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Nightmares.	By : DarklingWillow Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Draco/Lucius Views: 14249 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise, or any characters thereof, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 1-Nightmares.
- 1
Title: Nightmares.

Chapter Title & No.: N/A

Author: Darkling Willow

Pairing: Draco/Lucius

Rating: NC – 17

Archive: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Draco/Lucius

Feedback: Yes thank you very much. An author can only improve with criticism. Thank you for the reviews, and we hope there will be many more.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise, nor any characters thereof, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Authors Notes: This is only a first draft. The idea came to me, when I read a review from someone who said she wanted (or didn't want, I can't remember) to see Lucius abusing Draco and Draco NOT like it. So, here's my first attempt at such a story. Personally I think it needs a lot of work, but I'm putting it out there so maybe some of you can give me some feedback. Oh, and I have no idea why it came out in present tense, it just did, and it was really hard to keep it that way. So, enjoy your reading and I hope I get a lot of feedback. Hey you never know, it might end up begin a much longer story.

Summary: Draco relives some old nightmares, and some new ones.

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He twitches, fingers curling around damp covers, his eyes fly open as he catches his own scream before it escapes into the darkness. Panting, his thin chest gleaming with sweat, his heart thundering like a thousand galloping horses, he stares out through the small gap between the hangings.

The room is shrouded in a pale light coming from the single green-glassed lantern hanging in the middle of the low ceiling, four black four-poster beds hiding in the shadows. With trembling hands he reaches for the hangings, pulling them back, silvery eyes darting from bed to bed, sleeping forms in each one.

He sighs as the heavy velvet falls back into place, closing the gap and leaving him alone inside a dark green cocoon, hidden away, safe for another night. Brushing sweat soaked golden white hair from his forehead, he leans against the headboard, cursing himself under his breath, he’s sixteen already, he shouldn’t be so afraid of the dark. Pulling a black silk pillow into his lap, burying his face deep in its cool embrace he lets two tears fall, and maybe one more, before he bites his lower lip, until it bleeds, and stops.

He’s worried, stressed, the task at hand is a little daunting, that’s why he’s afraid of the dark, he tries to convince himself, but he knows he’s wrong. He knows that it’s not the dark here in the dungeons that he’s afraid of, it’s the darkness back home. Lying back on the pillows, he stares up into the canopy, following deep patterns he’s been studying for the last five years, he knows them by heart now, and the thoughts creep out of the shadows, crawl over his covers, slow and steady, like so many spiders, clutching at his muscles, sitting on his chest, squeezing so hard he cannot find room enough to breathe, and that makes it harder to not remember.

The sounds of the old mansion are dark, hollow, dangerous, the new bedroom larger, emptier than the nursery. He is only five and Father insists he’s already too old to stay in the nursery.

‘Nurseries are for babies, Narcissa, not boys. He’s going into the silver room and that’s that!’ Father had screamed at Mother, throwing a large porcelain pitcher into the wall for emphasis, Mother had screamed something back, but Nurse had whisked him away, so he didn’t catch what Mother said. So, now he is sleeping in the silver room, for the first time.

The nightly noises are different, he can’t hear Mother speaking on the other side of the wall, to herself most of the time, since Father’s room is on the opposite side of the nursery, from there he had sometimes heard soft sounds, unfamiliar sounds, sometimes crying, muted and strained. Father is always a little less angry the day after those nights.

He lies still in his grown up bed, listening to the soft patter of the house elves’ feet, as they scuttle about doing their chores, the creaking in the woodwork, the sound of the wind wailing around the corners and the window frames. There is another sound that he doesn’t hear every night, but the nights he does hear it, it scares him, even though he shouldn’t be scared, he’s five already, he’s Father’s big boy.

That sound is soft, but heavy, wooden heels of supple black leather boots treading gently against dark hardwood floorboards, coming down the hallway and stopping outside his door, the flickering flame of a candle peeking underneath his door, dancing around the black shadow of those boots. A hand rests on the doorknob, it creaks but doesn’t turn.

He pulls his covers up to his ears, his eyes cannot blink, the fear of that sound making his heart run away as fast as it can.

On the other side of the door, a desperate sigh, the door whispers as a heavy head is laid against it, there is silence for a few moments before the head leaves the door, the hand leaves the knob, and the boots make their way back where they belong.

But he knows those boots as well as he knows his own, if not better, the caning he got for trying them on a year ago is still fresh in his mind.

Fearfully sleep approaches, sneaks up on him and the morning after it is almost forgotten, until the next night the sound comes.

