Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: gypsyflameFrom: thegildedmagpieTitle:
A Toy at ChristmasCharacters/Pairings:
Barty Crouch Jr.-as-Moody/Draco, implied Moody/FlitwickRating:
underage, D/s, brattiness, teacher/student, underage, risk of exposure, silk pants, touch of hatesex, underageWord Count:
Nothing turns Draco on more than being treated like a sex toy. And in the guise of his fourth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Barty Crouch is only too happy to treat him that way.Author's Notes:
My dear recipient, you did say any
male character. ;p Barty took over the narration a lot
more than I was intending – I'm tempted to find a month where I can do a remix from Draco's point of view like the story was actually meant to be! And Barty likes his adjectives too much.
“My father is on the board of governors, you know. If he knew you were doing this – ”
The supercilious little brat is at it again, talking of his disloyal, cowardly toady of a father, the one who had all the resources to search for the Dark Lord and none of the interest.
If he knew that Barty was doing this? Oh, how he'd squirm. But that coward would probably know better than to object.
These thoughts are automatic now, and his mind flicks through them at wordless speed, like the verbal introduction to class that now comes thoughtlessly, like a prayer. By the time Draco is halfway through the fourth word Barty has adjusted the voice into place. That little touch of growl, the words formed half in the damaged throat. “Going to go home and tell Papa what I've been doing with his little boy? I'm sure the loving family home will be warm and shiny for Christmas after that. Don't be a fool, Malfoy.”
“You know very well I am staying for the Christmas holiday. But. After the – ” Draco blushes a little and clears his throat – “incident
– in the courtyard –”
Ah yes. The incident. “Then you should have stopped anyone else noticing your hard-on, boy! CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”
The thundered phrase drives Draco back an iota in the chair, but his saucy, high-nosed, stamped-in dignity rescues him from an outright flinch. And that, Barty thinks, satisfies the catchphrase quota for one night – amusing though it has become to shout it at odd moments. At first he was sure he was overdoing it – and then he overheard the staff expressing relief that Mad-Eye seemed to have toned things down a bit.
“Professor Moody,” says Draco.
“Didn't say you could use my name tonight, Malfoy,” he growls – silkily, almost, but it catches to gravel halfway through.
It's satisfying to see the cringe, even if the movement is affected; arousing that it comes with the upward glance through satin lashes. Barty knew what this boy wanted in moments. The bouncing only confirmed it.
“Take those robes off. I haven't got all night to watch you toss your head like a little prancing halfwit pony, boy.” He laughs shortly at the terrible moodyness
of the phrasing.
Draco bridles at the barked command; Barty can see him do it. But can also see that he obeys so, so very readily. It's so obvious
what he wants. But to Barty, it has always been obvious. That is why he knew he needed to be the one to find the Dark Lord. For him it is easy. For him it is not so hard to see that Bertha Jorkins will – well, would
– follow her nose into certain kinds of traps. For him it is little trouble indeed to perform powerful Confundus Charms on goblets. It is even easy to reveal his entire modus operandi
in Moody's rough growl and still keep the disfigured Auror's mask so flawlessly in place that no one even wonders.
And none of this is so important, so precious in himself, as the loyalty that induces him to bring that to the service of his master.
But in the moment, he simply takes another nauseating pull on the sawdust-and-acid-and-piss-flavored sludge in Moody's hip flask and sits back to watch as the boy arrogantly, too quickly, strips off his black cloak – a school cloak, yes, in all technicalities, but a touch better-cut than most of the clever rabble's versions, a hair higher-quality – his silver-and-green-touched robe, his pewter sweater and salt-white shirt.
“Hurry up, boy!” Barty snaps, thoroughly enjoying (as always) being all but required
to make importunate demands of his erstwhile comrades' and remaining enemies' bright-eyed sons and daughters. Little Draco nearly jumps out of his pretty white skin again. But the boy smirks: “What's the hurry, Professor Moody?”
The cane is at once on Draco's shoulder and the slim little milquetoast winces, his back going rigid.
“Trousers,” Barty growls throatily, “and 'sir.'”
“Yes – yes, sir,” Draco says, his pale eyes a little wide (he knows the touch of that cane, hard and soft), and toes off his gleaming boots (best-quality dragon leather, Barty sees; once, he wore such things, when the world was a tad closer to being his oyster) and peels his trousers and pants down together. Barty doesn't need to see the latter. They're silk, just like last time, the time he took them down Draco's pretty little hips himself to spank the delicate flesh underneath.
