InsaneJournal

FIC: We Two Alone, Lucius/Severus, Lucius/Harry, Lucius/Draco
Author: Tarie
Title: We Two Alone
Pairing: Lucius/Severus, Lucius/Harry, Lucius/Draco
Summary: After the War, Lucius finds himself employed by Nott the elder as a Caller. Some days, business is rather booming.
Excerpt: He is nothing and this boy is Something. No, this boy is not Something. He is The Something, and Lucius will do as he says. He has no other choice.
Warning: Incest
Word Count: 2,000
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and universe are property of JKR, Scholastic & other assorted publishers, and the WB.
Notes: Title comes from a line in Shakespeare's King Lear, which is quoted near the end of the fic. "Blackbird" was written by Beatles members, so plz do not be suing.

The Galleons are cool and familiarly heavy as they balance atop his lidded eyes. He sighs, remembering a time when he had more Galleons than God and power coursing through his veins. During that time he had been revered by many, hated by more, and Lucius Malfoy had loved it.

A grunt, the pushing apart of his thighs, and the sensation of invadingtearingpushingowning jerk his frame hard. Off slip the Galleons and they ring-a-ling clatter to the floor, and Lucius knows the time with Galleons and Power had long since passed. Lucius is in the here and now, in the empire He had seen fit to pass onto the Whore. That had been His last mistake, allowing the Whore to follow in his now-faded footsteps.

Bellatrix had not been able to regroup and find the boy. Eventually funds and provisions ran out and they - those of His followers who were too proud to waste away to nothing or hide in caves feasting on flea-infested rats - had taken to the Art of Calling.

Old Nott regained most of his pre-War respectability a long ago. It is he who owns Lucius and the others. It is he who makes the arrangements. It is he who acquires and triple-checks the Portkey watches, the very things that take escort from location to location at no more than one second past the appointed hour, as the Called dock payment for lateness.

Clientele ranges from upstanding wizards to downright scoundrels and everything in between. Some are regulars and some are not. Some prefer things done the simple way while others impress upon Lucius how difficulty builds character and strength. He is constantly reminded that he lacks both these days. There is no wand or magic of which to speak. It had been rumoured a few months after the war that Dumbledore rose from the grave and collected all of the Death Eaters's magic for himself in a small wooden box, but Lucius knows better. He reads the Daily Prophet. At least, he reads it when he can scrounge up a copy, whether it is digging through rubbish bins or hanging in the back of pubs waiting for someone to leave their table, discarded newspaper folded on the counter or the chair or dropped to the floor. Not long ago he had seen a picture of that Mudblooded bitch Granger and the eldest Weasley, the curse-breaker. The picture had been followed by an article explaining how they had managed to break the magic the Dark Lord had used to summon his followers through their Dark Marks and siphoned their magic out of them. Lucius had been unable to finish reading the article that day. He dropped the paper to the dirty, grimy street, then rummaged through bins outside The Leaky Cauldron until he had found a nearly-empty sack of rice. He then flagellated himself until he felt his skin open and blood fly in blackbeautiful crimson arcs of loathing.

Almost every appointment with Severus is different. It is only this funerary fantasy that is repeated, and it is not something that is repeated very often. Severus has been keeping time with Lucius for months now, and Lucius has no choice but to take it, to take him, to take part in this perverted attempt at necromancy or whatever it is that Severus likens himself to be doing to Lucius. There is no need for payment for the Ferry; Lucius will not be a part of the Underworld, no more than he will be part of Up There. He will simply be, doomed for all eternity to suffer for humanity lost and humanity taken and humanity never realised on this Earth.

Had he his magic, he would have gladly hexed Severus, the traitor, the betrayer, the filth. But Lucius has no magic of which to speak and so he must continue to give in, give up, permit Severus to use his body for whatever he likes.

Sometimes, although he cannot fully admit this to himself, he enjoys being dead. He enjoys being dead and being fucked like he is now because it means something. These days Lucius is nothing save for a tight, hot, channel and a wicked, skilled mouth and he needs to feel as though he has worth. As though he has something. In Death, there is Life Everlasting.

**********

Lucius wipes Severus's come off his check with the back of one hand while the other curls into a fist, four Galleons held tightly against the centre of his palm. He can still feel Severus's cock slowly sliding out of him when the Portkey on his wrist activates.

When he finds himself on solid ground again, Lucius blinks, acquainting himself with his new surroundings. An abandoned storefront, from the looks of it. Not bothering to re-fasten his zip, Lucius shoves the money in a pocket and pushes open a set of swinging doors that lead into a smaller storage area. The walls are stone and there is a decidedly musty smell about the place. He did not know who his client was; Nott informed him that the Called preferred anonymity until their meeting.

As Lucius’s eyes adjust to the dim light and he can see who his customer is, he understands why those stipulations had been placed.

His lip curls. “The money first, boy.”

The boy is quick, so quick. A flurry of beautiful, purposeful movement, his hands twist in Lucius’s hair, pulling back. Breath is hot against the sensitive shell of his ear and there’s something hard straining against his arse.