He still sleeps in the silver room when he’s home, all the way across the wing from his old nursery, fourteen rooms between his room and his father’s room. He’s counted them often enough in the nine years that have passed since his father made him leave the nursery. Mother locked the nursery seven years ago and lost the key, it’s been quite clear that there will not be another baby at Malfoy Manor, at least not from her womb. He had weaseled the key to the silver room out of one of the house elves two years ago, but one morning he overslept and Father found out. He still has a small scar in his hairline where Father beat him with the cane, before taking the key away.

He turned fourteen today, a joyless celebration of far too many presents and far too few hugs and affections.

Now he lies in his bed, and waits for the nightly noises, hoping against better knowledge that they won’t come, not tonight, that maybe he can sleep easy tonight.

The sounds have gotten steadily worse over the years, the last few months the boots have stayed outside his door longer and longer, panting quietly, whispering incomprehensible non-sense, which reminds him of his Mother’s late night ramblings when he was a baby.

He knows for certain whom those boots belong to now. They revealed their owner a few weeks ago.

He had shut his eyes almost completely, his hands spasmodically clasping his sheets, as the creaking knob had turned hesitantly, and the door inched from the frame. The candle rose high into the air, shining brightly through the darkness, showering him in a soft glow. The boots stood there, in the doorway, one foot swinging forward, meaning to enter. Under the guise of sleep he studied the boots, the shadowed contours of the knee underneath the silken black trousers, the taut muscle running up to the bulging crotch, the narrow hips, the beautiful shape of the waist, under the black and silver embroidered west, the billowing white shirt, open to reveal a strong chest, flushed with alcohol.

Then he reached the face.

It was overcast with shadows, cast by the flickering candle, the perfect silvery white hair, hanging in loose strands around the harsh angles, the high cheekbones flushed pink, the rosy lips trembling, a moist tongue flicking out to wet them, Father’s other hand bringing a bottle of wine to his lips, as the piercing ice blue eyes scanned Draco’s form under the silk sheets.

Draco gripped his sheets tighter, fear threatening him to silence, as Father took another sip, then moved gracefully and quiet as a cat out of the room, muttering something to himself as he closed the door behind him. Draco didn’t dare to breath until the next morning when the sun rose.

But now, he’s fourteen, and the boots are making their way down the hallway.

He sinks down into the mattress, pulling the sheets up to his ears, and rolling onto his side he curls up in a ball, wishing that the boots just keep walking.

Father is breathing heavily when he enters the room. Draco holds his breath as he listens to Father sit down on a chair and pull his own boots off.

His stockinged feet don’t make a sound on the floorboards, but the third board from the bed creaks, so Draco knows where he is when he pretends to wake up, and turns around faking grogginess.

‘Father? Is that you? What are you doing?’ he whispers, feigned surprise, wiping sleep from his eyes.

Father kneels on the bed, pushing on his shoulder, pushing him back down, while his other hand pulls the sheets down from his back.

Draco shudders, the cold air playing across marble white skin, as Father leans in close, and kisses his shoulder.

‘So beautiful. So young, so soft.’ Father whispers between nibbling kisses, Draco tries to pull away, but Father’s fingers are strong, digging into his arm, tangling in his hair. Father pauses, breathes him in, pushes him down into the mattress, holding him down with his face in the pillows, before he whispers into Draco’s ear,

‘All mine’.

He can’t breath, his heart is about to burst, and his mind is blank. All he can feel are Father’s warm, soft, dry hands running along his back, cupping his ass, and pulling down the evergreen silken pyjama bottoms. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and looks around, demanding,

‘Father, what are you doing? Give those back.’

His head sings, the slap reverberating like he’s standing in the clock tower at noon. Father’s fingers dig into his flesh, wrapped around the back of his neck, so hard he’s sure it will break.

Father straddles him, the tight silvery curls on his chest tickling Draco’s back, sharp white teeth leave beautiful scarlet circles on his shoulders and back, he screams as Father moans.

Something hard and pulsating rubs between his ass cheeks, thick and long, and he screams again. He struggles, squirming under the weight of Father, his mind finally putting the pieces together and relaying the message to him. Father proves to be stronger.

Father spits into his palm, rubbing long fingers between his cheeks, pressing one finger against an opening Draco had never even thought of, chuckling as Draco doubles his fighting.

Father grabs both of his wrists in one of his large strong hands, hands that used to roam to strange places of Draco’s body in uncommon shows of affection that suddenly made a lot more sense, the finger breaching through the ring of muscle, and Draco screams loud enough to make his own ears sing.

