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Sleepwalking with the Damned	By : Hijja Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 4790 -:- 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-Sleepwalking with the Damned
- 1
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to J K Rowling. I'm just experimenting with them a bit. No harm intended, no money made.

Pairing(s): HP/LM, HP/DM

Warning(s): serious non-con, unapologetic PWP

Note: Well, this is me trying to break through my remaining non-con barriers - definitely my worst so far. Dedicated to Anne Phoenix for the beta, and for the inspiration! Title has been filched from 'There's a Need' by Runrig.

Sleepwalking with the Damned

by Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)

'Don't sneak out alone, Harry,' they keep telling him. Mr and Mrs Weasley, Hermione, sometimes Ron, gesticulating with too-lanky limbs and embarrassment; even Snape, with concern diluted in a cauldron full of vitriol. Harry never listens. Going out alone is like a heavy invisible duvet being lifted from his shoulders. Alone means Harry doesn't have to watch and worry about endangering others, like Sirius, or Cedric, or his friends in the Department of Mysteries. Endangering himself - well, that's just fine. In fact, it's his calling, isn't it?
He keeps the most careful of eyes on Draco Malfoy ever since the Daily Prophet's headlines screamed NEW AZKABAN BREAKOUT - DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT IN DISGRACE!
When a panicked wizard reports the sighting of Lucius Malfoy near Hogsmeade, Harry uses his Invisibility Cloak during the nights to keep trace of Draco Malfoy's movements. An endeavour that leaves him giddy and light-headed with fatigue, but ultimately leads to the desired result. When he notices the ferret sneaking out of the dungeons under a concealment charm so shoddy that it would elicit a mournful sigh from Professor Flitwick, Harry smiles grimly, grips his wand more firmly, and summons his Firebolt.
He maintains a careful distance between Malfoy's broom and his own as they soar over the wide-open slopes that lead down from the castle towards Hogsmeade. To his surprise, Malfoy skirts around the village proper, aiming for the soft rolling hills beyond which are mostly bare except for sturdy grass, some few trees and the occasional flock of blackfaced sheep. Harry steers closer in order not to lose sight of his enemy as Malfoy weaves in and out of the rows of trees before him.
Then, from one second to the next, Malfoy is gone. Harry bites back a curse and brings his broom to a halt, hovering behind a measly chestnut sapling. He stares at the group of trees into which his nemesis has just disappeared, and not come out. Has Malfoy realised he's being followed? He can't have Apparated or used a Portkey from a broom in mid-flight - the momentum alone would have killed him.
Harry is almost prepared for an attack. If he wasn't so tired, and if the bolt of light that speeds at him out of the trees was green instead of sickly yellow, he might have reacted a split second faster. As it is, he jerks his broom handle to the left and ducks, and the curse hits the side of his neck and sizzles over his shoulder instead of striking him squarely in the chest.
'Not the Killing Curse', is Harry's next to last thought, and 'now I know how Buckbeak would have felt under Macnair's axe' his last as agony spikes through his neck and forks up into his head. Then it spreads out to paralyse his entire side, and he drops like a stone.
***
Harry is pulled back to consciousness when a hand grabs his hair and wrenches his head back with only slightly less force than would be necessary to break his neck. He moans and scrabbles for purchase under his hands to alleviate the brutal pull.
"I just knew it was you!" a hatefully familiar voice hisses behind his ear. Groggily, Harry tries to make sense of why he is flat on the ground, his left side hurting as if he had one gigantic bruise from his cheek to his scraped arms and legs. And why Draco Malfoy is trying to rip his head off.
The chase - the spell! Malfoy brought him down with a spell. Just when it comes back to him, another spill of yellow light floods over him, and he flops back down on the grass he's been trying to rise from. A lick of agony scalds his spine and he loses any kind of feeling in his extremities. He doesn't freeze as with Petrificus, but the spell saps every bit of strength from his body, leaving him numb.
He's surprised that he's still alive - the ferret could have cursed him to death while he lay there unconscious. Hell, Harry wouldn't have been surprised if Malfoy had tried to bash his head in with a stone!
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
Harry feels himself being hoisted up, and then dumped, weightless and immobile, across the front of Malfoy's broomstick. His head hanging down, he can see bright spellcords securing his wrists to his ankles as the broom begins to rise. Wobbling under the extra weight, it increases speed towards the farther hills.
Though Harry loses all sense of orientation with the blood pooling painfully in his head, he catches a glimpse of a steep hill and then of a primitive stone hut when the broom finally, mercifully begins to slow down. He has just enough time to recognise the place when Malfoy brings the broom down and pitches Harry's limp body over the handle without any care. The impact with rocky ground nearly knocks him out again.
But Harry knows this place - the hut Hagrid built for Grawp before they both returned to Norway to bring as many giants as possible to their side. It has been empty and forgotten ever since.
Harry is still too groggy from the spell resist as Malfoy pulls him roughly to his feet, cords vanished. His legs wobble as if they were filled with buttermilk. The ferret himself is swaying under the weight of a leather bag, two brooms and one prisoner as he drags Harry through the massive stone door.
At first sight, Harry isn't sure whether the tall, pale-haired figure in front of the hearth is the fugitive elder Malfoy or just a reflection of Draco in a wall-length mirror. But the figure is wearing grey Azkaban prison garb, not a proper Hogwarts outfit like the son. And his hair is even longer than before, fine and tangled as if he'd just come in from washing off the prison grime in the rivulet behind the hut where Hagrid tried to teach Grawp to bathe.
"Father." Despite his dizziness, Harry can hear the wealth of emotion in that single word.
"Draco," Lucius acknowledges, voice still smooth but with a rough edge that indicates long disuse.
"I've brought your spare wand and robes and food," Draco gushes, and then his hand fists in the hair at Harry's neck as he pushes him forward. Harry's legs crumble under him, and he tumbles to his knees on the rough hearthrug.
"I brought you this present too," Draco triumphs above the ringing in Harry's head. "He followed me from school, but I took him down on the way."
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees the ferret presenting his wand to his father. He longs for it so badly it hurts and has to turn his face away.
