Pairings: Lucius Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Word Count: ~2,400
Warnings: Cross-dressing, dub-con
Summary: "There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls." —George Carlin
Author's Notes: Many thanks to my betas. Thanks for such a delicious prompt, belladonna1185! I hope you enjoy this.
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling; no copyright infringement intended.
The moon shone down upon all of us from the open window, dappling Potter in patches of light and shadow, hiding and illuminating too much. Potter was beautiful, in an alien way; like a woman. He was barely wearing anything: stockings, glitter, a few lengths of silk wrapped strategically around his body. He seemed to notice my gaze, and he liked it. He giggled and preened, though not too much, of course; he wouldn't want to make Malfoy jealous.
Whore, I thought as I stabbed a piece of fish with my fork. It was obscene. Potter was spread on Malfoy's lap, his genitals and his arsehole visible through the translucent silk. They were almost fucking on the table. It was nearly enough to put me off my dinner. Rude, inconsiderate people, who had no regard for their dinner guests….
Malfoy seemed to notice my anger, and enjoyed it, the bastard. He flicked up the silk fluttering gently between Potter's legs, squeezed the curve of Potter's arse, showing a brief flash of cheek in the process. He murmured something in Potter's ear. He simpered prettily. The twit.
"I'm done," I said, putting aside my plate. "Thank you. Lucius. Narcissa. It was a wonderful evening."
"Oh, don't go yet." Narcissa fluttered. "Stay a little longer."
"Thank you, but no," I said tersely. "I need to go."
It was disturbing, I reflected. How quickly Potter had acclimated to his captivity. I would have never expected him to become so… compliant, so wanton. So utterly his.
How I loathed him.
The darkness of my house did nothing. He—his face, flushed, mouth open, the outline of his half-hard cock against the thin silk, him—remained firmly imprinted on the backs of my eyelids.
He had been beautiful even then, at Hogwarts, though of course I hadn't done anything, not under Dumbledore's watching gaze. He'd been obstinate—stubborn Gryffindor pride and the blindness of youth. All of that was gone now, long since eroded away. Lucius had stripped away his flesh, then built him up again, molding him in his image all the way down to his lovely bones.
The Potter I had known would have died before letting this happen to him. And yet even he had succumbed, in the end, to warmth and rich foods hand-fed to him from fingertips. To captivity. Luxurious captivity, with gold bars and silken ropes, but captivity nonetheless.
I ran this betrayal through my mind, over and over, trying to see exactly what about it had rankled me so. The way Potter had curled up on Lucius's lap, like a kitten. The adoring look Potter had given him. It wasn't love. Of course not. But it was a damn sight more than anything I would ever have.
Greedy sod. Lucius wasn't content with owning Potter's body. He had to own his love—devotion—as well.
The fireplace whooshed open. Someone was trying to get in.
I went downstairs, drawing my wand. "Who is it?"
The Potter boy. What did he want?
"Potter." I opened the Floo door, and he came tumbling out, flushed and sweaty from the fire.
"S-Snape," he stuttered again, dumbly blinking his black-lined eyes at me. He was still wearing that ridiculous get-up he'd had on at Malfoy's dinner. "I—I needed to talk to you."
"You know," he said, his eyes darting around the cottage. He wouldn't look at me straight. "The…." His voice drifted off. "The Order."
The Order. I hadn't heard from any of them in more than a year. I hadn't even heard the bloody word spoken for months, and even then it had been whispered, by drunkards and harlots who fucked secrets out of men. Not by Malfoy's concubine, and his most trusted friend.
"The Order is gone," I said, perhaps a bit harsher than I had intended. But it was true. Voldemort had won, and what remained of the resistance had long crumbled away. There was nothing left for them, and precious little for the rest of us.
"We're still here," he said mulishly. "Come on, Snape. We need to talk."
Well. Perhaps he wasn't as downtrodden and defeated as I'd thought he was.
I sighed. "Well, come on, then." I led him to my bedchambers. They were warded more securely than the rest of the house.
"This is nice," he said, perching on my bed like an oversized bird-of-paradise.
"Not as luxurious as your usual accommodations, I expect."