“You do as I say, boy,” the boy says, and Lucius’s cock stirs.

His cock stirs and he is reminded of who is Important here and who is Not. He is nothing and this boy is Something. No, this boy is not Something. He is The Something, and Lucius will do as he says. He has no other choice.

This is not how he had ever imagined an encounter with this boy would go. Before, when Lucius had Galleons and Power and Prestige and A Following, he had often thought of having this boy for himself, of breaking him, of riding him, of claiming every last inch flesh for his own.

Times have changed, though, and it is Lucius who is had and the boy who is having. The boy has not spoken since “You do as I say, boy,” but that is no matter. He does not need words to tell Lucius what he wants, what he needs, what he will have. His hands do the talking, and they communicate all over Lucius’s body. Fingers rake over skin, carving up flesh to glow white-pink before splitting and spilling copper-wealthy rivulets over muscle that twitches with both pain and anticipation and Lucius bites his tongue to stifle the words, the cries. He will not be weak in front of the boy. He will take his hand up his arse, he will take those nails scraping against the sensitive skin of the inner channel, he will take that wand up his arse, he will take that cock up his arse while a cold-charmed hand fists over his cock and he will not sob, not even when Potter performs an Engorgement Charm on himself while he’s buried to the hilt inside Lucius. Lucius can feel himself stretching around the unbearable girth, can feel himself nearly at the breaking point, but still he does not cry.

Potter pushes into him, grunting as he rises and falls and thrusts and fucks, and Lucius doesn’t even care that the Portkey activates before he can collect his payment. By some stroke of luck, he has not allowed Potter to best him.

**********

A groan escapes Lucius’s lips as he lands, hard, on an unmade bed. His trousers are down about his ankles and his arse is positively sore. Fucking little welp, using an Engorgement Charm. He was going to tell Nott about this.

“You’re late.” The voice is coming from somewhere behind him. Lucius rolls over, hissing as his erect cock brushes against the duvet. He looks up, and then freezes.

“Hello, father.”

“Draco,” says Lucius faintly. He stares at his son, his heir and it all seems impossible, yet it is not because Draco is there. Draco is there and, as Lucius looks around, he recognises where he is. This is Malfoy Manor.

He is home. After all this time, he is home. His son has found him and brought him home.

“Whatever you gave Nott, I shall reimburse you tenfold,” Lucius swears, heart swelling with affection as he hurries to make himself more presentable.

“I require no reimbursement,” Draco says. The mattress sinks under his weight and Lucius does not quite understand why his son undoes the zip he had just fastened.

“Draco, of course you shall require--”

Two fingers press against his lips and he quiets, watching his son carefully.

“Do you remember, Father?” Draco whispers. The fingers move away and Lucius is rendered speechless, stock-still as Draco sings quietly, “Blackbird singing in the dead of night…”

“I don’t—” But Lucius does. Oh, he remembers. It was just that he did not think Draco would remember.

Lucius lies, shaking his head.

“Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

He knows now that Draco had made no arrangements with Nott, at least, not the kind of arrangements Lucius had assumed. His son, his son, was wanting him for services and oh God he cannot do it but he cannot refuse—

“Sing, Father.” Draco’s breath is warm against his cheek while his hand is hot and firm around Lucius’s cock and he has no choice but to obey.

“All your life…” Lucius chokes, eyes full of liquid hot heat horror as Draco’s fingers press against his pucker and push in, moving sliding slipping against the channel where Potter had just been, where Potter had bruised him. “You were only waiting…” Lids fall shut and he remembers, Lucius remembers Draco so small and trusting, wanting Lucius to do this very thing to him because it would make him a man and Malfoys were men from an early age. He had done it because it was tradition and Draco had wanted to be traditional then, even from that tender age. “…for this moment to arise….” But this right now is not tradition. It is revenge and it is tearing Lucius apart. He can take this, take anything from anyone but his own son.

Flesh of the father and flesh of the son do not goodness or tradition make, and Lucius weeps. He weeps as Draco shoves his cock inside his arse roughly. He weeps as Draco angles and pushes and drives into him, the sounds swallowed up as Draco’s tongue pushes into his mouth, and now the song is in his head, the voice of a small child – his own – singing as though it were a hymn in honour of a god. “Blackbird singing in the dead of night…Take these sunken eyes and learn to see…All your life…You were only waiting for this moment to be free…”

Lucius weeps when he comes and stops when he feels Draco’s warm release fill him up.

“We’re free,” Draco says, using his thumb to wipe away the humanity on Lucius’s face.

Blinking, Lucius stares up at him, the child’s voice still singing in his head. Inhale. Exhale. Suddenly the voice isn’t alone. The child and a man sing together low and sweet. Together they are Something.

“Perhaps we are not,” Lucius says hoarsely.

The voices fade and Lucius recalls something he had heard once, from his Narcissa.

”We two alone will sing like birds I' th' cage.”

He had always thought the Manor as something like a cage.