
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/371242.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Draco_Malfoy/Lucius_Malfoy, Draco_Malfoy/Harry_Potter
  Character:
      Draco_Malfoy, Lucius_Malfoy, Harry_Potter
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-03-29 Words: 6162
****** An Exercise In Futility ******
by sirius
Summary
     For the BFF, because the best present for one's birthday is clearly
     Malfoycest.
Notes
     This fic was written in 2006. It contains incest, triggering sexual
     content and explicit sexual activity.
Everything is a path lit by feeling, so tight and blazing that Draco cannot
open his eyes. The world is black but it feels and it breathes – it groans,
flexes, rocks, gasps. It is hard and rough. It is silk against his bare back;
it is the sheets rough against his knees. It is this godforsaken Gryffindor
Tower that Draco hates. It is scratches and biting kisses. When Harry's chin
cracks against Draco's temple, Draco opens his eyes and snarls at him and it is
in that moment that he sees his own hands, yanking Harry's hair back from his
forehead. His thumbnail is scratching Harry's scar faint pink with every thrust
and there's something kinky about it – perhaps Voldemort can sense this, this
raw sexuality, the thrill of a connection forged by hatred. Perhaps Voldemort
would approve of this – this petit mort. When he comes, Draco presses his hand
against it and the sense of power electrifies him.
He knows, then, that he's going to be a Death Eater. When Harry's cloak slips
from his shoulders, he knows that he's going to be in big trouble.
 
Futility, Draco realises, should have been his middle name. Come to think of
it, he's not so sure that it secretly isn't – but this isn't the moment to ask.
Draco isn't sure what this is the moment for; running and screaming, perhaps,
in a normal family. This isn't a normal family, though, and Draco's back to
feeling that whatever he does is futile. He remains motionless and trembling
like a bowstring pulled taut, bearing the cold front of his father's temper.
He'd blame Potter, but he always blames Potter and he hates to be predictable.
Besides of which, he sought out Potter – not that he tells his father this, of
course - and Draco rarely duels with denial.
“I wanted it,” he chokes out. “It wasn't an accident – he didn't just...it
wasn't all him. I went to see him. I...didn't ask for it, but it just
happened.”
Lucius' eyes get that glaze that makes them look almost silver with fury and
Draco considers that he should have made up a story of some sort; involving
magic or parseltongue or half-blood idiotic recklessness. Harry is everything
that Lucius hates, after all; he would have been placated by the thought that
Potter had stupidly assumed himself worthy of his son. But Draco had willingly
lowered himself to the level of a dirty Gryffindor and Lucius wasn't likely to
tolerate that. Draco winced and considered this the culmination of a month of
futile pleading. He had begged McGonagall not to owl his father; begged, in a
way that shamed the Malfoy blood in his veins. He hadn't been satisfied that
she was equally as reluctant to pass on the details. She had, after all, harped
on about rules; the pair of them being minors; that it had been in public
(Harry hadn't managed to convince her about the invisibility cloak) and that
both their guardians should be made aware of their actions. If that hadn't been
frustrating enough, Snape had singularly blamed Draco for ruining his one
chance to glower over Harry by being involved in his sordid downfall, and Snape
did not forgive lightly. Draco seemed to be last on his favourite teacher's
Christmas card list – and he didn't think his chances of regaining his father's
favour were much higher.
“Father, I...I know I was stupid; I know I've embarrassed you, but it was a
mistake. It won't happen again. I've learnt my lesson now, and I won't...ever
even look at him again, if you think it best.”
“You have learnt nothing.” Lucius' voice is cold. “Otherwise, you would not
have done it in the first place. Potter, of all people. I'm not even going to
start on the fact that Potter is a boy, as you well know, but you might have
picked a Slytherin at the very least – I might have been able to convert your
stupidity into flattery had it been Crabbe or Goyle, even that Zabini boy, but
Potter? Sometimes I wholly believe you do these things purely to distress me.
There can be no other explanation.”
This genuinely wounds Draco, whose hormones and lack of judgement take nothing
away from the admiration he holds for his father. “No, please, father, that
isn't it. I just – it was wrong, and I...didn't think, I...I'm not you, yet,
and I-”
“Don't flatter yourself, or me. It means nothing from you right now.” Lucius
picks up his fork once more and glances coolly over the table at Draco. The
servants and the house elf make hurriedly for the kitchens, and Draco is left
with the dilemma of whether to sit and eat or run away without. Fasting would
have absolutely no effect on his father; it is Narcissa who cannot bear her
only son going without food. Were he to refuse the meal, his father would only
condemn his pathetic obstinacy and punish him with hunger. How futile. With a
slight pause, Draco pulls out the chair opposite his father and sinks silently
into it. His fingers are just curving around his fork when his father
continues:
“Stand.”
