Harry remembered his arrival at the Dursley's the previous summer. He remembered the hatred in their eyes, and he remembered the fear that lay beneath it. He remembered waking up screaming, screaming so loudly he was afraid he'd wake the dead. He remembered his "family" rushing in and yelling, just as loudly, for him to stop his childish hollering, and to get back to bed.
He remembered collapsing on the floor, the pain in his scar white hot, searing, coursing straight through, like a knife, deeper and deeper, twisting, burning, hurting. He remembered the fear it caused his "family", how they pushed their chairs from the kitchen table in a hurry, leaving him writhing on the floor, in agony, fearing his head would split.
He remembered the dreams, seeing Cedric, his parents, Voldemort, the Death Eaters, even the old man, again and again and again. He remembered the pressing guilt, and the depression that sank deep into his soul, turning everything black, feeding on his heart, sinking into his very being.
He remembered the knife, the shining, silver, beautiful knife. He remembered pulling it, and pushing it, and watching the beautiful line of crimson that appeared, the release that helped him forget, the rush it gave him. He remembered how he felt alive, how he felt calmer, how he could push aside his visions of death and heartache.
But then it was time for Hogwarts, the place where he could escape, and be free, and leave behind those that hated him. But he still wasn't free. He was famous, too famous, and feared, too feared. He wanted to scream, scream that he wasn't a murderer, scream that he wanted to save Cedric, scream that he never meant for anything to have gone wrong, but he couldn't scream it if he didn't believe himself.
And no one understood. Not Ron, not Hermione, not Sirius, not anyone. They promised he'd feel better. He didn't. They promised he'd accept it. He didn't. They promised that he was fine, that he was okay, that he was great and wonderful and powerful, and was innocent. But he wasn't, he wasn't, and he couldn't be. He spiraled downwards, with no one to catch him, no net waiting for him, no hand to grasp onto. He was alone in the dark, without a light, without a friend, and without hope.
But Draco. He didn't understand. But he didn't try to. He didn't think Harry was wonderful. He didn't think Harry was the savior that some people made him out to be. But he didn't think Harry was the monster that the rest of the people saw him as. He saw him as Harry, something he wanted, something he wanted for reasons other than a grasp of fame. He lusted for Harry, and that was one of the only emotions left that penetrated Harry's shield.
So Harry went to him. And claimed him. And made him his own. But it wasn't enough. He liked the pain, he liked the mystery, he liked the thrill of knowing you could get caught, but he knew that there was something else out there.
So Lucius came to find out. Walked in on them in fact. Raised a perfect eyebrow, perfect mouth contouring into something that resembled a smile, but sent chills deep into Harry's heart. Draco mumbled something and disentangled himself from the other boy, grabbing his clothes, and hurrying out of the room.
Leaving Harry alone with Lucius, still wearing his peculiar smile, his eyes dancing with amusement and malicious intent. He encircled the bed, much like a predator to prey, expression never changing, eye's never leaving Harry's exposed form. Harry was no longer afraid - only curious. Curious to see what the older man would do, curious to how he was handling finding his heir in bed with his enemy, curious to see what was going to happen next.
Nothing. Nothing happened. Lucius merely continued to watch him, and then walked straight out of the room, leaving Harry curious as ever, and wanting to know where he had been left.
The next day Draco thought it would be better if they took a few days off, waiting to see if Lucius would pull anything, wanting to make sure they were safe. Draco said he would be going away with his mother for the holidays, without his father, to make sure he wouldn't get the brunt of his father's wrath. And so he went.
But Harry wasn't sure that Lucius was angry, that he'd want to hurt them. So he went to find him. His curiosity had reached a climax, throbbing in his head, needing to know what went on behind Lucius' facade. He stole some floo powder - easy enough. He stole away to Dumbledore's office during dinner - easy enough. Floo'd right into Malfoy Manor - easy enough.
It was as grand and as cold as he'd imagined. Darkness settling on his shoulders, much like the darkness settling inside him. Cold seeping into his bones, much like the cold surging through his body. A fire crackled, light escaping through an open doorway. Harry walked forward, drawn by the light, wanting to know what, or who, he'd find through the doors.
He found his answer. Lucius, sitting elegantly in his chair, an older replica of Draco, but more poised somehow (though Draco was most certainly poised) and more elegant than Draco (though he'd never seen anyone more elegant than Draco before), and colder, darker, more thrilling than Draco (though Draco had been colder, darker, and more thrilling than anyone he'd met before). Lucius sat, staring straight at Harry, expecting him, knowing when he would come, and never questioning how or why. He sat staring, calculating, running his fingers along the rim of a wine goblet.