The huge stone hearth is untouched, the single shelf above it empty but for a few spiderwebbed containers. There is no furniture apart from the rough-hewn table and two vastly oversized armchairs that Hagrid showed off proudly when he introduced Harry, Ron and Hermione to this place. And there is the dent in the table top, left behind by Grawp when he was happy to see "Hagger!"
Lucius Malfoy, who should look ridiculously dwarfed by the surrounding but doesn't, seems to have left no impact on the place.
Draco steps up and produces another wand from his bundle, which he proceeds to hand to his father. It looks old and darkened by use - a family heirloom perhaps. The Aurors would have snapped Lucius' wand before taking him to Azkaban - Harry knows they snapped Sirius'. Lucius snatches the wand quickly, almost greedily, and waves it once. It produces a shower of little sparks which rain down on the wooden planks of the floor. One singes the rug next to Harry's foot, and he twist away from it reflexively.
When he seems satisfied by the restoration of his power, Lucius turns to Harry, scrutinising his battered form intently.
"Harry Potter." There is satisfaction and an ominous feeling of... longing in his tone, and Harry licks his dry lips. He is wandless, too groggy to even move, with the ferret armed at his back. This is bad. No prophecy, no friends, no witnesses at all, and nobody who knows where he might be...
"I have longed to see you again, Harry," Lucius says, and Harry can see how the ferret preens himself proudly at his father's words.
"Why, Malfoy?" Harry challenges, because he can't see a way of talking himself out of this. "Did all those months in Azkaban give you a taste for boys?" He throws a poisonous look over his shoulder. "Better be careful about sleeping arrangements, then, ferret boy."
He doesn't hear the actual words of the spell the ferret hisses behind his back, only feels the flame slice down his spine again. He wrestles the scream that's trying to escape his lips down into a whimper. Draco lashes out with his wand as if to curse Harry again, but stops when his father holds up his hand and takes a step forward.
Harry is prepared for a second dose of pain, not for the hand that touches his cheek almost tenderly; bony knuckles brush over his flushed skin.
"Gryffindor's daring little Harry," Lucius murmurs so very softly. "Such a brave, foolish child." He smiles, eerie and ghost-like. "You've met your match tonight, you just don't know it yet."
Harry fishes for a cutting retort, but something in Lucius' face makes his throat close up. An alarming sincerity - as if he already knows Harry will break, and even mourns the fact a little.
"I'll take up your challenge, then." Lucius' smile deepens. "Undress for me, Harry."
Harry gasps aloud. Mad! The man is perfectly mad. Azkaban has obviously cracked him, absence of Dementors or not. And everything from that gentle tone to that insane smile scares Harry to death.
"You heard me, child," Lucius says. "Remove your clothes."
Harry takes a step back, unmindful that the ferret must be somewhere behind him, and shakes his head. "No."
Lucius' mouth curls up, and Harry's stomach clenches. "I knew you would say that." He smiles. "Crucio!"
It's like a bath of fire, all his nerve ends sliced open, his muscles contorting, twisting impossibly, an iron drill splitting open his head, blood boiling in his veins...
For a moment Harry is dimly aware of the shrill screeching that fills the little hut, and for an even shorter moment is hit by the awareness that it's his own voice which is making these terrible, alien sounds. But then the bone-melting ripping agony proceeds to tear him apart, until even his soul is melting into an oily puddle, like a smudge on somebody's outhouse floor. Half-strange faces dance in front of him - 'Mum, Dad, Cedric, Sirius!' He pleads with them, knowing in the tiny fragment of his mind that has not yet dissolved into the magma sea of pain that with them beckons salvation. And then he just cries out for help, and then for mercy, and the faces dissolve into flickers of light that dance away, and away, and there is nothing to save him.
When the curse ends, he finds himself splayed out on the wooden planks of the hut, every muscle gnarled and aching. Clammy fear is still encasing his body in a sheath of ice that refuses to thaw. Dread pants against his neck, the feral dragon's breath of a monster that has mauled him once, and can do it again.
"I gave you an order."
He just stares ahead, a spun-glass figure afraid of another sound that would simply shatter him into a million iridescent slivers. He wants to remember, more than anything so the fire won't come back - not that, not ever! - but he can't even remember his name. Flitting glimpses and recollections dance through his mind, laughing down at him when he grasps for them, hoping they will turn into some solid shape instead of just scattering. Very slowly, as if pulled down by just a touch of gravity, they begin to settle.
Harry. He is Harry Potter. Son of James and Lily. Hogwarts student. Wizard. Malfoy captured him. Lucius Malfoy ordered him to take his clothes off, and he didn't, and then-
Harry starts to shiver. Enduring another touch from the abomination of the Curse is unimaginable. Nothing that Malfoy can do will come even close to... to that.
He realises in vague astonishment that his fingers, quicker by far than his mind, have already moved up and begun to comply with Malfoy's orders, unhooking the fastenings of his robe. He watches them undo the last hooks, and the black cloth of his winter robe rustles down to pool around his feet. His shivering intensifies although he's still clad in trousers, boots and an overlarge blue turtleneck. They go, one after the other, without his brain actually realising what he's doing.
And then he stands before Malfoy, bare and trembling with the aftershocks of the curse still spasming in his nerves. Lucius he reaches up and plucks Harry's glasses off his nose, tossing them carelessly on the pile of clothes, smiling at the way Harry's eyes widen .
Lucius lets his gaze wander over Harry's form, unhurried and undeterred by the knobbly knees, the too-visible ribs, and the Quidditch bruises that the last Gryffindor-Slytherin game left on his side.
There's a hot burn of shame at being naked, but a wholly different sting at being naked and ugly. The ferret chortles behind him, and Harry jumps when the little bastard pinches the skin of his hip. Lucius' lips quirk indulgently, but instead of touching him, as Harry feared, he walks over to the table and sits down in one of the oversized wooden chairs. Although there are several inches between the outside of his thighs and the armrests, the chair does not manage to dwarf him.
Lucius favours the ferret behind Harry with a thin smile. "You may wait outside if you wish, Draco."
It only serves to fuel Harry's panic, that sentence. Lucius wouldn't say that if he planned to kill Harry, or just to curse him a bit - he's got to have something even worse in mind!
