Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Obedience And Instruction	By : DictionaryWrites Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Lucius Views: 15356 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and the characters therein belong to JK Rowling; I'm playing in the sandbox, as it were, whilst claiming no ownership and making no money.

Chapter List
- 1-Peace Or Quiet
- 2-Percy's Truth
- 1
- 2
Six months.
Six months it's been now, six months of having little lunches, of Lucius coming to Harry's flat and them not having sex, and it's weird, he supposes. Weird that they go to parties together, that they spend so much time together, and Lucius hasn't fucked him yet.
He's not sure how he feels about it, not really – Lucius will hurt him, throw him around, make sure he comes, but Harry still hasn't seen him without his shirt on, let alone naked. They still spend time together though, and Harry can't help but want more.
Although now he's late for dinner at the Weasleys.
“Hey, Hermione,” Harry says as he enters the Burrow, shrugging off his travelling cloak, and she grins at him, though she glances at his clothes with a slightly surprised expression. The Weasleys, after all, tend towards wearing Muggle clothes under light robes, and in the house itself it's often trousers and jumpers; Hermione, of course, tends to Muggle wear herself.
It's bizarre, Harry thinks, how different the clothes from one world are to another, how just wearing a pair of trousers has someone labelled a blood traitor. But Harry isn't wearing trousers this evening: his robes are red with golden flowers embroidered at the base of them, curling upwards and shifting slightly in the firelight from the hearth.
“Oh. Those- those are nice, Harry.”
“Blimey,” Ron says from just behind her, staring at them, and Harry shifts slightly, flushing red enough to match them. “Are they dress robes?”
“I was just- I lost track of the time, I was at this thing – just give me a minute, I'll go change.”
“Oh, wow!” Ginny says as she enters, and George wolf-whistles beside her, grinning at Harry as he does his best to go past, but he grabs the younger man by the shoulders, pulling him back and spinning him around.
“Mum! Harry's dressed up for us!”
“No, I haven't- George, let me go change-”
“Oh, Harry, dear, those are nice-”
“Molly, please tell your son to let me g-”
“They are rather splendid.”
“George, let him go,” Percy says, and he cuts through the teasing, gesturing for Harry to go past him to the bathroom, and Harry moves quickly, rushing up the stairs. With his bag to hand, he quite quickly rushes to pull off his dress robes, neatly folding them and putting them into his satchel to swap for just jeans, a shirt and a jumper.
And then he swears, because the mirror says in a faux-helpful tone thick with an Irish accent, “You're not going to do something about that lurid mark on your neck, m'boy?” The robes have a high Chinese collar, a gold under-robe underneath the main red piece, but now with the shirt's round collar his neck is on show. Even if the mirror is being somewhat rude about it, the red bite on his skin is both lewd and obvious. He grasps at his wand and mutters a quick concealment charm, and then he says, “Is there anything else?”, turning around.
“Your shamelessness is less visible now, child.” Harry rolls his eyes, but all the same he grabs at his bag again and walks downstairs, moving to throw it aside and settle at the table between Percy and Hermione.
“Where were you, dressed like that?” Percy asks, with a slight significance to the tone that Hermione seems to pick up on but doesn't ask about.
“I was invited to this party,” Harry murmurs, and under the table he kicks Percy in the shin. “It wasn't anything exciting – just a little house party.”
“Where?” Hermione asks. “Do you- do you go to house parties?” Harry considers the way Lucius had slammed him against the wall in the corridor, bitten at his neck as he'd lifted him halfway up the wall, and a trio of half-vampires had each tittered and made some lewd comment in French Harry hadn't completely understood.
“Well, I went to this one. It wasn't here, it was in Marseille. I got distracted, that's why I was late.”
“Who distracted you?” asks George immediately, with a brilliant, vulgar smile on his face, and Harry laughs a little, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Une petite femme avec une grande derri-”
“Harry!” Hermione says, and he laughs as she smacks him in the shoulder, and George laughs too, though the others are looking at them blankly.
“Since when do you speak French, mate?” Ron asks as Molly and Arthur bring in plates from the kitchen, setting them all around the table, and Harry shrugs a little, not really wanting to answer “since I started studying when Lucius Malfoy took me to a sex restaurant in Lyon”.
“I'm only picking a little up. There're a lot of defence books written in French,” Harry answers, and he begins to eat with the others, settling into some conversation that's easier; Percy's work, George's shop, a particularly hard case Ron's had this week, Hermione's new temp, Ginny's new broom-
A lot of things.
“How about you, Harry?” Arthur asks with a raise of his eyebrows that's playful and affectionate; he's fatherly towards Harry, always has been. Harry feels a lurch of guilt at having a relationship with a man that's effectively Arthur's nemesis. “What's new with you?”
“Yes, Harry,” Percy says, and he looks at Harry in such a way that Harry considers throwing his dessert into the other man's lap, “what is new with you?”
“Nothing much. Just getting on with work, going out a bit.”
“No girls in your life?”
“Nah, not really, Arthur. Romance isn't on my mind at the moment.”
---
“Just drop it, Percy, would you?” Harry says as he and Percy leave to Apparate to their respective homes, and the older man tuts at him.
“I tried to give you advice, Harry-” And Percy is using the pompous tone he usually does when he's trying to affect himself as making the right decisions – that officious nature has come to be sort of endearing over the years, but only when it doesn't involve Harry's life.