Draco doesn't understand. He rises unsteadily to his feet. Lucius stalks over
to him with all the modesty of a leopard and Draco has to force his limbs not
to cower. It isn't that his father frightens him, exactly – it's pure
evolutionary logic. Lucius is taller, bigger, more powerful, more intelligent.
Lucius is everything Draco will be, but isn't yet; the promise is frighteningly
distant. Draco is always disappointing the person he most wants to impress and
this makes him nervous, too. It doesn't unnerve him the way it does Narcissa
that Lucius' hand has been responsible for countless deaths but it bothers him
that he knows so much more than Draco does and has no qualms about reminding
him of it. Around Lucius, Draco feels six inches tall. Sometimes, on the very
good days, he can feel twenty feet high – but mostly he's very small, very
young, very stupid. He swallows hard and wishes he were swallowing food; that
his father were insulting him from across the table. Lucius' face is pure
malevolence. It is unbridled anger. It is Not Good and Draco has no escape
route open to him. It is all futile. And so he stands, waiting, wanting to
close his eyes against it all.
“You have embarrassed me. Embarrassed all that stands proudly in this family.
You have shamed us all.”
“I'm sorry, father, I-”
“What does embarrassment feel like, Draco?”
An odd question. Draco thinks back to a moment on the Hogwarts grounds; of
offering his friendship to a boy who would not take it, and shakes his head.
“It's...it's not nice, it's...not something for this family, it's...”
“Not good enough. Embarrassment is something that you cannot vocalise. It is a
feeling. It is the very worst feeling. You have humiliated me. You do not
understand the gravity of what you have done and mere words will not help me to
punish you. I wish you to feel what humiliation feels like. You whored yourself
out to that boy, Draco. This is a pure house. This is a house of clean blood;
of proud heritage, of upstanding and class. You have dirtied it. You are dirty.
Perhaps you have tried to tell yourself otherwise.”
“I am sorry for what I have done.”
“You will be sorrier,” Lucius says ominously, and his hands move to Draco's
robes.
Draco's first thought is to scan through all the spells he knows. He is twitchy
about people touching him; doesn't like public affection, doesn't like other
people's hands, doesn't know where they've been. But this is his father and
somehow none of the rules apply; Draco has nothing to fall back on and he
merely stares, dumbly, as his own pale skin illuminates the room. “Father –
this isn't...”
“Right? No, perhaps not. Needs must. There are few ways to embarrass you,
Draco, much to my chagrin. You are obsessed, if I might remind you, with a boy
who despises you.”
“It's...” Draco is lost for words as Lucius' nails scratch over his shoulders,
lifting the heavy black fabric from them. Lucius' hands are heavy; made up of
thick fingers and cold palms. Yet there is an elegance to their neat nails and
their symmetry. Draco's hands look tiny and insignificant as he tries to repel
the touch. “I could write lines! However many lines – whatever you want me to
write...”
Lucius throws Draco's robe to the floor; starts on his underclothes. He is
working faster, now, with the look in his eyes that he gets when he smells
fear. Draco's jumper is hauled over his head and he wrestles with it for that
last moment of resistance before everything's very cold and his body hardens to
it. “We have tried writing lines. It has no effect on your behaviour. Even if
you were to write, 'I must not be a whore in the house of Malfoy', the
likelihood is that with one whisper of Potter's name we'd be back where we
started.”
“No – that's not true – I could...I'd be ashamed of myself, father. Thoroughly
ashamed.”
“You'll be ashamed now.” Lucius concludes, turning Draco around with one hand,
sharp and unyielding. His hands are impersonal as they tear his trousers apart,
down – and Draco scrunches his eyes then because he thinks he knows what's
about to happen. “You made yourself into a whore, Draco. Now you'll act like
one. Step out of your trousers.” His voice turns growlingly pleased as Draco
does so without question.
“Now sit and eat your dinner.”
