Title: Thestrals at Dawn
Author: Hijja
Pairing: Blaise/Lucius
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): chan, non-con/coercion
Themes/Kinks Chosen: Please the Mods month (chan, public sex)
Length: ~ 4500 words
Summary: "Are you able to see the Thestrals, Mr Zabini? They have their very own austere beauty."
Note: Hugs and thanks for an incredibly fast and amazing beta job to a generous soul who asked to remain anonymous in the current witchhunt climate. *snuggles*


"So, what do you think of the Malfoy gardens, Mr Zabini?"

The gardens, stretching out behind the Elizabethan edifice in the crisp morning sunlight, were gorgeous. Even Blaise's late father's cousin Angeletta, who owned her own Genoese villa, could boast nothing to compare.

The immense window front and the light that flooded the first floor morning room had drawn Blaise's attention away from breakfast. In the middle of the room, the windows opened out into a narrow stone balcony with a broad balustrade framed by flower boxes full of chameleon violets in full bloom. The mournful mating call of one of the white peacocks filled the air. Below, the Malfoy gardens were an artful confusion of flower beds, fountains, hedges and benches fairly glimmering with cushion charms. Further away, a handful of flyers zoomed across the professional-sized Quidditch Pitch like golden snitches.

The gardens' owner entered the room in a stylish silver house robe, and stepped out onto the balcony beside Blaise. The shimmering cloth and the shoulder-length pale braid gave the master of the Malfoy estate the colouring of a unicorn – an impression that couldn't be further from the truth if even half of Draco's tall tales about Lucius Malfoy's exploits held a shred of truth.

The invitation to spend a few days at the Malfoys' fancy Wiltshire estate had coincided with one of Lucius' famous house parties, complete with the Minister of Magic and a number of wizarding dignitaries in attendance. Draco's insistence on not parting with his bedmate of two months was quite flattering too. And the property was certainly worth seeing; subtly imposing, yet understated enough to make a pompous fool like Fudge feel superior.

"Thank you again for inviting me, Mr Malfoy," Blaise said politely. "I hope it's no inconvenience."

"Oh, no, not at all, Mr... But surely I may call you Blaise?" Was there something possessive in the way Malfoy's smile curved, or was he imagining it, Blaise wondered. "I enjoy having Draco's little friends over."

Lucius draped a casual arm around Blaise's shoulders. Blaise kept his eyes lowered as if preoccupied with the chameleon violets – purple, burgundy and shocking pink blooms interspersed with a few of such deep blue they looked almost black.

"You're not interested in Quidditch?" Malfoy asked, inclining his head to where the tiny shapes of Draco, Crabbe and Goyle flitted above the pitch. From the distance, they looked like filigree puppets on sticks in the lucid morning air.

Blaise shrugged. Being, at least in name, part of a family of major shareholders in the Nimbus Broom Company had cured him of the mystique of Quidditch at an early age. He'd shoved Draco out of bed with a growl when he'd bugged him to join their practice game at the crack of dawn. Malfoy was Quidditch mad at the best of times, but now that Marcus Flint had left Hogwarts and Draco had designs on captaining the Slytherin team, he was becoming unbearable.

"I enjoy watching, but I don't play." Blaise liked to fly; just to fly, without rules, players and balls, but that was none of Malfoy's business.

"You don't?" Malfoy asked casually. "And here my son tells me you are quite gifted when it comes to riding a broomstick."

Blaise's stomach flip-flopped in a way that made him grateful he hadn't had breakfast yet. Hell! What did one say to one's lover's father in such a situation? Protestations of affection would upset Mr Malfoy's dynastic plans for his heir, and 'it's nothing serious', while closer to the truth, might not go down well with Malfoy pride. Why did the man even have to bring it up, Blaise griped. He couldn't believe that Draco had told Lucius about their fling. Draco was pretty much without shame, which made him fun in bed, and he tended to blab about everything, but this wasn't something you discussed with your father, despite Lucius' own reputation in Slytherin House. Shock threatened to turn into a lengthy pause, so Blaise decided to ignore the subtext altogether.