“Advice you lied about – he's never gone anywhere near you! He doesn't even know which brother you are!”
“That doesn't make my input any less valuable!” Harry huffs out a noise.
“It's not like I'm marrying the bloke.”
“No, you're not. Because he's already married.”
“Oh, Percy-”
“Which is the least of your worries. He's a sadist, Harry, he's not going to keep on being gentle with you forever, he'll-”
“Has it occurred to you, Perce, that I like being hurt as much as you like getting bossed around?” Percy stares down at him, looking horrified, but even as he does a flush creeps over his cheeks. His freckles connect under the sudden bloom of red, and his lips quiver before he gives a response.
“I don't enjoy-”
“Weatherby,” Harry says bluntly, and Percy shifts, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes. Harry can't help but be embarrassed, but he doesn't need Percy trying to tell him what to do, especially not with his relationships. “Look, really, I'm fine. He's fine. He doesn't hurt me properly.”
“Not yet,” Percy says, and Harry groans. “Harry, I'm just looking out for you. You're like a brother to me.”
“You're like a brother to me. And that's why I feel so comfortable telling you now that you're being too overprotective,” Harry speaks firmly and Percy lets out a short and quiet sigh of a noise, regarding him with some displeasure evident on his freckled features. “Percy, really, I'm alright. If I wasn't interested, I wouldn't have him.”
Percy hums for a moment, lips still pressed together, and then he reluctantly bows his head for a moment before stepping back to spin on his feet. Harry Apparates himself, and even as he arrives on the stairs of his flat building his feet are already moving; he moves up the stairs quickly, bag shouldered.
Lucius is waiting for him when he enters the apartment, outer robe unfastened to his mid-chest and putting the underpiece on show. He's still wearing his dress robes – silver underneath, green over top. Both of their robes were intended to be complementary, after all.
“Oh, dear.” Lucius speaks cleanly, giving Harry's Muggle clothes a disapproving once over. “What unimpressive attire.”
“I wasn't going to sit there wearing dress robes at a family dinner, Lucius.”
“Why not? You looked rather fetching in them.”
“Fetching,” Harry repeats mockingly, and Lucius raises one silver eyebrow, gesturing for Harry to come towards him with a come-hither motion of two fingers. He'd transfigured the uncomfortable wooden chair at Harry's desk into a high-backed armchair not dissimilar to the one he has in his bedroom, but of a soft brown colour rather than the green.
Harry does, dropping his bag aside as he moves forwards and he stands between Lucius' knees, reaching forwards and beginning, with easy movements of his fingers, to undo the fastenings of Lucius' robes. He's confident in their interactions now – he's not nervous as he was at the beginning of their little relationship, not worried.
He can't help but wonder if that's actually a bad thing, but Lucius cuts those thoughts off when his hands wrap around Harry's legs and pull him closer, hands squeezing his thighs through the fabric.
“Jeans,” Lucius grumbles as he thumbs over the denim fabric, and Harry laughs at his tone of personal offence, unable not to.
“I could get you a pair.”
“I'd sooner traverse Diagon Alley naked before I stooped to such a garment.”
“I wouldn't mind watching that. They'd make your arse look good, you know.” Lucius hums, reaching with one hand to grasp neatly at Harry's jaw, forcing him to meet Lucius' eye. Harry likes looking at Lucius' eyes, he must admit – they're cold, a grey colour like ice in the dark, but they're somehow beautiful. Lucius Malfoy is beautiful, really, and not in a pretty way or an artistic way: he's aristocratically beautiful but still dangerous, like a figure carved of the sharpest metal.
Harry hesitates for just a moment or two, letting his fingers trace up the line of Lucius' sternum now that his under-robe is open properly, up to his neck. Lucius lets him, expression remaining impassive, even though Harry can tell he's not comfortable; it's obvious enough from the scars Harry can feel under his fingers, even though he can't see them.
Harry guesses Lucius' smooth and perfectly unmarred skin is evidence of a glamour as opposed to never having been harmed.
He hesitates for a moment more, and then says, very quietly, “Will you have sex with me tonight?” Lucius watches him, and then the hand curled around Harry's throat slips to the hand of Harry's that's still wandering, clasping it to his own upper chest. It took a lot of effort to make the request – Lucius has assured him he is to ask for what he wants a few times here and there, but he's still not quite certain as to how to go about it.
“Took you some time to ask,” Lucius murmurs in something of a purr, and then comes the crucial addition: “Mr Potter.”
Harry grins at him. “Be-” He stops, his smile fading.
“Be?”
“Be rough,” Harry says with the necessary prompting, voice slightly hoarse for the sake of embarrassment.
“Oh, Mr Potter,” Lucius says in such a low and scandalized tone Harry forgets how to breathe for a moment – what is it about this that's so exciting? And then he grabs Harry by the shirt front and pulls him abruptly down to his own level, making him let out a sharp noise as they're suddenly put face to face. “I believe I've told you about giving me imperatives.”
“Please,” Harry whispers, and Lucius grins at him, baring white teeth.
“That's better.” Lucius releases his collar, and then he gives the order Harry has been waiting for. “To the bedroom. Clothes off, on your back, legs spread.”
