Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5234588.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Lucius_Malfoy/Draco_Malfoy, Lucius_Malfoy/Narcissa_Malfoy
  Additional Tags:
      Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-18 Words: 3533
****** Our Way Is Best ******
by iamisaac
I have always been proud of my father. He taught me everything I know.
When I was three years old, he taught me to ride a broomstick. When I fell off,
it was he, and not my mother, who held me and washed the blood away before
anointing my injuries with a potion. At five years, he began to teach me how to
control my magic, and at eight, strictly against Ministry regulations, he
bought me my first wand and showed me the rudiments of wand work. As far back
as I can remember, he told me stories of our ancestors in the evenings, sitting
on my bed and talking in his smooth, soothing voice until I drifted off to
sleep.
"Never forget, Draco," he would say, time and again, "you are a Malfoy. Always
hold your head high: be proud of who and what you are. Nostrum via est optimus.
Our way is best."
In my last year at home before starting school, he told me stories of his own
schooldays; of a young first year he had known in his Prefect days, one Severus
Snape, whose talent – "despite his half-blood status" – had been evident from
the start. "Professor Snape is now the Potions Master at Hogwarts," father told
me. "He is also Head of Slytherin House - our House. Malfoys are Slytherin to
the core. You will like Severus."
I drank in every word he told me, and I was delighted to think that I would
soon be joining this special group. Hogwarts – "even with Albus Dumbledore as
the Headmaster" – was the top school in Great Britain, some said in the world,
though my father had an admiration for the Karkaroff-run Durmstrang. "But your
mother insists on Hogwarts, and I confess that I cannot be totally sorry to see
you follow in our footsteps and hone your skills there."
I could have chosen my House without the aid of the Sorting Hat, and I believe
the Hat knew it. It cried "Slytherin" almost before it had settled on my head.
I strolled to the long table, noting that all the most noble lines of wizards
appeared to be represented there. That – surely, that was a Flint? My father
had waxed lyrical about the Quidditch talent of that family. And there, coming
to join me was Blaise Zabini. We had met, briefly, in the past: his mother was
considered the most beautiful witch this country had ever seen. Even as a
child, I had stared, open-mouthed, at her.
My father’s lessons now took place only in holiday time. Because Hogwarts chose
only to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, he took it upon himself to educate
me in the Dark Arts themselves. Before Moody so much as touched on the
Unforgivables in our school lessons, I was intimate with their uses; spells and
poisons, charms and black arithmancy – my father showed me them all. And the
summer after my fifteenth birthday, he began to teach me the basics of a new
life skill.
He was in my bedroom one evening, and I had been spilling out my feelings about
Potter, about Pansy Parkinson pursuing me, about my barely recognised fears
that Crabbe and Goyle, who had been my friends for so long, were in the process
of growing away from me, and I did not know how to get them back. My father was
always a good listener: I could feel his eyes burning into me, although he had
promised never to use Legilimency on me without warning. Then he spoke.
"It is time to teach you the most potent weapon of all, Draco." He sat down on
the edge of my bed. "Even the Dark Lord does not understand its power,
blasphemous though it may be to say so."
I waited, with growing anticipation, for my father to detail this weapon. What
was there – what could there possibly be which was stronger than Imperio, than
Crucio, than the threat of Avada Kedavra, the killing curse?
"Tell me, father," I pleaded.
"Sit beside me." He indicated the bed by his side, and I sat. "The greatest
power you will ever learn, my boy, is seduction."
"What?" I had imagined many things, but that had not been one. "Do you mean
that we have to demonstrate the advantages of the Dark Lord’s reign?" I asked,
frowning.
He smiled.
"No, Draco. Not sedition. Seduction. Pure, simple, sex. You will win more
people to your cause in this fashion than by any threat you may make. You say
that you fear that Vincent and Gregory may be moving further from you. I
promise you, with this skill, you can make them more eager to do your bidding
than ever before. The Pansy girl: you can keep her as a follower or drive her
away, just with this one talent. Even…" He paused, apparently savouring the
possibility with pleasure. "Even Potter might be persuaded, if you could use
your skill to best advantage."
I could feel heat in my cheeks, and I knew that I was blushing more than ever
before.