It is just like Lucius, Draco thinks. Just like him. He watches him return to
his seat and imagines that he can trace the thoughts in his mind; the beauty of
this cavernous room, dark and black to a single point – Draco, vulnerable,
exposed and humiliated. He is determined to save face; to raise his chin up as
he always has – to be his father's son. Summoning all his strength, he looks
his father in the eye as he picks up his fork. “I've always liked gammon; it-”
“It is not served for you.”
“Of course. I'm sorry.”
“What possessed you to do it, Draco?”
“I...wanted to.”
“Wanted to disgrace your family?”
“No – it was impulsive, and...stupid, but I wanted it. It wasn't something I
really thought about. It just happened. There wasn't a reason. It was
just...reckless.”
“Gryffindors.” Lucius' tone suggests that Draco is inclusive in the insult and
he bristles, Slytherin pride irritated.
“It won't happen again.” His voice is as cool as his father's as he swallows
down his food; food that tastes of dust, flaming with hot embarrassment. He
will never be able to sit and eat a family dinner again without thinking of
this; the soft chair covering against his thighs, the wood curvature against
his shoulderblades. It's indecent and the thought of it is enough to make his
eyes burn.
“Not after tonight.” Lucius mutters quietly around his wine glass. “You know, I
wouldn't be surprised if Potter's...guardians finally sling him out of the
house for this.” His eyes are watchful of Draco's reaction.
“Probably,” Draco keeps his voice indifferent, unsure how he really feels.
“It'd be deserved.”
“You're lucky I haven't done the same.”
“Yes, father.”
“Still – I'm sure this must be the last straw for them. We have our reputation
to protect us – to cleanse you. They are...unfortunate,” Lucius is smirking
now. “in that respect.”
Draco merely nods, wanting desperately to change the subject. He has had quite
enough of thinking of Harry; it is far from an impartial topic. Naked, he
doesn't want to think about the consequences. In dreams, his father cannot keep
check; cannot press his thumb down upon the visions that scorch Draco's
sleeping mind. In the bathroom, his father cannot invade upon the privacy
secure between Draco's cock and his left hand. He cannot close his hand over
the mouth that pants memories. Draco shifts in his seat uncomfortably, thinking
back to McGonagall and Ron practising dances for the Yule Ball back in fourth
year.
“It'd be an irony, I suppose,” Lucius continues, “were we to secure Potter's
downfall via your actions. If he is to escape the charm that binds that
household, well...I imagine the Dark Lord would be most pleased with you. It
wouldn't take away what you've done, of course – that deformed act, but it
might be of some consolation to him. It might be of great benefit to this
household. Wouldn't that be a strange thing.”
“Yes,” Draco says, not really understanding a whit of what his father is
saying. “I won't have anything more to do with him.”
“You will try your best, I am sure.”
“Father, I shall not see him again.”
“Your teenage hormones are weak and pathetic pliable. That is, I recall, how
you ended up in this mess in the first place.”
“No – that won't be an issue. I can control myself.” Draco twists his nose into
a convincing sneer. “I can't understand why I was tempted in the first place.”
“You shall be the very model of chastity, until he approaches you with some
hideously voyeuristic scheme involving a hard hand and the Astronomy Tower. I
know boys, Draco, even if I think them inappropriate. You'd be much better with
a nice girl; someone who wouldn't drag you off into a broom closet because they
couldn't control their impulses.”
Draco feels his cock twitch; memories flooding back of Potter's hands, which
tend towards being just a tad too hard, and his mouth – which is nothing short
of wondrous; wet and soft. He almost chokes on his food and quickly gulps down
a few sips of his wine.
“I should stop talking,” Lucius purrs. “It might expose you, mightn't it?”
Draco says nothing but bites down hard on his fork; it helps. “I'm fine,” he
replies, a little too quickly. In truth, he is anything but. He thinks with the
energy he's exuding in fighting the memories, he could bring Voldemort back to
life seven times over. It is useless; useless, because Lucius keeps talking,
and with every dulcet note, another thought comes to Draco until he's harder
than nails and his tongue is sore.
“I can understand that you might be tempted that way – towards the excitable
roughness of your peers, rather than the more refined conversation of the
female sex. You're at an age where instant gratification is on your mind.
Naturally...you'd be inclined to make mistakes; to indulge in hot little trysts
wherever you can. I'm sure it was most satisfying for you.”
“Father, please – this has gone far enough.” Draco can feel the soft fabric of
the tablecloth against his erection and he is trying to pretend he can't.