“Out of sight, now, out of sight,” says Barty, working the cane atop Draco's shoulder to jostle him into quicker movement. “Behind the chair. Move
, boy, move
Draco stumbles into action, bundling his clothes behind the side chair without folding them, his bending to stow them showing that deliciously pert little white arse of his to great advantage, especially as Barty presses the end of the carved wooden stick to it, denting one of the cheeks outward.
sir!” The boy's aggrieved. But hard. His delightful little member, shell-pink in a silky nest of hair too scant and soft to curl, is lifting toward his flat belly even as he turns around.
Barty gestures invitingly to the underside of the desk. “Now, m'little ferret, it's time to crawl under the desk and make yourself useful. I have a meeting in about a minute and I think you should keep things interesting for me. Not only do I think you should
, I think you will
whether or not you think it's dignified.” He leans closer. “Do I make myself abundantly clear
Now the pointy little face is the same color as the pointy little cock, and Barty is intensely satisfied as, after a posturing moment of hesitation, the pointy little Draco drops to his hands and knees and nimbly moves under the desk. “If my father knew you were doing this,” he murmurs, seeming almost to savor the words as he reaches with both slender hands for Moody's trouser placket.
“Then there'd be doxies in your Christmas dumplings and Mummy would put your presents in the pigsty. We all know
, boy. And I don't recall telling you to do that.”
“And just what else
am I to be doing down here?” Draco returns haughtily.
“You, my lucky little creature, are going to press right up against the far side of the desk – go, go
– and turn one side to me, and you're going to do it now so none of your other professors are here in time to hear you getting settled down there. And then you – ” he bends down as far as Moody's gamy hip will allow, lowers his voice to a no-argument whisper – “are going to wait. For. Orders.”
Not a word says Draco, but he blushes deeper in all those blushing bits of his, and scoots his little body up against the wooden back that makes such a perfect box to contain a student who likes every minute of this. And no sooner is Barty upright again than there's a brief knock at the door.
“Identify yourself!” Barty barks at the knock.
“It's me – Filius,” calls the knocker. Barty takes the time to check Moody's Foe-Glass. One short figure is clearish in the fog, but distant enough that it's not identifiable. All is fine, for now.
“Come in,” he calls.
In bustles Filius Flitwick in a cloud of dancing holly sprigs, with a silvery bubble from one of the Christmas trees downstairs caught in his hat, pursued by a wayward fairy light. “Happiest of holidays, Alastor!” he carols. “I thought since we have perhaps a single evening while they're all tired enough to be out of our hair before the Yule Ball hormones kick in, well, tonight is the night for Christmas gifts among ourselves.” He places a little wrapped parcel on the edge of the desk with some ceremony – between the large, cracked Sneakoscope and the carefully disabled Dark Detector that Barty couldn't maintain his persona without – and directly above Draco Malfoy's lumbar region.
“Is it now.” Barty leans back and lifts the heavily carved false leg strapped to Moody's stump, then the reinforced boot on the single foot, and settles both slowly but heavily onto Draco's back. The boy gasps audibly, a deep whooshing breath covered by the creak of the reinforced leather wingback chair in which Barty is now visibly relaxing. “Your mistletoe repellent is at the door of your quarters. I didn't wrap it. Didn't imagine anyone would want to perform the necessary diagnostic charms. Happy Christmas.”
“Why, thank you, Alastor,” says Filius, clearly amused (and who can blame him? Barty is too). “Yours is a bottle of ink that cannot be used to write falsehoods. A tricky charm, and a temperamental piece of magic that can be subverted by clever wording – but I needed samples for my NEWT students, and I thought it would suit you.”
“Much obliged,” says Barty, slowly arranging his feet so they'll sit on Draco's now-arching back heavily enough to discourage movement. Ah, the combination of laconic phrasing with the perpetual public service announcements – he knows he's captured Mad-Eye's pattern to a T and can't stop a faint smile from flitting across the ravaged features he wears. “I see you've been decorating. Have a seat for a moment if you like.” Draco startles and Barty can feel it in his calves. Delicious.
Unexpectedly, Flitwick answers the smile with a wider, more grateful return than his usual expression of sharp-witted good cheer. “As long as you don't mind. For after I decorate, I must mark papers, and if there is a charm to make that easier I have yet to discover it!”