"I enjoy flying," he said, keeping his voice carefully bland. "I'm just not much into Quidditch." Malfoy's arm felt stiff around his shoulders, almost like a yoke.

"I see," Malfoy murmured. "In that case, you've chosen a good place to observe the grounds. Shall I show you the sights?"

"I'm sure Draco will show me around," Blaise protested. "I'd hate to keep you from your guests."

Even for a wizard with a busy social calendar, Malfoy had a lot of house guests this weekend - some merely illustrious, some downright shady.

"Oh, not at all," Malfoy objected silkily, oblivious to Blaise's mounting unease. "It's early, and you certainly don't want to deny me a chance to show off my property?"

Without waiting for a reply, he stepped up behind Blaise, a subtle pressure against his back. The rich folds of his sleeves brushed Blaise's bare arms, and for a moment Blaise wished he hadn't opted for sleeveless summer robes despite the heat. Leaning over Blaise's shoulder, Lucius pointed towards the left.

"Our labyrinth garden."

From the elevated position on the balcony, it looked almost too large for a maze, but the better ones were like that. There were all the trappings Muggles had feebly imitated over time – bespelled hedges that grew and withered in seconds; moss soaked in potions that changed colour or sprouted flowers and butterflies. Self-sculpting statues that would alter their appearances according to the preference of the viewer... Puzzles, riddles, magical creatures and fountains designed to impress and mislead; and, of course, contraptions that would trap enemies and intruders while being pretty to look at. Just like the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament that had turned from test of prowess to a death trap.

"It's amazing," Blaise agreed and silently vowed not to set foot into Malfoy's maze under any circumstances.

"Isn't it just?" Lucius nodded gracefully and pointed to the arrangement of flower beds just beside the house. "My wife's rose gardens." His tongue crept out to moisten a finely sculpted lower lip. "I'm sure Draco will be delighted to show them to you. They are very... romantic." Malfoy's tone was cloying, reminding Blaise of the sticky syrup Crabbe and Goyle sloshed over their oatmeal. Malfoy's thumbs rubbed small circles on Blaise's collarbone as the man inclined his head towards the empty padlocked enclosure behind the gardens proper.

"Are you able to see the Thestrals, Mr Zabini?"

Blaise shook his head numbly before catching his presence of mind. "No, sir," he croaked.

Malfoy's condescending chuckle trickled down his neck like a tiny viper. "A little innocent, then?" His thumb was stroking Blaise's neck now. "It is a pity, Mr Zabini. They have their very own austere beauty. Many things have, come to think of it," he added after a pregnant pause. His hands came up to the balustrade, effortlessly encircling Blaise on either side.

Blaise felt the skin on his neck heat; his nerves were prickling. Malfoy's aftershave was clean and herbal and mixed with the scent of the man's freshly-washed and still damp braid. Pleasant, if he wasn't crowding Blaise and letting slip alarming innuendos.

"Tell me, Blaise..." Malfoy murmured, his lips touching the crown of Blaise's head, "what are you and Draco doing with each other, hm?" Shocked, Blaise tried to turn in Malfoy's arms, but the man trapped him against the balustrade with his body weight. "No answer? How disappointing. Perhaps you are suffering from a lack of ideas?" Malfoy's right hand left the balustrade and came to rest on Blaise's thigh. "I could help you out in this respect..."

Blaise squirmed, then caught himself. He wasn't going to make a spectacle. "Thank you, Mr Malfoy, but I'd rather not," he said with every bit of dignity he could muster, purposefully not specifying 'not'. The hand on his thigh shifted to hug his buttock.

"It isn't polite to deny your host, Blaise." Malfoy's breath was warm against Blaise's neck. The grip intensified into a languorous squeeze of Blaise's arse cheek that sent a frisson of warmth through Blaise's groin. "You don't want to be stingy with that handsome body of yours, do you?" He leaned in to brush the side of Blaise's face with his lips. "I expected your mother to have taught you better."