"If it's all right with you, Father, I wouldn't mind staying." The ferret is too close; Harry can feel his breath on his neck, and the hungry greed in his tone makes Harry's skin crawl.
"Oh, no, I don't mind at all." Lucius smiles thinly. "Perhaps it's time for you to toughen up a little, and who would serve as a better object lesson than a hated rival? Come over here, then, Harry."
The few steps over to Lucius' chair feel like wading through morass. The wooden floor planks are cold, the knots of the raffia hearthrug dig into Harry's bare soles as he comes to stand before the chair. Malfoy looks him over again, wand still casually aimed in Harry's direction, and his eyes seem to leave slimy slug trails on Harry's skin.
Then Lucius leans back comfortably against the headrest, parts the shabby grey robes at his middle and begins to unbutton the rough, equally grey trousers underneath. Harry freezes in shock at the unhurried exposure. He is struck by the impulse to run, but there are two wands against him, and the unspoken threat of more Cruciatus. He can't even look away as Malfoy's erection is revealed button by button, rising up in an aggressive pink-flushed curve from the cloth, red chafing indentations still visible from where it has been pressed against the scratchy fabric.
Goosebumps break out all over Harry's skin. It feels fundamentally wrong that anyone should expose himself like this, least of all in front of his own son! It should be laughable to see Malfoy sitting there with his prick out, but it's only terrifying.
"Now, kneel at my feet, Harry," Lucius orders, and Harry starts back, not catching himself in time to suppress a headshake of denial. If Malfoy tries to make him touch that prick with his mouth he'll be sick all over the floor, and then his brain will melt under Cruciatus...
"Is it really worth the pain?" Lucius asks with that steel-laced kindness of his. The memory of the curse nearly chokes Harry, and he has to shut his eyes for a moment because the room tilts dangerously. The rug digs into Harry's knees before he has consciously decided to obey.
"Very good, Harry." Lucius' satisfaction drips into Harry's ears like poisonous balm.
Lucius strokes himself a few more times, almost demonstratively as if he was enjoying Harry's scared eyes on his erection. Then he waves his wand, summons a small clay bottle from the shelf, and peers inside before pressing it into Harry's hands. It's full of oil, most likely provided by Hagrid, even though his brother wasn't much into cooked food. Harry stares at it, frozen, until Malfoy leans down, twists some of his hair around his finger, and pulls his head up sharply.
"I don't quite trust that pretty mouth of yours yet. Oil me up."
It takes another punishing tug to pull Harry out of his paralysis. But even as he tilts the bottle and lets a trickle of sticky oil run onto his palm, the thought of actually touching that insidious body scares him breathless. He can hardly look!
"Do get it over with, Harry," Lucius advises in a sickeningly kind tone. "You will thank me later." He tuts when Harry's hand trembles so much that half of the oil drips onto the rug, then grabs Harry's hand and pulls it towards his lap, almost but not quite touching hard, ruddy flesh. "Now, Harry!" he snaps, letting go and leaning back with a haughty tilt of his head when Harry's shaky fingers flutter against his cock.
Although it looks a bit like a blind, thick snake, it doesn't feel like one, more like Trevor the toad, firm but damp and slightly spongy where Lucius' foreskin still shadows the head. Harry's fingers leave a glistening trail on Lucius' erection, and he gingerly moves to smear the oil over the surface. Lucius just stares down at him with an expression of disdainful superiority that leaves no room for enjoyment, not even for the suppression of enjoyment. Just... triumph.
"Use both hands now, and more oil," he just commands after observing Harry's feeble attempts for a few moments. "I could not care less about hurting you, but I have no interest in bruising myself while taking you."
An unintelligible sound escapes Harry's throat, almost swallowed up by Draco's gleeful titter. He's heard that people do that, well, that some people do, but he can't believe that the ever-hardening prick in his hands will possibly fit anywhere inside his body. Malfoy couldn't... He's a wizard, he should resort to curses for his revenge, not to this kind of... animal thing. But here Harry kneels, cradling the very weapon he's being threatened with, and would Malfoy let himself be seen like this if he wasn't serious about-
"No," Harry protests with icy lips.
"Oh, yes, Harry. You've shown me several times how well you can wriggle out of tight holes. Surely you don't want to deny me the pleasure of wriggling into one for once?"
If Harry wasn't so deeply in shock, he would probably burst into tears, but his mind goes numb with alarming speed. Even the feel of Lucius' slick cock in his hands doesn't quite seem to register any more.
It takes a sharp poke of Lucius' wand against his cheekbone to jolt him back to life.
"If you pass out, I will have to revive you with the Cruciatus, and I dare say you won't enjoy it," Lucius warns.
Harry swallows bitter bile and tries to force back the grey veils at the corner of his vision. Obviously content that his threat has proved sufficient, Lucius pulls his wand back.
"Very good; now stand up." Harry quickly lets go of Lucius' cock, now rigid and standing up from the man's groin with the head fully emerged, and steps back. His knees threaten to buckle, but he manages to keep upright, unconsciously leaning away from Lucius.
He's unprepared for Lucius' sudden wand flick and the "Scourgify!" that snaps through his body, scraping painfully over every fibre and leaving him with the desperate urge to scratch his insides raw. Somehow he doubts this kind of spell is intended to be used internally.
Oblivious to Harry's discomfort, Lucius points at his still-oily fingers. "Now, use those on yourself." Harry's mouth opens in involuntary shock. "Now, Potter, or I'll make you do it and have you beg me to fuck you on top of it."
A low, repulsive snicker cuts into the spiral of terror whirling in Harry's mind. "Yes, why don't you, Father?"
Lucius lifts his head to look past Harry, a thin smile evident around his mouth. "Because it's unsubtle, Draco. Our young friend will learn his place well enough without." He turns that pitiless gaze on Harry, who is still staring helplessly at his slippery fingers. "And you will, won't you, Harry? Or do you require another lesson in obedience?"
Lucius is still lounging comfortably in the chair, his hand half-curled around his cock as he speaks, as if the prospect of torturing Harry evoked only pleasurable anticipation.