And what fine fingers he had. Long and tapered, perfectly manicured, strong and able, yet elegant. Like the rest of him. His trademark golden hair, laying perfectly across his head, his slim arms on the arm of his chair, his muscular legs crossed elegantly, his beautiful, strange eyes perfectly focused. When he rose, Harry was almost saddened to see the picture of elegance disturbed. But he was much more interested in the approaching figure, closing in on him, eyes still trained on his face, flickering from his lips, to his glowing emerald eyes, to the famous scar that marred his forehead.
And his eyes stayed on the scar, as his fingers rose to trace it, sending chills running along Harry's spine. No one had ever touched his scar before. No one. Yet Lucius did now, his finger tracing the lightening pattern, and Harry let him, as he held his breath, and stared straight into the other man's eyes. Then his other hand was running down his arm, perfect fingers leaving raised flesh in their wake. Then it made it's way downwards, lifting Harry's shirt, and stroking the warm skin that he met there, eyes never leaving Harry's.
And the first hand left the scar to cup Harry's chin, as he tilted his own head slightly and leaned in, lips brushing softly against Harry's once, twice, three times. Pulling back to look at Harry's face. Eyes a shade darker than before. And he leaned in again and pressed his lips to Harry's again, this time harder, with more force, pushing his tongue through the barrier of flesh and teeth, tasting the sweetness and the bitterness, indulging in the forbidden. And Harry was excited, very excited, and feeling alive, so much more alive than he had in months, even more alive than he felt with Draco.
He raised his own hands, one to grasp onto the golden strands of hair that shimmered and shined in the light of the fire, the other moving to settle on the other roaming hand, pushing it downwards, closer and closer to it's heated destination. Moving past clothes, into warmth and feeling and pleasure. Eliciting moans and sighs and sounds of pleasure that had never been emitted before. Those elegant, perfect fingers, stroking, stroking, stroking, so talented, so perfect, so experienced, knowing exactly what to do, and doing it perfectly, making sure that no one else could ever do the same, could never cause the same pleasure and pain that now coursed through Harry's body, dizzying him, causing his head to fall back, and causing the heat to expand to fever pitch.
Though there was no actual "intimacy", Harry's experience with Lucius was better than anything else than he'd ever experienced in his entire life. It opened him up to his other side, to the side that wanted the impossible, took the impossible, and made it his own. The side that not only touched the darkness but reveled in it, dove in it, did as it pleased in it. The side that Harry now wanted. The side he now needed. The side he now experienced. The side he now wanted.
The next day, he felt alive. Felt power in him, felt mystery in him. Ron and Hermione noticed, but didn't say anything. Draco noticed and was curious, anxious, wondering what had happened. But Harry ignored him all. There was only one thing he wanted now. Lucius.
He remembered collapsing on the floor, the pain in his scar white hot, searing, coursing straight through, like a knife, deeper and deeper, twisting, burning, hurting. He remembered the fear it caused his "family", how they pushed their chairs from the kitchen table in a hurry, leaving him writhing on the floor, in agony, fearing his head would split.
He remembered the dreams, seeing Cedric, his parents, Voldemort, the Death Eaters, even the old man, again and again and again. He remembered the pressing guilt, and the depression that sank deep into his soul, turning everything black, feeding on his heart, sinking into his very being.
He remembered the knife, the shining, silver, beautiful knife. He remembered pulling it, and pushing it, and watching the beautiful line of crimson that appeared, the release that helped him forget, the rush it gave him. He remembered how he felt alive, how he felt calmer, how he could push aside his visions of death and heartache.
But then it was time for Hogwarts, the place where he could escape, and be free, and leave behind those that hated him. But he still wasn't free. He was famous, too famous, and feared, too feared. He wanted to scream, scream that he wasn't a murderer, scream that he wanted to save Cedric, scream that he never meant for anything to have gone wrong, but he couldn't scream it if he didn't believe himself.
And no one understood. Not Ron, not Hermione, not Sirius, not anyone. They promised he'd feel better. He didn't. They promised he'd accept it. He didn't. They promised that he was fine, that he was okay, that he was great and wonderful and powerful, and was innocent. But he wasn't, he wasn't, and he couldn't be. He spiraled downwards, with no one to catch him, no net waiting for him, no hand to grasp onto. He was alone in the dark, without a light, without a friend, and without hope.
But Draco. He didn't understand. But he didn't try to. He didn't think Harry was wonderful. He didn't think Harry was the savior that some people made him out to be. But he didn't think Harry was the monster that the rest of the people saw him as. He saw him as Harry, something he wanted, something he wanted for reasons other than a grasp of fame. He lusted for Harry, and that was one of the only emotions left that penetrated Harry's shield.
So Harry went to him. And claimed him. And made him his own. But it wasn't enough. He liked the pain, he liked the mystery, he liked the thrill of knowing you could get caught, but he knew that there was something else out there.