Mother hadn't been happy to let him go, not to the Malfoys, not after Dumbledore's little speech at the end of the school year. But you didn't refuse an invitation from one of the wizarding world's most prominent families without a very good excuse.

'Be polite, stay out of people's way, and don't talk about politics,' had been Marah Zabini's parting orders. Blaise wasn't quite sure how to stay out of people's way when one was trapped on a balcony, and whether there was a polite way of saying 'take your hands off me'.

"My mother raised me to offer – and expect – elementary courtesy, Mr Malfoy." In a moment's fury, Blaise wriggled away from Malfoy's touch and craned his head around. "You are coming dangerously close to gambling away that courtesy."

Malfoy's hand captured Blaise's wrist hard enough to impede the blood flow. Holding Malfoy's malicious grey eyes with his own, Blaise slid his free hand down to the wand in his belt. With a chuckle, Malfoy caught it just as Blaise's fingers touched the wood. He ripped the twelve inches of pine with manticore claw from their sheath and tossed the wand onto a leather armchair way out of reach. Then he pulled both of Blaise's hands together behind his back and leaned up against him, crushing Blaise's wrists painfully against the balustrade and pressing his lower body into Blaise's groin, letting Blaise feel the full scope of his erection. "You won't be needing it, boy."

He rubbed himself against Blaise's front before taking hold of Blaise's chin and capturing his mouth for a rough kiss. Encountering Blaise's clenched teeth, Malfoy laughed and drew back. "A thorny plant, aren't you, Blaise? But don't worry – I like that."

He let go of Blaise's face and swivelled him around so quickly that the gardens rushed past in a colour-dotted green blur. Malfoy's lower body still trapped Blaise against the stone balustrade. His hands were free now, but Blaise froze when a wand tip touched the back of his neck.

"You've studied the Unforgivable Curses in the past year, haven't you? One of them, in particular, is suitable for moments like this one." Malfoy paused as if waiting for Blaise to figure it out. "Will I have to cast it on you?"

Bile rose in Blaise's throat. He'd shaken off one in three Imperius Curses in Mad Eye Moody's class, but even then the man hadn't looked as if he was trying very hard. Imperius might exculpate Blaise from guilt, but he did not want to be forced do whatever Malfoy's sick brain could come up with. It made one vulnerable forever, Imperius, like a drug, or so they said. With a dry pricking feeling in his eyes, he shook his head.

It happened, Blaise knew. It happened to the careless and weak in Slytherin, and in the shark-filled upper echelons of wizarding society. Being young and attractive, Blaise had only narrowly avoided it before. Certainly his mother had suffered the same once or twice in between successful fishing expeditions. Something you prevented if you could, suffered if you had to, and took revenge for where possible. He straightened and forced himself not to sniffle. It was not something you allowed to break you.

Malfoy chuckled as if he had expected no less. The wand vanished, but Blaise had no illusions about how fast it could reappear. He couldn't fight a fully trained wizard and Death Eater at fifteen. Rumours about Potter and the Dark Lord sprang to his mind, but he angrily grimaced the thought away. Nothing but tall tales!

The skin on his back crawled when Malfoy drew the wand down his spine, leaving cleaved fabric in its wake. He brushed the tatters away carelessly, running his palms over the bared flesh of Blaise's lower back and buttocks. Dully, Blaise concentrated on breathing to make sure he wouldn't start to sob.

Cloth rustled, and then the hardness Malfoy's robes had ill disguised pressed between Blaise's legs, hot and aggressive and stoking a little flicker of warmth in Blaise's lower stomach that made him despair. He liked cock and the feel of a naked body against his own, and his body responded on a primal level although his mind raged.

As if caught up in self-indulgence, Malfoy rubbed his cock between Blaise's legs a few times, nudging his balls from behind and teasing his hole. A soft gasp escaped Blaise when he felt himself harden at the stimulation. At least he was pressed up tightly against the stone balustrade and Malfoy couldn't see it.

"Let's get to business, shall we?" Malfoy whispered in his ear and his cock jabbed against Blaise's entrance in a way that left no doubt about its intention. Blaise ground his teeth, fear shivering into gooseflesh on his skin.