Harry bites his lip so hard it draws blood before he shakes his head very faintly and tries to reach behind him. It's an awkward, impossible angle and his fingers stop at the crease between his buttocks like a spider drying out in mid-crawl. Draco snickers again as Harry tries to press slick fingers between his cheeks, feeling for all the world like he's trying to wipe his arse on the toilet. Even knowing that the cleaning spell has probably left his insides more pristine than they've ever been, it's still disgusting. He smears excess oil over his pucker, a terribly acute feeling of tightness, and Harry knows that there is no way that rigid jumble of muscles will ever take something as big as Malfoy's cock. He'll kill him if he tries!
"Put that finger inside," Lucius orders, sharp but with an amused undertone. His wand rises ever so slightly in warning. And you talked of subtle? Harry thinks bitterly, stabbing his index finger forward because there's no help for it. His fingernail scrapes over the tender skin of his pucker and he winces, almost falling over and too aware of what a humiliating display he's putting on for the ferret.
The leftover oil makes the feeling of violation hardly more bearable, and every one of his muscles resists the uncomfortable pressure. Lucius chuckles as he watches Harry struggle, and finally clicks his tongue when Harry has worked the tip of his index finger into his unyielding hole. He leans forward and seizes Harry's arm, yanking it free, then grabs the scruff of Harry's neck and pulls him first against Lucius' body, then neatly into his lap. Harry tastes the salt-iron of blood in his mouth and swallows a small cry of protest, because he doesn't know whether his enemy will take offence at the sound.
"Enough, Harry. You've had your chance of making this easier for yourself. Wingardium Leviosa!"
At full consciousness, it's a weird feeling, like having tiny air balloons under his skin and inside his stomach. Lucius wraps both hands around Harry's middle and lifts him up easily, turning him to face the room and the ferret's open-mouthed leer.
"Hold on to the armrests," Lucius hisses into his ear, and Harry blindly gropes for them, desperate to hold on to something. "Very good. Now spread your legs and hook them over the armrests as well."
It takes a few moments for Harry to process the command and then his face scrunches up at the implications. The giant-chair is so wide that the mere thought of it makes his muscles ache, and it will leave him so utterly open in every way imaginable...
When he moves at last, his limbs feel leaden, and spreading his legs that wide cramps up the muscles in his inner thighs. He has to slide his hands further back on the wood to make room for his legs, which brings his bare back in contact with the rough shirtfront of Lucius' Azkaban-issue robe. He bites his tongue in order not to jerk away in panic. The hard wood of the armrest digs into his thighs and calves as he swings them over. Leaving Harry to stem his own spell-decreased weight, Lucius lowers his hands to sharply pinch Harry's lifted arse cheeks, before positioning his cock at Harry's entrance.
Fear hammers wildly in Harry's chest as the blunt head nudges his opening, hot, slick and so much bigger than his fingertip. It'll never fit. It'll rip him apart!
Lucius reaches up to pull Harry's feeble hands from the armrests before shifting into a more comfortable position with Harry still perched above his cock. At the same time as he releases Harry's arms altogether, he commands, "Finite Incantatem!"
A screech rips from Harry's throat as he is impaled on the unmovable prick by his own weight. The sheer pain is worse than he feared, but then it's been such an abstract threat that nothing could have prepared him for it. It feels as if he's been ripped open, wounded to the very core. And feeling such an intrusion in his arse makes it a million times worse than when the Basilisk fang bit into his arm way back. That was a wound - this is an abomination. And the pain just drags on as Lucius' prick delves deeper into him. Harry tries to squirm, blindly desperate to get off, to get away, but the hands are back around his hips, pulling him onto Malfoy's cock until his arse cheeks are pressed flush against the bastard's groin, the small dent of his balls evident in between them.
Harry screeches again, faint and helpless, a watery vision of the ferret visible through the tears brimming in his eyes. He blinks and the bastard slides into focus, not sneering so much as slack-mouthed in instinctive lust.
Harry screws his eyes shut again, because that sight is too much to bear. He feels Lucius' lips against his ear, even as his hands are guided back onto the armrests.
"Very impressively vocal, little Harry. Now, move."
"Wha-" The rasp of his shrieks still colours his voice, and Harry just can't get the command to make sense in his fevered brain.
"I said 'move'," Malfoy hisses. "You're here for my satisfaction - so work for it."
It's incomprehensible - Harry is almost unconscious from the pain already, and moving anything is practically beyond him.
"I gave you an order, Harry. Or do you insist on a more vivid incentive? Cruciatus will get you moving for sure."
Lucius' hands skim over Harry's side as he sneers, not offering any support, only seeming to enjoy the chilled, bruised skin under his fingers. No, Cruciatus would kill him. Harry gives a sob that shakes his whole frame and bites down on his already bleeding lower lip before hoisting himself up by the arms. The pain in his arse flares as he gradually pulls himself off Malfoy's cock, a raw, incredible burn that hurts even more slipping out of him than going in.
"Enough," Lucius orders when only the tip of his prick remains lodged inside Harry's hole, and Harry's shoulder muscles start to tremble under the strain. He eases himself back down again, throwing his head back with a whimper when the burning sensation flashes through him anew. It feels like he's doing pull-ups in hell.
He manages to lift and impale himself on Lucius' prick two or three times, so awkward and jerkily that he's sure it has to be hurting the bastard as well. His face is wet, and the tears start to clog up his nose, reducing him to snivelling, hitched breaths that don't draw enough air into his lungs. Just when he's about to collapse from sheer exhaustion, Lucius reaches for his hips again to pull him into a more comfortable position. Harry screams and goes limp.
"Honestly, Potter," Lucius snipes, so very much like his ferrety offspring. "Is that what they sell as Gryffindor bravery nowadays? I could get better service from a first-year Slytherin." Harry thinks of Cruciatus and keeps his head hanging down and his snarl of rage locked inside. "Would you prefer me to fuck you, Harry?"
Lucius' voice reminds Harry of the sugared violets Aunt Petunia keeps using on cakes and puddings. He's nicked one of them once, all sickly artificial sweetness and the tang of dead leaves underneath. But he can't keep this up, and finally Lucius will lose patience and hurt him worse... He nods, mutely.
"I would like an answer, Harry!" The grip on Harry's hips turns from hard to bruising, hinting at tightly-wound restraint that Harry doesn't want to see breaking.
