Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Obedience And Instruction	By : DictionaryWrites Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Lucius Views: 15351 -:- 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
All Harry wanted, if he were to tell the honest truth, was a little bit of peace.
And he has worked hard for his peace; he'd done his Auror training when he'd been pushed and badgered and wheedled into it, and when he'd despised the actual work, he had reimbursed the force generously. He'd wanted to be an Auror before the last battle, after all, and had never considered not fighting, but now- well. He'd taken his job at the Ministry, insisted sixteen times he just wants something quiet and orderly with paperwork and no more fighting.
Harry is just so tired of fighting.
Even now, of course, with his work filing all of the Ministry's legal contracts, his office is obscenely large.
Harry sits for a moment, settles back in his seat and stares at the high ceiling, at the wide walls, at the desk that is ornately carved of dense mahogany and is quite a lot bigger than Harry needs himself; it had allowed him to have his work, however, and so he'd taken the office. It's only so that they have some pleasant backdrop for the Prophet to take photos of him with, anyway.
He moves to stand, his cup of tea abandoned on the desk in front of him, and he takes the neat stack of files on his desk before disappearing into the next room and moving to stand on an enchanted ladder. As he flies down the seemingly unending length of shelf, the wood whistling loudly and merrily on its track, he considers how this filing system had been before he'd taken the job.
Desperate to keep the infamous Harry Potter on the staff roster but unwilling to allow him to do anything they could not brag about to the press, the Ministry had created a placement for him: Director of Ministry Legal Application and Organization. Suitably impressive sounding, so the term had been, but it had never meant to include any work for him – once upon a time, all of the Ministry's legal files had been organized automatically via a complex array of charms and enchantments.
It was without a doubt the most catastrophic failure of bureaucratic magic Harry had ever had the misfortune of working with, and that was after three years actively spending time in the magical government.
When he'd set foot in this filing room – a vast effective library of almost-infinite shelves each nine feet high and spanning into little corridors of their own accord – it had been in disarray, with files messily shoved onto shelves, pieces out of order, entire sections of shelving that were half tilted from the weight of too many files.
The enchantments had, after all, originally been made a long while ago, and they did not work suitably – Harry, initially, had not worked suitably either, given that he'd never actually had a job filing before.
Now, four months in, and the work is time-consuming, difficult, but ultimately satisfying, and it offers Harry peace. It doesn't matter how much people complain – and almost everyone seems to complain, from Ron and Hermione to Minerva McGonagall, even Arthur Weasley – about the fact that he's doing paperwork when he's capable of whatever great magic someone wants him to occupy his time with.
All that he wants for now is peace: he's had enough of audacity.
His peace and comfort are quite starkly interrupted by the presence of Lucius Malfoy II across from his desk in his office.
Harry stares at him.
“What charming robes, Mr Potter,” Malfoy says, and each sound is carefully enunciated and perfectly clipped, because if you're going to come and intimidate someone you need to ensure you sound suitably posh. “I had worried that due to the lack of uniform imposed upon you, you might allow your standards to slacken, or worse, come to your work in Muggle attire, but I see my assumptions were quite unfounded.”
Harry adjusts his robes subconsciously in response to that particular comment: they are traditional working robes, and they are a deep green. Madame Malkin had asked at the time if he would like silver embossed upon the “M” at its breast, and in the lining of the robe's collar and hem.
“I just need to look professional,” Harry replies, and he perhaps mutters the words a little as he walks forwards, suddenly sullen. He will not be hostile towards the man – Malfoy had been pardoned just as Narcissa and Draco had, after the War, and he'd quickly returned to his politics in the middle. Still firm, still unwavering, but somewhat less right-wing than before, at least in regards to his policy and monetary support. “Uh, is there something I can help you with, Mr Malfoy? I have work to do.”
“I was under the impression that your position was more created for you. Surely there is no work to speak of,” Malfoy's speech comes smoothly, and his words do not cut through the deafening silence between them so much as they glide, effortlessly low and resonant. For a moment, Harry lets his gaze drop to Malfoy's own robes, made of some sort of sleek, black fabric that shines – a chain of silver is evident at its lining, some sort of pocket watch, and the buttons look like they are made with emeralds or some other green gem – but once he's looked his fill he meets Malfoy's gaze as resolutely as he can.
“I think the Ministry was under that impression as well,” Harry says, doing his best not to swallow, not to look away, not to outwardly show any of his intimidation. Lucius Malfoy always was something of a coward, so Harry has no reason to be afraid of him, no reason at all, and yet he feels on edge, feels like his skin is tingling with apprehension, feels like his knees are going to go weak any second. “Which is worrying, you know. Given that you'd expect a government to check on its own files now and then.”
Malfoy is looking at him, looking at him with that thin, smug smirk, those piercing grey eyes, and Harry does swallow now, his Adam's apple bobbing obviously in his throat. The sides of Malfoy's lips quirk upwards. “Then we are lucky to be saved by the infamous Harry Potter,” Malfoy purrs, and he throws out the “p” just like Draco had when they'd been at school. It reminds Harry of- were they worse days or better days? Perspective has never been his area of expertise. “once again.”
“Very lucky, yeah,” Harry agrees, and Lucius Malfoy's chuckle somehow makes him shiver – Harry sees no scars on his aristocratic features, but he knows that dozens undoubtedly lie under those expensive looking robes, and he knows that Malfoy would rather add a thousand more than allow Harry to revel in one. “but like I said, Mr Malfoy: Is there something you want?”
“Now, you may call me Lucius, should you like, Mr Potter,” Harry regards him resolutely, expression unchanging. “I merely wished to inquire as to your health.”
“I'm fine.” Harry says stiffly, and Lucius stands, adjusting the cane in his hands. Oh, Harry had forgotten about that cane – it seems to linger in the other wizard's hand even more than his wand does, undoubtedly because of his traditional affection for having his wand held within the wood casing. The idea of calling the other man by his forename is bizarre, bizarre and utterly unexpected, but Harry wants to keep his job, wants to keep his peace, and so he goes with it. “Lucius. You can, um, you know. Call me Harry.”
“Harry.” Lucius says with an evident delight, and Harry can't help but stare at the way his lips pull back, revealing the pink of his tongue within, and the stark whiteness of the other man's teeth.
He thinks of the cane, thinks of that steadfast, inexorable length of black wood, and he's suddenly struck with the idea of it whipping against the back of his thighs with a sharp hiss of movement through the air. He swallows again, drops back against the edge of his desk: if he didn't know himself to be capable of recognizing legilimency by now, he'd accuse the other of inciting the thought in him by magic.
But no, that's only wishful thinking – even when he was fifteen, he'd thought of kissing Malfoy Junior. He'd thought about it, thought about it a lot, of pressing him against the wall or being similarly thrown back, of kissing the other boy as furiously as they'd argued. He'd never acted on it, obviously – ninety percent of the thoughts he'd ever had he'd never acted on. It was just a teenager's mixed up sexual feelings, certainly: he'd had thoughts about Draco just as he'd thought about Hermione, Ginny, Luna, the Patil twins-
Of course, Draco was a bloke, but then, so was Charlie Weasley, and Harry had still found himself somewhat drawn to the dragon tamer on their most recent meeting, positively enchanted by the thickness of his arms and the scars shining all over the skin of them. Not something he'd admit to, of course – he doubts it would go down well with Ron, or the rest of the family. He's already dated and parted ways with a Weasley daughter, and it'd hardly be acceptable for him to start pursuing one of the sons.
He's not gay, though. He's definitely not gay, he's not anything-
“Harry?” Lucius Malfoy is staring at him, one of his silver eyebrows elegantly arched, and he seems expectant, with an underlying concern.
“Uh,” Harry touches his own temple, adjusting his position. “Um, sorry, I think I- did you say something? Just now?” He feels blood rush to his cheeks, and the flesh there burns with it; he knows full well the blush is probably suddenly visible on his face, and he feels like being sick. He always ends up feeling sick if he ends up thinking about men, and it's upsetting enough that the man he's looking at is Lucius bloody Malfoy.
“I merely said you ought seek me out if you require assistance, Harry,” Malfoy's words come as smoothly as ever, and the sibilance is soft and almost hissed as he steps closer, and he is taller than Harry is – years of malnutrition at the Dursleys' hadn't exactly put Harry off to the best start, and even with the growth spurts he'd never met some people. “Are you quite sure you are alright?” Malfoy's face is barely a few inches from Harry's own, and he stares up at the other man, trying to ignore the nausea twisting at his stomach and the way his heart is pounding in his chest. The head of the other's cane touches against the side of his jaw, the carved, clean silver cool against the skin, and he lets out a shuddered exhalation despite himself, staring at the other man.
“Yeah. Yes. Uh. Lucius.” Harry all but chokes on every word. “I'm alright. Just need to work.” Malfoy's head tilts, almost reptilian, and Harry has a sudden, intrusive thought of Lucius with his teeth against Harry's neck: the idea is positively bewitching, and it's at odds with memories of Malfoy throwing curses at him in the Department of Mysteries.