"But I… I have never… I don’t know how to…"
My father’s slow smile appeared on his face.
"You do not think that I would keep such a powerful tool from you?" He placed
his hand on my leg, stroking it in a way he never had before. "I had to wait
until you were older, of course, for this particular lesson."
"You mean…?"
"How could you doubt me, Draco? I have taught you everything else, have I not?
I will educate you in seduction."
I could feel myself trembling and could do nothing about it. Excitement, yes –
but fear, too. I wanted to please my father, but I had so very little
experience. As if picking up my thoughts, father asked, "How much do you
already know?"
I bit my lip, thinking about fumbled kisses with Pansy, jokes and boasts and
wanking competitions amongst the dormitory. I felt humiliated by my ignorance.
"I…"
"Very well." Father moved his hand from my thigh, up my body until it rested on
my shoulder. "We will start at the beginning. The kiss."
His other hand swung round and he exerted a slight pressure on the side of my
face so that I was forced to turn towards him. I felt as if my body was made of
lead, and found myself more aware of my arms and hands than ever before. They
hung limply in my lap as I looked helplessly at my father.
"Um…"
"Now," my father said, ignoring me, "there are two sides to seduction. One is
to be the active participant – as I am now, reaching out to you. But there is a
more subtle seduction in which you induce your partner to make all the moves
for you. If someone has reached to kiss you, Draco, you should slide an arm
around them, tugging them closer." He paused. Our faces were no more than a
couple of inches apart. "Do so."
Obediently I moved my arm clumsily around him.
"Is that right?"
"A little higher," he said; and I adjusted my positioning. "Perfect. And now
the kiss. I bend towards you, and you should arch up in my direction; it is a
useful technique for demonstrating your interest."
His lips met mine as we moved together. With Pansy, kisses had been wet and, if
I am honest, somewhat slimy. My father’s kisses were utterly different. He had
cool, dry lips, and even when he opened his mouth against mine and slid his
tongue inside, he did it with a gentle delicacy. A tendril of pleasure uncurled
at the base of my spine. I could feel his fingers running through my hair as he
intensified the kiss. When, finally, he moved away, I could barely keep myself
from begging him to do it again.
"Father." My voice sounded strange, even to myself. It had a deep, throaty,
needy note in it.
"I know, Draco," he said soothingly. Then, to my shock, "It might be better if
you call me Lucius. Names can be important in seduction."
"Yes, fa… Lucius."
He nodded, his hand still entangled in my hair.
"For a first kiss, that shows talent."
"I’ve kissed… sort of… not like that, though…" The idea that what I had shared
with Pansy had anything in common with what I had just experienced was
horrifying.
"You need practice, of course."
"Now?" I asked, conscious of my heart thudding.
In reply, he pulled me towards him, so that I was half-lying across his lap. My
father was surprisingly muscular for someone who claimed to despise the very
idea of exercise. Then he slid an arm down, his hand cupping my arse, and
lowered his lips to mine once more. My cock strained against my robes until it
rubbed against his leg. I shifted, shifted again: the feeling was incredible.
Father pulled away.
"Too eager, Draco," he reprimanded. "You must never seem desperate.
Encouraging, yes; supplicating your partner, definitely no."
"I…"
"That is why we practice, so that you learn," he consoled me.
It was the first of many lessons in the art of love-making. My father showed me
how to receive and instructed me in how to give; how to encourage a partner,
how to show him (or her) what one liked; how to read the signals of a lover and
follow them in such fashion that your lover would never forget you, however
much he wished to. I was clumsy at first; my fingers gave discomfort rather
than pleasure to Lucius (the rest of the time he was ‘father’; in these
lessons, always – but always – Lucius). He used his hand to guide mine,
demonstrating on my body what I should be doing. The first time I made him
orgasm, my hand on his cock, I felt a pride I had felt in no other achievement.
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, and he smiled at me.
"I knew that you would be successful at this. It was inevitable; it’s in the
blood."
Going back to Hogwarts was a wrench. I had grown used to his attentions, and I
missed him with a physical ache. But at the same time, I knew that it would be
fascinating to try my skills on others.