"Yes, Mr Malfoy," he whispers, his tongue dry and bloated in his mouth.
Malfoy actually chuckles! "Ah, considering how closely acquainted we've become," - he emphasises the words with a shallow thrust inside Harry's depths - "you may address me by my first name, Harry."
"Please fuck me, Lucius!" Harry spits out each word with effort just to shorten the travesty of this 'conversation'. He hears Draco's tittering laugh, high as a bird's, and squeezes his eyes shut again quickly.
"Yes, I think I can do that for you, my little hero," Lucius murmurs against the shell of Harry's ear, catching the lobe between his teeth for a moment. The small sting sends shivers all over Harry's clammy skin.
Then he grips Harry's hips with both hands, lifting him nearly off his cock before slamming in again as if he's trying to kill something inside Harry. It does relieve the strain in Harry's poor shoulders, but it also allows Lucius to thrust into him deeper and faster, until a red haze surges in front of Harry's vision. His nose is clogged up so badly that his breath is reduced to wheezing. He's jerked up and down on Malfoy's lap, faintly aware of how his limp prick and balls are bouncing from the force of the thrusts, but he's in too much pain to feel humiliated at the sight. Although Lucius has shown him no kindness apart from the initial bit of preparation, at least he does not try to touch Harry's groin while slamming him onto his cock again and again.
When Lucius comes inside him, it's with a last excruciating thrust followed by a sickening wetness, and he digs his nails into Harry's hips hard enough to break the skin. He pulls free from Harry's arse without much pause, practically shoving him off his cock in a move that feels as cruel to Harry's bruised channel as the former intrusions. He can't suppress a pathetic mewl at the blunt pain.
Frantically disentangling his legs from the armrests, he lands hard on the floor when Lucius gives him another shove to pitch him off his lap. His knees smart, but the explosion of agony in his abused arse eclipses the minor bruises immediately. He curls into an instinctive ball on the rug, not wanting to hear or see; perhaps Malfoy will just kill him now. At the moment, it would seem like a mercy!
Harry hears Lucius' robes rustle as the bastard rearranges his clothes behind him, and then he feels his boot digging into his naked hip.
"Not quite the Gryffindor hero any more, are you, Harry?" Harry refuses to react; he just curls tighter. "Now, Draco, would you like to sample him as well?"
Harry's whole body twitches. He jerks his head up to stare at Lucius in incredulous horror. The monster is properly buttoned up again, but a few fine stands of hair have come loose from his braid to snarl about his face like a halo in the dim light of the hut.
"Just kill me," he rasps, half surprised to hear his frantic thought uttered aloud. But he means it.
Lucius prods him again, a bit sharper this time. "We're not here to do you favours. Well, Draco?"
"Hm..." The younger Malfoy's gleeful indecision drifts down to Harry, and his legs twitch again. It feels as if someone had sloshed the insides of his arse with acid whenever he moves. If the ferret tries to stick his thing in there, Harry will die, or break down and blubber even more pathetically than he already has.
"I'm not sure," the smaller bastard drawls. "Do you think he's domesticated enough to use his mouth now, Father?"
Harry wants to sink miserably into the floor at the thought. He knows the ferret hates him, but this... It's bad enough that the bastard has been watching! Lucius' foot strokes along Harry's flank, and he can feel his smile radiating down on him like a warm patch on his back.
"Oh, he should be, my dragon," Lucius answers. "Although maybe refreshing his memory won't hurt..."
Harry's foggy brain fails to make sense of the words until it's too late. Lucius flicks the wand casually, aiming at Harry's naked back.
"Crucio!"
Harry wheezes and twists as the curse hits, splashing him with molten lava as if he's even more vulnerable without clothing. The pain should drown out the rawness inside him to a mere insignificance, but it doesn't, seeking out bruised, torn skin to claw into a mass of already thrumming nerves. It feels like being split open and ripped apart, and this time Harry actively hears his own scream, shrill and high like a dying bird bashing itself against the windows. His body twists on the rug to get away from an agony there is no escape from.
He doesn't hear the counter-curse and for an endless minute can't even feel its effect because his nerves can't calm down quickly enough. Even as the pain recedes, he's afraid to move. Surely the curse must have scorched the skin right of his back and left him torn wide-open and bleeding. The echo of his scream still seems to dance along the walls of the hut; he can see it reflected in the pale, shocked mask of Draco's face.
When Lucius takes a step closer to him, Harry's head snaps up in terror. His body cringes at the mere sight of the monster's wand. For the first time, the truth that one piece of wood and a word can destroy him entirely sinks in for real. Harry shakes his head frantically, eyes almost impossibly wide.
"Please don't!" he pleads, tongue dry and swollen, lips cracked.
"You'll service my son without fuss now, won't you, Harry?" Lucius inquires, peering down at his shaking prisoner with detached curiosity.
"Yes." Harry pledges because he'd agree to anything right now, even to slitting his own throat. And then "Yes!" again, for reassurance and because, really, what's putting his mouth on the ferret compared to the Cruciatus Curse?
"Very well." Lucius nods, and gives Harry's sweat-soaked hair a careless tousle; it takes all of Harry's remaining willpower not to scream and hurl himself away from the fleeting touch. "Come over to us, Draco."
Harry supposes he should be grateful that he's not being made to crawl over to where the ferret is standing, because he's by no means sure his legs would obey him. Even rising up to his knees sends a wave of fire through his abused arse and draws a few pained gasps out of him. When he drags himself up onto his haunches, his arm brushes his hip and the clammy cold of his own skin almost makes him jump. As if Lucius had stolen away his body and left his mind a stranger inside...
The ferret seems reassured by the pathetic sounds Harry makes, because the spiteful sneer has sneaked back onto his features as he saunters over, swaggering almost. Despite everything Lucius has done, kneeling to the ferret with his face right in front of his crotch soaks Harry's neck in scarlet heat. He has to be a miserable sight - bruised, his face smudged with tears, and terrified out of his wits.
He hears Lucius step up behind him and jerks, falling against Draco's side. The ferret laughs.
"All right, Potter!" There is a breathless quality to Draco's voice, as if he can't quite believe this is really happening. He runs his hand suggestively over his front.
