Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Spoils of War	By : ladyofarundel Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 4663 -:- 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
- 4
- 5
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Part IV

A/N: Sorry for the outrageous delay—real life went well beyond out of control.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry clenched his eyes tightly shut and curled in around himself as far as his weakened body would allow. His breathing quickened as he lay curled on his side, knuckles strained white as they clutched at the pillow drawn to his chest.

He was dead.

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God"—'

The Boy Who Lived was dead and surely damned to a hell haunted by the slain Draco Malfoy, angelic face twisted by a demented smile. For everyone knew that Draco Malfoy was dead, for really it had been Malfoy's brutal death that had turned the tables of the great war. And if that had really been Malfoy a moment ago, then he too must be dead. Had he finally died at Voldemort's hand? Were all of the Dark Lord's victims sent together to some afterlife? Perhaps his parents—

He was dead.

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God—'

Every part of his being ached, and his body was wracked with tremors from the mere effort of consciousness, and he felt so empty, so alone, like something had been irrevocably lost—since when was death supposed to hurt this much? Not that it was anything less than he deserved—

If he had the strength he would have sobbed, huge gasping sobs dissolving into hiccups from stolen breath.

He was dead, he was dead, he was dead, he was dead—

He wasn't ready yet!

Yes, all prior evidence to the contrary, he wasn't ready to die, not when he had just regained the desire to live—

How pleased Severus would be to hear him say ‘oh gods, he was dead, he had left behind Severus and Harry had promised he would never leave him, and now would he ever see him again?

The stab of despair was enough to bring forth the sobs, and his eyes and lungs stung as he sobbed into the pillows and blankets blindly clutched to his chest.

"Harry!"

A door slammed open and there was the sound of rushed footsteps, the muffled sounds of dropped possessions and an outer cloak being shed in haste. Latin spoken by a hazily familiar voice and the prickly sensation of released magic. Suddenly there was someone there with him in the expansive bed, a body pressed behind and around him gathering his shaking form into a strong, soothing embrace. Harry immediately relaxed a fraction as part of the vast emptiness gnawing inside him filled but the sobs for himself, his would-be lover, and all he assumed lost continued.

"Hush, Little One, don't cry," strong arms rocked him as soft lips pressed against his ear, "Lucius is here now, it will be alright, Little One—" Harry was beyond hearing the words, but in time the somehow familiar embrace and soothing voice slowed his tears and he simply lay exhausted in the warm arms.

Right as he dropped to sleep a door gently shut somewhere, yet the protective embrace around him remained.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Wake up, Little One. Open your eyes for me—good boy."

Harry blinked wearily as he struggled to obey the gentle command, and the comforting silvery light gave way to a swirl of reds, purples, browns, and a splash of silvery-white. Perhaps he wasn't dead after all, and the vision of Draco had just been part of the long terrible dream. The hands that had been caressing his cheek disappeared, to return a moment later hooking something light but cold over his ears and nose.

"I'm afraid your old glasses were destroyed beyond repair. In a moment these shall adjust to compensate for the flaws in your vision." Harry blinked obediently and sure enough the swirls focused in the form of an embroidered bed canopy in a brilliant red, and the barest hints of a bedroom beyond. The hands now gently propped him up against a pile of pillows and a goblet was pressed to his lips. Harry feebly tried to turn his head away but firm pressure on his cheek firmly held him in place.

"Now, now, Little One, drink your potion. Nothing to be afraid of, only something to take the pain away." The goblet tipped and the warm, bitter liquid tasted vaguely familiar, and so he relented and he dutifully drank the potion. Immediately the buzzing pain melted away, leaving his body limp and relaxed. The goblet was replaced on the bedside table and his caretaker sat back on the bed, moving within his line of vision.

Lucius Malfoy, the former Death Eater who had allied himself with the Order of the Phoenix during Harry's fifth year.

"It's good to see you awake, Little One," said Mr. Malfoy softly, reaching out to brush the hair out of Harry's eyes. "Did the potion help?"

