back and he can't see her face, but her
minuscule robes are hiked up, her legs spread. Blood runs down her thighs. He
doesn't even have time to look away before he is pulled past, the image
imprinted on his mind like nothing more than a nightmare.
Then they are at their own door, and Lucius has released him to put the key in
the lock. An ancient key, and it sounds like one, metal grating against metal
and then the door is already closed, Harry's back is impacting against it and
Lucius's teeth are splitting his bottom lip. Lucius pulls back, his breathing
audible, and Harry sucks the wound into his mouth as he watches the negative
space of Lucius silhouetted against the window. A street lamp shadows the room
and turns Lucius's hair to straw before he is too close for Harry to notice
these things, his tongue sliding along Harry's aching lip and into his mouth.
Harry groans and sucks him in further, varnishing Lucius's tongue with the
taste of copper. He bangs the sole of his shoe against the wood grain behind
him as his hips piston forward and he pushes, grabbing onto Lucius's shoulders
and swinging his free leg around the man's hip. His foot scrapes against the
wall with the effort — not a little boy anymore singsongs through his head —
but it's okay, Lucius has grabbed the thigh of his bent leg in a brutal grip
and shoved Harry against the door once again. He kisses Harry not like a kiss
but like he can take back what Harry has heard him say you stole from me, over
and over. That's okay, too.
It's not enough, though. Harry can feel the buttons of his shirt molding to his
chest with the fever of Lucius rocking against him, but it's not enough. He
shoves one hand between them and frantically works at Lucius's robes, and
Lucius bats at his fingers and takes over, moving back enough for Harry to
slide his legs down Lucius's hips, drop his feet to the floor and jerk free of
his own clothing. Toe off his shoes, pull off his socks, tug at the messy knot
of his school tie and chuck it in the direction of the bed. Robes, belt,
trousers, and Lucius grabs the tails of the shirt before Harry can finish
unbuttoning it and pulls Harry towards him. Lucius's studied patience is
shredded here, tatters of hate and lost memories, and Harry's sixteen-year-old
libido doesn't care to put up much of a fight.
Lucius's smooth hand slides over the damp skin and tiny hairs of Harry's lower
back as the other, moist in its own right, curls around his cock. Harry can't
even make a sound; he drops his head back and breathes harshly as Lucius bends
forward to bite at the skin curving around the bones below his throat, squeezes
his cock in rhythmic spasms that lace and splinter through Harry's body.
Lucius's fingers dance along his cock before tightening, occasionally sweeping
over the head, and soon the squeezing is accompanied by slick twists up the
length. Harry's neck aches. He wants to mutter, Don't fuck around, but he's
afraid of what his voice might do if he were to use it.
Lucius's free hand has been gripping Harry's hip, thumb digging into the bone.
Now the nails skim along the curve of his arse and dip down into the crevice to
draw the flesh apart. The hotel has not bothered with heating spells, and Harry
shivers at the lick of cool air there, goosebumps breaking out over his skin.
He tips his head forward onto Lucius's bare chest and shifts his feet further
apart. Lucius's arms are around him in an unintentional embrace as two fingers
slicked with Harry's precome press against his arsehole before slipping in with
little fanfare.
Even as Harry rocks back onto the fingers, his muscles tightening around them
and pulling them in, he has to breathe out a laugh at that.
Lucius's fingers plunge in deep, and when Harry's hips thrust forward it traps
their cocks between them. Lucius grunts, the rhythm of his hand interrupted.
Harry stills, then grabs Lucius's sides, presses tight against him, slithers up
onto his toes. When Harry draws away there is a wet trail on his belly, and he
knows— he bends down, dislodging Lucius's fingers, and touches his tongue to
the semen on Lucius's own stomach before flattening his tongue against the skin
and fine hairs and dragging it upward. He wonders if that was his name spilling
from Lucius's lips, and then doesn't have to wonder when he angles his head and
allows the tip of the cock bumping his chin to slide over his jaw and lips and
into his mouth. The word — Potter — is choked but clear, and, almost
immediately, Harry is straightening again to glare at the man who spoke it,
licking his lips absently.
Harry can't see Lucius's face. He's trapped in his shadow, cast by the street
lamp behind him. It doesn't matter. He's quiet now, his hands back on Harry and
turning him and jerking Harry back against him and oh, god, his cock is torture
sliding between his arsecheeks, pressing tight against his hole and sliding
over it, passing it by, and when Harry leans forward with bracing hands against
the door Lucius pushes inside of him and fucks him. He gives Harry no time to
adjust, just burns the path into him and leaves him weak with emptiness before
thrusting back inside. It's horrible and good and he hates him and he needs
this and fuck, fuck, he wants to cry out because he's already dreading and
dying for the end when it'll be too much and his come will splatter onto the
door in front of him.
And then it's happening, Harry is arching back onto Lucius and jerking down on
hair so soft he'd not even realized it was in his hand. Lucius hisses out a
breath, and Harry answers it unaware, a curse that whispers across his tongue
like an endearment. Lucius cries out then. It's like nothing Harry has ever
heard from him. Unchecked rage replaced by a mourning keen, as ephemeral as the
orgasm ripping through his body.
Later, Harry returns to the hotel, alone. His trek up the stairs is silent save
for the creaks and groans of the steps themselves. He walks down the same
corridor, still as dark and indecipherable as it was before, despite the early
morning light fighting for a way in through the windows behind him. The door is
still cracked. He pushes it fully open, and stands in the frame for a long
time, staring at the bed and fighting down the nausea in his gut. Finally, he
crosses the room and picks her up, struggling with her weight. He is not
gentle; it is too late for that.
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