With an unsteady hand, eyes glued to Malfoy's thighs so that they will not stray to his face, Harry pushes the unbuttoned robes behind Malfoy's hips and out of the way, and tugs on the belt of Malfoy's school trousers. He hears the ferret's breath quicken as he fumbles with the buttons, his prick straining against the cloth that imprisons it. Oh God, Harry does not want to see that!
He can feel Lucius observing him from behind, and nearly jumps out of his skin when a booted foot nudges the inside of his left knee.
"Proceed, Harry," the elder Malfoy commands mildly even as he urges Harry's thighs to spread further. "I'm sure my dragon is eager for your attentions."
Harry presses the flat of his palm over the opened buttons of Draco's trousers, awash in terror as Lucius' foot slips between his legs; his pucker contracts feebly, trying to close against invasion, and the new burn in his arse sends trails of fire right up into his spine. But Lucius does not press against his opening. His foot merely nudges Harry's knees apart, then slides forward to brush aside Harry's dangling balls until it slithers against the underside of his shrivelled prick. It does not hurt, but it leaves Harry hyperaware and scared.
"Stop stalling, four-eyes!" The ferret impatiently grinds his crotch against Harry's face.
Taking a deep breath, Harry decides to disregard Lucius' insidious probing of his cock from behind and to focus on more pressing matters. He pulls aside the flaps of Malfoy's trousers and shoves down his underpants. The ferret's prick springs out, almost is if it had a life of its own and was determined to seek out Harry's mouth. It's already hard and angrily red, shining wetly at the tip. Harry clenches his teeth as he reaches out to pull it away from where it is stuck to a wet patch of underwear. Just how could anyone become this aroused from watching a schoolmate being raped, sworn enemy or not?
This close, the strong smell of the ferret's arousal fills his nose - sharp and animalistic, like some woodland predator cooped up asleep in his den for too long. The aromatic scent of the oil had masked Lucius' smell before. Harry is familiar with the smell of his own arousal, of course, having sniffed his fingers after a round of wanking in the protection of his four-poster, but his own scent is more... mellow, less aggressive.
Forlornly, he wraps his hand around Malfoy's shiny prick, tugging back the foreskin with his palm, and touches it gingerly with his tongue. The taste is just as sharp as the smell, but he's tasted worse - Skele-Gro, or some of Snape's more vile concoctions in Potions class. As long as he doesn't think about what he's putting in his mouth, he can deal with it. His tongue trembles along the side of Malfoy's stiff prick, and the ferret inhales shakily and grabs the tabletop for balance.
"You want to pay special attention to the head," Lucius throws in from behind, giving Harry's own prick another slow stroke with his boot. It makes the hairs stand up on Harry's neck.
He gives the blunt, fleshy tip of Malfoy's prick a lick and a tentative suckle, and another small burst of salty wetness collects under his tongue. Malfoy groans when Harry probes the slit with the tip of his tongue, and then stabs his hips forward to bury more of himself in Harry's mouth. Harry gives a muffled noise of protest when the flesh fills his mouth, first poking into his cheek, then threatening his throat as Malfoy tries to burrow deeper. Harry gasps for air, which is a bad idea since Malfoy's cock unerringly shoves deeper and chokes off his oxygen supply. Harry gags at the pressure at the back of his throat and tries to pull away.
He doesn't even manage to slip free of Malfoy's cock because Lucius' hand comes to press against the back of his head.
"Take him in, Harry," the hateful voice instructs. "A loudmouthed little slut like you should not have any problems."
Harry feels tears pricking his eyes at the cruel jibe, but he doesn't dare to refuse when his head is pressed forward again. Draco leans down possessively and winds his hand in Harry's sweaty hair. But he fills Harry's mouth more slowly this time, as if to savour the experience.
"Suck, Potter," he orders hoarsely, seemingly holding himself back from pulling on Harry's hair with effort.
Harry does, trying to ignore the slow, insistent massage Lucius keeps giving his prick with his boot. This time, Draco lets him suck on the top half of his cock for a couple of moments, diluting the bitter-salt drops he receives with his saliva. Malfoy breathes heavily in a way his father hasn't done during Harry's entire ordeal, wobbling on his feet although most of his weight is supported against the table. Seated would be more comfortable, no doubt, but Harry is pretty sure that towering over his enemy like this gives the ferret an extra kick.
Then his fingers tighten in Harry's hair again, pulling his head forward. It leaves Harry with his nose pressed into Malfoy's pubic hair, which is as pale as his head, but wiry and rather rough. Harry tries to relax his throat, tries not to gag, and gags nonetheless. It doesn't stop the ferret from giving another thrust, though. He can't last long like this, Harry prays frantically, trying to suck in air through his nose and wriggling his tongue in hope of making the bastard toss faster. He's just a boy, he'll come any time now. Oh Merlin please!
"You swallow, Potter!" Malfoy growls in a voice roughened by lust just a second before he jerks deep into Harry's throat once more and spills himself. Harry coughs and splutters, trying to swallow the bit of wet without choking on Malfoy's cock. It does soften quickly, which makes it no less unpleasantly there, but not quite so obstructing.
When Malfoy pulls out, Harry gives his prick a few more licks to clean it off; he knows he'd end up being forced to do it anyway, and would rather not be coerced.
"Very nice, Harry," Lucius approves behind him. "You see, Draco, how supremely well he can express his humility without words?"
The ferret laughs, breathless and giddy as he pulls away completely, leaving Harry to take a few rapid breaths while ignoring the unpleasant taste that lingers in his mouth.
Now that he's not in danger of choking at any moment, he can feel the light but insistent press of Lucius' boot against his prick again, not hurting, just insidiously present. Harry feels himself harden ever so slightly - which should be impossible in his situation, kneeling on the ground with raw insides and the ferret's come still bitter at the back of his throat.
He tries to tell himself that it's not his fault - that he's as much a slave to adolescent hormones as the ferret - but it doesn't help. His mind is still a quagmire of pain and vile images of what Lucius did to him, and reacting to his touch means betraying himself in the worst way possible. Even knowing that that's why the bastard is doing it can't lessen the corroding flush of shame.
