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The Preface	By : ElectricAndroid Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 5842 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Preface
- 1
LONG:
Preface (lucius/draco)

Title: 'Preface'

Author: Electricandroid

Length: Long (over 1000)

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Lucius/Draco

Squicks: Incest, cross-dressing.. etc

A/N: Sorry for the delay. Was sick (am sick still) thanks to my darling marksykins
for the beta! bits in italics are from the preface to Dorian Grey by
Oscar Wilde

The Preface

The artist is the creator of beautiful things.

Lucius always smiles at the sight of his newborn son, such perfect majesty
enshrined in a minute form. Darling little legs, booties and arms and the softest,
fairest skin � his creation couched in flounces and frills, floating on a cloud
of innocence and affluence. His son. His Heir.

To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.

Draco, age two, crawling around on the floor, silk slippered torture as he
topples over to the ground. Again. Dusting himself off, the perfect little
gentleman. He takes another step and lurches forward onto his knees, robe
tipping up to expose the soft satin buttocks. Lucius can feel the flush stain
his cheeks, can feel his underclothes constrict. This is his son. He couldn�t.
He wouldn�t. Yet he does not turn his face away.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his
impression of beautiful things.

Draco, age four, in his mother�s closet. Heels too big for him and his face
scarred a harlot�s red. A silk negligee pouring down, pooling around his ankles
in a swirl of dove-grey down. The tantalizing glimpse as Lucius realizes that
the neckline of the gown dips too low for comfort, softly delineating thighs
and calves, glimpses and images through a broken form. Lucius is entranced.
Draco remembers this as the first time his father was discomfited in his
presence. As Lucius bends down to scoop the infant up, he is trembling.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being
charming.

Draco, age six, refusing his father for the first time. A minor matter, a
broken window in the greenhouse, with neither confession nor apology
forthcoming. A haughty glare, so out of place on his son�s face. He tries so
hard to look down his nose at his father, towering above him. Father and son, a
matched pair. Then Lucius, adjourning to the study, bends Draco over his knee,
and the luminescent buttocks slowly darkening towards carmine as Lucius brings
his hand down on the squirming, hot behind. The abrupt ending as Lucius
realizes that his son, bent over his knee, keening and crying and writhing into
him is probably the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

This is a fault.

Draco, age eight, and pure as the driven snow, dangling his legs over the pond.
When Lucius beckons to him, he comes running � tousled hair and flushed skin,
gap-toothed grin, and the lightest smattering of freckles over the bridge of
his nose. A young boy spending one of his last summers in carefree grace.
Lucius�s heart could burst with pride at this moment. This perfection, this
creation, is his. He scoops the child up onto his shoulders, a heavy comforting
weight, and walks slowly towards the house with him, gentle chatter drifting
over him. Lucius is at peace.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated.
For these there is hope.

Draco, age ten, and curling up into his father�s lap after supper. Fresh
smelling and clean, warm, and slightly damp. Lucius cannot prevent his
reaction, the wriggling little bottom stirring his groin, the hardness as his
only son twists into him. The book, being read from memory, as his son rocks
himself backwards and forwards on his lap. The tight self control as Lucius
feels the heat, the pressure in his crotch increase, and the ironclad will
which prevents him from screaming as one violent motion brings him over the
edge. Completion. Draco wonders why his father avoids him for the rest of the
summer.

They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

Draco, age twelve, boarding the Hogwarts express. A half-formed blonde
changeling, his prince and son and all things so banned, so removed from his
daily life that Lucius cannot help but break with the beauty of it all. A
single hand comes up to caress Draco�s cheek, seemingly of its own volition.
The depths of those eyes, a myriad of emotions which Draco will learn to control
in time, all culminating in a solitary �Goodbye, Father�. Lucius cracks on the
inside, for he knows the next time he sees his son, he will be a man.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well
written, or badly written.