“Well then.” Lucius murmurs, and he takes a neat, deliberate step back. Everything about the man is neat, orderly and quite careful: that deliberation attracts Harry even though he should want to kill the ma-
No. No, not kill him. Harry has never wanted to kill anyone, never wanted to kill anyone at all. But at the least, he should feel disgusted, feel angry, and what he certainly should not feel is attracted. The man was a Death Eater, for Merlin's sake.
“I shall see you, Harry,” Lucius murmurs, and some sort of secret emphasis is put upon the younger wizard's name, some sort of implicit meaning that Harry cannot decipher, but that still affects his heart to leap and his cock to give an interested twitch beneath the layered fabric of his robes. Harry watches after him as Lucius leaves, stares after him as the door closes shut behind him, and he heaves in a breath once he's gone, a breath of desperate relief.
It serves only to fill his nostrils with the scent of Malfoy's cologne, subtle but sweet, and enticing.
“Oh, God.” Harry mutters to himself, and he puts his head in his hands, rubbing at his own eyes.
Maybe he needs to go out somewhere. Ginny always tells him he should get laid more regularly, and he doesn't, and it's just- build-up, making him think of having sex with Lucius Malfoy of all people.
That's it. Just build-up.
---
“I cannot believe you just sit behind a desk all day and you're honestly satisfied with it.” George says as he passes the gravy to Ginny, and Harry laughs along with the others – it's a family sort of dinner. It's Mrs Weasley (she insists he call her Molly these days, but he's not quite sure he can manage that), Mr Weasley (again, forenames seem too close – and yet he uses a first name for Malfoy. Maybe he should reconsider), George, Harry, Ron, Ginny and Percy, of course. Hermione comes, sometimes, but not always, and tonight is a night without her.
“I don't sit behind a desk all day. I do a lot of filing. You should see the ride on our enchanted ladders, George – it's better than a broomstick.” Ginny and George let out twin cries of horror and crow in response. Percy, beside his father, puts his head in his hands and lets out a rueful chuckle – he's glad to be back with his family, Harry thinks, but the banter is often enough too much for him.
“Better than a broomstick!”
“Better than a broomstick, he says!”
“What is wrong with you?”
“The Ministry has made a monster of you, Harry Potter.”
“First Percy, and now you! It'll be Fred ne-” Ginny stops suddenly short, and she puts her hand over her own mouth as the table falls into a sudden hush. Mrs Weasley – no, Molly – goes still where she'd been bringing a bowl of potatoes over to the table, Mr- Arthur is frozen at its head. Ron stares at his own half-filled plate, and Harry swallows, uncertain.
“Well, no. Harry's never going to reach my dear old brother's fine standards of smarmery,” George says firmly, and he straightens suddenly, and he grins at Ginny. “He'd roll in his grave at the thought of someone challenging his record – you know how much of a stickler he was for authority.” Ginny lets out a shocked little laugh, and she doesn't cry, she doesn't cry, and Harry laughs too, if nervously. “Wasn't he, Mum? He'd never allow your authority to go ignored.”
Molly lets out a sort of soft, short noise as he moves to set the bowl down on the table, and she looks for a moment like she might begin to sob, but George grasps for her hand, and he squeezes, comfortingly.
“No, George,” Molly says, “No, he was- he was very rule-abiding.”
“And law-abiding.” Harry manages to say, because he knows that levity is the Weasley family way.
“If not custom abiding.” Percy manages to say, although he feels the most guilt – even more guilt than George himself, Harry thinks. Even with that, he makes a conscious effort to work less, to see his family more, and that's important, Harry supposes. He makes an effort to spend more time with the Weasleys as well – he doesn't replace Fred, and he doesn't fill the gap Bill and Charlie leave when they're not home, but Harry is there, and that's important.
That's what people keep insisting, anyway.
Once the banter is done with, Harry asks, politely, “Molly? Can you pass the carrots?” She stares at him, and for a second Harry is horrified, terrified that he's said the thing that's going to push her over the edge and make Molly Weasley sob in his direction, but then she bursts into such a bright beam Harry forgets what it looks like when she frowns at all.
“Yes, dear.” She says, leaning to grasp at them.
“Oh, first name terms with our Mum now, is it?” Ron asks, and Harry laughs.
“Oh, you should watch this one, Dad. He's obviously got designs in place,” George says faux-seriously; Molly begins to chuckle, very amused.
“I have designs only for your father, as you well know.”
“Harry's our father!?” Percy asks, with such realistic incredulity that for a moment everyone blinks at him; and Percy seems somewhat nonplussed by the sudden attention. “I just- it was a joke…?”
“He's too ugly to be our father.” Ginny says with that confirmation, and it goes back and forth, more banter, more laughter, and that's it, Harry supposes – that's what family is meant to be, even when parts of it are missing. He smiles, eats his dinner, and lets his mind go to trying to one-up George with sarcasm rather than Lucius Malfoy.
It never lasts, of course.
“But the most bizarre thing is – the money's come from the Malfoys.” Arthur says, and suddenly Harry glances up from his half-consumed dessert, listening to Percy and his father as they explain the state of things to a rapt George and a far less interested Ginny and Ron.
“Why are the Malfoys giving money the Muggle Artefacts Office?” George asks. “Do they want to attack them with their own weapons or something?”
“The money they invested was free to use – it wasn't earmarked for particular purposes or anything! They just put in the money for the department – 500 Galleons.” Arthur sounds positively incredulous, and Harry frowns slightly. “Lucius Malfoy has designs, I can tell you, but what they are, I've no idea.”
“There's no contractual obligation to use it a particular way, then.” He says, and both Percy and Arthur turn to blink at him, as does everyone else. “Well, no need to look so surprised – it's my job to know this stuff. Nothing's come across my desk involving the Malfoys at all.”
“Look at Harry, then.” Ginny says, nudging George. “He'll be a lawyer, next.”
“They want to invest in the shop.” George says, and though he puts an affectionate arm around Ginny's shoulder, he doesn't continue to tease Harry with her. He's more serious, these days, and more capable of turning his hilarity on and then off again. “Actually, Narcissa wants to invest in the shop, specifically. In return for small shares, she wants to pay for us to expand, put a small off-shoot in Hogsmede, and another in Paris.”
“Just for shares? That seems terribly unambitious for a member of the Malfoy clan.” Percy says seriously, and Harry wants to feel bad because Ron looks bored out of his skull, as does Ginny, but he can't help but want to know more.
“True, but he voted in support of a house-elf rights bill the other day.” Arthur says.
“Who? Lucius?”
“As I live and breathe, he voted for a non-discrimination bill.”
“I don't believe it!”
“There's something going on with that little family of theirs.”
“Something suspicious.”
“I don't like it.” Harry says, and Percy shifts in his seat, leaning back against the wood of it.
“I don't know, Harry. It could be good for everyone.”
“Or it's a trick.” Ron says, and he sounds bitter – more bitter than Harry ever had, even with Draco. But then, the Weasley-Malfoy family rivalry seems to have been a long-standing affair. “You know what they're like, those slimy snakes.”
“Could be, Ronald.” Arthur says, and he sounds tired more than he sounds irritated. He despises Malfoy, Harry knows, but he doesn't think the man really has patience for a continuing rivalry these days. “Could be.”
---
“Harry.” Lucius is at his doorway, and he holds a leather satchel in his right hand, his cane held firmly by his left. Harry stops short, his coat clasped in his hand, and he regards Lucius uncertainly – it's just a little past one o'clock, and he'd been about to lock up and go to lunch.
“Lucius.” Harry says awkwardly, and he can't help but wish it was the junior Malfoy that was in his office, or even Narcissa – both have always been so much easier to read and understand, after all, and Lucius remains mysterious, enigmatic and distinctly more dangerous. “I was just abo-”
“Yes, go to lunch. You do regularly go off at one o'clock or so.” Harry regards Malfoy with an owlish, completely uncertain expression. “I thought I'd bring you a more substantial meal than the, ah, burgers served in the canteen.” The word “burger” doesn't sound quite correct in Lucius Malfoy's mouth, though perhaps he's been eating too many, as of recent. All the same, he doesn't seem to be putting on weight for the sake of it.
“I- thank you, um, Lucius, but I-”
“Am far too respectful a young man to refuse such an offer.” Malfoy interrupts him with a clear confidence Harry wishes he'd had years ago, but Harry gives a small nod of his head, and he hangs up his coat again before moving to settle in his seat once more. Lucius moves forwards, and he removes from the bag three plates with bowls neatly put over top of them. He removes each bowl, and suddenly steam comes up from each plate; Harry decides to focus on the plates set between them rather than the flicker of magic the elder man sends behind him to lock the door.
Harry regards the selection in a wide-eyed fashion; on one is a small set of six green tarts, and on the next is a pile of small pies made with filo pastry. The other plate is smaller and set to the side; upon it lies two decadently thick slices of what looks to be some sort of chocolate cake. Harry can smell it too, the heavy scent of the fudge and the syrup in it.