He flinched. "This is fine."
I sat down beside him. "So, Potter. What about the Order?"
He frowned. "What do you know about it?"
"How would I know anything?"
"Well…." He looked down at the swathe of silk covering his lap. "Haven't you been doing anything? Talking to anyone?"
"There is no one left to conspire with, Potter." Why didn't the idiot boy understand?
"Oh," he muttered. "Figures."
"What do you want?"
Twin spots of color rose up high on his cheeks. Potter even blushed like a girl. "It's just that—well—I would've expected you to do something," he said vehemently. His hands clenched into fists, fingers twisting and strangling the thin silk like it was a long, pale throat.
I felt bile rising up in the back of my throat. I wanted to kill him, choke the selfishness and the stupidity out and leave behind nothing more but a husk. A doll.
"You're suggesting that I go out and risk my life for your cause, while you lie safe and cosseted at Malfoy Manor," I said slowly. "Expecting me to protect you. For what, Potter? Why should I do this?"
He paled. He hadn't thought of that.
I slapped him on his bare left shoulder, watched the pale skin redden and flush. "You selfish, insolent brat. You never think of anyone but yourself, do you?"
"That's not true!" he protested. "Besides, it's not like that. I'd fight, you know. If I could."
"And yet you cannot," I said. "How convenient."
"Don't," he snarled. "If we work together, maybe we could—there has to be something we can do."
"Nothing. There is nothing we can do, Potter, and the sooner you realize that, the happier you will be."
"So you are?" Potter challenged. "Happy, I mean?"
"No," I said. "But I'm happier than I used to be."
"Really," he said skeptically.
"I don't need you to believe anything I say, Potter."
Besides, what I had said was true. I was happier. What kind of life had it been, anyway? Sneaking around, serving two masters, being in constant fear of my life.
No. No life at all. I was much better off under Voldemort's reign than I had ever been before.
"All right," Potter said. He let it go.
"Why are you still here, Potter?" I said.
He cocked his head up to look at me. "Can't I just want to visit?"
"Potter," I growled.
"Fine," he said petulantly. "I came here because…." He paused.
"Spit it out, Potter."
"I—" His fingers twisted again, this time digging themselves into the fabric of my bed sheets. "Look," he muttered, his face bright red, "maybe it's better if I just… showed you?" He relaxed his fingers and smoothed down his loincloth.
"Showed me what?"
He swallowed and leaned forward to kiss me. His lips were soft and slick, already red, like mulberries. His tongue gently prodded the ridge of my teeth, so wet, like I was melting—
I pushed him away. "Potter. Stop it."
"What?" He blinked. "Why?"
"What makes you think," I hissed, "that I would want to sleep with you?"
"I—oh," he muttered. Then he looked up at me again. "Well, you're lying." He moved to straddle my lap and nudged his knee against the bulge between my legs.
He was right.
"It doesn't matter," I said. "I'm not going to fuck you, Potter."
You belong to someone else.
I closed my eyes. "If Malfoy finds out…."
"He won't," Potter said authoritatively.
How are you so sure? I wanted to say. But I held my tongue. "Why?" I asked instead.
He bit his tongue. "I… I don't know. I guess I just wanted to try it? Just once, maybe."
"You've already had sex before, Potter." Don't pretend you're a virgin.
"I know," he said. "But not like this. You know…." He looked away. Then back at me. "Please," he gasped, crawling into my lap, until he'd settled there, spread across, like he'd been at the dinner table tonight. And I did not know how he did this—if he were an angel or devil sent here on Earth by a cruel and vengeful god to punish me—but I could not tell him no. Not like this, when he'd made himself so vulnerable.
I could stop this, right now. I could force him off my lap, go downstairs and use the Floo to Malfoy Manor. Tell Lucius just exactly what his little pet had been doing. And Potter knew it. Yet, still, he had chosen to come here, to attempt—in his feeble, utterly pathetic way—to seduce me. Foolish, idiotic, beautiful boy. My boy. If only for an hour.
"Kiss me," Potter entreated. I did, and then I was lost.