“I'll take my clothes off and lie like I want.” Lucius smacks him across the face, so hard that Harry heaves in a breath and closes his eyes as he keeps his head turned, feeling the sharp and infuriatingly painful burn across his cheek. He opens his eyes to look at Lucius, who is watching him with a careful and concentrated care, lips pursed.
“Did you like that?” Harry can't decide which he likes most in Lucius' voice – the accusation or the delight.
“I'd smack you back if I didn't,” Harry assures him, and Lucius hums.
“So you ought. Off you go, then.” Lucius pats his thigh, and Harry does, and once he's undressed he can't help but let his fingers touch over the ghost of heated, momentary agony still clinging to his face.
God, he wants Lucius to do that again.
“You're not on your back,” Lucius says sharply as he enters, to see Harry still stood at the foot of his bed, touching his own face with a quiet curiosity.
“You didn't set a time limit.”
“I didn't believe I needed to.” He feels Lucius step up behind him rather than hears his shoes on the wood floor; he's barefoot. Lucius' hand touches against Harry's hip, then, and Harry feels the heat of his chest against his back, with no fabric between their skin. “Was I wrong?”
“Maybe.” Lucius leans, pressing his mouth against the other's neck, pressing a kiss to the flesh, and then he draws his mouth up to the other's ear.
“If you want to be had tonight, Mr Potter, I recommend you attempt some obedience.”
“Why don't you teach- agh-” Lucius' hand lands hard on his arse, so hard that his knees buckle and he would have fallen if the older man hadn't grabbed him by the hips and thrown him back onto the bed. Harry stares up at him, feeling terror flood through him as Lucius moves forwards, and for once he sees Lucius without his glamour – tattoos are on his neck and wrist and hip and ankle from Azkaban, scars on his chest and thighs, a shiny burn that draws all the way from his elbow to his shoulder – but he can't quite focus on his body when Lucius has a snarl on his regal features.
Harry stares at him with wide eyes as he stands between his thighs, and Lucius is silent as he flicks his wand, tying Harry's hands above his head and to the headboard. Harry whimpers, and Lucius grins at him; the terror stills in his veins, and then heats, and suddenly Harry's skin is sensitized all over and he's harder than ever.
“Are you alright, Potter? With bondage?” Harry hesitates. “Harry.” comes the warning prompt.
“I like it,” Harry says shortly, and firmly, and for a moment the snarl fades (it's an act, of course it is, because Lucius is a good actor when he feels like being one) into a furrowed brow and a slightly concerned expression, Lucius' eyes narrowing.
“If at any time-”
“Say snitch. Yeah, I know.” Lucius hums shortly, but then he continues on, hands stroking up and over Harry's thighs as he leans down slightly, regarding him with a sense of hunger evident on his face. “I thought you wanted me on my belly?”
“On your back I can do this.” And then Lucius slaps him across the face again, and Harry lets out a loud and whining keen, gasping as he shakes under the burning pain at his cheek. “And this, of course.” Lucius is smirking down at him as he wraps his other hand around Harry's cock, and he flicks his wrist as he jacks him up and down, keeping that icy gaze intent on Harry's face.
“You were gonna have me on my belly so I couldn't see your scars.”
“Mr Potter, if you want me to smack you again, you can ask.” Harry feels a sudden spark of embarrassment heat his cheeks – it's one thing to know he likes it, but it's another to ask for it. Isn't it sort of meant to be a punishment? “You needn't look so shocked, lad. If you didn't enjoy it when I hurt you, I'd not have you.”
“Who says you have me?” Lucius laughs, and gestures with a graceful flair of white piano player's fingers to Harry's own wrists, where they're bound tight above his head. Harry's cock gives a twitch against his belly, thoroughly betraying him: he can't help but love it when Lucius laughs at him, can't help but squirm at it. “Well, you've not had me yet.” He phrases it as a complaint, and Lucius hums, thoughtful, but then he presses a finger that's suddenly slick against Harry's arse, and he heaves in a breath, closing his eyes tightly and arching his back slightly, feeling the rope pull hard at his wrists. He presses two digits forwards, and his expression silently searches Harry's face, his lips twitching.
It's good. Harry spreads his legs further, tilts up his hips, and then bites out, firmly, “I'm not a virgin, Lucius.”
“No, you're a brazen whore.” Harry lets out a caught noise. “You do like it when I insult you, don't you?” Lucius purrs, evidently delighted, and he twists them; Harry lets out a sigh, and he drops his head back, feeling that wonderful sensation of being filled. He doesn't open his eyes again until Lucius is done prepping him and the older man is warm between his thighs, lining himself up as he pushes Harry's knees up against his chest: Harry lets out a short noise of discomfort at the position, trying to shift, but then Lucius thrusts home and he just groans. “You are positively pornographic.”
“I didn't know wizards had porn,” Harry says honestly, and Lucius is left laughing despite himself, silver hair hiding his face as he drops his head down. He's beautiful with a grin on his face like that: Harry never saw him honestly laugh before he met him in the Ministry a few months ago, only ever saw a prim or sarcastic little smirk, but the way he laughs now is airy and light, and it's so deceptively normal. Well, maybe not entirely audible: he is bent over Harry with his cock in the younger man's arse.