“Two tarts and a pie first, Harry.” Lucius says in a firm and steady tone, and Harry suddenly presses his knees together under the desk, very conscious of the interest the instruction evokes in him. “At least.”
Harry's instinct is to politely say “Yes, sir.”, to nod his head and to take on the instruction; there's a very basic desire in him to be instructed, to delight in being told what to, but he knows from conversation that that tendency isn't normal, and it's another example of Harry being a bit wrong. Harry does not follow his instinct: “What is this about, Lucius? One son isn't enough for you?”
“Son?” Lucius repeats as Harry very carefully reaches for one of the small, savoury tarts, and he eats as neatly as he can manage, his spare hand cupped under his jaw to catch crumbs. Lucius looks approving of the nerve-prompted fastidiousness, and for some reason that pleased expression makes Harry's heart leap. “I should think not.” It tastes good, the tart – it actually tastes positively amazing, and it takes a strength of will not to moan around the pastry. “No, I have no wish to take you for a second son, Harry.”
Harry swallows, and he considers the taste in his mouth; some vague taste of chutney, and leek, and it's really, really good. He's never eaten something like this before. “Then, if I can as-”
“Eat up, Harry. You have always seemed terribly thin.” Lucius draws out the “n” sound, and Harry feels his mouth go dry, but he does his best to take another bite all the same. He swallows it down, and he eats the entirety of the tart within a few more moments. Lucius takes one of the pies and, meticulously, uses his wand to cut it into four equal pieces; the spinach and cheese within is a bizarrely appealing mix of green and white-yellow. He eats each with a small, measured bite, and Harry's gaze is drawn to the touch of Malfoy's fingers to his own lips as he does so.
The room feels charged with something, something that is positively electric but no less ill-advised, and Harry isn't sure what precisely he's experiencing and what precisely it means, but he's quite aware of the fact that he has a yearning for more. Harry reaches for another tart, but Lucius interrupts: “No, no, Harry. Take a pie this time.”
Harry meets the other's eyes, and Lucius regards him sternly, sternly enough that Harry immediately obeys, and he takes a bite of the little pie, and this time he can't quite control it; he lets out a soft sigh around the pastry and the cheese, closing his eyes for a moment.
“That's a good lad.” Lucius murmurs, and Harry coughs, patting his own chest to keep from chocking on his morsel, but before he can even ask Lucius is pressing a small glass of pumpkin juice into his hand, and he drinks from it obediently.
Obediently.
Why is he obeying Lucius Malfoy? Why does “That's a good lad.” fill him with such mingled excitement and trepidation?
“Not a son, then.” Harry says, and he's beginning to wonder if Lucius wants something from him, wants something important, even some sort of sexual- but no, no, he couldn't possibly. Harry couldn't possibly.
“No, no. I should like to offer you something, Harry, should you give me what I wish for, in return.” Harry takes more bites of his pie, and then he very cautiously reaches for another tart. Lucius simply nods his head, and Harry begins to eat again. He feels hot, hot all over – not just in his cheeks, but in his neck, his chest, his legs, his crotch. He wishes wizarding robes had the same ability to remove layers as Muggle clothes do. Lucius waits, waits deliberately judging by his intent expression, for Harry to finish his second tart as well, and then he smoothly moves to stand, stepping slowly around the wood of the desk.
Harry remains frozen in his seat as Lucius makes step after step on the wood of Harry's office floor, and then he moves to stand directly behind the younger man. There's a pause, and then Lucius' fingers slide over Harry's shoulder blades, his hands a warm weight against his neck. Harry feels so drawn tight he cannot even breathe.
“Mr Potter,” Lucius murmurs very quietly as he leans, and his mouth is against Harry's ear by the time he stops, and his breath is so warm against the sensitive skin there. Harry stares directly forwards as Lucius' thumbs begin to press into the muscle at the very top of Harry's spine, either side of it, and then he says, “I should like to have you in a far more intimate capacity than my son.”
“Oh my God.” Harry whispers, and Lucius chuckles, his hands moving from the other's shoulders down to cup his chest. Harry cannot move.
“Such a curious, Muggle mannerism that is. Wizards very rarely invoke gods, and when they do, it is by name rather than title.” Lucius says, and his hands rove lower, down towards Harry's thighs; he lets out a sort of sharp, gasped-out noise, his hands flying to hold the other man's wrists tightly. It's Lucius Malfoy, who is an ex-Death Eater and is a man, who is old enough to be Harry's father and has a wife, and who likely is seducing him only in hopes of gaining something-
Harry just wants the smallest bit of peace, and there's peace in obedience, but only if there's someone to give him instruction.
“I- I can't-” Lucius' hands immediately come away from Harry's body, and Harry keenly feels the loss of those warm hands on his thighs. “Wait.”
“Hmm?”
“I don't- I don't want you to- to, um, to stop. Necessarily. I'd actually kinda like you to do more, but-”
“Do you want a more verbal explanation, Harry?” Lucius asks softly, and Harry nods his head, swallowing hard as he does so. “In that case, I shall give you one. I am bored,and I find there are few people who can afford me a particular pastime. Are you aware, my boy, of the idea of dominance?”
“Yeah.” Harry whispers, because that's obvious.
“And do you know of its corresponding submission?”
“Uh.” He's not so certain. “I'm not sure. I think?”
“And have you considered those two concepts as interlocking pieces in a sexual encounter?” Harry lets out a slow draw of breath. The way Lucius says sexual makes his thighs quake.
“No.” Harry says, and maybe it's not completely true – maybe he's thought of stronger wizards than him throwing him about, leaving bruises on his skin and making him cry out for pain as well as pleasure. To those thoughts, he'd crossed his legs and done his best to think of something else though – he's never allowed himself to act on them. “No, I haven't.”
“Well, that, Harry, is what I want. Your submission, in exchange for my dominance.” Lucius' instruction, in exchange for Harry's obedience.
“You'll hurt me,” Harry says bluntly but for some stupid reason he doesn't pull away, and Lucius hums.
“Yes.” Lucius agrees, and Harry stares at him. “That's rather the point, isn't it? Don't you wish to be hurt?”
“How would you know?” Harry voices the immediate question, and he can't think of anything except the fact that that cologne is so much stronger now, with Lucius so close, and he inhales, drawing it into his lungs and letting the scent take him over for a moment.
“Why, it's quite obvious, boy.” It takes a lot of willpower to restrain from biting his lip in response to that, but Harry does want, would love, to be hurt. And yet- and yet-
“You have a wife.” There's a pause, and Lucius steps about the desk, regarding Harry with a sort of perplexity on his face; he honestly looks confused.
“Yes.” Lucius says, and he moves to seat himself in the seat again: mention of Narcissa seems to have interrupted whatever sexual offer was on the table, and something sinks in Harry's chest. He regards Harry for a few moments, gaze imploring, and then he says, “Narcissa is a perfectly charming woman, but she hardly appreciates these particular games.”
“Perfectly charming, but you want to have sex with someone else?”
“I hardly married her for being especially attracted. It was a marriage of means and political value.”
“Wow, and you guys have such a reputation for being caring and loving.” Lucius' lip twitches.
Harry begins to wonder if Pureblood aristocracy thinks of marriage as something entirely different to what he does – and actually, that would probably make more sense. If it's all political marriages, like Sirius had used to talk about, then Lucius' confusion is framed in a more comprehensible light.
“Oh.” Harry says. Lucius leans, and with a neat flick of his wand – and he does it non-verbally with the ease Harry has come to expect of Purebloods at this point – he affects the plate to split into two instead, each with one of the pieces of cake atop its white surface.
“The pursuit of pleasure, I find, Harry, should always be kept quite separate from one's politics, where suitable.” He slides one plate to Harry, and the scent seems stronger now, more intoxicating. Lucius's smile is slowly returning to his lips, and it seems sultrier now, more seductive. “Pleasure ought be sought wherever it can be found.”
He's a murderer. He's killed people, and for some reason Harry's tongue seems heavy in his throat, his mouth dry, his cheeks still warm. “Right.” Harry says, and he takes the conjured fork when Lucius presses it to his fingers, looking from its tines to the cake to Lucius' smug, intent expression.
“Take a bite.” Lucius murmurs, and Harry moves to do so, very slowly curling a piece of the cake on the fork before bringing it to his mouth. He takes the bite, lets his lips draw over the silver tines of the fork, and he chews, swallows. Lucius is watching him with fascination.
“It's good.” Harry manages to say, and Lucius leans back in the chair, pushing back slightly. The chocolate fills his mouth, rich, decadently exquisite, and he can't help but wonder how many people the Malfoys employ in their kitchen, or how many house-elves they have there – surely they can't afford it now, after the war?
“Come here, Harry.” He says, and Harry takes in a very slow, slow breath, but he stands up, stands and moves around the desk. Why is he doing this? Why is he-
Because he wants to. He wants to desperately, and he's never really been able to do much he's wanted to, not in the scheme of things.