Down Flitwick sits in the smaller armchair, the one behind which Draco Malfoy's school uniform is untidily stowed, the pile of fabric topped by silk pants. Should he have some pretext to look behind the chair, there would be no stopping him seeing one of their fourth years' freshly-removed underwear, and whatever would they all do then. Barty is pleased at the thought. Pleased at the changes of tension he feels in his little ferrety footstool – is that shift of the slight body perhaps the raise of a head? The lifting of a hand to ward off the intangible possibility, a mute supplication from the most supplicating position imaginable? He doesn't bring the moving blue eye under control to look; the guessing tightens the pit of his belly so.
“I've marking to do, too, before I start minding that frippery. So not for long. I'd offer you a drink, but – ” He shakes his hip flask so it sloshes.
Flitwick laughs. “Ah, well, we've never
shared a drink, have we, Alastor. Never mind. I'll be having plenty.” He sobers a bit. “It is – worrying, though, the Yule Ball. Things have not been as secure as anyone would like this term.”
“Exactly what I've been saying,” Barty responds automatically. Moody's face is unchanging at the news of Flitwick's possibly growing suspicion – Barty's attention, however, is scrupulous, almost (but not quite) diverted from the nervous tremors now running up Draco's thighs and tangible in his own.
“So has Minerva. You've gotten through to her, Alastor. Soon she'll be worrying over buttocks too – although not, I imagine, the same ones.”
And Flitwick winks at him. Really?
Barty thinks. No. No really.
Well, he'll have to have a chat with the occupant of his seven-locked trunk about this
possibility. And there will be consequences to the tune of a nourishment-free week for failing to mention such a thing beforehand.
“That's a good
thing,” Barty says gruffly. “McGonagall should be worrying over buttocks. Who sticks their wands in their back pockets more often than her lot?”
Flitwick laughs his bell-like chuckle again. But does he look a touch disappointed? Definitely a talk with his prisoner. “All right, I really just wanted a moment's rest – off to make things festive for our guests again.” And he's up.
The man moves like a sparrow. Barty can't stand it.
In any case, there are other things – more attractive and slightly taller – to cope with now.
He twirls Moody's wand in his scarred fingers and the door locks itself with a series of descending clicks. Under the desk, Draco is moving again, as though trying to straighten – and Barty feels the forced-open socket around Mad-Eye's mad eye begin to strain as it tries to narrow. He's seeing red.
The little shit
dares try to rise, dares try to pretend he doesn't want every minute, dares try to suggest he doesn't deserve
every minute, when he thinks he's raising his pretty rump for the man who caught and killed so many loyal Death Eaters. When all that they worked so hard to build for the wizarding world has been cast down and must be reconstructed brick by brick because people like that idiot dwarf of a professor, that insane wreck of an Auror, and this boy's own skin-saving father couldn't see
Barty focuses the rolling eye through the wooden desktop. Draco is a perfect piece of furniture now, his back and thighs and arms straight and perpendicular – his cock straight and springily firm below, visually begging for a fist to close around it with the power to stroke and pleasure, or to grip and hurt. Not yet, though. Not until those grey eyes, wet with apprehension and excitement, show that the boy is overpowered. Only then will Barty deign to let him be touched even by his own slim hand.
The short, heavy-veined shillelagh cock under Mad-Eye's many-pocketed trousers is straining against the button. It has been since Draco bared that spankable arse. And it jumps again as Draco wets his pale lips, glancing up.
“You, little ferret,” says Barty, leaning forward to fetch Flitwick's wee gift (Draco moans a bitten moan of pain as Moody's mismatched heels press the unmarred skin of his white back), “are going to stay right there, look right ahead, and if you're good while I read this essay, you can have a little rug on your back and be an upholstered stool. Then I will read two more essays. And then – ” he tears through the paper of the Charms professor's parcel and lifts out the bottle of ink, smiling with satisfaction – “we will have a little game of how many of Professor Moody's Christmas presents fit up Young Master Malfoy's little white arse. I wonder if it still writes the truth if the cork pops out and the ink is dribbling from your hole instead of being dipped on a quill.”
Draco looks up at him, velvet-grey eyes wide and thin lips parted, clearly shocked to his fourteen-year-old core by the crudity – just as clearly excited by it.
“Eyes forward, my little ferret-skin footstool,” says Barty, intensely satisfied. “And if you're a good toy for your old professor, well, we'll see what happens next.”