Draco, age fourteen, angry and bitter. Two years of Hogwarts, two years of that
damnable Harry Potter have reduced his son to a shadow of his former self.
Contrary to popular opinion, Lucius mourns this loss of innocence. Draco is no
longer cocksure, no longer easily pleased and happy, taking for granted that
all things will work out in the end, and that Daddy can fix everything. He
knows now that there are some things which father cannot fix, some things which
money cannot buy.

And in a whiskey sodden moment, when he presses himself up to Lucius in the
corridor, sweet breath marred and stinking, and blames him for all the hurt and
shame which Potter heaps upon him, Lucius realizes that he is on the verge of
losing his son. He retires to his room, all thought of fantasy Draco, supple
and willing, exorcised. Lucius loses himself in drink, and when the Dark Lord
calls � he is unable to answer. The next time, he is tortured.

That is all.

Draco, age sixteen. The summer after Lucius is released from Azkaban, a cracked
shell of his former self, a broken, brittle, fractured man. The dementors have
stolen all thoughts of his precious son, all thoughts of his line and
continuation, and he has been forced to suffer in silence, nightmares about the
decline and fall of the House of Malfoy. There is little left inside of him. He
immerses himself in the finest vintages, the deepest pits of the wine bottle
are no stranger to him. Then his son comes home.

Oh, how he has missed him. Footloose and fancy free, the future of his line
dances and plays, writes secret missives and gives them to the owls in the dead
of night. Face flushed with pleasure, he brings hope to Lucius, he brings him
home. And then one night, when his father�s screams shake the house, empty and
dead, a warm lithe body crawls between cotton sheets, and embraces him. A
simple kiss on a tortured brow, and a half mumbled �Draco�. Sleep.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his
own face in a glass.

Panes of light hitting the bed, square after square shattering the serene bliss
of the two men. The rage on Lucius�s face when he realizes that he could have,
might have, despoiled his son, torn his virgin body in an alcoholic stupor. The
warmth of the sleeping boy besides him, nuzzling gently into his neck. Warring
emotions of love and lust, protection and desecration, all silenced in a
single, muted �Lucius�. The shock of hearing his name drop from rosebud lips.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not
seeing his own face in a glass.

Daily Prophet � a front page spread of his son spread-eagled under Potter�s
luscious mouth, pulling his head back and exposing that marble neck, arch and
curve of it so similar to his own. The parted lips, Lucius could almost hear
the moan drip off them. With a crack, he Apparates.

The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but
the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No
artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.

Pulling Potter off Draco, picking up the mewling bundle, and apparating back to
the Manor were a second and a lifetime to Lucius. Shoving him onto the bed,
Lucius tore off his clothes, and fell forward onto his son. No careful hands
here, hard movements and a quick rough fuck. A knee roughly parting tender
buttocks aside. Blood and semen intermingling on the pure white cotton, marring
his son�s thighs. Draco�s body torn and brutalized � shocked, dilated pupils,
eyes filling with tears. The realization. Lucius has raped his son. His virgin
son. He runs from the room. Sinks down to the floor. For the first time in many
years, Lucius cries.

No artist has ethical sympathies.

Drowned in whiskey and lolling insensate on the chair, Lucius makes a decision.
He picks up a letter opener, and gently slides it down the pallid curve of his
wrist. Life without Draco is worth less than nothing to him, and he has
alienated his child. His love.

He sinks through a miasma of thoughts, sparkling images of Draco throughout his
life, knobby knees and gap toothed grins � a beam of sunlight falling on corn
silk hair, and a soft warm body curled up next to him, changing over the years,
but at the heart of it still his, still his son.

The edges of his vision are blurring, and he feels cold. He wishes he had the
forethought to cast a warming charm but as he stretches out to find his wand,
he sinks into darkness.

An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No
artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

Lucius opens a startled eye to the worried countenance of his son. Against all
logic, he is alive, and will probably have to bear the brunt of Draco�s anger.