“Quite the contrary. I was just about to add that although my understanding is
vast, my tolerance is not. If it were – anyone, indeed, but Potter! I think I
could cope. But that boy, Draco; not only does he make Crabbe look like
Dumbledore, he's dangerous. He could jeopardise everything that's in front of
you, even without your hapless liaisons in closets. I cannot believe you would
feel him worth touching – the thought disgusts me. This,” Lucius nods downwards
and the mere thought that he knows Draco is hard makes the younger boy's face
redden. “disgusts me.”
“Can I be excused?”
“No, you cannot.”
“Father, I think...I have lost my appetite, and I have two sheets of parchment
to do for Potions...”
“I am not done with you yet.”
“Can I put my robe back on?”
“When I have finished my wine. After which, I have a further lesson to teach
you. We will be travelling through the house and I have no desire for the
servants to see you in this state. You are permitted to put your robe back on
then.”
Draco supposes that he should think this merciful. He sits, eyes downcast, and
says nothing more; listens to his father drink the wine. The sounds are moist
and dignified and they do not help. Draco shifts in his seat, trying to move
the soft canopy out of the way. It breezes lightly over the head of his cock,
ticklish and sensual, and sparks curl in his blood. There is only one thing
more embarrassing than being erect at his father's table – and that is to be
getting off on it. He frowns, hard, stares at the tapestries about the room.
There is nothing arousing about them. He ignores the fabric brushing his lap.
Draco Malfoy is not about to fornicate with a tablecloth.
After Lucius sups the remainder of his wine, he leads Draco by the shoulder up
the stairs. Draco is buzzing by this point, robe soft against his bare skin,
eyes flaming. His father's palm on his back, the nails against his shoulder
blades – they do not help, and Draco finds himself wishing he could take a
detour to the bathroom. He doubts that his father will want him this aroused.
He doubts that this will help his cause, anyway – his excuses about not
fancying the pants off Potter, about not wanting anything to do with him. There
is no cause, to his mind, that could possibly be helped by the erection within
his robes that refuses to go away. As it is, he has little time to think about
it as Lucius throws the door to his own bedroom open and almost tosses him
inside. Draco considers briefly that this is only the fourth or fifth time that
he can remember being in this room; red and wood-panelled, exquisite.
Sumptuous. Sexual. The four-poster bed stands at its core, with its dark red
canopies and its curling wooden beams. A throw is draped across it that tickles
at Draco's left foot; black and thick, embroidered. It has an Oriental look to
it; but aggressive and masculine, not at all delicate. Draco thinks it is very
Lucius. Lucius does not seem to be thinking at all. He slams the door hard. He
is still very angry.
“What am I to learn, father?” Draco asks, trying to placate matters. His
father's hand comes down hard upon his cheek. He takes that for enough of an
answer, and closes his mouth. His chin draws up and he looks at his father
without tears.
“I meant to bait you,” Lucius says, in the grand voice he reserves specially
for lectures. “Downstairs. I did not intend to discover that your feelings are
quite the same. I did not intend to uncover that you are quite as sullied as
you were in school. I quite believed that Potter had you under some sort of
spell; some sort of temporary madness. Now, I see that you are still aroused by
him. It is disgusting. You have learnt nothing.”
“It was just a reaction, father; it meant nothing, it...”
“It was a reaction induced by Potter, Draco – do not attempt to tell me that I
cannot interpret the meaning of that.”
Draco searches wildly for a way of placating his father. He feels dreadfully
exposed in his thin robes and he does not want to be naked again. He can see no
way of this situation ending well, as it is, and he stares into his father's
eyes. Concentrating on him, he tries to figure a way of charming his way out of
it – as he does Snape, when homework is due; as he has McGonagall, when she
used to catch him in the Prefect's bathroom before his time. Lucius is a proud
man; a difficult one, one who approves only of the most delicate flattery.
Flattery is the key, though, to his heart; a skilled wordsmith could have no
better recipient than Lucius Malfoy. Draco is not old enough to have acquired
the knack but he has seen it in his mother, who he thinks probably won Lucius
through a mysterious and beautiful web of verbal intrigue. How to flatter,
though? There is no way but a dangerous one – a one seeped in awkward
territory. Draco is lucky that Lucius encouraged his son to worship his father.
Otherwise the words might not leave his mouth. Suspended on the edge of a
verbal cliff, though, they leave his lips easily and flow just as genuine
sentiment ought to.