“I'm fucking a dunce.” Harry likes the way fuck sounds in Lucius' mouth, the “f” sound prissy and soft, the “k” drawn out and loud: it makes him shiver, and he feels himself twitch around Lucius, drawing out a soft, barely audible noise as he tosses his hair back again.
“I'm not a dunce,” he says firmly, no matter how pleasant insults sounds on Lucius Malfoy's tongue.
“You are a dunce, Mr Potter, with a fetish for authority.” Lucius leans, until his perfect, regal mouth is barely an inch from Harry's, and he can smell lavender breath mints and the lingering scent of the other man's cologne on his neck. “Luckily for you, I am an authoritarian with a fetish for pretty little men like yourself.” Harry almost gasps as Lucius rolls his hips abruptly forwards, and his thighs ache for the position he's in, his arms giving similar twinges, but his cock is harder than ever between their bellies, and it's beginning to get wet at the tip.
“Sir-” Harry begs, tone plaintive, and Lucius lets out a breathy little chuckle before beginning to move. Lucius' fingers are tight on the meat of Harry's thighs as he begins to thrust his hips, and he drives deep but, infuriatingly, the position makes it so he only glances over Harry's prostate. The fullness is nice, the fucking is good, but Harry wants-
It becomes evident, after a few minutes of this, with the smirk on Lucius' face and the way his smirk widens when Harry tries to wriggle, that this denial is on purpose.
“Sir, don't-”
“Don't?” Lucius stops abruptly, still, and Harry lets out a wail. He can feel it coiling slowly in his stomach, the need to come, the need for more stimulation, and now that the other man isn't moving what little has built up is swiftly dissipating.
“No, no, sir, please, don't be a twat, come on-” Lucius thrusts deeply, adjusting his angle and filling Harry so entirely he groans. “No, Lucius, don't, don't- please, just fuck me properly, fuck-”
“Aren't I fucking you properly, Potter?” Lucius asks, amused, and if Harry could move his hands, he'd slap him.
“It's not- it's not funny, please-” Lucius drops one of his thighs and wraps his hand around Harry's cock instead, and Harry arches with a desperate keen of noise. But God, why did he ever expect mercy of a man like Lucius Malfoy?
Lucius keeps going, occasionally twisting his hand, but it's still slow, still a tiny incremental build of pleasure, and just as Harry's on the very cusp, on the edge, Lucius comes, and he groans, still. “Luc-” He pulls out, and Harry cries despite himself, trying to kick at him and gasping thickly when Lucius catches his leg and stops him short.
“Now now, you needn't be such a brat.”
“Lucius-”
“Hush.” As Lucius reaches over him to undo the ties at his wrists, Harry lets out a soft noise, and it's when Lucius drags one finger up the raphe of his cock, and then doesn't touch it properly that he breaks: Harry is sobbing, body more tense than it's ever been, and Lucius coos at him, perfectly cruel as he continues to touch and tease at his cock. “Beg.” Lucius speaks in a soft, intimate whisper, and Harry can't help but cry.
“Please, please, please, Lucius, sir, please, just let me- let me come, God, it's not fair, you can't- you can-” Luicus' hand is around his prick, then, moving fast, and Harry gasps in desperate breaths as he finally comes, shuddering as his orgasm hits him hard. Everything is white and all of his limbs are heavy and strange, and when he comes down to earth he realizes he's giggling a little, and that Lucius is looking down at him with amusement.
“There,” Lucius murmurs, and he presses a handkerchief to Harry's hand, watching him as he wipes at his wet face and blows his nose, coughing a little. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, that was- I mean, I liked-” Harry nods, trailing off and not bothering to try finishing the sentence, and Lucius gives a neat nod of his head. Lucius' fingers trail patterns on Harry's knee, and then he sits back slightly, gesturing for Harry to follow him.
Harry does, and then he stumbles, knees weak like jelly, and Lucius laughs, catching him by the hips and pulling him up. He presses conjured pyjamas into his arms, and as Harry (with some effort) pulls them on, he puts on similar ones: Lucius is staying tonight, then. Harry is glad of the thought, really – it'll be nice.
“You should have some tea.”
“Cook for me,” Harry demands, and he doesn't know why he does it, but it comes from his mouth all the same: Lucius looks at him, and the little, self-satisfied smile remains on his face even as Harry receives a reprimand.
“Brat.”
“I'll be a spoilt brat if you cook for me.”
“Very true,” comes his easy agreement, and on slightly shaky feet Harry follows him into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Lucius breaks eggs into a jug and whisks them. He does it deftly, with an ease of technique – he flicks on the hob, affects peppers and bacon from the fridge to chop themselves, and continues to whisk the egg, adding in lemon, garlic and milk.
“I didn't know you could cook.” It's not like he's doing anything difficult, but he's certainly not shy about being in the kitchen.
“My grandmother was a chef,” Lucius says easily, and Harry stares at his green-silk clad back.
“She had a job? Scandalous,” Harry says, because he doesn't know what else to say. It's strange to be told such normal things about Lucius' family and his life. Pure-bloods are a mystery to Harry, really – he's done his best to talk to different people, but he mostly talks to people like him, or Hermione, or the Weasleys.
“My father thought so,” Lucius agrees, and Harry listens to the sizzle of the bacon as he drops it into the pan. “My maternal grandmother – ma grand-maman.” French comes easily from Malfoy's tongue, as easily as it does English: each word flows. “My mother died of a blood condition when I was born, but I spent a lot of time with my maternal grandparents.”