He is startled by a fluttering sensation on his lips. So familiar, and yet so
unexpected, the tender brush of flesh on flesh. A hand snaking up his chest,
gently stroking down his sides, down his wrists. Grasping the bandages there,
and easing his arms apart. Lucius feels the solid bulk of his son straddle him.
He opens his eyes.

Forgiveness so sweet and tender, drops falling onto his face, red rimmed eyes
and Draco letting go of all pretenses, drawing a swift sure line down his body.
Lucius lies back as the combined soporific of tongue and tears and morphine
course through him.

A hand fumbles with his shirt collar, buttons collapse like a house of cards,
and he lies there exposed, with the faintest breath of his scion ghosting along
his collarbones, chest, stomach, and the dab of a tongue at the base of his
trousers. Lucius arches into it, a bacchanalia of sounds and textures and
touches, parting him from the vestiges of his self control. Another hurried
fumble and he is naked.

As he glides into his son�s mouth, all enveloping heat and twisted tongue
caressing the head of his cock, he looks down. The mixture of skin and hair, no
end and no beginning and of tortured tumbling heat brings Lucius closer to
completion. Grey eyes flicker up, and he�s gone. There is faintest curve of a
smile as Lucius loses his load into his son�s mouth. Draco swallows.

Two perfect forms curl into each other and sleep. Both, for the first time, are
at peace.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Curled up in a leather chair his son looks so young, so innocent. The precious
folio in his hands, the abstract way which he wipes his fingers on the chamois,
careful not to damage a single page, a single leaf of the fine book. Lucius
would want for words, except the completion of having his sated son sprawled on
the couch before him, as he flickers through the mundane estate journals has
brought him a tranquility unlike any he has ever known.

A tear comes to his eye, and he turns quickly, chair screeching across the
parquet. Out of the corner of his eye he sees his son twist around and bound
towards him. A hand on his. There is so much Lucius needs to say, but he cannot
grasp the words. They float in front of him, ephemeral as sunbeams. He asks if
Draco would come with him tonight. A nod of assent.

In his depravity, he hopes that Draco will find the heart to forgive him.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.

Lucius pulls his son under his coat, the cold rain bleating on the umbrella, as
he ushers him inside his Knockturn Alley haunt. The redness of the rooms always
eases Lucius�s eyes, whilst the draperies and damask on the wall leave little
to misinterpretation. A house of ill-repute, but the finest of services, the
most personable and personalized custom in which mankind can partake. Young,
supple, and eminently eligible wares. Lucius would patronize no lesser
establishment.

The compere removes both coats, and guides them upstairs. As always, they are
left at the door. Hand in arm with Draco, he enters.

A nightmare of silks and satins greet them and Lucius immediately espies the
ruffled, flounced and frilled form stretched out towards him. Draco is slower
on the uptake, his eyes guided by a myriad of textures and patterns, all
leading towards the bed. A white gartered virgin in a sea of red.

He notes the flush on his son�s cheeks, and wonders if he made a mistake, but a
hesitant hand slipping into his and Lucius is placed momentarily at ease. He
guides his son over, and gestures for him to begin.

Draco hesitates as he slides his hands down the silken stockings, over garters,
and onto the fine, ripe arse. As he brings one had around to the front, to
unlace the corset, he slides the other through white thighs, and startled,
caresses balls and cock. Whipping his head around to Lucius, he shoots him a
puzzled glance. An arch look, a slowly spreading smile, and reality dawns.

Languidly, Draco divests the prostitute of his clothes. Unclipping stockings,
running hands down thighs and legs, the perfect curve of an ankle, and scooping
the feet out of it. Fingers trailing up to buttocks, between muscular cheeks,
parting them to touch the well used hole. Lucius realizes, through the quaver
and heated breathing, that his son is still pure. Potter did not rob him of all
his innocence.