“It was not him. It was...your voice. Your words. Your meaning. That was what
caused the reaction, not Potter.” It is tenuous, but it is honeyed, and Draco
thinks he may be in with a chance of getting away with it. “It was your power.”
Lucius' eyes take on a sudden gleam and Draco knows that he has won. What he
has won, however, remains unclear. Unclear, at least, until Lucius breaks
towards him.
Lucius has long be pleasured by being a Death Eater. It is the power it gives
him; the green aura, the booming voice, the identity as one of Voldemort's few.
It is as though he does not need a wand, sometimes – that magic flows from his
very fingertips, biting and warm, poisonous. It is everything about courage
that he aspires to but does not actually possess; it is the pretence of
bravery, the pretense of power and prestige. It is frailty hidden within a
skull-mask. It is pale blood hiding within scarlet bravado. If Lucius weren't a
Death Eater, he would be nothing; a fragile rich noble, if that. And yet there
is not enough of this power to go around. The dullness of the routine is
nothing compared with the splendour of a mors mordre night – and there has not
been one of those, now, for quite a long time. He has not seen the fear in
someone's eyes the way he sees it in Draco's just now. He has not seen such a
shivering monument of awe for too long. It is water to a thirsty man and he
drinks it – drinks in Draco's regard for him, his respect and wonder. It
illuminates him grassgreen.
“Oh, Draco,” he says, voice a silky purr. “That's very, very interesting.”
Draco agrees, very pleased with himself, backed up against the bed frame but
confident of escape. It is then, as Lucius steps slowly towards him, that he
realises he cannot move his hands. They shove against thick, wound rope.
“How have you-?”
“Draco, please,” Lucius purrs. “If you haven't learnt this little trick by now,
I'd question what you're doing in school.”
Draco has no reply to this; he is too terrified to form words. His plan has
backfired spectacularly and he doesn't know how to get out of it – all he knows
is that punishment is no longer on his father's mind. There is a slightly
deranged look there that he knows cannot be good. The advance brings forth heat
and the faint smell of aftershave; a scent Draco remembers for its distance,
it's signature on the man he so desperately wants to become. Despite the fear
and the restriction, there is arousal within him that he cannot quite place.
“Father-”
“Yes, Draco?” Lucius' eyes gleam cold water at him, mesmerizing and brilliant.
In that instant Draco knows that he has no choice. His father's pupils are like
black snakes in those eyes, a call to battle where the opponents are unequal
and the path clear. Perhaps it will help him to become the man he aspires to
be. Perhaps he should consider it an honour, that his father deems to help him
in this way, perhaps -
He begins to reply, “nothing” when his father's hand slips his robe apart and
he wants to say other things instead. His lips flatten the silent 'no' as his
skin illuminates the room, endlessly pale. Long legs are tree trunks amongst
the grasses of black fabric; appropriate for the sole branch that sticks out in
the middle. Draco is painfully erect and painfully embarrassed, blushing red
with the futility of his position. No matter what he does, he cannot will the
need away and it is because he doesn't understand his desires that he worsens
them. It is no longer merely Potter occupying his thoughts but the cold thrill
of humiliation and verbal sparring. It is the taste of inevitable failure at
the hands of the person he loves most – has always loved most. It is the hand
he has wanted to touch him, perhaps before, always, unknowing. In the dim light
of the room, it begins not to feel wrong and Draco swallows hard.
“My power, indeed?” Lucius is saying. “Perhaps...perhaps. In any case, you do
not know what true power is. You have been dirtied and I am merciful; I can
restore you. I can cleanse you. I can teach you things you have no
understanding of – I can brew fear in you, bleed awe, can I not? This is power,
Draco. You shall feel it and know it and one day, perhaps own it. I want you to
be sorry for what you've done. I want you to feel purity and reject sin. I want
you to see truths only I can tell you.” His hand slides down Draco's panting
chest. It is warm at the palm with cold fingers. Blood throbs in Lucius' wrist
and Draco can feel it, just on his groin. He wheezes out breath and fights his
hips still.
“Are you going to touch me, father?” It is just adoring enough, Draco thinks,
to see itself successful. He doubts that Lucius takes suggestions but he needs
this; the way only someone with prolonged arousal and little reason can need
anything. He needs a hand, but Lucius' will be best, somehow – knowing, touch,
experienced, a mile away from Draco's spindly little fingers. And it is best,
certainly best, as he spreads it like a spider along Draco's hip and touches
the head of his cock with a small self-satisfied noise. It aches like a sudden
fire and Draco leaps forward with a cry – like flattery, he figures, it will
not be punished. Lucius smirks and curves his hand in on his son's cock,
offering a few delicate strokes with smug satisfaction.