He's shaking like a leaf, but he still takes two steps forwards, towards Lucius Malfoy, and he spreads his legs as Harry comes closer, leaning back even further in his seat as he looks up at Harry with an expression on his face that seems completely satisfied with the way Harry is moving toward him.
“Have you ever partaken of a man, Harry?” Lucius says, and his hands move to grasp at Harry's hips, thumbs pressing into the bone as he pulls Harry bodily forwards, until his legs are just between Lucius' knees.
“Don't see how that's any of your business.” Harry retorts, and Lucius lets out an amused little huff of laughter, playing over the fabric of Harry's robes and letting his hands cup the other's thighs through the green. Lucius pulls him abruptly close, and Harry stumbles a little, his hands resting on the older man's shoulders, and he looks right down at the other's face.
“Don't you? Perhaps I ought to demonstrate.” Every vowel is drawn out, every consonant perfectly enunciated, and Harry swallows as Lucius' fingers slide down his legs, hooking under his knees. Harry knows his breathing has gotten quicker, realizes the way he's almost panting from his place against the other's chest, but some part of him wants for the other man to touch him.
He's had sex with men before, but it'd been awkward, hurried, with Muggle men he was certain wouldn't know who he was – that's the case, usually. He hates the idea of ending up in bed with anyone who might photograph him, talk to the Prophet, or anything similar. Sharing a bed with someone is a bit uncomfortable for him as yet, and he's not sure that's going to change.
The nightmares make it hard.
“Yeah?” Harry manages to say, and he swallows hard as Lucius' fingers dip and then slide up under his robes to cup the flesh of his arse.
“Oh, yes.” Lucius says firmly, and he squeezes, and Harry lets out a sort of breathy sound. He leans, then, letting his knees bend slightly as he tries to move in for a kiss, but Lucius leans back slightly, drawing back just when Harry is but an inch away. “Ah-ah-ah. Patience is a virtue, Harry.”
With that, he pushes Harry back, and he's left shocked for a moment, disappointment sinking in his chest (followed immediately by a surge of guilt for how strong that disappointment is).
“Enjoy the rest of your cake.” Lucius murmurs, and he stands, vanishing what excess is left on the table and unlocking the door in two swift flicks of his wand.
---
Harry does not see Lucius Malfoy for the next week or so, until he's up several floors and arguing with Percy Weasley about paperwork standards.
“But this wasn't my fault.”
“I know it wasn't your fault! I'm not saying it was your fault, Percy, but I'm specifically forbidden from contacting Muggle offices, so if someone forgets to put in the Muggle half of the paperwork in, I have to come and talk to you.”
“We collected the Muggle paperwork!” Percy says, and God, he's such a stickler for this bloody stuff, but he's such a stubborn man. “We collected it from the Muggle enforcement office.”
“Yes, I know, but it's not in the file, so I need you to call them and get another copy.”
“But we already have one!”
“Well, where, Percy? Show me where and I'll piss off!”
“Is there something wrong here?” Both Percy and Harry turn sharply, and Lucius Malfoy hovers in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts doorway, one brow gracefully arched.
“Nothing at all, Mr Malfoy.” Percy says crisply, and he grasps the file in Harry's hand, taking it from him. “I'll send this down to you with the new copy this afternoon.”
“Thank you.” Harry says, irritation obvious in his voice, and he moves out from the office, then, moving past Malfoy – who, of course, falls into step behind him as he makes his way towards the lifts.
“You could hear us in the corridor then, Mr Malfoy?”
“I could indeed, Mr Potter.” Lucius says cleanly, and then he adds, “My family now has particular links with the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office.”
“So I've heard.” Harry returns, and it's weird – he can engage in this sort of public political talk, intended to bite back and forth. He hears it in the corridors all the time, but he's never really engaged in it himself, and he's surprised by the fact that he's enjoying it somewhat. “You've donated rather generously.”
“I should think my money is well spent.”
“Yeah? Seems you've changed your tune in recent years.” It's bizarre, Harry supposes, that in private he can press his body right against the other man's at the simplest of command (God, maybe he's just weak), and here in public he's playing political back and forth with him.
“I'm hardly the only one to have done so, with the war in mind.”
“Interesting way of phrasing it.” Harry says, and Lucius looks down at him with a perplexed expression.
“How so?”
“Well, just saying I when it's obviously Narcissa and Draco's decision rather than yours.” Lucius scowls at him, and Harry smirks a little as he grasps at the handles on the lift ceiling. He wasn't sorted into Slytherin, after all, but over the years he's become a little better at observation and at gleaning information from it. He's not completely surprised when Lucius accompanies him back to his office, and not completely disappointed, either, but once the door closes shut behind them Lucius has Harry pinned against the wall, a hand around his throat.
Harry goes for his wand, but Lucius says, “You are an alluring creature.”, and Harry shivers when he realizes this is play as opposed to actual threat.
“D'you think so?”
“Outside of the Weasleys, there are few in this building who would dare speak to me like that. So candidly, so sharply.” Lucius murmurs, and he squeezes the sides of Harry's jaw; whatever twisted part of him that makes him want to spare the child to have the rod himself affects him to press directly into the touch.
“What, does that turn you on?” The other man furrows his brow, evidently confused by the phrasing, and Harry amends, “Um. Arouse you.” Lucius presses his lips together, amused.
“Not precisely. I believe what turns me on, Harry,” Lucius says, and his hands roam over the other's robes. Harry presses up and into it, his own hands shifting awkwardly at his sides, “is considering the concept of punishing you for it later.”
“P-punishing me?” Harry repeats, because the word – especially the way this man says it – sends shocks through him in a way it never had when the threat had come at Hogwarts.
“Quite.” Lucius says quietly, tone awash with some sort of anticipation, and then he says, “I'd like to see you tonight.” Harry lets out a soft exhalation, pressing close to the other man. He hesitates, the words remaining tight to his tongue for a few moments, but then Harry decides to be more impulsive for once.
“Come home with me.” He says, and Lucius regards him thoughtfully.
“To Grimmauld Place?” It shocks him, for a second: he forgets every Death Eater probably knows about Grimmauld Place, now the war is over.
“No.” Harry says; Kreacher keeps Grimmauld Place in perfect conditions, but he has an apartment closer to the Ministry building which is smaller, easy to upkeep himself, and less infamous. Also, he can have a washing machine that works – in Grimmauld Place, such things are interrupted by the magic in the air, and he's never got the hang of magical cleaning charms.
“If Master would permit it,” Kreacher had croaked, expression distinctly disapproving. “Kreacher could clean Master Potter's clothes.” but, much to his chagrin, Harry had insisted on easier, more comfortable jobs for the (somewhat elderly) house-elf.
The idea strikes him with sudden amusement – no doubt the man against him would find the concept obscene.
“Not to Grimmauld Place; I live somewhere else.” Harry says, and Lucius hums, stepping back.
“Very well.” Harry watches him go from his office, and then he moves to pick up the stacked files upon his desk, and he moves down to begin putting them away – he feels excitement, trepidation, shame. Ron would kill him if he knew, kill him in less than a few seconds, and yet it's not quite a sufficient deterrent.
But surely it's better? Lucius Malfoy's reputation would be damaged as much as Harry's if their relationship were to be made public, and even if he's not a good person, perhaps that's better too. Harry is broken in some parts, he's certain of it – he's tired, and he has his issues, and trusting is difficult for romance.
And this isn't romance – it's just sex with an ex-Death Eater, which is probably worse, by most people's standards.
---
“This is me.” Harry murmurs, and he gestures for Lucius to step into the little Muggle flat before him. It's cosy, tremendously so, but it's quite conspicuously designed for the comfort of only one person, and there is no space at all to allow for more, in the long term.
The living room is covered floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with bookshelves that are full to the very brim, and in the centre of the room rests a deep green rug, atop which is a small, square table stacked with a few books and some letters Harry has yet to respond to. In one space in the shelves, a large mirror hangs on the wall, and on the shorter shelf's top, beneath the mirror, are a series of trinkets and a box for the letters Harry keeps. Tiny as it is, the room is quite full, and there are no sofas, no chairs.
Lucius turns, and Harry watches him as the older man examines Harry's little kitchen, with its washing machine, its toaster, its general Muggleness.
Harry steps past him, and he moves to the door across the room, turning its handle and leaning back into his bedroom, regarding Lucius with a silent expectation. Malfoy smirks, and suddenly his expression seems far more-
Something.
Sadistic, perhaps? Predatory?
Regardless of what exactly you could call that face, it sends jolts up Harry's spine, and he swallows as he steps back; Lucius Malfoy follows. In the doorway, he stops short, eyebrows raising in some surprise; the bedroom is just a four poster bed, a big, forest green armchair and more walls covered with shelves of books.
“What?” Harry asks, and Malfoy chuckles before he replies.
“I merely did not realize, Harry, that you had such fondness for Slytherin hues.” Harry frowns, looking from Lucius to the rest of the room, and he supposes he had gone for deep greens, in all truth. Ignoring the hundreds of books on each shelf (he'd really gotten into collecting them over the years, on all manner of magical topics), the curtains on the bed, the armchair, the walls-
Well, it is a lot of green.
