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Porcelain
By : ElectricAndroid
Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male
Views: 3435 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: 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
SHORT:
Porcelain (Bill/Draco; Lucius/Draco)
Title: Porcelain
Author: Electricandroid
Type: Short
Rating: NC-17
Squicks: Implied Incest, Character Death, Gratuitous
use of a blade
Pairings: Lucius/Draco, Bill/Draco
A/N: Written for both the First Time Challenge and Rarepairing
5 - Bill/Draco at the_pimp_cane
- Switch - I hope that this satisfies, its twisted and warped - but not exactly
hot...
Porcelain
The Order finds Draco sitting on a snowbank, bloody red and crispy clear in the stark
sunlight. He is whiter than the ice around him, whiter than the bright cracked
beams of light streaming through the icicles. His wand is in his hand, and his
irises are so pale that they blend seamlessly with the whites around them. A shattered shard of porcelain.
A hand creeping up his thigh, touching him.
He feels strange. But he knows Daddy will not be happy if he tells. Draco keeps silent.
When the fire-red of Bill Weasley bends down to pick
him up, he does not move.
If Draco knew of Indiana Jones, intrepid explorer,
well, Bill would be him.
Draco, wrapped in a flannel blanket, does not move
when they discover his father’s corpse. Half buried in snow, Lucius is a shattered, flightless swan. He has been sliced
with a razor, thin strips peeling off bones, curling backwards like a bizarre
origami sculpture.
Daddy always liked his paper birds. Daddy always liked things to be pretty. Draco is happy that Daddy is pretty now.
Bill shields Draco’s eyes, cold calloused palms
closing in, but not before his charge whispers:
“I couldn’t let him”
Daddy’s hand, whispering down his trouser leg at supper, coursing along his
inner thigh. How he had hardened at the touch.
Bill feels his heart plummet.
Back at the burrow, warm chocolate in hand, Bill refuses to relinquish his
burden. The boy rocks backwards and forwards in his arms, and Bill has to
steady his head, feed him the beverage, a sip at time. Tears course down Draco’s face, but somehow Bill does not think this
Harlequin notices.
Daddy, Daddy is gone now. I’m alone. Daddy tried to touch me. Daddy is gone
and I am alone.
As the last red rays of the sun fall into night, Bill makes as if to leave Draco. He is startled by the tenacious grasp on his
clothes, the blonde head burrowing into his chest, the heaving sobs wracking
the porcelain frame. He picks Draco up, and carries
him upstairs. His parents look at him askance.
He places Draco on the bed, and moves to make his own
accommodations on the floor, but a skeletal hand reached out for him,
transparent under the glow of the candles, and wordlessly tugs him into bed.
Bill can feel the tremors in the frame beneath him. He can feel the tremendous Malfoy façade crack.
Daddy took him over to the study, rock hard and panting and Daddy could not
stop the look of greed on his face. Bent me over the desk and pulled my
trousers off. Daddy is gone now. Daddy is gone and I have nothing left.
Bone china body, broken.
Bill. Bill is here.
“My father tried to… to… fuck me”
Pulling daddy by the hand, dragging him out into the snow, hitching up
trousers, keeping the careful veneer of happiness. Secreting
the knife in his pocket, and slitting his father’s throat.
Bill tries not to let it get to him, not to show, but his spine tenses, and his
fists clench aimlessly. The boy speaks once more.
“I killed my Daddy”
He made Daddy beautiful. Carving him up into a thousand
shards. Making him into a monument of ice and flesh.
Bill works on an instinct stronger than revulsion, stronger than fear, as he
sweeps this trembling boy into his grasp. Stroking his hair, muttering soothing
nothings, letting Draco feel a physical presence
behind the empty words Bill cannot bring himself to say. He feels the sculpted
body, running slightly to seed in the ravages of war, curl into him. He watches
the veneer crack. All that is left is this porcelain child.
The snowbank turning red.
Sitting on top of it, a frozen funeral pyre.
And when this boy, younger than Ron, younger even than Ginny with her hot
headed impetuousness, lifts up his head for a kiss, there seems to be no more
natural thing in the world.
Daddy.- 1
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