"I'm sure you and Draco have employed a lubrication potion for your little trysts?" Malfoy's long fingers mapped the shape of Blaise's buttocks as he spoke. Blaise felt his cheeks heat, grateful for his dark complexion that didn't announce his flush to the world.

"Don't rush to admit it," Lucius drawled. "You have, however, studied Summoning Charms this year, haven't you?" He paused, then continued when Blaise retained his adamant silence. "I'd suggest you employ one now to get your potion, because if you do, I'll be merciful and use it on you." He took hold of the short black braid Blaise had copied from Lucius Malfoy's own hairstyle a few months ago, and tugged his head back until he could comfortably lick Blaise's ear. It sent shudders of fire through Blaise's nerves.

Cursing inwardly, Blaise realised that the bastard was right – there was no way he was going to let himself be fucked without lube if he could avoid it. He closed his eyes, shoved the presence of Malfoy's cock and his own bare-arsed state to the back of his mind, and pictured the glazed little pot he kept for the purpose. It started to wobble vividly in front of his mind's eye.

"Accio potion!" he hissed, reaching out with force. Not five seconds later, the bulbous jar tore around the side of the balcony, ripping petals off the violets in the window box in its eagerness to slam into Blaise's hand.

"Very good." Malfoy took the jar away from him. "Consider this as a practical exercise for next year's OWLS." Blaise heard the lid being unscrewed and then the smell of cinnamon-scented potion crept into his nostrils. He cringed, even though the flavour had been Draco's choice.

He had to strain his ears to make out the soft sounds of Malfoy slathering himself with potion, but the smell made up for it. The memory of Draco's angular body and glistening hole made his own prick harden now, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it.

"Well, then," Malfoy murmured, and jabbed his cock forward against Blaise's trembling pucker without further warning. Blaise screeched and pitched forward, landing with both palms outspread in potting compost. Inches from his fingertips, the chameleon violets paled to the feeblest of pink and turned away their blossoms. He managed to pull his hands out of the flower box and grabbed the balustrade for support.

Blaise wasn't a virgin, of course. While he'd never allowed Draco to fuck him, he'd bottomed for Adrian Pucey, prefect, Chaser and easily the most attractive boy in Slytherin with his honey-coloured hair, grey eyes and easy, devious grin. But Pucey, knowing he was deflowering a virgin, had been very gentle. Malfoy was not. He wasn't purposefully cruel either, squeezing himself forward with just enough force to work himself into Blaise's clenching arse to the balls. Small pushes forward, unrelenting jabs that rubbed Blaise's inner walls to a raw tumble of nerves. Malfoy let out a small, contented hum when he was fully sheathed, his balls a heavy, warm weight and his hips cool and bony against Blaise's bare backside.

Shame, rage and pain mingled into a slow fire in Blaise's gut. His knuckles were white where he clutched the stone. He didn't cry and let no sob escape him after that initial scream. He couldn't recall crying even as a child, certainly not when his father died, and he wouldn't let Malfoy make him!

"Very nice and tight, Blaise," Lucius breathed, rocking inside him. "I'm glad you haven't been too... free with your charms." The mockery hurt nearly as much as Malfoy's shallow thrusts. It made Blaise wish he had agreed to let anyone who asked fuck him just to spoil Malfoy's pleasure. The man slid in and out of him, just bearable but not quite slow enough to allow for enjoyment. Malfoy's soft sighs whenever he achieved a particularly satisfying angle showed Blaise only too clearly that all he saw in Blaise was a tight hole to bury himself in. A true Slytherin. Blaise's lip twisted bitterly. He stared straight ahead, then caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and the grimace froze on his lips.

It was the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge himself, who strolled around a cluster of harping hydrangea bushes in lime-green, pinstriped summer robes with his trademark bowler hat, which he raised to Lucius in an exaggerated gesture. Blaise's heartbeat skipped in primal terror, speared where he was on the length of Lucius' erection.

Lucius raised his hand in greeting, and only Blaise knew that it had to smell of precome from where he'd guided the engorged head of his cock into Blaise's arse.