Lucius is quite suddenly at his back, his mouth against Harry's neck, and his hands settle upon Harry's hips through the fabric of his work robes. Harry takes out his wand and casts a quick charm on his single bed, watching it widen slightly to accommodate a partner, and Lucius chuckles, his breath hot against the flesh of Harry's skin. He reaches, then, and one gloved hand takes Harry's wand from his hand.
For some reason it makes Harry relax, and he lets out a soft sigh of noise as he leans back against the other man's chest.
“What do you want me to do to you, hmm, Mr Potter?” Harry lets out a sort of awkward, sharp noise. That shouldn't make him feel anything, that little Mr, having his last name spoken with faux-politeness directly into his ear, but he feels like he might shake apart between the other's hands and Malfoy hasn't even touched him yet.
“I'm- not sure. Mr- L-” He doesn't know what to say, has no idea what to say, and then he says, “Sir.” It feels right, on one level, but on another it feels filthy, and he feels heat rise in his cheeks.
“There we are.” Lucius murmurs, and he abruptly sets Harry's wand aside, setting it to fly across the room and land on Harry's bedside table. He turns Harry around, and his fingers move swiftly over the fastenings on Harry's robes, and Harry lets him, leans slightly into the touch as Lucius' fingers move to undress him as rapidly as possible.
“You could just use a spell.” Harry whispers, and Lucius lets out a thoughtful croon of sound.
“I could.” He pushes the robe back from Harry's shoulders, then, revealing skin that's marked with scars, and then the robe is cast uncaringly aside. “You are delectable.”
“Ditto, I guess.” Lucius lets out a short, amused huff of sound against the back of Harry's neck at the awkward return of the compliment, and then he taps Harry's hip.
“Shoes.” Harry hesitates, for just a second or two, and then he obeys, kicking off the unobtrusive brogues he wears – they're neither plainly magical nor Muggle, selected to be as plain as possible, and once he's barefoot with his socks left aside, Lucius beams down at him.
He looks positively delighted, and Harry knows that some part of him should be frightened by that.
“You really like that I'm naked and you're not, don't you?” Harry manages to say, and Lucius' lip twitches as he touches an old scar on his hip from being hit by his cousin's bike when he was nine, touches over a bruise on Harry's thigh from getting jostled against some idiot's post trolley in the elevator.
“I do, in fact.” And then he pushes Harry back with an easy little shove, apparently enjoying the way he stumbles until the backs of his thighs hit his bed. “Lie down.”
“Why sh-” Harry gasps in a breath when the other man's hand abruptly wraps around the top of his throat, thumb and forefinger just squeezing below his jaw. A pause, and Harry wheezes. Lucius' hand reminds tight, his expression concentrated and just slightly amused, and Harry struggles for a second, one hand loosely moving to wrap around the older man's wrist, and he's dizzy, just slightly dizzy, can't quite-
Harry's left gasping as Lucius tips him backwards, and he falls onto his back on the mattress, heaving in breaths. He stares up at him, uncertain what to say as he massages his own throat, and after a short pause, Lucius says, “You're a masochist.”
“What?”
“A masochist. You enjoy being hurt.” Harry realizes that his cock is twitching with interest at his belly, that his skin is tingling and he wants to be touched. Lucius doesn't seem displeased.
“So?” Harry says sharply, and tries to hide the way his cheeks flush and he shivers, because it's embarrassing and it means there's something wrong with him, because you're not meant to like it when one of your friend's brothers claps you just a bit too hard on the back and it leaves the slightest bruise. What isn't wrong with Harry? He wants to have sex with men as well as women, is generally attracted to people a little older than him, he wants men to hurt him, and he's caused the deaths of so many people, no matter how many others he might have saved.
“So...” Lucius leans forwards, curling white fingers around the flesh of Harry's knees and then pushing his legs apart, spreading his thighs. “I, Mr Potter, am a sadist.” He pushes up, until Harry's legs are slightly in the air and his heels are at level with Lucius' knees.
“Oh.” Harry says, and Lucius smirks at him before his hand moves with lightning rapidity and smacks hard against the inside of Harry's thigh. It's just close enough to his cock that Harry feels a flash of panic, and then it's a hot pain that kills before it lingers on the skin, affecting it to warm and to tingle, and he lets out a ragged sound, head dropping back.
His head drops back, but he tilts his hips up.
There's a tense silence as Lucius' hand slips down, thumb pressing against the newly-made-pink flesh: there's a lot of muscle to Harry's legs, thanks to Quidditch and a run every morning, and perhaps that's why Lucius presses so hard.
“Do it again.” Harry says, and Lucius' reaction to the imperative is immediate, his hand moving to grasp at Harry's balls, and he lets out a harsh, desperate little noise because he doesn't want that much pain-
“Mr Potter, I don't want you to have any illusions,” Lucius murmurs, and he leans over the younger man, hand tightening just slightly, but not too painfully, not yet, “I will not be gentle with you. I will not be soft with you. And I will give the orders: you will not. Is that quite understood?”
Something rushes through Harry, something exhilarating and just like ecstasy, and when he breathes in he needs it, because for a few long seconds he forgot how to make his lungs inflate.
“Let me make something clear to you, Malfoy,” comes Harry's response, and then he continues, stiff tone quavering a little, “I'm not gonna be obedient for you. I'm not your house elf, and I'm not your son: I'm gonna do what I want, and I'll do what you want if it suits me.”
“Does it suit you?” Lucius asks, looking amused, and Harry frowns at him, brow knitting together. He'd been expecting an insult, not a question.
“Um. I guess.”
“There we are then: you will be obedient, and when you are not, I will punish you. I should think you'll enjoy that most of all.”
“What sort of punishment?” The question comes almost unbidden from Harry's lips, curiosity and arousal overpowering any wish to be ungracious.
“That, Mr Potter, remains to be seen.” Lucius' tone is even, almost reasonable, and Harry feels so vulnerable like this, one of the other's hands steady on his knee, the other wrapped around his bollocks – which, at this point, is actually somewhat awkward – with Lucius looking down at him. “Now, if it's quite alright with you, shall I continue laying attention on these thighs of yours until sitting down without a wince is merely a fantasy?”
“Laying attention.” Harry repeats mockingly, unable to resist. Lucius smacks his other thigh hard, and Harry arches with a harsh noise.
“That would be a yes in your mind, I suppose. On your belly, Mr Potter, if you please.”
“What if I don't please?”
“I believe I have demonstrated what will happen if you don't please.” Lucius says, some impatience showing through.
“Maybe I want another demonstration.” Harry says, and he doesn't know why he's so determined to be rebellious, why he wants to make Malfoy angry – surely it's something he should be trying to avoid, rather than to engender. Lucius, in a display of outward thought Harry would never have expected from such an aristocratic apparent gentleman, puts his tongue against his cheek so that the flesh shifts with it.
“Maybe you do. Mr Potter, I'm going to give you an order now, and it is vital that you obey it – I will allow for little rebellions in this charming little endeavour, but this I will require. If you are distressed, if I've hurt you too much, if you are panicking, if you need for me to stop – for any reason at all – you will say “snitch”.”
“Why would I-”
“Mr Potter.” Lucius says sharply in a way that would brook no ignorance; for a bizarre and striking second Harry is reminded of Severus Snape. “Am I understood?”
A pause, and then, “Yes. Sir.”
“Good.” And then Lucius grabs him by the hair, pulling him up with rapidity and pressing their lips together, so furiously Harry thinks for a second that Lucius will just bite at him and tear him apart, and Harry lets out a short, desperate noise into Lucius' mouth as he leans into the older man. And then he drags Harry across the room with him stumbling and gasping at the way that it hurts, God, Merlin, who knew having your hair pulled could ever hurt so much–?
Harry registers that Lucius has turned his armchair around only when he's bent over its high back, and when Lucius lets him go he touches at his own hair, rubbing at his scalp. “If you want to be hurt, Potter, I can always lend a helping hand,” Lucius says, “but blatant disrespect will lead to less immediate satisfaction.”
Harry opens his mouth, wanting to ask for a little further explanation, but then the palm of Lucius' hand slams down onto Harry's arse, and it burns with sudden pain, making him jolt against the chair. His knees buckle, and its the chair that holds him up. Lucius hits him again, on the other side, and then again and again, each blow landing flat against the skin and electrifying the paler skin – he hits Harry from cheek down to his mid-thigh, and soon enough the pain blends together, instead just lingering as sweet heat.
He feels odd, bizarre, slightly detached, and it actually feels good, so good-
Harry doesn't realize Lucius has stopped until the blond pulls him up, very gently touching his chin and raising his head to look into Harry's eyes. Harry leans into the touch, eyes half-lidding – is this bliss? Is this what ecstasy feels like?
He hears Lucius tut as if it's from far away, and Harry is carried back toward the bed, brought up to the pillow and laid on his side.