Potter melted underneath me, fused himself closer, tried to wrap himself around me with little gasps and moans. His fingers dug into my robes, into my shoulder blades; there would be bruises in the morning. My tongue flickered out over his lips, into his mouth. He gently bit down on it. I moaned.
Too close. Far too close. The tiny, reptilian part of my brain was telling me to stop, that this was wrong, that I would regret this soon. I'd always listened to that part of me before. It was how I had survived this war, two of them, spying for both sides. I'd never let myself get too attached to anything, precisely for this reason. How ironic. I'd gotten hopelessly attached anyway.
My hands moved down his naked back, to the flimsy little piece of cloth barely covering his nudity. They clenched on it until my knuckles strained white, the sharp points of my nails about to rip through. I wanted to tear it off. Burn it in the Floo.
Potter was the one to stop me. He gently disengaged my fingers from his covering, his green eyes blinking at me stupidly, as if he couldn't believe what I was doing. I couldn't believe it, either. I was normally so controlled. I shook my fingers free, then reached up to his face. I took off his glasses—wire-rimmed, the same ones he'd worn during his last year at Hogwarts, still with nary a scratch—and placed them on my dresser. "Close your eyes," I whispered. He did.
Potter was so responsive, and though I didn't fool myself into thinking that most of his reactions weren't false, at least I knew that some of those were solely mine. I absorbed them, drinking them up like a dying plant craving sunlight, then moved in deeper. My hands slid down his spine, his chest, fingers gently pinching pebbled nipples. I gripped a hold of that damnable loincloth and slid it off his body, throwing it on the floor. It wasn't the fire, but it was close enough.
Potter's prick was hard and hot, inflaming my own lust, as well. I didn't bother taking off my clothing; that wouldn't be needed. This—whatever this was—would be quick, hasty fumbles by dark or by candlelight, always with an eye and an ear out for other people, intruders. More body parts sacrificed to the Dark Lord, as if the mark on my forearm and the scar on his forehead and Potter's blood running through the Dark Lord's veins weren't enough of a sacrifice. I undid my trousers, looked away from the ugly, purple head. I looked back at him instead, all soft lines and slender, pink prick. A clear drop of pre-come formed on the head as I stared. I pulled him closer.
It felt too familiar—the warm weight of him in my arms, the hot, hard friction of his cock, rubbing against mine with only a few drops of pre-come to slicken it. I could feel the delicious warmth, the friction, against my cock as he gasped and bucked his hips against me as he came. I was panting, trembling like a thinly stretched string being plucked.
Potter drove his hips into me harder, his breaths ragged and hot against my ear. The string snapped, driving me over the edge. I closed my eyes and let myself fall.
Potter gasped and spluttered when the first ropy strands of come landed on him in thick white streaks, but made no move to wipe them off.
Well. So I hadn't ended up fucking him, after all.
I didn't realize I'd said that out loud until he responded. "Did you want to?" he asked, looking up at me. But when I met his gaze, he lowered his eyes. "I mean," he said, "sorry, but—that is, maybe next time we could—" he stammered.
He smeared the come on his stomach with his finger and looked at it curiously, before taking a corner of my sheet to wipe it off. I sighed and reached for my wand; a second later, he was clean and completely dry. "Oh," he said bemusedly. "Thank you."
It was getting late. "Potter…" I said. I did up my trousers.
"I should go, right?" He got up and put his clothes back on.
"All right," he said. He bent down and gave me a kiss. "Next time, you can fuck me," he said.
Then he was gone, leaving nothing more than a smear of lip gloss and a few sprinkles of glitter behind. I heard the whoosh of the Floo a few seconds later. Then silence.
Somewhere, a wolf howled; I could hear it through my window. It was Lupin, I was sure. Normal wolves wouldn't be foolhardy enough to venture this near to a magical dwelling, especially not one as tainted by dark magic as this. He'd come near my house for a reason. To tell me—all of us, the Death Eaters—that he, at least, was still there. Still fighting, his ideals and morals still firmly intact. Perhaps it was meant as reassurance. Or as a warning.
It cried out again, louder this time, thin and tremulous. I wondered what Remus would say about all this, if he were here, and human.
I wondered what I would say back.