Lucius keeps stroking Harry's prick, and Harry swallows a terrified sob as he feels it filling out further and curving slightly upward. He tries to press his knees together, but Lucius' boot swings aside in a light but warning kick at his balls, so he leaves his trembling thighs spread as they are, trying to will down his erection, eyes fixed down at the knots of the rug so he won't have to see the ferret's flush-faced admiration of his father's malevolence. He can't shut out their voices, though.
"He is quite responsive in spite of all his protestations, isn't he?" Lucius muses, his sickening smile evident in his tone.
For the first time since Lucius tortured him with Cruciatus, Harry feels the chill in his body replaced by heat as both Malfoys stare down at his inappropriate half-hard prick with terrible amusement. Somehow it makes his pulsing flesh throb almost harder.
Then Lucius' provoking foot is suddenly gone from Harry's testicles, but before he can draw breath, the man walks around him and presses his boot against Harry's bare shoulder, forcing him down onto his back onto the mat with enough force to leave the beginnings of yet another bruise. Lucius' pale, sharp eyes bore into Harry's. Only a strand of hair coming loose from his braid and snaking down the side of his face belies his professed nonchalance.
"If you can get hard under my foot, you can give us a little spectacle as well. Go ahead and stroke that greedy cock of yours, Harry." Lucius' mouth twists into an ugly sneer. "You've pleased us both well enough tonight - let it not be said that Malfoys would deny gratification to their whores."
Harry stares up at him, trying very hard not to let the tears spill over that burn in his eyes. He can't bring himself to touch his cock, which seems to deflate more with every second it goes without stimulation. Lucius' expression hardens, and a long-fingered hand comes to rest on the dark wood of his wand. He doesn't even need to raise it - Harry feels his hand creeping down to touch his prick, which lies alien between his fingers as if Lucius had made it a part of himself just by touching it.
"Better," Lucius sneers again. "As much as I'd enjoy watching you scream that pretty little throat raw again under Cruciatus, having the famous hero of the wizarding world tamed to my hand is no less satisfying."
Harry swallows hard and wraps his fingers more tightly around his cock, just cradling it protectively for a moment. Then he tugs at the hardening flesh as if it belonged to someone else - which it does, he realises. He only notices he's crying soundlessly when a salty drop runs into the corner of his mouth. He's too miserable to care about showing his weakness any longer. He works himself - long, tight stroke up, a twist to the head, a tickling thumb-brush over the slit to spread the moisture - realising that even if Lucius was not going not kill him tonight, he'd never be able to enjoy doing this for his own satisfaction again. The revulsion of this travesty would remain ingrained in his very nerves.
His cock hardens obediently if sluggishly under the familiar rhythm, unconcerned about the display it's making. Harry feels the warmth and pleasure as if through cotton. His breath comes harder as he pushes the foreskin down with a circle of thumb and index finger, exposing the darkening head and swirling his fingers over it.
He thrusts his hips up weakly into his hand, the deep ache in his arse - and shame - leaving him too shattered to move with vigour. Their eyes are on him, staring greedily down at him like vultures on fresh carrion, as if to pull at his soul with invisible claws. He screws his lids shut.
"Look at me, Harry!" comes Lucius' voice, cold and satisfied. "I told you there would be no escape, so open your eyes."
Harry obeys, all resistance burned away under Malfoy's acidic gaze, allowing his tears to flow freely now as he rubs and pulls himself to climax like a machine. Oh, he understands perfectly how this will suit Lucius: perform a bit of crude revenge to prove to himself - and to his son! - that he won't be bested by a mere boy, and then force Harry to debase himself to face up to the fact that he's not special, and worth less than nothing.
Harry gasps as the rush begins to build, reluctant but inevitable. There is a moment of blinding heat as his cock jerks and spurts over his fingers, leaving drops all over his belly and chest. After a second, pleasure translates into bland nothingness and then into searing revulsion. Harry feebly tries to wipe his fingers on the rug before he rolls to his side, not daring to turn his back to Lucius, but covering his sticky, limp prick with his knee for the most meagre of protections. His face rests wet in the curve of his arm, and hopeless sobs try to tear him apart.
Oh God, please, just let it be over!
"Are you going to kill him, father?"
Lucius stares down at Harry with a thoughtful expression on his face, and Harry tries to turn his head away. He can only imagine what he must look like, face stained with tears and sweat, spattered with his own come. He's too worn to spare a sharp thought for the ferret's bloodthirstiness, although there may have been a tremor of apprehension in Draco's voice. Years back, in the Riddle graveyard, he'd wanted to survive at any cost, running high on adrenaline and fear. Now, death seems more like a blessing, if it can blot out the memory of the last hour. And he's safely beyond fear now.
Lucius gives his hip yet another prod. "What do you say?" he inquires, a terrible glint of humour in his eyes. "Are you broken, Harry? Would you like to die now?"
Harry just keeps looking away, his cheek resting on the rough knots of the mat, letting the discussion wash over him without caring.
"No, my dragon, I think not," Lucius answers at last. "I have had everything I wanted from our little hero."
"But... won't he tell if we let him go? Or am I to come with you, Father?"
"Not this time, Draco. You've taken enough risks to meet me here already. I'll make sure young Harry will pose no danger to you."
"A memory charm?" the ferret pipes up with a hint of interest.
Yes, Harry thinks tiredly, erasing the past hours from his brain might be almost as kind as death.
"A Dark Arts variant." Lucius runs his foot along the curve of Harry's thigh without breaking eye contact with his son. A whimper escapes Harry's throat, but he doesn't dare to move. "He will not remember what you - what we - did to him, but when he looks at you, the feelings will be there. They'll creep up on him in his subconscious and in his nightmares - the trauma, without the memories. Will that vindicate you, Draco?"
Harry sees the sneering curve of Malfoy's mouth as he gloats at him, and wants to dissolve into the floorboards.
"Yes, Father. I think it will." They've never sounded so alike to Harry before. Then Draco clears his throat. "But what about the Dark Lord? Wouldn't he want-"
Lucius puts a hand on his son's shoulder that silences him in mid-sentence. "My Lord, Draco, has not deemed it necessary to expand any effort to rescue his loyal servants imprisoned in his cause." He pauses, a hard cast to his face. "Which is why I don't see why I should dispose of his little nemesis for him right now." He smiles at Harry. "Not that it looks like such a threat any longer."