So Lucius came to find out. Walked in on them in fact. Raised a perfect eyebrow, perfect mouth contouring into something that resembled a smile, but sent chills deep into Harry's heart. Draco mumbled something and disentangled himself from the other boy, grabbing his clothes, and hurrying out of the room.
Leaving Harry alone with Lucius, still wearing his peculiar smile, his eyes dancing with amusement and malicious intent. He encircled the bed, much like a predator to prey, expression never changing, eye's never leaving Harry's exposed form. Harry was no longer afraid - only curious. Curious to see what the older man would do, curious to how he was handling finding his heir in bed with his enemy, curious to see what was going to happen next.
Nothing. Nothing happened. Lucius merely continued to watch him, and then walked straight out of the room, leaving Harry curious as ever, and wanting to know where he had been left.
The next day Draco thought it would be better if they took a few days off, waiting to see if Lucius would pull anything, wanting to make sure they were safe. Draco said he would be going away with his mother for the holidays, without his father, to make sure he wouldn't get the brunt of his father's wrath. And so he went.
But Harry wasn't sure that Lucius was angry, that he'd want to hurt them. So he went to find him. His curiosity had reached a climax, throbbing in his head, needing to know what went on behind Lucius' facade. He stole some floo powder - easy enough. He stole away to Dumbledore's office during dinner - easy enough. Floo'd right into Malfoy Manor - easy enough.
It was as grand and as cold as he'd imagined. Darkness settling on his shoulders, much like the darkness settling inside him. Cold seeping into his bones, much like the cold surging through his body. A fire crackled, light escaping through an open doorway. Harry walked forward, drawn by the light, wanting to know what, or who, he'd find through the doors.
He found his answer. Lucius, sitting elegantly in his chair, an older replica of Draco, but more poised somehow (though Draco was most certainly poised) and more elegant than Draco (though he'd never seen anyone more elegant than Draco before), and colder, darker, more thrilling than Draco (though Draco had been colder, darker, and more thrilling than anyone he'd met before). Lucius sat, staring straight at Harry, expecting him, knowing when he would come, and never questioning how or why. He sat staring, calculating, running his fingers along the rim of a wine goblet.
And what fine fingers he had. Long and tapered, perfectly manicured, strong and able, yet elegant. Like the rest of him. His trademark golden hair, laying perfectly across his head, his slim arms on the arm of his chair, his muscular legs crossed elegantly, his beautiful, strange eyes perfectly focused. When he rose, Harry was almost saddened to see the picture of elegance disturbed. But he was much more interested in the approaching figure, closing in on him, eyes still trained on his face, flickering from his lips, to his glowing emerald eyes, to the famous scar that marred his forehead.
And his eyes stayed on the scar, as his fingers rose to trace it, sending chills running along Harry's spine. No one had ever touched his scar before. No one. Yet Lucius did now, his finger tracing the lightening pattern, and Harry let him, as he held his breath, and stared straight into the other man's eyes. Then his other hand was running down his arm, perfect fingers leaving raised flesh in their wake. Then it made it's way downwards, lifting Harry's shirt, and stroking the warm skin that he met there, eyes never leaving Harry's.
And the first hand left the scar to cup Harry's chin, as he tilted his own head slightly and leaned in, lips brushing softly against Harry's once, twice, three times. Pulling back to look at Harry's face. Eyes a shade darker than before. And he leaned in again and pressed his lips to Harry's again, this time harder, with more force, pushing his tongue through the barrier of flesh and teeth, tasting the sweetness and the bitterness, indulging in the forbidden. And Harry was excited, very excited, and feeling alive, so much more alive than he had in months, even more alive than he felt with Draco.
He raised his own hands, one to grasp onto the golden strands of hair that shimmered and shined in the light of the fire, the other moving to settle on the other roaming hand, pushing it downwards, closer and closer to it's heated destination. Moving past clothes, into warmth and feeling and pleasure. Eliciting moans and sighs and sounds of pleasure that had never been emitted before. Those elegant, perfect fingers, stroking, stroking, stroking, so talented, so perfect, so experienced, knowing exactly what to do, and doing it perfectly, making sure that no one else could ever do the same, could never cause the same pleasure and pain that now coursed through Harry's body, dizzying him, causing his head to fall back, and causing the heat to expand to fever pitch.
Though there was no actual "intimacy", Harry's experience with Lucius was better than anything else than he'd ever experienced in his entire life. It opened him up to his other side, to the side that wanted the impossible, took the impossible, and made it his own. The side that not only touched the darkness but reveled in it, dove in it, did as it pleased in it. The side that Harry now wanted. The side he now needed. The side he now experienced. The side he now wanted.
The next day, he felt alive. Felt power in him, felt mystery in him. Ron and Hermione noticed, but didn't say anything. Draco noticed and was curious, anxious, wondering what had happened. But Harry ignored him all. There was only one thing he wanted now. Lucius.