Lucius begins to undress, as his son inserts a shaking finger into the
prostrate form. He pads up behind Draco, and rests his hands upon his
shoulders. He can feel the muscles tense as his son finally embeds himself to
the hilt. The subtle moan of pleasure coursing up and down his body as he
begins to pound in and out, in a rhythm so uniquely his, so quintessentially
Draco, that Lucius can but hold his breath. His hands skitter down his son�s
sides, and slowly ease him onto all fours.

Grasping a stocking, Lucius trails it across Draco, head, neck, back and
buttocks, before discarding it onto the floor. Draco arches into the touch, and
each thrust embeds himself further. Lucius drops his trousers, mutters a spell,
and runs his unguent coated fingers between his son�s thighs. He rests his
finger at the entrance, and with each forceful moan, each pounding thrust into
the boy, Lucius slips in another notch. First one, then two fingers slither
into his son, and scissoring gently in and out until Lucius is not sure whether
Draco is intent on fucking the boy in front of him, or being fucked by his
father�s hand behind.

He removes his fingers to a mewl of dismay, and quickly fists his cock,
lubricating it. He knows that he ought to go slowly, ought to teach his son the
virtues of patience and foreplay, but right now, sweaty sticky sweet, arching
and keening, he doubts that Draco will be able to hold off much longer. He
embeds himself into his son, the force of his thrust plunging him through the
boy into the whore time and time again. The tightness and contraction of his
son around him, the corn silk soft hair, matting in his sweat, in no time,
Lucius reached the heights of pleasure, and when Draco bucks into him for one
final thrust, they come in tandem.

Much to Lucius�s delight, Draco pockets the garter belt before leaving the
establishment.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the
musician.

Whispers run rife as Lucius Malfoy enters the Symphony. The disharmony of the
initial tuning seems, for a brief instance, to unite into a screaming crescendo
as he walks in, courtesan on his arm. As a patron of the arts, Malfoy is easily
recognized, but the beauty with him keeps her eyes downcast and her smile
demure. Men goggle, women approve. This is no brazen hussy, merely an escort
for an evening. The crowd parts.

It is inevitable that Malfoy has his own box. Tonight he has chosen not to
share it with anyone besides his companion, but that in itself is not unusual.
Malfoy makes no bones about his fixation with cleanliness, white gloves cover
his hands at all times. It is whispered amongst the gossipmongers that he has
some highly disfiguring skin condition, for besides his face, nary an inch of
skin has ever been exposed to public scrutiny.

Settling into his seat, he runs a proprietary hand up the stockinged leg of his
companion. He removes his kid gloves, and gently fiddles with the garter. A
startled head turns towards him, and grey eyes match.

�Father? I thought we were not��

Draco�s words end as his father strokes gently between his thighs. A gentle rip
of threads was heard as the side-seam splits further as he parts his thighs.
Lucius strokes the silk knickers, and though he loves his Draco in French lace,
he feels that it would be impractical for the concert, and harsher on his soft
fingertips than intended.

The music lulls Lucius into a torpor, and it is all that Draco can do not to
contort his face, not to arch into the gentle touch and demand a faster, more
abrasive form of attention. The slow slide of silk over his cock is driving him
wild, and the languid motions of his father�s hand, conducting the orchestra
through his son�s crotch, is swiftly approaching the borderline of pleasure and
pain. With a fanfare, the first movement ends, and the first intermission
occurs.

Demurely Draco crosses his legs, but he is hard, so achingly hard, and only
glad that his father remembered to bring the voice altering potion, for he
doubts that he could control his breathing, let alone his vocal range at the
moment. As people leave and enter the booth, the comment upon how nice it is to
see a young lady so caught up in the music. Lucius smiles, and ensures them
that his cousin is an aficionado of the first order. Few notice that the blush
heightens as Lucius speaks, and those that do put it down to her inherent
shyness.