Yes, for all that he's supposed to be the saviour of the wizarding world, it has not taken much to crack him. Harry laughs bitterly to himself. A few flicks of Cruciatus, and he'd been ready to suck Malfoy's prick just to escape the pain. How could he ever have dared hope that he could take on Voldemort when he already faltered before one of his henchmen like this?
Lucius waves his wand, once, twice, and Harry feels the rough scrape of the cleaning charm wash over him again, followed by the filmy warmth of a healing spell. He can practically watch the bruises fading from his skin, right down to the half-healed Quidditch injury on his side. The bulk of the charm settles between his legs, knitting the raw skin of his channel. No evidence... The healing seems to remain on the surface, though - dulling the bluntest edge of pain, but nothing more.
Smile still firmly in place, Lucius waves his wand again and summons the pile of Harry's clothes and glasses until they rain down on Harry's prone form.
"You look like a Knockturn Alley whore, Harry. Cover yourself unless you want me to take you a second time."
Harry grabs his trousers in a heartbeat, struggling to his feet although the pain nearly tears him apart when he bends forward to force his legs inside. His fingers feel like the gout-gnarled claws of an old man. He manages the buttons of his trousers, seeking safety above all else, but his shaking hands fail at the shirt buttons, so he just pulls the flaps tightly over his chest and wraps himself up in the shelter of his robe, hunched over and hugging himself tightly. It doesn't stop the tremors, but he's not quite in as much danger of falling back to his knees now.
"He'll be docile for a few hours after the casting," Lucius tells his son. "I'll take your broom Draco; take Potter back to Hogwarts on his Firebolt and send him to bed. That will allow the memory charm to settle and take full effect."
Draco nods, and they embrace, quick but tightly, and for once utterly unmindful of Harry's trembling form beside them.
"Very well," Lucius comments, releasing his son from his arms and turning to Harry. "Now, look at me."
Seeing the wand aimed at his face, Harry flinches backwards involuntarily, all of his nerves screaming in fear. Another glint of hilarity ghosts over Lucius' features. He knows what he's done - that Harry would do almost anything not to feel the hell of his Cruciatus ever again. Harry bites his tongue and fixes his eyes obediently on Lucius' face.
"You want me to make you forget, don't you, Harry?"
Harry does nod then, because anything that'll stop the acuteness of images flashing before his inner eye will be mercy. And dealing with nightmares is something he's used to.
Lucius' hand fists in his hair, pulling him up onto his toes and still Harry can't manage to meet his eyes, so he stares at the man's pointed chin instead. He can't help cringing as the wand comes up, and feels Lucius' satisfaction at his weakness sluicing over him. The tip of the wand comes to rest under Harry's left eye, digging into thin skin. Harry shuts his eyes against the sight of Lucius' face one last time, but he feels the man's breath on his lips, warm and spicy and far too close. He forces himself not to retch dryly.
"Good-bye, Harry Potter," Lucius hisses. "It was a pleasure having you, and although you will not remember this night, I promise that you'll never forget me."
Something like a sheet of ice touches Harry's cheek, spreading quickly to his forehead while bypassing the eyes entirely, and then the same icy hand cups the back of his skull. His head goes numb so quickly that he never even hears the words of the spell that freezes his mind.
***
It is one of the worst mornings in Harry's whole memory, he reflects as he sits in the Great Hall at breakfast, playing with a triangle of dry toast. It's never been so hard just to wake up. Opening his eyes to a head pounding as if goblins were digging for treasure inside, with every muscle stiff and aching, his first impulse had been to hide right back under the duvet. No surprise there, really - he must have fallen asleep on the stone steps while keeping watch for Malfoy... Hell, he could not even remember how he got up and into bed! Still, nearly jumping out of his skin and falling out of bed just because Ron touched his bare shoulder was, well, stupid. And now his whole body feels like one gigantic bruise over unblemished skin.
If he could remember any details, he'd suppose that Voldemort had been amusing himself with his mind all night. But all Harry can remember is a halo of pale hair around a grey Dementor's hood... Oh well, sneaking about chilly dungeons all night, plotting to capture Lucius Malfoy, is enough to give anyone nightmares.
He tries to mumble something noncommittal in response to Hermione's nattering - he does also feel like death warmed over, thanks very much! - and gives his toast another push around the plate when a group of Slytherins enters in a tight knot. Harry raises his head and sees Draco Malfoy among them. There is nothing whatsoever unusual about it, of course - even bastards eat breakfast.
But then Malfoy stops while his cronies rush to their table, and looks straight at Harry. There's nothing unusual about that, either, Harry tries to tell himself even as the breath is knocked right out of his lungs by a wave of sheer terror. Harry sees Ron's lips moving, mouthing a question Harry can't hear over the rush of blood in his ears.
Malfoy's mouth curves into a smile of distilled malevolence, pale eyes glittering. Harry's chair raps back and falls over as Harry leaps to his feet, leaving crumpled bits of toast to litter his plate. He dashes from the hall like a frightened cat, primal terror coiling in his stomach, and doesn't quite stop running until he's reached the courtyard of the castle, where he slides to the ground in the shelter of a narrow marble wall.
He draws his knees up against his chest, and hugs them tightly with both hands for good measure. Just why did he run from Draco Malfoy as if he'd been a Dementor under Polyjuice? He's still shivering in the watery early morning sun which seems to chill rather than warm him. Even now, alone and safe, he knows he'd run right off if Malfoy smiled at him like that again. Cold, irrational fear chokes his breaths. He feels as if a piece of the dry toast he didn't eat was stuck in his throat, trying to make him sick.
It's nothing, he tells himself. Just a stomach bug or a spot of the cold. If it persists, he'll go to Madam Pomfrey for a dose of Pepperup Potion. He's safe and protected at Hogwarts, and neither Draco Malfoy nor his horrible father can do anything to him here.
And, Harry promises himself as irrational tears run down his face and spill coldly into the collar of his shirt, he'll surely not be stupid enough to sneak out of the castle alone.

~ finis ~

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Sleepwalking with the Damned