"Morning, Lucius. Looks like a gorgeous day, doesn't it?" The Minister's face was rosy, although the skin around his eyes looked puffy from a night of hard drinking.

"Glad to see you up and about, Cornelius." There was no hint of nerves in Malfoy's body language, nothing to indicate that he had been interrupted in the process of molesting his son's lover. Behind the cover of the balustrade, he twisted his hips, plunging deep and brushing past Blaise's prostate. A shuddering flicker of heat caught the breath in Blaise's lungs. He felt his prick leap and strain against the front of his robes. "Looking for some fresh air?" Malfoy asked.

The Minister's laugh sounded rather wheezy. "Yes – that was quite some gathering last night."

"I'm showing the gardens to young Blaise here." Lucius sounded perfectly at ease, cheerful even. He rocked his hips again, and another stab of sweet-sharp pain shot though Blaise's channel. He fought to keep it off his face, but his mouth gaped open a little. "You're among the first to come down for breakfast this morning, Cornelius." Malfoy removed one of his hands from Blaise's hips and laid it on his shoulder. "Only the children are out already." He chuckled with a nod towards the Quidditch Pitch. "Ah, youth..."

The innocuous words were followed by another thrust so insidious that Blaise had to gnaw the inside of his cheek in order not to cry out.

"There's coffee and the morning papers in the private breakfast room for you, Cornelius," Lucius pointed out, and only Blaise knew how to read the amusement that coloured the bastard's voice.

The thought seemed to cheer Fudge considerably. "I'll see you for lunch, then," he announced with a wave. "Great house party as always, Lucius!"

"Yes, it's shaping up rather nicely," Lucius drawled after the man's retreating lime-green back, hand returning to Blaise's flank after an unsubtle grope at his groin. "Enjoying yourself after all, aren't you, boy?"

Blaise snarled, rage flowing through him in a wave. He struggled, trying to ignore the way Malfoy's prick scraped his inner walls as he moved.

"Oh no, you don't, you arrogant little slut!" Malfoy hissed, pushing Blaise down until he almost pitched nose-first into the flower box. Malfoy pulled him back from the balustrade to squeeze his prick through the thin robe. "You won't pretend that you're not hard or that this-" He paused to slam his hips forward until it felt as if the man's cock would stab right through Blaise – "- that this doesn't speed up your blood."

"I do not want this!" Blaise snapped. His voice sounded thin to his own ears, but he wouldn't let the bastard tell him he'd somehow asked for it.

Malfoy laughed, a low, ugly sound. "No, you'd not be as interesting if you had begged for it." He settled back into a rhythm of shallow thrusts that made Blaise's tongue go dry every time Malfoy brushed by his prostate. "Unlike my son, I prefer my entertainments a bit more spicy."

The thrusts were not so shallow any more now, and Blaise felt his body rock, hands slipping on the balustrade. Fearfully, his eyes scanned the gardens for wizarding presence, so preoccupied that his heart practically stopped when a sudden, rough voice sounded from behind him.

"So sorry, Lucius." Blaise nearly screamed in shock. It came out though the teeth biting into his bottom lip as a strangled mewl.

Without missing a beat and still shoved to the hilt up Blaise's arse, Lucius turned his head. His white braid whipped against the side of Blaise's cheek and Blaise, wide-eyed and tucked under his chin, recognised the bulky figure of Macnair, the Ministry Executioner, standing in the doorway. The black moustache curled up as the man grinned, eyes holding Malfoy's for a long moment. Then closed the door. "I didn't see that you were... occupied."

"That's all right, Walden," Malfoy drawled. "If you take a seat and help yourself to a drink, I'll be with you in a moment."

Pure fury howled through Blaise at that. Bad enough that someone barged in on him being humiliated like this, but for the man to treat it as a joke between friends, something you watched while having a drink... Blaise had heard rumours about the Executioner, the same he'd heard about Malfoy - and worse. Experiencing proof firsthand was something else entirely. This sort of thing was supposed to happen to Muggles or Mudbloods, not pureblood Slytherins!