“It hurts.” He whispers when Lucius drags a featherlight touch over the burning skin of his arse, and Lucius hums.
“That tends to be the case when someone smacks your backside.” Harry lets out a giggle, and then stops, surprised at himself – he doesn't think he's giggled before. Lucius' hand moves from his back around to his front, and then it wraps around Harry's prick – he'd almost forgotten about it, forgotten he'd wanted to come a second ago, and he lets out a soft moan.
It's a combination of the warmth and pricking pain on his thighs and the touch that makes him come apart so quickly, and he isn't surprised when Lucius lets out a short, disgusted noise and flicks his hand, quickly casting a spell to clean up the mess. Prissy bastard.
“You're so vain.” Harry says.
“One can get quite far by being vain, Harry.” They're back to Harry now, are they? Harry looks at Lucius with slight perplexity. “Is it fading?”
“Is what fading?”
“Do you not feel euphoric?”
“Mmm.” Harry says, but as he thinks about it the rush seems to be dissipating, the pain on his arse is more real now, closer. It actually hurts, and this time when Lucius touches the backs of his thighs he flinches instead of pressing into the touch. “Ah, that's- bloody Hell, that's-”
“The pain brought you to a threshold of sorts, until you started feeling good as opposed to bad. It's quite an experience, hmm?”
“I want, I really wanna-” Harry registers, almost suddenly, that Lucius' chest is pressed against his back, feels Lucius' breath on the back of his neck, feels how close he is, and he's struck with a sudden claustrophobia, because Lucius is too close. He takes in a breath and he pulls away: Lucius lets him, sitting back on the edge of the bed and watching as Harry sits up, groans regretfully, and then lies on his side again. “Sorry.”
“Quite fine. Lie on your belly.” Harry leans back, lips pressed together.
“I don't really want- I could suck-”
“Not for sex, boy.” Lucius says with a bizarre apparent fondness, apparently charmed by Harry's reluctance. “I'm going to put a balm on your backside so you're capable of sitting down this week.” Harry blinks at him, and then slowly moves to lie on his chest, arms underneath him. Lucius doesn't take long to move and he hears the metal cap of some container unscrewing, and then Lucius' fingers touch against his arse, and the balm is cool and it soothes the ache in the new bruises. “Bizarre though it might seem, I do need you to trust that what I do will be to your benefit. I'm not going to murder you.”
“That remains to be seen.” Harry says, mocking what the other had said earlier, and Lucius' chuckle is quiet but in good humour nonetheless.
“Sleep on your chest tonight.” Lucius advises, tapping the back of his calf, and then he moves to stand. Harry whips his head around, frowning.
“You're going?” Lucius raises an eyebrow.
“Is that a problem?”
“I just- assumed you'd want to stay.” Harry says. Time and time again, he's gone home with some girl or other, or brought someone home, and they'd stayed, or he'd stayed. He's never been able to sleep with someone else in bed with him, and relief floods through him.
“Do you want me to stay, Harry? I had no intention of cuddling you all night and brushing your hair sweetly with my fingers.” Harry laughs a little, somewhat comforted by the older man's sarcasm.
“No. I can't sleep with someone else in my bed.” Harry doesn't know why he admits it, why he tells him something so revealing, but Lucius doesn't seem put off by the statement.
“Neither can I,” Lucius replies, and then continues, “Good evening, Harry.” His face is unreadable.
“Good night, Lucius.” Harry says, and he grasps at the blanket underneath him, pulling it over his body. He hears the door in the front room of his flat open, and then close, and he realizes when he puts his head to the pillow how suddenly tired he is. He sleeps, and for once he has neither dreams nor nightmares.
---
“I've got your file, Harry.” Percy says, and Harry takes it, offering the other man a slight smile.
“I'm sorry I got so irritated about it, Percy – but it is policy-”
“I know, I know-” Percy says lightly, waving it off, but he frowns a little at Harry, not leaving him be yet. “I was just, you know, a little worried – apparently Malfoy's come down to see you a few times, and when he interrupted us the other day. Getting a little pally with him, aren't you?” Harry's expression remains owlish, and then he tries to backtrack and seem more reasonable.
“Oh, Perce, he's not being too bad, he's just trying to sort out some paperwo-” It's strange, how easily the lie comes to his lips, and how easily Percy cuts through it.
“I know he's charming and all, Harry, but he's into some weird stuff.” Harry stares at him, his eyes slightly wide, and he notes that Percy's ears have gone red. “Just- don't. He'll want to hurt you.”
“Right.” Harry says quietly. What else should he say? Really, no one ever told him what you should say when a bloke who's a bit like your older brother warns you that the bloke who you really like hurting you probably likes hurting you. “Alright, Percy, I hear you.”
“S'alright.” Percy says shortly, and the blush is starting to flood from his ears to his cheeks, making his freckles connect. “I'll, um, I'll see you later.” And then he bustles off, the back of his neck almost the same colour as his hair.
Harry moves back to his own office, and he looks at his chair, considering sitting down to have a cup of tea, but then he shifts and feels the slight pain on the backs of his thighs; the balm had soothed away the pain last night and dimmed the bloom of the bruises, but it hadn't gotten rid of them.
Instead, he picks up the stack on his desk, dropping Percy's evidence retrieval file on the top, and disappears into the file room to work.
---
“Hello, Lucius.” Harry says as he comes out of the file room, and he's more than satisfied by the slight astonishment that goes over the older man's face for a fraction of a second, before it becomes composed once more.
“Harry.” Lucius is wearing basil green robes today, with emerald-shining ribbon instead of buttons holding them closed, and the sleeves are wide, old-fashioned; that style is coming back, so Witch Weekly had declared on its cover last week. “How, pray, is your backside?”
“S'alright.” Harry says, flicking his wand in the direction of the door to shut it closed. “How's yours?”
“Assiduously placed above my thighs, where it belongs, and quite untouched. As I prefer it.” Harry lets out a snort of laughter, regarding the older man with a bemused expression.
“You're funny.”
“I retain wit, at times.”
“You're funny.” Harry insists, and Lucius regards him with slightly raised, silver eyebrows, expression composed. “I've got a recognition ward up.”
“I guessed.” Lucius says lightly, and then adds, “Warding has always been my favourite sort of magic.”
“Really?” Harry asks, and he moves to pour water into his kettle from his wand before setting it to levitate and to boil.
“Indeed. I specialized in them after Hogwarts.” Harry turns to look at him, expression thoughtful as he conjures two mugs and two teabags from home.
“You don't work in wards now.”
“No,” Lucius murmurs, “I entered politics. It is- uncommon for men of my class to work. Particularly when such work involves base tasks such as home maintenance.”
“But you like it.” Harry points out, thinking of the delight with which Arthur Weasley had worked in the Muggle Artefact office for all those years, even though he could have applied for a promotion so many times.
“To some extent.” Harry begins to make the tea, a slight frown twisting his features, and he passes the first to Lucius, watching the way he sips – politely. It's a tiny movement of his lips and hands, aristocratic. “There is a reason for our traditions, you know. It is not merely ignorance on our behalves.”
“Why do you call us blood traitors?” Harry asks, and he sits on the edge of his desk, feet just moving to touch against the other man's knees.
“Pardon?” Lucius asks, and his tone is not particularly emotional, but his expression is obviously suspicious.
“No one has ever explained any of this stuff to me, you know. Why you lot act the way you do. Why you're so scared of Muggles. There must be reasoning to it.” Harry is curious, in all truth – he doesn't believe the reasoning makes sense, of course, but he wants to know. “I didn't come into magical society 'til I was eleven. I wasn't raised into it. Why do you call us blood traitors?”
“Because you are betraying your blood.” Lucius says simply. “By marrying outside of magical lines, by sympathizing with Muggles. They are a danger to us, Harry, to wizarding society as a whole.” He seems almost pleased that Harry is letting him explain this.
“Do you know what genes are?” Harry asks, and Lucius stares at him, expression momentarily uncertain.
“They're Muggle garments,” Lucius says reluctantly, and then begins to explain, “Trousers made of some sort of-”
“No. That's jeans: J-E-A-N. This is genes: G-E-N-E. Genes are these little things that make up something called DNA. DNA is like computer c-” Lucius' expression looks so blank. “Right, you know with traditional enchantments and stuff, runes are carved into rock or sewn into fabric?”
“I believe I did just say wards were my speciality.” Lucius says stoutly.
“And the runes all create a sort of code, don't they? A list of instructions for the magic to follow, so that they create the ward.”
“Yes.”
“Genes are the runes in DNA, which is the rock or the fabric. And the wards are us. People. DNA is in every living thing, from plants to cats to people, and it like, decides why people are the way they are. And when people are born, DNA combines from both parents to make the person, right? So that's why I look so much like my dad, 'cause I inherited a lot of the genes from him that decide how I look, but I got the genes that decide eye pigment from my mum.”
Lucius seems sceptical as he looks at Harry from behind his mug of tea. “So these genes make a man. And?”