Harry can't see his face, but he can see the stiffness in the older man's back.
“Your father didn't like that, then? He seemed a bit of a twat to me,” Lucius turns, arching a brow.
“My father died when you were about nine, Potter,” he says, suspicion evident on his features.
“I saw him in a memory. One of Slughorn's, of Voldemort.” Lucius winces, but Harry doesn't apologize. He never apologizes for that. “You look like him.”
“I do,” Lucius assents, and he doesn't sound too pleased about it. Harry wants to ask a dozen questions, wants to ask if Lucius looks like his mother, what his mother was like, how his parents ended up together.
“How did he die?”
“Dragon pox,” Lucius answers simply, with a sort of quiet satisfaction that Harry can't put his finger on. He's not entirely sure if he wants to ask, either, but Lucius closes the silence and says, “I had a party when my father died.” Harry blinks.
“You had a party?”
“He was a horrid old bugger. I was glad to be rid of him – glad Draco was rid of him.” Harry lets out a sort of shocked laugh, partly at the sentiment and partly at hearing Lucius use the word “bugger”, and Lucius offers him a wry smile. “Surprised?”
“More and more as you keep talking.”
“I shall endeavour to keep talking, then.”
“You'd better.” Lucius pours the egg into the pan, and Harry leans against the other counter, elbows by the chopping board. With that, he listens more carefully, as Lucius begins to speak again: “She was a short woman, my grand-maman – just a little taller than you, and she had hair like mine, long and silver, but she kept it in a bun above her head, very tightly.” Harry watches the way muscles twitch in the older man's jaw; he doesn't like sharing things, Harry knows. It's uncomfortable, creates unnecessary vulnerabilities.
“I saw my grandparents when I was eleven,” Harry says, and he almost smiles, thinking of the Mirror of Erised. “There was a mirror, an enchanted mirror at school – the Mirror of Erised – and I found it one night, and I stood in front of it. And I saw my parents, but not just my parents – my mum's mum and dad, and my dad's mum and dad, and all these aunts and uncles and cousins- not Dudley, of course. Thankfully. But all this family.”
“The mirror showed you the past, then?” Lucius asks quietly as he pours the peppers into the pan, and Harry shakes his hand. His grey eyes are alert and analytical as he glances at Harry, and it's strange to Harry how pleasant it is to be listened to by Lucius Malfoy. The Weasleys and Hermione listen to him, of course, and so do his friends, but most people just seem to glaze over when Harry talks, no matter what he's saying. Especially politicians.
“What you most desired. What you wanted more than anything else in the world.” He watches as Lucius scrambles the eggs, spatula swift as it scrapes and shifts them around.
“You wanted family.”
“I'm an orphan. All I've got is my aunt, uncle and my cousin, and I don't talk to them now I don't have to,” Harry says lightly, and Lucius' expression is momentarily caught.
“These are the Muggles?” he asks, tone slightly affected. Harry is aware that he must have put some fuel on Lucius' Muggle-hating fire.
“You don't need to say it with such disgust, Lucius,” Harry says dryly, and Lucius' cheeks turn ever so slightly pink.
“Why not talk to them?”
“Tell me about your father first.” Harry retorts, and Lucius makes a grumbling sound, catching the pan off the heat and pouring the contents into two bowls. He doesn't seem too annoyed, though, and as he takes two forks from the drawer to the side of the sink, he becomes quieter, more pensive.
“He was an imposing man. Very strict: very focused on etiquette and propriety. He believed that the display of outward emotion was improper for men of standing, and I was forbidden to smile in public until I was fifteen,” Lucius speaks utterly seriously, but Harry can't believe it.
“You're joking!”
“I am not.” They return to the bedroom, and Lucius settles on the edge of his chair as Harry curls in his own: Lucius' matching armchair had been added after a few weeks of their little trysts, as he often complained about lacking somewhere to sit. “No smiling at public events and parties; no smiling, no laughing, no anger, nothing. I was to remain impassive as a stone.”
“What happened if you did?” Harry asks, and he can't help but wonder if this is why all the Pure-bloods left seem like they're made of marble. Did his dad get taught that stuff? Did Sirius?
“Oh, some manner of torture. I was rarely beaten – usually I was punished with some spell or other. And your aunt and uncle?” It's not a common tit for tat, Harry guesses, but Lucius is talking to him, and he's listening too.
“My uncle never hit me. Choked me, sometimes, grabbed me around the throat and squeezed, threw me around a lot, but he never hit me – he thought he was a saint for that. Aunt Petunia did, though – she'd do it with a frying pan or something, sometimes while it was still hot, so I learned to duck. Bludgers were nothing compared to that.” It's strange, speaking like this – Harry's never told this to anyone, not even Ron and Hermione, and it's bizarrely cathartic. There's a pause, drawn-out, and then Harry says, in a very quiet voice, “I slept in a cupboard under the stairs 'til I was eleven, 'til my Hogwarts letter came.”
Lucius' expression is unreadable, but he stares at Harry's own face without glancing away, without so much as blinking.