"Y-yes, thank you, Mr. Malfoy," he rasped. Immediately another goblet came into his line of vision and at the gentle splash of water on his lips Harry began to drink greedily, cool water glorious along his parched throat until all too soon the goblet was removed. He must have whimpered for instantly Mr. Malfoy was there, his thumb brushing across his lips, wiping away the excess water.

"I know, Little One, but if you have any more you'll make yourself sick. You can have more in a short while."

Harry nodded obediently, his sluggish mind whirling as quickly as the potion would allow. But he felt so weary and his mind still felt so foggy and it was so hard to concentrate and it was all so frustrating and frightening not to feel completely in control of his own mind and body and, oh Merlin, now he was crying and he couldn't stop it and he was such a whining, sniveling, useless prat and—and he was being pulled to Mr. Malfoy's chest and wrapped in warm arms, and Mr. Malfoy was gently rubbing his back and his cheek pressed against silk.

"Shhh—you're allowed to cry, that's right, let it all out. You must feel terribly lost and confused—you've been gone from us for quite a long time, Little One, we feared we would lose you. We almost did but you fought so bravely my Little One and you're safe now, I will protect you."

The tears eventually subsided but Harry remained curled in Mr, Malfoy's lap, the heady smell of musky cologne and soothing pressure on his back drawing him deeper into the warmth and comfort of Mr. Malfoy's arms. Something tickled at the back of his mind, something—several somethings—he was forgetting, something important—he worked at it absently, half-dozing half-thinking around the soothing rumble of the older wizard's chest against his tear-stained cheeks as Mr. Malfoy continued to whisper comfort against his ear.

When he was calm enough, the older wizard began to explain all that had happened in the last six months—six months!—that he had lain in a coma. Voldemort was really dead, body and soul, and at Harry's own hand. Harry himself had nearly died had it not been for Lucius—"really, Mr. Malfoy is too formal for all we have been through, isn't it Little One?’—who, fortunately for Harry, had been among the scant few present for his final confrontation with Voldemort. Lucius had brought his broken and bloodied body back to Malfoy Manor and had nursed Harry back to health, a slow process of reversing the tangled after effects of days of torture at the hands of the Death Eaters and hours of Dark Curses from the wand of the Dark Lord himself.

Harry at length began to calm and come back to himself. When he did, it was with a faint blush of embarrassment. He, a fifteen—or was it sixteen now?—year old boy curled up and weeping like a child in the arms of one of the most powerful wizards alive. He bit his lip, imagining the sneer of disgust on Lucius's face when cool fingers slid along the curve of his jaw and tipped up his chin. Lucius was smiling softly.

"You have not been shown much kindness in your young life have you, Little One?"

Harry ashamedly averted his eyes. He was gathered closer into the warm embrace of the older wizard and could not help but feel more at ease, and safe, with the solid weight of Mr. Malfoy pressing against him and silken lips against the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, relax now, that's right, lay here with me. I shall make it right. You have lost time to make up for."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry wasn't sure if it was a result of the fever, or the potions, or the gradual reawakening of his mind, but he began to have the most vivid erotic dreams of his life. Dreams of a silken hardness rubbing against him through his pajamas. Of hands—some nights there even seemed to be more than one pair—stripping him and exploring his body throat, chest, thighs, cock. Of the frantic thrusting of his hips into unbelievable wetness and heat and of a mouth and throat sucking his virgin cock dry. Of a large, dripping cock grinding against his cleft and a voice promising that soon, very soon, he would be split open and claimed forever.

Harry thanked Merlin that the house elves must have made a practice during his illness of changing his sheets and pajamas while he slept, for there was never any evidence of his dreams in the morning when he awoke, and Lucius never mentioned a thing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Lucius?"

"Yes?"

"Why—why has no one been to see me?"