“There are different genes for different things. Some are for things like diseases, really horrible diseases and disabilities and stuff that are inherited. Someone can have a gene for something like that without it being, uh-” Merlin, Harry doesn't actually know this stuff that well – he knows the gist of it, but he doesn't know the science. If only Hermione were here. “It's like, potions ingredients. They don't do stuff until they're combined with other ingredients, yeah? And these genes that aren't active, they're still inherited. They don't do anything 'til they're combined with similar genes.”
Lucius looks unimpressed.
“So when you have a kid with your cousin, who has the same gene for like, um, I dunno. Whatever made Bellatrix the way she was-” Lucius chokes on his tea, and almost spills some of it on the fabric of his robe, doing his best to swallow his laughter as he sets the cup aside. “It's combined. And you don't get the opportunity to add new stuff to the DNA, like you do combining with people that aren't related to, but you just concentrate the bad stuff over and over.”
“And this is some made-up Muggle information?”
“It's not made-up, Lucius, it's science.”
“Alchemy is a science; a waste of time for anyone without a Philosopher's stone.”
“No, it's not- that's not what it is.”
“What is it, then?”
“Science is just- the Muggles think of a theory, and then they research and experiment to prove it.”
“And they proved this?”
“Well, yeah, but they did it by looking at stuff under microscopes.”
“What are microscopes?”
“They let you look at really tiny stuff.”
“… Ants?”
“No, not ants, way smaller – the cells that make up the ants.”
“Cells? Like gaol cells?”
“No, they're these things that- they're-” This is beyond his knowledge. “Let's go have lunch.”
“We're abandoning your attempt to convert me to this Muggle religion, then?” Lucius asks amusedly, and Harry stares at him.
“For the time being.” Harry says grudgingly, and Lucius chuckles, amused. With that, he stands, and he offers Harry his arm.
“I'm not-”
“Mr Potter.” Lucius says commandingly.
“Are we Harry and Lucius when we're on equal ground and Mr and Mr when you're telling me what to do?” Lucius blinks at the sudden and honest question, and then he gives a graceful bow of his head.
“You couldn't glean that implicitly?” Lucius asks, expression somewhat expectant.
“I'm a Gryffindor.” Harry says as if it's an explanation, and Lucius, to his credit, takes it as one.
“Fair point. My arm.” Harry steps forwards, linking their arms and letting his fingers curl around Lucius', squeezing slightly at the green fabric of the sleeve and the muscle underneath. Lucius grasps at his cane, then, touching its head to a brooch on his robe front, and Harry feels the familiar hook at his belly, pulling him forwards-
When his feet hit ground again half his body is against the older man's, and he's holding Malfoy so tightly he feels he might actually hurt the bloke; when they stop moving he pulls away, heaving in a breath as he looks around.
“Where are we?” Harry asks: they seem to be in a fancy enough area, just ahead of a large building of white brick before them. Magical vines curl up the building's marble-shining pillars, and they flicker in the light wind, their flowers regularly changing from blue to red to yellow and then back through the cycle once more.
“Lyon.” Lucius answers shortly, and he offers his arm once more; Harry takes it this time, without complaint. “Do you speak French?”
“No.”
“Are you in the mood for play this afternoon, Mr Potter?”
“Yes, sir,” Harry says softly, and he elects to trust for the time being, because it'd be too obvious if Lucius tried to kill him, way too obvious. “Play like the other night?”
“Not exactly. This is a public setting, and subsequently I would advise keeping your clothes on.”
“And I had my heart set on streaking, too.” Lucius huffs an amused noise, and then he leads Harry up the path and into the building. It is a restaurant, Harry realizes, carpeted and curtained in red, with round tables that are clothed in white. The combination is nice, he supposes, especially with the gold in the candles and chandeliers, but the room is huge, ridiculously huge. “Where are we?” Harry asks again.
“Lyon. This is a restaurant. It is very important that you obey my instructions and treat me respectfully.”
“Bet you say that to all the boy-”
“I am not joking, Mr Potter.”
“Nor am I.”
“Shut up.” Harry lets out a little laugh, and he lets Lucius lead him to a table, allowing Lucius to push him to sit. He looks around, and he sees other tables – all with just two or three people seated at them, but he sees no waiters, no waitresses, no staff. He continues to look, and when he glances back to the table, there's a menu on the table, bound in red leather and decorated in a gold filigree.
“But- but where-”
“Magic.” Lucius answers airily as he peruses his own, elegant fingers paging through. Harry's gaze feels more drawn to Lucius' fingers than usual, and he stares at them, mouth suddenly going dry as he thinks of those fingers curled around his neck, sliding down his thighs, grasping at his arse- “Resist it, Mr Potter. We are here to eat.”
Harry lets out a quiet exhalation, and his arse twinges as he leans forwards, opening up the menu. It's in English, at least, but so much of it is foreign to him, fancy dishes he's never so much as heard of, let alone tried. He doesn't know what to pick – he has a thought, a vague thought probably provoked by whatever magic is making him think of Lucius having him over his table, of just picking something to impress the older man, but he doesn't know what would impress him, and really, why would he want to?
The inevitable question comes easily: “Do you feel it as well?”
“Whenever I look at you.” Harry looks up from his menu, staring at him, but Lucius' gaze is focused on the page before him, concentrating on one item, and then the next, and then the next. He stares at Lucius, and then he thinks of Percy Weasley, thinks of his little warning.
Maybe this is the wrong decision, but he wants, so desperately wants to have something just for him, and Lucius is that. Merlin knows no one else will approve of the decision.
“House's red wine.” Lucius says. “Preference as to a drink, Harry?”
“Just water.”
“Good.” There's a pause, and Harry is about to ask who they're meant to give the order to when he notices the glass of ice water to the side of his hand that hadn't been there a second ago. Magic: that's the best explanation.
“What's clapassade?” He asks, just to make some conversation.
“It's disgusting.” Lucius answers, and Harry can't help but laugh. “It's lamp ragout. It pits two tastes against each other: anise, and honey. It's common in Montpellier.”
“Are you French?” He has to ask. He's curious, wants to know more about Lucius in all truth, and when the other man replies he does it without looking up from the booklet clasped in his hands.
“I was born in Clapham.”
“But the Malfoys are French?”
“As are the Blacks.”
“Were.” Lucius glances up from from the menu clasped in his hands, regarding Harry for a moment or two. Harry thinks of Sirius, thinks of his delight at being the last potential propagator of the Black family line, and Lucius seems to think of the same. Harry doesn't think he's imagining the slight panic in Malfoy's eyes. Harry can't help but wonder if he usually puts the Department of Mysteries from his mind - Harry does, himself.
“Were.” The older man agrees cautiously. “Do you know what you want?” Harry shakes his head, unsure what to say, and then he thinks of how Lucius had shown up in his office and just set things in front of him.
“No. Pick for me.” Lucius winces; something electric shoots from Harry's wrists up his arms, something that makes his skin tingle and his body lurch, and he heaves in a gasp, shifting in his seat.
“What the- what was that?” It bloody hurt.
“You gave me an imperative.” Lucius murmurs. “Here, I give the orders.”
“This place- what, it understands…?” Harry's curiosity is piqued, his interest suddenly set to a slight flame, and he leans forwards, regarding Lucius with fascination. These days, really, he's more fascinated by new magic than he ever was in school.
“It regulates. It pushes you into your role, and me into mine. There used to be a shrine here. To Eros or Dionysus or Hedone, I don't recall – one of the Greek pleasure Gods.”
“What happens if I disrespect you?” Lucius' grey eyes meet Harry's, and the jolt comes again, shooting through him, and Harry flinches in his place. “What happens if I disrespect you-- sir?” Lucius' pale lips twist into a grimly entertained expression.
“I believe that answered your question, did it not, Mr Potter?”
“I like this.” Harry says, and he's not certain why, but he does. It fills him with a sense of bizarre and paradoxical security, that there are real rules in place.
“Do you?” Lucius asks: Harry guesses it's rhetorical. “Is there anything you don't like?”
“Roasts.” Harry says quietly, thinking of the dozens of times he'd been left to roast a joint, a chicken, a turkey or whatever for the Dursleys. The way his aunt had insisted he cook it, it had always ended up dry, tasteless: it somewhat puts him off.
“You'll have the ratatouille. To start, baked feta with warmed bread. Do you want dessert?”
“You decide.” Harry is expecting the jolt this time, and he lets out a sharp noise, squirming in his place; his cock gives a twitch beneath his robes.
“You are incorrigible.” Lucius says disapprovingly. “You'll have the profiteroles.”
“What are you going to have?” Harry asks softly.
“Cheese soufflé to start, with comté, followed by bourguignon.”
“What about dessert?”
“I won't need to order any.” Lucius murmurs.
“What? Why not? Agh-” Harry grasps tightly at the edge of the table, because this time the lightning bolt seems to rush from the soles of his feet right to his skull, where it reverberates inside the bone, or so it feels like.
“Did it hurt that time?”
“Yes.”