And father was right. Sexual seduction brought me considerably more power, more
influence than I had even anticipated. Crabbe and Goyle once more begged to do
my bidding, in the hope of receiving just one of my kisses. I could keep Pansy
hovering just by flashing her a certain smile every so often. Even the older
boys looked out for me. I was petted and cared for as tenderly as if I were
their most beloved possession. Every holiday, I returned to Malfoy Manor and
father continued his lessons. He praised me for my application, his mouth warm
against my neck; and I knew that no other lover could live up to this, my
first.
Then my life was ripped apart. Confusion, anger, my mother’s blazing eyes; the
sound of her rowing with Aunt Bellatrix in the middle of the night. My father,
gone. My father - my father, Lucius – sent to Azkaban. The Dark Lord called me
in my father’s place, but my confidence and pride was always set alongside this
gut wrenching loss. I forgot about schoolwork, forgot about anything but
obeying Lord Voldemort, doing my best to take my father’s place – to be my
father. Aunt Bella, the negative to my mother’s positive, was no exchange for
him. I think that year without him was the hardest I ever faced.
*
When father came back from Azkaban, he had changed. There was a bleakness, an
absence in his eyes, his face, which had never been there before. I saw my
mother look at him and her eyes fill with tears. She would not shed the tears,
though; not in front of him, not in front of me. If (when) she cried, she did
so alone. My mother would never admit weakness. If father and I conversed,
there was a slight pause before his reply, as if he had first to remind himself
that I was truly present and not a fragment of his Azkaban nightmares.
When the Dark Lord took up residence in our Manor, the bleakness increased. Our
Lord’s wrath, and his punishment of my father was one more subject that was
never spoken of. No mention of prison, no mention of family, of the Ministry
that had been the scene of my father’s disgrace; now, no mention of Lord
Voldemort’s cruelty.
My father no longer came to my room; instead, if I wanted to speak with him, I
had to seek him out, to beg a moment’s conversation. He did not even share a
room with my mother, seeking a solitude that clearly failed to make him happy.
Eventually I could bear it no longer. I went to him in his bedroom.
"Father." He looked up, a strained expression on his face, as if the word was
strange to him. I smiled, moving so that my robes (my best robes) shimmered
around me. "Lucius," I said, in the quiet, suggestive tones he had taught me.
"Draco. Why are you here?" He sounded not angry but bemused.
I walked towards him, and twisted an arm around his neck, caressing the long
blond hair that had been so unkempt when we had seen him first on his return.
Now it was smooth and lush again; it was the man inside who showed the change.
"Why do you think?" I murmured.
I nuzzled at his neck, my other hand reaching round to slide down his back to
his arse. He was a beautiful man, even now. I felt my cock harden even at this
slightest of contacts. I had missed him, missed this.
"Draco. Draco, no."
I paid no attention. My father had told me that sometimes (and you could tell
it from the voice) ‘no’ presaged ‘yes’. His ‘no’ was no outraged, indignant
cry, but was laced with his experiences. There was fear there, and self-
disgust. I loved him too much to allow him those emotions.
"I want you," I whispered to him.
He tensed, and there was a moment when I was not sure which emotion was
foremost.
"Draco, don’t. Please. I… I am afraid…"
"Don’t be."
"I am afraid of myself."
"I do not fear you. I love you."
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of my robe, until I stood, exposed, in
front of him. He could see my desire in the erect cock, already begging for his
touch. I watched as he made one convulsive movement towards me, then jerked
back.
"Draco…" And it was the voice of submission, the voice of someone already
enchanted, the voice he had told me about, but I had never heard from him.
"Yes."
Suddenly, he changed. It was as if a button had been pressed somewhere inside
him; some part of him that had lain forgotten during the harsh time in Azkaban,
but had leapt up in response to my persuasion. His hand was round my throat,
strong though not threatening. I knew – this was my father, this was Lucius,
and I knew him so well – he would do me no harm. But he needed… he needed
something he had not previously taken. He pushed me to the floor.
"Undress," he instructed, his voice harsh.