Lucius, bent over the potions table preparing Harry's potion, froze, long tendrils of hair masking the man's expression from his view. Something cold unfurled deep inside Harry him at Lucius's reaction to his question, a question that had begun nagging him once his mind had begun to clear. Surely his friends would want to see him, especially if he had been ill for so long. And what of Sirius and Remus, both of whom had been utterly frantic—he could remember this now—as he had left for the final battle, surely his godfather in the very least would have been pounding down the door of Malfoy Manor the moment he had been found—and Severus, beloved Severus would be much more discrete, but surely he'd find a way to see him. Lucius had told him that he had been the only one seriously injured in the battle, so unless there was something Lucius was holding back from him... Or maybe he was just being overly paranoid, and Lucius had forbade any visitors until his strength had returned. The man was so protective of him, so careful and concerned and fatherly even (not that he was really the right one to judge), so tender as to make Harry wonder if in his months of illness he had come to fill part of the hole left by Draco Malfoy's death.

The wizard in question had placed the smoking goblet into his hands and now sat on the edge of the bed, softly brushing the hair away from Harry's eyes as Harry drank before taking back the goblet. Lines around Lucius's eyes creased with worry.

"Little One—Harry—I don't know quite how to tell you this—" Harry's heart twinged at having made Lucius, the man who had sacrificed months to nursing him back to life, worry over a silly little thing like making his friends and family wait to see him. He sat up—the movement was beginning to come easier to him with each passing day—and interrupted the older man.

"No, I understand, it's fine, really, don't worry." Seeing Lucius's look of confusion he hurried on. "Sirius, my friends—you told them they had to wait until I was better before they could see me, right?" Lucius sighed and lay the empty goblet on the bedside table before clasping a frail hand in his own.

"Little One—no one has asked to see you."

Harry recoiled. That didn't make any sense. His friends had always been eager to see him before, how could now be any different? Especially now, when he had been so close to death and for so long—but of course, perhaps they did not yet know of his recovery, silly of him to think they'd wait by his bedside for months until he woke up. Yet when he proposed this Lucius solemnly shook his head.

"I had hoped you wouldn't notice for several days yet, I wanted to wait until you were stronger to tell you—" Lucius's voice faded as he pulled a folded piece of parchment from his robes, silently offering it to Harry.

The note was only a few lines long, tone clipped and formal, coolly acknowledging Lucius's owl concerning Harry's recovery and offering Lucius financial compensation for the trouble of watching "the boy." No inquiries as to Harry's health, no requests to visit or have Harry come to Hogwarts, simply a curt request to thank Mr. Potter for his efforts in the war. At the bottom sat the unmistakable loopy signature of Albus Dumbledore.

Harry thought he was going to be sick.

Dumbledore didn't care. Oh gods, Dumbledore didn't care about him, now that Voldemort was gone and the war over. Dumbledore only cared that he defeat Voldemort, he had used him, only thought of him as a tool, a pawn. Harry had been right all along, and foolishly had allowed Severus to persuade him into thinking Dumbledore really did care for the boy behind the scar, and if Severus had been wrong about that, perhaps he had been wrong on other points too, even in pulling Harry back from the edge of despair and convincing. A gaping emptiness tore open deep inside him, and he could barely breath. Perhaps he was a worthless, useless, miserable creature after all—oh gods—

"I'm sorry."

Harry blinked and pitifully looked up at his savior through the tears threatening again to fall. Lucius lay beside him and this time it was Harry who flung himself into the strong awaiting arms. They lay silently, Lucius softly stroking Harry's hair.

"There are other—"

"I don't want to see them."

Harry abruptly pulled away, and for the first time he wished Lucius had left him to die in Riddle Mansion.

"I understand."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

That night the voice in his ear was mocking and cruel as for the first time that heavy cock was pressed against his lips and pushed deep down his throat, which after a few spasms instinctively relaxed from the once familiar motion. He dreamt he sucked eagerly, desperately, as he suffocated on cock and pubic hair as the voice, gasping and rough, crooned what a good boy he was, what a good cocksucker, what a good slut, what a dirty wanton whore, what a dirty little boy he was who finally had some use after all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

TBC....why is the smut always so much easier (and better) than the plot advancement?
- 4
- 5
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Spoils of War