“Are you hard?” Harry is a little surprised at that, at Lucius being so frank about the question, but none of the other tables seem affected. He wonders if they can even hear.
“A little. I don't understand.”
“When you're aroused, you blush, and your cock becomes hard.” Lucius says in such a humourless tone Harry almost doesn't realize he's being mocking.
“Ha.” Harry says sarcastically. “I don't understand this. I'm not saying sir at the end of every sentence, but what, the magic tells when I'm being rude?”
“No. It tells when I think you're being rude.”
“You're a pillock. Yagh.” This time it lingers, burning through his skin, and the pain prickles at his cock; he feels his balls draw up, the tingling passing over the skin there as well, and-
“Don't you dare orgasm without my explicit permission.” Lucius' voice cuts through the tense air between them, and Harry chokes on a moan, simply because it's like his cock has suddenly been drenched in ice water.
“Lucius-”
“Are you learning?”
“Yes, yes, sir, God, Lucius, can you make it-” His expression is sadistic as he looks at Harry, but then it fades just a little, and at least he's at the right temperature between his legs. “Thank you.”
“That's a good lad.” Lucius murmurs, and Harry is about to respond when he's distracted by the scent of cheese, and he looks down. It's a clay bowl, and atop a layer of pepper pieces, tomato and cucumber is a square of white cheese scattered with oregano, a plate of bread beside the bowl. Harry reaches, picks at the bread and breaks it into pieces, taking one and presses it against the heated cheese, watching it crumble and press to the crust.
He takes a bite from it, then, and the salt of it is good on his tongue.
“C'est simple, mais c'est bon, ouais?” Lucius says, and then, “Translate what I just said to you.”
Harry hesitates, and then says, “I don't speak French,” but no jolt comes to punish him. He can't help but wonder the point of this, if it's just Lucius playing games with him. But then, isn't that the point of this, them together? Playing games?
“You can work it out. Contrary to all evidence, Mr Potter, I am well aware that you are not an idiot.”
“It's simple,” Harry starts, and Lucius nods his head. “And it's good?”
“No.”
“But it's good.” Lucius smiles at him, and for some reason it makes Harry feel suddenly warm. “Yes? No. That's oui. Uh, like yeah? Like that.”
“Exactement. Bravo.”
“Thanks.” Harry says awkwardly, and he begins to eat, watching the older man as he eats with a sort of primness Harry had more than expected. He eats meticulously, after all; Lucius, it would seem, has been carefully trained to be meticulous. It's something he's learning to be, these days, with his work, though he doesn't imagine he'll ever be like Malfoy. “What's the point of this place? I get what it does, but why?”
“It strengthens the bond.”
“Between dominant and submissive?”
“What makes you think that?” God, it's going to annoy Harry if Lucius keeps on trying to teach him.
“It's punishing me. And rewarding me.”
“And?” Lucius is looking at him expectantly, as if it's normal to make someone's partner figure out complicated questions over lunch.
“And we're dominant and submissive.”
“Look around you, Mr Potter. Is everyone here the same?” Harry glances at the others he can see; two women together, hands clasped together on the table; a man and two women laughing over a shared plate; a man and a woman looking into each other's eyes.
“No. It's not about dominance. Does the magic strengthen any bond?”
“No.”
“It strengthens sexual ones, sexual and romantic ones.” The warm feeling floods through him again, heated and pleasant, and Harry lets out a soft, pleased sigh. “I like this.” He says again.
“That may change once it's no longer easy.”
“Why wouldn't it be easy?”
“You shall see.” Harry frowns at Lucius, but then continues to eat, expression quietly thoughtful.
“Why does it feel good? The punishment?”
“Why did a stiff hand to your backside make you so pleased and wobbly I had to carry you to bed?” Harry bites his lip, worries the skin under his teeth, and feels his cheeks go slightly hot.
“It'll reach a threshold, though?”
“Clever boy.”
“Why are you such an ar-” Harry stops short, thinking it through. Lucius' expression is deceptively neutral. “You're condescending.”
“Because you like it.”
“Did Percy like it?” Lucius blinks at Harry.
“Percy? Who is Percy?”
“Percy Weasley.” Lucius furrows his brow slightly.
“Arthur Weasley's eldest boy?” His mouth twists around Mr Weasley's name, sharp about it, but Harry honestly has no time to complain about their apparently long-running mutual hatred.
“Third eldest. Eldest to work at the ministry, though.”
“If you say so.”
“You've never had sex with him?”
“With a Weasley?” Lucius bites out, evidently somewhat offended. “No.”
“Oh.”
“Why ever would you think I had?”
“It was just- something he said, but I just assumed-”
“Assumptions, Mr Potter, are not something I would routinely recommend.”
“Thanks for the advice, sir.” Harry retorts, and he leans back, looking up at the chandeliered ceiling for a moment. When he looks back, his mostly eaten bowl of feta is gone, and instead is a bowl of vegetables in some sort of red sauce; he breathes in, taking in the scent. “Ratatouille.”
“Mmm. Eat.” They eat their main courses in silence, and Harry enjoys the meal well enough, though it's not exciting, he supposes, but excitement hadn't been what he'd wanted. It's a little later that the dessert appears, a dish of profiteroles in cream and a sweet-scented caramel sauce, and Lucius is smirking at him.
“Eat. Finish, and I'll take you back.” It's said with a sort of significance to it Harry doesn't quite comprehend, and Harry puts a fork into one of the profiteroles, bringing it to his mouth and chewing. It's sweet, too sweet, the cream and caramel positively sickly, but he continues, eating two, and then three, and then four-
Lucius is watching him, fingers steepled in front of his lips, expression calculating. “What is it about this that you find so interesting? I'm just eating.”
“Look at your bowl.” Harry does, and he realizes it doesn't seem to have changed at all: it's the same pile of sweet pieces of pastry that had been there when the dish had first appeared.
“It's full.”
“It is.” Harry stares at it, feels the sickly taste dominating his mouth and making it dry.
“Is this a puzzle?” Harry asks and Lucius gives a slight shrug of his graceful shoulders – how does someone even have graceful shoulders? He looks from the profiteroles to Lucius, and then he stands, moving around the table. Lucius leans back in his seat, expression surprised, and Harry settles on his knee. “It's about reinforcing roles, right? You being in control, me following orders.”
One of his hands steadies itself on Lucius' shoulder, and he tries to ignore the burning embarrassment at being on Lucius' lap in public, but he's certain that in a place like this, it's different.
“You're not incorrect.” Lucius murmurs.
“So- um- please,” Harry flushes, because even though he might not like the dessert itself, the concept is not so horrible. “Please will you feed me? Sir.” Lucius stares at him; there's a sort of dim surprise on his face, slightly muted by his tendency to keep his expression neutral.
“Do you like the profiteroles, Mr Potter? Answer me honestly.”
“No. They're too sweet.”
“Do you want to eat more of them?”
“Not really, but if it's a test-” The bowl disappears as Harry looks at it, and one of Lucius' hands settles upon Harry's hip.
“The test, Mr Potter, is my own. The restaurant merely provides a focus for it.”
“But we didn't-”
“You passed, Mr Potter, with flying colours.”
“Just by figuring it out?” Harry asks, expression sceptical.
“Oh, no. Just by being so terribly willing to fulfil your selected role.”
---
“Thank you.” Harry murmurs as he drops into his own office once more, and Lucius regards him with a slight affection on his face, and he begins to walk toward the door. “Why me?” Harry asks before Lucius reaches it, and Lucius smirks.
“Pardon?”
“Why me? What is it, that I killed Voldemort?”
“You think you murdered him.” Lucius says cleanly, even though it's not an answer and not something he really wants to hear, and Harry is stopped short, mouth open. “It shows, to one who knows what to look for, you know. You feel guilty. He had murdered so many people, and yet you still felt guilty.”
“He was still a man.” Harry says in a soft, almost-whisper. He's never discussed that particular guilt, not with Ron, not with Hermione, not with anyone. “Murder is-”
“It was not murder.” Lucius interrupts him cleanly, voice cutting. “It was self-defence, and defence of others. Thousands of others, myself, my son and Narcissa included. But no, Mr Potter, to answer your question, that is not why – though it lends some assistance. You are in the public eye and you are a man, and thus if our relationship was revealed to the press, you and I would each be equally harmed. You moreso, in fact.”
“Plus you're a sadist, and I'm a masochist.” Lucius nods his head in a neat, subtle movement. “And you're what I need.”
“Am I?”
“You're older. Educative. Cold.”
“You're younger, malleable, and you're a disturbingly charming irritant of a creature.”
“Thank you.” Harry says, and Lucius regards him for a moment or two.
“You are welcome, Mr Potter. If it helps- you're also pretty.”
“Not as pretty as you are,” Lucius smirks, and then Harry adds, “for a peacock.” The smile freezes, and is replaced with an abrupt expression of affront.
“Rude.”
“You like it.”
“Oh, yes.” Lucius agrees, and he grasps for the doorknob. “It would seem I do.”
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Obedience And Instruction