I shrugged the robe from my shoulders and pushed it down. I had worn nothing
underneath, since seduction had been my aim. I stayed on my knees, naked,
looking up at him. He ripped his own buttons undone until he stood, exposed in
front of me; and when I moved forward to take his cock in my mouth, his
fingertips bit into my scalp as he urged me forward, pushing himself deep into
me. Father had always taught me that the performer of fellatio should be in
control of the pace; but he belied his own words this time as he wrested
control, thrusting in and out of my mouth until I choked and gagged as the tip
of his cock hit my throat. He shoved me away then, and when I looked up at him
I could see him shaking – with anger, with desire, with a hundred emotions
which had been starved and twisted in Azkaban.
"Lucius…"
His eyes held a fire and a purpose. I was not certain he even saw me, and sure
that he did not see me as Draco, his son, his lover.
"Don’t speak," he said, and I closed my mouth.
He cast a wordless spell, and I found myself bound across his bed, my legs
forced painfully apart and tied to the bedposts. I looked up, fearful, and saw
him standing over me. It was the last image I had, as another spell conjured a
blindfold. Then he was on top of me, pushing one, then more, lubricated fingers
inside me. He had always taken such care, been so gentle; but gentleness was
forgotten now as he fought himself, fought me. Even so, though, I found myself
responding to him as I had ever done, my cock thrusting itself up and begging
for attention. He ran a hand over it, and squeezed once, hard; but then his
fingers moved up, leaving pain as his nails rent my skin. I had always had
sensitive skin, and I could imagine the trails of red that must now lie across
the paleness of my belly. He moved one hand up further as he pushed inside me,
and once more his hand was at my throat, tightening, tightening until I wheezed
for breath. For a second, I feared passing out; but then the grip loosened and
I gasped air into my lungs.
"Now beg," he said, his own breath hitching with his need. "Beg me for it."
I could feel the heat radiating from the palm of his hand, no more than a
centimetre from my cock. I felt the burn where he had thrust into me without
allowing my sphincter time to adjust. I was heat all over, from the scratches
on my front to the blaze down at the base of my spine. I was hot need, molten
desire. I was fire, burning my father’s self-loathing away to remind him of the
man he truly was.
"Lucius, Lucius please..."
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
I arched my hips as much as I could with the bonds, but he leaned heavily on my
pelvis, keeping me still.
"Do only what I say."
It was almost a plea from him. I felt tears sting my eyes as my wonderful,
proud father sought to find himself in me.
"I will," I whispered.
He tapped his fingertips against the side of my cock, then on the top; teasing,
but never allowing me to get close to release. I groaned, biting my lip between
my teeth to prevent myself disobeying him and speaking without consent. Then he
thrust himself deep, deep, deeper inside me, hitting my prostate so that my
scream, started in pain, finished with agonising pleasure. And he had no mercy,
forcing himself in and in again, and I had my eyes screwed shut with the hurt/
satisfaction, despite the blindfold. I was humming a continual note that might
have been "yes" or "please" or "more" had I not been forbidden speech. And his
fingers brushed against my erection, even as his nails scored more lines across
my body. Then he groaned; a long moan of release; and I could not prevent
myself spasming at the sound, which I had missed so much (so very much) in his
absence. He collapsed on top of me; tears, and sweat, and semen, and blood
mingling. If I could, I would have held him, but the ropes prevented it. All
that I could do was to lie, supine, beneath him.
At last he moved, whispering aloud the spells that released me and gave me
sight. I saw, for the first time, in his eyes a sadness which was yet less
frightening than the nothingness which had lingered there before. He stroked
gentle, shaking fingers over my body. When I looked down, I could see red-brown
bloodstains where his nails had ripped me apart. And they were the most
beautiful scars in the world, for they spoke of my father’s return to life.
"Draco, I’m sorry," he said.
I reached up and cupped his face with my hand.
"Don’t be." I hesitated, for there were not words for what I wanted to say.
"Father. I’m glad you’re back."
"I hurt you." He rubbed the pad of his thumb across my flesh.
"I wanted you to."
We lay, silent, for twenty minutes – perhaps much longer. Then finally he
spoke.
"I must see Narcissa," he said, his voice holding a quiver of love. "I can face
her now. You have made me whole."
After he left, I lay on his bed-that-would-no-longer-be-his-bed. He would sleep
tonight with my mother, the bitterness appeased.
I will always be proud of my father. He shared with me everything he knew.
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