“And not, like, enchanted, but an actual cupboard under the stairs. There were a lot of spiders, and it was really dusty, and sometimes they'd keep me in there for days on end, only open the door to let me go to the toilet and to eat. It wasn't better when I got the spare bedroom, though – one year they put bars on my windows, and another they put a cat flap in my door so that Petunia didn't have to look at me. She just put cold soup through the hole.”
“In the event of their deaths,” Lucius says quietly, in a tone that is calm but quavering with something underneath, “I would be quite pleased to assist you in celebrating them.”
“No.” Harry says, shaking his head. “I wouldn't do that.”
“Why ever not?” Lucius asks, sounding about as furious as he knows Hermione would be if he told her the whole story, or how Ron, Ginny and George would be if he explained it all. Not that he wants to: he's known them all a long time, and he doesn't really want any pity from them.
“Because I'm not- I'm not like you. I don't hate them, I'm not still angry at them. I've forgiven them.” Lucius scoffs.
“You can't have forgiven them.”
“I have. What they did, it was in the past, that's done with.” Lucius tuts, shaking his head: his hair shifts in the light.
“This is the same reason you feel guilt over your defeat of the Dark Lord.” It's a sharp accusation, full of Lucius Malfoy's usual disapproval.
“Not even Voldemort,” a part of Harry he's ashamed of is triumphant when Lucius flinches, “deserved to die. Murder is wrong.”
“Murder is sometimes necessary,” Lucius disagrees, “And as we've previously discussed, it wasn't murder.”
“No. Yes! No.” Lucius reaches out, and despite his irritation Harry leans against the other man's hand as two of his knuckles press against his chin, pulling his head up slightly. Lucius studies Harry's face, ice-coloured eyes flickering over his features, and his thumb strokes lightly over the skin of his chin.
“Why ever have you settled with someone who so opposes you so entirely?”
“Do you think we're opposed?”
“You think we are not?”
“We share some things.”
“Such as?”
“Great hair.” Lucius pinches the skin of Harry's throat, and Harry lets out a sharp noise of pain before he laughs, grasping for Lucius' hand and holding it his own; his thumbs play over the broader hand and touch over the soft, uncalloused skin. “Our childhoods. Our personalities, I guess.”
“Really?” Lucius asks sceptically.
“The Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin.” Lucius frowns at him, and suddenly his scepticism is replaced with immediate intrigue. Harry is learning how to press his buttons, and for some reason that idea floods him with a warm sense of satisfaction – he doesn't want to control Lucius, not really, but he appreciates that he can nudge him one way or the other, just with the right words, or the right wording.
“You'd have been an interesting Slytherin. The world would have been distinctly more against you,” Lucius says, and his eyes go slightly glassy as he scans the middle distance. It's not a matter of him not listening to Harry, definitely, it's the opposite – he can see Lucius working it out in his head, who would have reacted this way and that way, how it all would have gone differently.
“Because Slytherins have it hard.” Lucius frowns at him, breaking from his reverie abruptly as if he thinks Harry's being sarcastic, and Harry adds, “No, really, I do think that. I don't like the way the houses are split, it's just-- not right. I was taught to hate all of them just because of their house, but Slytherin's just- I don't know. I wish I'd been friends with your son sometimes,” Harry admits suddenly. “It could have saved- I mean, he wouldn't necessarily have-”
“Your being friends with Draco wouldn't have spared him the Mark,” Lucius says reproachfully, as if Harry's somehow insulted himself for implying it. “I should have sent he and Narcissa elsewhere as soon as I knew he had returned. I did not.”
“Why not?”
“I suppose I believed they would be safer with me. I didn't realize, at the time, how much I had lost favour with him. How much we had all lost favour with him.” Lucius is stiff again, and he draws his hand back from Harry's face, taking small bites of his eggs.
“Did you want favour with him?” Harry asks, uncomfortable with the idea and trying his best not to show it. Lucius' expression is neutral, but his shoulders are squared, and he stays a bit stiff.
“I prefer to have favour with most. I didn't want favour with him especially. The Dark Lord, for many of us, was a means to an end. We weren't loyal soldiers offering ourselves to a general and a cause: we were men with a future in mind, and we believed the Dark Lord would be instrumental in achieving it. There were only a few who truly believed in his ideology, in the world he wished to create.”
“A world where Muggleborns are tortured and killed?” Lucius clucks his tongue at Harry, disapproving.
“No. A world where Muggleborns,” The word is foreign on Lucius' tongue, obviously not suiting his usual speech, but he knows better than to throw the alternative around Harry's flat. “are safe. That is to say, where they either cannot access their magic, and do not put us at risk, or where they cut off ties with the Muggle world and, again, do not put as at risk.”
“We're not at risk, Lucius.”
“Poppycock.” Harry rolls his eyes. “Listen to me, young man, and respect your elders.”
“You're certainly that.”
“Harry,” Lucius growls, and Harry gives him a cheeky grin as he leans back in his seat again, pulling his feet up and under his backside. “What is your ideal in the future? Do you envision a world where the mundane and magical live side-by-side? One of your high-tech cities with centaurs wandering its by-streets, Muggles bartering for charms in the streets as elves wander by on the backs of unicorns?” Harry shakes his head at the thick sarcasm dripping from the older man's tone.