The second, third and fourth movements are all an exercise in the most
exquisite torture for Draco, interspersed with the somnolent pauses of fashion
and poise. The fifth, in the insane rasp of desire, and the hurried patter of
high heels on the marble staircases, and slipping into the back of the Bentley.
Partition up, and Lucius watches as Draco shucks off his skirt, his knickers,
wending a hand around his cock as his father drops his hooded gaze. A few quick
jerks and he comes, opalescent stains over black leather.

From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

Days pass into weeks and Lucius maintains the act of father and husband, but it
becomes steadily harder and he is growing weaker as his son brushes against him
in the too wide corridors, as his wife declines to inform him of her
whereabouts. Lucius is tired, and he knows that at some point his fa�ade will
crack. He only hopes that when it happens, Draco does not fall with him.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

For the second week in a row, Draco escorts his father to a Ministry function.
Narcissa is there too, ostensibly escorting Minister Fudge, but in reality
sidling up to his new undersecretary, a Weasley. Lucius is bored of the
pretense, bored of the aching and longing, content only in the glances that
Draco throws him, the love brimming from every pore. He cannot help but
reciprocate, he cannot help but feel that it should be Draco in his arms,
dancing, Draco at his side. The obligatory dance with his wife goes off without
a murmur, and the polite small talk amongst the guests only serves to further
his boredom. Silent communication between him and Draco lead to a rendezvous on
the second story. He hopes that the Weasley brat will be canny enough to keep
Narcissa company, though at this point in time he does not really care any
longer. Ennui has overtaken him, and he entrusts himself to the fates.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

As Lucius�s hand strokes up his son�s robe, he is pleased to note that instead
of the customary loose undergarments, Draco is attired in garter-belt and silk
hose, the seam running perfectly straight, as befits a Malfoy. He traces the
contour with his tongue, crouching down behind his son, licking, nipping and
sucking his way up the firm leg, to the confluence with the sculpted buttock.
Draco moans beneath him, pleasure not pain, and reaches back to part his
cheeks.

Lucius knows exactly what he wants, and trails and idle finger down the crack,
his other hand cupping his son�s cock and squeezing it lightly. Draco backs
into the touch, and suddenly he feels the gentle pressure of a tongue at his
opening, wet and moist and infinitely pleasurable.

The door bangs open and there stands Narcissa in all her glory. Taking one look
at the scene before her, she lifts her chin, and smacks Lucius across the face.
Wet and moist, her fingers are now covered in his saliva, and she does her best
to brush them off on the curtain. Draco slumps down, gently crying, dizzy and
ill, and his final thought before he passes out is that his mother is filing
for divorce.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

Draco, age twenty. The glint of snow on the windowsill, and the fresh breeze
streaming through the window all serve to leave a chill on Draco. He curls up
closer to the fire, and pulls out another folio, the same unconscious
protection that makes him value everything so highly still evident in his careful
handling of the manuscript. Lucius watches him, desire mingling with lust, and
a love so pure it almost cracks each time their eyes meet. Lucius cares not for
the neighbors, nor the press, nor the gossip mongering London socialites. He is
here. He is home.

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

Draco, age twenty five. Spring, ploughing and fresh green grass and the scent
of dew in the early mornings. Waking up to a warm body and an insolent smirk,
mirrored on his face.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new,
complex, and vital.

Draco, age thirty. Summer, and the gentle buzz of june bugs flit in the corner.
A single torpid bumblebee buzzes in and out between flowers. Even silk sheets
feel heavy now, though Lucius refuses cotton on his bed. Sometimes they sleep
without a cover, just the gentle protection of the gossamer hangings.

When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.

Draco, age forty. There are still people who mock, still people who decry them.
But they are together, and as moonlight strikes the pale forms, intertwined
into one, it is difficult to determine where one begins and the other ends.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire
it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it
intensely.

Draco, age fifty, lies couched in sunbeams, Lucius�s hand at his head. The
smell of apples pervades the house, harvest draws near.

All art is quite useless.
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The Preface