“How does it feel, Draco?” He murmurs, watching the clouds descend over his
son's gaze as if under Imperius. It has already gone too far, he knows, but he
is so disinclined to care that it will frighten him later. The fear and the
power are intoxicating drugs and he has followed them without caution, without
measure – they are the owner of him. With every flicker of Draco's awed gaze he
falls further into a cauldron of need. So many people have snubbed and doubted
him. So many have seen him lower his wand in cowardice, declined to get his
hands dirty. So many have suspected his disloyalty. So many have seen a man
afraid to get blood on his robes. So many times, he has just followed orders,
too afraid to betray what is wrong for what is right. Draco is subservient the
way Narcissa was, once; pale and impressed by him, glowing in his candlelight.
She knows him too well, now, where Draco does not. Draco sees courage not
cowardice; strength not fear. He sees Lucius the way Lucius wants to be seen
and in a world of deprivation Lucius can only take hold of that adulation and
throttle it in his pleasured, selfish embrace. His hand is painfully quick,
now, and with these words, this, “I will take hold of you and choke you with
this, Draco – this love, this desire, this need for me,” Draco comes all over
his parted robes. It is then, in the moment of vulnerability and doe-eyed
relaxation that Lucius feels his own hunger. It cannot, will not, end here.
Without words, he waves the wards away and pushes Draco down onto the bed.
“Far too soon,” he stutters, turning Draco over and ignoring his moan of
surprise. “That was – far too soon, Draco; I should have expected, after the
scene downstairs...” There is the huffing sound of breath against the silk
upholstery; the faint scratching of skinny limbs on the covers. Draco is
scrabbling and unsure, weak with pleasure but afraid, still, of what lies
ahead. Lucius can barely give a thought to it – if he were to do so, he'd
loathe himself more than he already does. He is chasing adoration he does not
deserve and it is like stealing; the euphoria is enough to cloud the mind's
morality. “You shall satisfy me before the night is out. Do you understand?”
The night suddenly clearer, Draco doesn't know how to respond to this. He
doesn't know how to feel; his brain curls effortlessly around it, empty and
mesmerized. He feels positively bewitched and there is no room for logic in it.
All he knows is that a part of him he's never known wants this; wants to feel
something other than cold contempt, to feel needed and punished and adored and
cleansed. He cares for nothing but that splayed palm on his back as he rears up
against it and Lucius' hands gather on his hipbones. His body feels a frail
willow wand as his head tips back; from the buttery crown of his head to the
slender curve of his spine. He arches as he breathes in fire. Lucius is above
him, over him; he can feel the stronger body leaning down upon his back. There
are strong arms and shoulders a mile wide; body heat so radiant he fears it
will burn. There are thighs pressing against him that defy any movement of his.
Reaching back, there is heat and movement that he knows it is wrong to want to
touch. His hands are shaking on the bed so he pushes back and touches the only
way that he can. Lucius makes a strangled sound he disguises well.
“You want this, do you?” His voice is warmer, uncharacteristic. Draco thinks he
likes it.
“Yes,” he says, in a whisper.
“You think this is purer, do you? Than Potter – than a dirty little Gryffindor?
Is this pure, Draco? Is this right?”
“It's...” Draco hopes that his father isn't talking about morality. He is
wriggling back with some regularity, now, enjoying the tingling sense of
pleasure elsewhere given. Lucius' hand settles in the small of his back and
holds him still, still enough to answer the question. His other hand is undoing
his own robes. “It's pure to me, father.”
“Is it, now?” The shushing sound of fabric falling to the bed occupies the
silence. When Lucius comes forward, the heat intensifies and Draco feels his
cock for the first time; wet-tipped, hot, needy. He finds it difficult not to
feel a bizarre sense of pride, even as his father adds:
“I'm not sure why I should take your word for it.”
“I'm not worthy of it, father.”
“More than that, Draco,” Lucius hand skirts over Draco's lower back and
disappears, returns wet and bitterly cold. His fingers are briskly functional
as he talks; his actions and his words as degrading as one another. Draco gasps
around stretches and flexes his body with them, responsive to sensations of
pain and pleasure alike. “Your opinion of purity might well be useful to a host
of farmyard pigs but it is of no use to me. You talk of the purity of this – I
know what purity is to you, and purity is him. Purity is those selfish,
disgusting acts you perform for him in the Gryffindor Tower and goodness knows
where else – the acts that shame this family, and me. How can I-” He slaps one
hand down hard on Draco's left buttock to stop him wriggling. “How can I put
any value in what you judge to be sacred?”