“No, Lucius, I'm not talking about some wet dream for a Muggle fantasy novelist. I actually believe in the Statute of Secrecy, but I think that it's at risk. The whole reason the Statute is a problem is because wizards aren't modern enough, they're not up to date with Muggle technology – how can you possibly hope to hide from Muggles when you don't understand them? You assume you're superior, but you're not. Like, for example, do you know what the Internet is? I know you don't know what the Internet is,” Harry continues before Lucius can finish opening his mouth to respond, “Think of a giant book, and that book contains billions of other books, and the book is interactive, so you can basically mention any piece of film or a picture or an article and it'll all come to you after you ask for it. And any Muggle can upload to it. So say a Muggle takes a video of a little girl, a Muggleborn, doing accidental magic, and puts it on there where every Muggle in the world can see it. What then, Lucius?”
“Precisely my argument for containing the magic of Muggleborns. There are ways-”
“Why just Muggleborns? Wizards are obvious when they walk down a London street, Lucius. They don't dress right, and the magic is always just out of sight. It doesn't have to be a wizard at all! One twenty second video of a Hungarian Horntail, Lucius, and the whole bloody cat is out of the bag!” Lucius is smiling at him, for some reason, smiling like someone watching a cat play with a feather – Lucius is smiling at Harry like he's somehow cute, and it's getting on his nerves. “Stop it!”
“Stop what?”
“Stop smiling at me!”
“Why should I? I'm rather fond of you,” Lucius says, and then, “There is an obligation for the superior man to care for those beneath him. Offer employment, safety. We are outnumbered by Muggles, Mr Potter, and given the war, there are many suspicious, despite the teams upon teams of Obliviators who have attempted to fix the mess. We need to sever what ties there are.”
“Except that you can't do that, Lucius. Unless you want to get all of the magical peoples together and move us all to the planet Venus, or to colonize the ocean floor or something, you can't sever all the ties there are,” Harry says, and Lucius' lip twitches.
“Then you think we should merely adopt their technology, disregarding the fact that Muggle electric devices won't work in any area with a strong magical field?” Harry opens his mouth to respond, and then realizes that he doesn't really have a solution to that.
“Er-”
“You didn't factor that into your considerations,” Lucius says pointedly, and Harry huffs.
“No,” Harry agrees, and takes an irritable bite of his scrambled eggs. He's not eaten much of it, really, having been drawn into an argument, but he's taking bites now. It's actually really good, and he's not too surprised that Lucius' grandma was a chef. “Do you miss her?”
“Miss whom?” Lucius asks, obviously surprised by the change of subject, and Harry backtracks a bit.
“Your grandmother.”
“Yes, I do, even now,” Lucius answers, and then says, “I felt her loss especially keenly when Draco was born. She died when I was eleven, I had just arrived at Hogwarts. My father wrote me a letter informing me rather curtly, and I was not permitted to attend her funeral.”
“That's cold,” Harry says. “Did you go home for Christmas?”
“That year, and the next,” Lucius agrees with a small nod of his head. “Once I reached my third year, I remained in Hogwarts, looking after a few first years who remained at school. Half-bloods, mostly. And then in my fifth year I was a prefect, so I was rather obliged to do so.”
“Did you enjoy being a prefect?” Harry asks. It's a question he's never really asked Ron or Hermione, or even any of the prefects he knew from the other houses – it seemed fairly obvious that they did, or they wouldn't have accepted the badge.
“Yes, I did,” Lucius says, with a small nod of his head. “Slytherin prefects have to be held to a higher standard than those of the other houses.” Harry frowns at him, tilting his head slightly to the side.
“What do you mean?” Harry watches Lucius as he sets his bowl aside, watching the way he delicately steeples his fingers in his lap, looking momentarily thoughtful. The glassy look doesn't return to his eyes, but he can see Lucius thinking, scanning the middle-distance in front of him for the right words.
“We're stricter on our own than the other houses are, and not as strict on other houses' students as we might like to be. We're held to a higher standard by non-Slytherin staff, and by necessity we must foster strength amongst other Slytherins, so that they can better function in the society they will come to,” Lucius answers in a slow, measured tone, and meeting Harry's eyes, he asks, “You've never considered the sacrifices we make, have you?”
“The sacrifices you guys make don't exactly make up for what you do to people,” Harry points out, and Lucius lets out a short laugh. He doesn't seem troubled by it in the least: instead, he reaches forwards, grasping Harry by the hips and dragging him forwards. The silken fabric of Lucius' pyjamas is cool under his fingers as he straddles the older man's lap. “You know what a really cool sacrifice would be?”
“I'm not letting you fuck me, Potter,” Lucius says smoothly, and Harry feels himself frown. He does his best not to let it become a pout. “I may allow you, however-”
“I'm not sucking your dick, Malfoy.” Lucius does pout. The moue twists his lips attractively, and Harry grins a little against his mouth. “Are you sleeping here tonight?”
“If it's no trouble,” Lucius says, as if he had any plan on asking permission.
“Where's Cissy?”
“Narcissa,” Lucius says, giving him a frown, “is spending time with her sister.” Harry laughs.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. Lucius' silver brows furrow. “Drom told me they're going to a strip club.”
“Oh,” Lucius says, and he smiles fondly. “How lovely.”
“You are weird,” Harry says, but before Lucius can argue Harry kisses him on the mouth, sliding his fingers slowly into the older man's hair. The man must use a dozen products in it, and it's silken and fine to the touch and God, it smells nice. Lucius draws back slightly, putting his knuckles on the bottom of Harry's chin.