Malfoy turned his attention back to Blaise and delivered a few more brutal thrusts into his depths, as if to finish quickly now that he had found someone more interesting to occupy his time. The last one slammed Blaise into the balustrade and all but squashed his groin against the stone. An awful, sticky feeling flooded Blaise's insides, and Blaise could almost feel it burn inside him as if it were acid rather than come.

Malfoy pulled out so fast that Blaise thrashed and whimpered, far too rough for his tender arse, and had his wand out to cast a cleaning charm over himself in a heartbeat. He laughed, a feral sound that made Blaise's stomach churn, then waved his wand in an arc over Blaise's back as well. The squishy feeling in Blaise's hole, the film of sweat on his skin evaporated, leaving behind a faint scent of cinnamon. The scorn of it almost made Blaise's eyes spill after all.

Blaise's robes whispered back down over his behind, voluminous enough to cover up the cuts and his bare flesh if he moved carefully. Malfoy, however, knew exactly where they were and reached through to give Blaise's buttock a parting squeeze.

"Run off, boy," Malfoy said with a chuckle, and Blaise turned in disbelief.

They would let him go without even a Memory Charm, he realised. Malfoy and Macnair felt invulnerable, untouchable. Which suddenly put Dumbledore's leaving speech after the Triwizard Tournament into sharp perspective. There was only one reason why men like Malfoy would threaten Unforgivable Curses and go round callously raping their own class on a whim. If the Dark Lord had indeed returned, they had nothing to fear. They were protected, their victims too intimidated to fight back.

His arse ached as he moved, as if the disgusting wetness of Malfoys come was still sliming the tender passage between his buttocks. He forced himself not to reveal any discomfort in his step. He wasn't hurt, not badly, and he certainly wasn't damaged! He'd put this behind him as soon as he was out of the room. There was no way he could tell anyone, not even Draco. He was Lucius' son, and wouldn't believe it, or worse, wouldn't care. Blaise could only break off their fling as soon as he was out of the Malfoys' sphere of influence, minimising any danger of being cornered by Lucius again.

Macnair sprawled in one of the leather armchairs, a glass of amber liquor in one hand and Blaise's pine wand in the other, amusing himself with conjuring multicoloured sparks and swirls. Merely watching made Blaise feel as if that coarse hand was gripping his heartstrings rather than the wand that had chosen Blaise so quickly in Master Gregorovitch's wandshop in Prague.

Blaise's face twisted, all teeth and hatred as he held out his hand without a word. Macnair met his eyes, bushy eyebrows raised, the knife-edged mouth curving up as he bowed his head in pure, excessive mockery. Blaise paled and grabbed his wand away from the Executioner without touching him, wanting nothing more than to curse that sneer off Macnair's face.

The man grabbed his wrist, angling Blaise's wand tip away from himself and pulled Blaise close until he wobbled on tiptoes. "A pretty morning's diversion, Lucius," he commented, running his eyes over Blaise's body and lingering, not at all subtly, over his groin.

Malfoy went over to the table and accepted the glass Macnair had filled for him. Sipped it, utterly relaxed. "You might want to crawl into Draco's bed tonight, boy," he drawled. "Just in case Walden wants to pay you a visit after that pretty show you put on."

If Blaise had ever imagined Death Eater overtures to him, he'd pictured carefully couched insinuations soliciting his support. People tended to approach him that way, hiding an interest in being introduced to his mother, currying favour with Nimbus Brooms or with a member of the Zabini family, if not the most reputable one. Malfoy and Macnair, on the other hand – they didn't want anything from him apart from a hole attached to a handsome body. Blaise had nothing to offer the likes of them – they wouldn't ask, just take.

Clutching his wand, Blaise tore open the door and fled the morning room and the identical, amused faces of the monsters within. He couldn't call them to account, he knew; not if their Dark master was indeed back from the dead, not even if he wasn't. Not now.

Not yet.

But he wouldn't forget. And one day, Blaise hoped that he would indeed be able to see the Thestrals - over the dead bodies of Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair.

~ finis ~