‘Scream all you want, fight all you want, your mother cannot hear you.’ Father whispers, reminding Draco that Narcissa is miles away on a visit, Father’s voice is breathless, anticipation thick,

‘Oh, how tight, how delicious. You are perfect, Draconis, just perfect.’

As he pushes in another finger, slick with spit, Draco’s screams turn silent as his tears well up, a third finger struggles through and his body takes over, relaxes the muscle on its own accord, Father moaning loudly over him.

His entire body tenses when the fingers are pulled free and the blunt, pulsing head of Father’s cock presses against his opening.

He growls deep in his chest, and bucks away, thrashing his thin legs, pulling his arms as hard as he can. His left wrist comes free, and with lightning speed he manages to half twist around, shooting his elbow into Fathers ribs. Father’s breath whooshes out of him, and he looses grip for only a moment.

That moment is enough.

Draco is halfway out of the bed, when Father grabs him by the hair, yanking him backwards, and punching him hard in the kidney. Draco screams in agony, and Father has the upper hand again.

The silk sheets choke his cries, Father’s hands leave long, deep purple shadows on his wrists and hips, Father’s cock pushes in with only the tiniest bit of precum for lubrication, too the roots and Father’s moan is like a knife through the heart.

Draco tries to push him off, tries to crawl away, to fight, but Father is too strong, the pain is too much, Father begins to move, in and out, slamming the shaft into his ass hard and deep.

He can feel as tissue tears, blood easing the movement, but the pain is pure agony, he feels split in half, torn to the bone, as his father pounds into him, flesh slamming against flesh, the noises his father is making, cutting him through the heart.

Father’s cock brushes against something deep inside of him which sends sparks through his head, and he cries out, halfway between pain and pleasure, but the feeling is gone, killed in the onslaught of his father’s assault.

Father’s movements become harder, faster, erratic, and digging his finger around Draco’s hipbones, he lets out a groan from the depths of his chest, Draco can feel the erratic pulse, his insides fill with warmth, and for a moment he can’t breathe.

Father lets go after a long silent moment, he can feel Father’s cock, half hard, slip out of his abused ass, and whimpering he crawls out of the bed, his legs can’t hold him and falling down he crawls to the door, many miles away.

Father sits on his bed, silent, watching him, a sadness washing over his eyes, then he springs off the bed and pulls Draco off the floor by one arm. Slamming Draco against the wall, long fingers find his throat, soft lips find his and Draco finds himself fighting to break his father’s kiss.

Father is the one to break it, his breath sweet against Draco’s face, as he whispers, holding Draco still with his ice blue eyes,

‘If you tell anyone, I will have your mother sent to Azkaban, sentenced to receive the Kiss. You are mine, Draconis, and I can do what I want with my own things.’

He nods. Father is right, and he would never risk Mother being sent to that horrible place.

‘I will never give in’,

he whispers back, daring Father with his silver eyes, waiting for the beating, but Father smiles.

‘I know. You’re a Malfoy, you are bred to never give in. Now go wash yourself, you’re filthy.’

Father hits him, pushing him to the floor, tries to kick him, as he stumbles to his feet, and runs to the bathroom.

He doesn’t cry while he washes away the semen, blood and shit, because he can hear Father outside the door. He doesn’t cry while he walks back to his room, although it hurts like hell, because he knows Father is watching even if he can’t see him.

He doesn’t cry until he is in his bed, his face buried deep in the pillows, the covers over his head. He cries and screams until he can’t breath, and his body shuts down with exhaustion.

It happens again, every night while Mother is away, after she comes home it’s more sporadic, and he begins to have nightmares.

It’s been two and a half years since.

He’s sixteen now, a Death-Eater, charged with a task to redeem his family in Voldemort’s eyes, and that’s why he’s afraid of the dark.

He’s never once given into Father, and he has the scars to prove it. He hates Father more than he hates that stupid Potter, more than he hates that Mudblood, but not more than he hates himself.

He’s afraid of the nightly noises, the things that hide in the darkness, his nightmares have followed him here, and he can’t sleep. There it is again, the sound that awoke him, the latch on the door squeaks as it closes, a deep voice whispers a sleep charm.

Draco takes a dive for his wand, as the hangings are pulled back, the metal rings screaming across the bar, he’s too late, the heavy hand grabs his ankle and pulls him to the edge of the bed.

Draco fights with everything he’s got, even though he knows it’s no use, it’s the principle of the thing but he doesn’t scream. He’ll do that later, when this nightmare ends.
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Nightmares.