“Nothing would please me more, Potter, than to fuck you to pieces.” Harry shivers, sitting back against Lucius' knees and hugging his knees against the other man's hips.
“Tell me a story,” Harry demands, and he presses his hands over Lucius' chest, thumbing over the older man's nipples through the shirt and making him hum. “Something sexy.”
“There once was a man,” Lucius murmurs, “Whose initials were S.T.S., and his name was somewhat unconventional in that his first name was Sum, his second Ting, and-” Harry groans against Lucius' neck, and he enjoys the huff of breath against his neck as Lucius laughs at his own stupid dad joke. “When my father joined the Board of Governors at Hogwarts, I went with him. I was only in my early twenties at the time, and this was before Draco was to be born. I knew a few of the young men in the seventh year; it was the Christmas holidays, and there were very few students staying.”
Lucius' voice takes on a low, husky tone as he speaks, and Harry breathes in as Lucius' hands settle between his legs, fingers featherlight over the flesh of Harry's thighs. He draws them back and forth, back and forth, in a slow rhythm, and Harry closes his eyes.
“The Slytherin dormitories only have two beds to each room, so at a signal, I crept down to the common room and slipped into his bedroom, which was empty, but for him. He was already naked for me, settled in the candlelight and pale as a unicorn hair; I moved forwards, knelt on the edge of the bed. He was such a demanding thing, you know: sat there and demanded I suck him.”
“Did you?” Harry asks. His own voice comes out slightly hoarse.
“Of course I did,” Lucius murmurs. “I settled myself between his thighs, spread his knees and kept him pinned to the bed. He had a nice cock: long and a little thin, and it fit quite easily in my mouth.”
“Well, yeah,” Harry mutters. “You've got a big mouth.” Lucius pinches the inside of his thigh, and Harry lets out a hiss of noise as Lucius cups him through his pyjama bottoms, drawing his thumb over the bulge there.
“So did he. You know what he said to me when I wouldn't let him come?”
“Fuck you, you big white peacock?”
“If you won't allow me my desires, Lucius, I won't permit you yours.” Harry laughs a little, and Lucius murmurs, “I didn't permit him just yet, though. I let my tongue drift just a little lower, let myself slip my mouth between his skinny little thighs and I tongued the flesh there. Merlin, you ought have seen him: usually such a collected rake of a thing, and he writhed. He did his best not to, of course, tried to keep himself still: usually, his clothes were covered in buttons, and-”
“Buttons?” Harry repeats, opening his eyes. Unicorn hair pale, demanding, and Lucius' quote… Oh, God. Oh, God, no.
“Yes,” Lucius says, and he laughs, looking off fondly. “He always had buttons all over his robes, kept him stiff-”
“You're telling me about how you fucked Snape,” Harry says, horrified, and he scrambles off of Lucius' lap. “Oh my God, Lucius, you dick, I don't want to hear about that!” Lucius is staring at him, his brows furrowing slightly, and he tilts his head slightly to the side. He seems honestly confused.
“Harry-”
“It's weird, Lucius. He- he was best friends with my mum, and my dad bullied him, and he- he died right in front of me, that's not- I don't want to think of him like that.” Lucius stands, leaning and drawing his mouth over the side of Harry's neck.
“My apologies,” he murmurs, slipping his hands into the back of Harry's pyjama trousers, and Harry feels driven to distraction, trying not to think about Snape with anyone, let alone Lucius Malfoy. The Lucius Malfoy that's touching him right now, who's also touched Snape. “Let me make you forget.”
“How?” Harry asks, slightly desperately, and Lucius chuckles, sliding very, very slowly to his knees. “Oh,” Harry says. “Won't that hurt you?”
“With respect, darling boy, your sweet little instrument couldn't hurt me if you dipped it in broken glass.” Harry resists the urge to kick Lucius in the chest.
“I meant being on your knees, given that you're an ancient old bag.” Lucius laughs against Harry's thigh, and Harry hides his face in his hands. Lucius' fingers draw in the fabric at Harry's knees, pulling down the bottoms, and then he leans forwards, dragging his tongue over Harry's cock. Harry's half hard already, although thoughts of his potionsmaster had affected him to flag slightly, Lucius' tongue definitely helps. “Let me come down there with you.”
“On the floor?” Lucius asks, arching an eyebrow. His lips hover the barest inch away from the head of Harry's cock. “Why, but this is my domain. Why should I allow such trespass, Potter?”
“I want you to fuck me into the carpet until I can't breathe,” Harry says.
“That's an excellent reason, Potter. Do come down here.” Harry grins, dropping onto the floor with the older man, and Lucius breathes in. “On all fours, perhaps? I do believe if I hold your hair...”
“You can push my face right into the floor,” Harry agrees, and Lucius' grin is positively savage.
“You are a delightful slut, Potter. You do realize that?”
“Yeah, sure,” Harry says, and when Lucius grabs him by the hair he hisses, even as Lucius drags him forwards, bites at his neck and presses him down to the ground. “I love this.”
“Oh, I know,” Lucius murmurs, sounding pleased with himself. “It is more than obvious, my dear.” And yeah, Harry thinks, perhaps it is, but he doesn't care. This is too good to care.
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Obedience And Instruction