“I love you, father.” Draco whimpers. It is said genuinely, so reverently that
it is almost pitiful and Lucius takes check of his words. Though he has doubted
everything else in his life he has never doubted this; that he has raised a son
who loves him unconditionally. No matter how vicious or lengthy the family
punishments have been on him; no matter how hefty the title of Malfoy sits on
him, Draco has always loved Lucius. Lucius eases a soothing hand over the small
red mark.
“You have never said the same to him?”
“I don't feel the same for him. It was a mistake.”
“This isn't a mistake.”
“No, father.”
“You know what I will do to you, Draco, if I find it has happened again?”
Lucius' index finger crooks inwards and the pleasure is fitting for the cruelty
of the threat. Draco knows. He cries out that he knows, moves twice more
because it's too good not to need; like licking sugar from your fingers.
“I can hurt you, Draco,” Lucius continues and Draco finds that he knows that,
too. “I can hurt you and make you wish you'd never dared breathe around that
boy.” Draco nods, nods incessantly and Lucius feels so powerful in that moment,
so rich in prophecy and might that he cannot resist any longer and pulls
Draco's hips back against him. There is a throaty noise then that could be
either of them and so Lucius stills, as much for himself as for Draco – and
waits until the breathing holds fewer sobs. Everything is very tight and very
black; a whole new world past a moral barrier Lucius has never permitted
himself to break. He feels very free. Free and boundless. And powerful. Draco's
head raises and he chokes out a small sound; “More.”
Lucius doesn't know why he wants it; doesn't know why any of this is happening,
really, but he cannot turn down the request and eases his way to the hilt,
breath ragged and overwhelmed. He remembers a moment some years ago with
Narcissa – but it is a candlelit memory compared to this. Draco is crying out
without intermissions as Lucius movements turn smooth and regular. They quicken
as he leans over his son's back, hair spilling over into the crevices in his
ribs. His hands move and capture Draco's, holding him down and putting him in
contact with his neck, his ears, his hair. In his ear he whispers. One hand
then flutters to his hair, and yanks for better range.
“More, Draco? Faster – harder?”
“Father, please, please -”
“Does it feel good?”
“Yes – God, yes.”
“Is this what you want, most in the world, Draco?”
“I want you, father.”
“Do you deserve me?”
“N-no -”
“Am I not merciful?”
“Yes, father. Please, father.”
“Never again, Draco. I never want that boy... you are mine. Do you understand?
Do you understand me? This is what is pure. I am who you should fear, and love.
Never forget that I am powerful and that you, you will be powerful, too. This
is what it is to be a Malfoy. This is what it is to be us – to live as we do.
This is purity. This is beautiful. This – is not what you deserve, but this is
mercy. Do you understand me?” Lucius' can sense the inevitable as much as Draco
can; his words are punctuated with quickened jerks. Draco is keening along with
them, nodding on the fullstops, his shoulders barely supporting the movement.
“I am yours. I am yours, father, please, faster – I need this, please.”
Lucius' hand moves around to Draco's cock and gives it a series of strokes that
are almost nastily greedy. “Come for me, Draco,” he says. “Be a good boy.”
Tight as a bowstring, with his head wrenched back into his father's hands and
his joints threatening collapse, Draco wrenches his whole body forward into a
world where everything is white, and hot, and silent. Sparks rain down inside
his eyelids as his mouth opens, his skin on fire and his every limb locked. His
hands sob under his father's. There is a scream that folds itself into the
canopy and dies there; dies in the fabric prison of something sinful – sinful
and true. Power surges in Lucius' veins at the sound and their spell is sewn
up; he comes hot and raggedly with small thrusts, nails embedding into Draco's
palms. He says nothing but bites down hard upon his son's shoulder almost as if
to testify the act – no magic would do, no words and no emotions; only the
rawest stripe put on this piece of meat.
Draco collapses like a stone in water and whispers prayerful words of
thankfulness. Lucius turns onto his back and thinks of redemption. The words
have always been on his lips as the bodies have crumpled before him. Just as
then, the words are spoken only in the mind. As Draco curls into his side, he
stops mid-sentence, still.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
