Entry tags:

fiction: lucius/harry, fiction: lucius/narcissa, fiction: lucius/regulus, fiction: lucius/sirius, het, slash

The Art of Human Bondage
Title: The Art of Human Bondage
Author: stonegrad
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Lucius/Harry, Lucius/Regulus, Lucius/Sirius, slight Lucius/Narcissa
Summary: He is restless as a wolf in the winter night, hollow, hungry, haunted. To him, sleep comes in uneasy patches; he always has one eye open...
Warnings: Dark!fic, dub con, glimpses of physical abuse during childhood, hate!sex, allusions to character death.
Prompt: Someone has maliciously transfigured Lucius into a ...
Notes: I'm actually absurdly proud of this piece - plus the fact that I just adore dark!sexy!dominant and slightly sadistic Lucius. Headers from Shakespeare’s Henry IV, act 4, scene 5. Thanks to melfinatheblue for the beta. Has no association with the book or the movie of the same name.

The Art of Human Bondage
(Lucius/Harry, Lucius/Regulus, Lucius/Sirius, slight Lucius/Narcissa)

1. Revel the night, rob, murder, and commit / The oldest sins the newest kind of ways?

He is restless as a wolf in the winter night, hollow, hungry, haunted. To him, sleep comes in uneasy patches; he always has one eye open, though the house is utterly silent - it hasn't been visited for a month or more, by his guess. But he thinks to himself, as each day goes on just like the last, 'Just one more night, and then I'll go. Just one more night up here.'

Yet, he never leaves; he just stays curled up on the mattress in what used to be the room of a boy he can't quite remember (he was a shadow among shadows, slim fingers on his hips, searing lips on his neck - he laughed), staring down at wickedly curled claws, feeling the soft weight of whitewash fur. He might have even tried to laugh, if the pain wouldn't make the world spin.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

There is a stiffness to his jaw that the magic will not reach; a sharp, stabbing agony where it joins - he can barely move it, hardly eats. How long has it been now? (They came in the dark to the sound of bare bones rattling... didn't the Ministry outlaw them when the war ended? Surely they did.) Days, weeks, months, years?

Lucius wonders why no one has ever mentioned the side effects - the innate wariness, the hazy colour that's not quite bright enough. The fact that he can smell him now, lost here in his bed where the covers are full of dust and haven't been changed in a decade (black hair, bruised lips - 'Lucius, you bastard!') - the tang of brandy and coffee and spice and bitter, broken loyalty.

What was his name again?

2. Be happy, he will trouble you no more; / England shall double gild his treble guilt,

The house is old, familiar - yes, yes, he remembers it now. The place where Bella lay sprawled on the black couch, all heavy eyes and harlot lips ('what are you doing down here, Lucius? Shouldn't you be off somewhere with little Cissa's lips wrapped around your cock?') and laughter, dark as blood. So crude, so unrefined - Merlin, he hates her!

Hated... it's hated now; poor mad little Bella shot down like a dog - he doesn't pretend that he didn't like the contrast of the green light against her deathly pale skin. Art, after all, can be found in the most unlikely of places.

There, where Narcissa glowed in the candlelight, shrouded in pale blue silk and fine white skin, blond hair undone down the bare curve of her back - there, where Sirius hung about in the smoke like a whipped puppy, tail between his legs.

The bow of the violin between his gloved fingers; the first sweet, shivering note. Schubert’s Rondo, was it not? And there, an audience - a father's face, a fiancé’s eyes... a lover's dark, sidewinder smile.

(Lips parting, parting; 'fuck, Lucius. Fuck!')

Black silk, soft hair brushing the back of his neck - not too fast now. No, not too fast; and he closes his eyes, a small silver fox in the faint, fractured moonlight, bruised and bloodied but never, never broken.

('Yes, Regulus...' soft skin, warm lips to the shell of his ear. 'Fuck.')

Regulus?

Yes, Regulus - dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin that looked like faded gold under his fingertips; the hot, stretched canvas of his young flesh pulled taunt among the thin black sheets, shivering, shivering. And down at the bottom of the stairs, Lucius' father was waiting (a heavy hand, there's blood on his lip, red blazing across his cheekbone - he takes a breath) for him to return; don't dare to keep him waiting.

('There's no time. We're out of time.')

In the house, there's a silver fox that wishes it were laughing.

(Sad, stifled laughter - "Aren't we always?")

3. England shall give him office, honour, might; / For the fifth Harry from curb'd licence plucks

There's magic dripping onto the floor like melted wax from the light in Regulus' bedroom, swinging idly in the wind that creeps through the not-quite-closed window. He knows, he can feel it; it's swirling past his pale, pointed face - down past his half-closed grey eyes, and in his mind, the bedroom door opposite him is slamming into the wall with a resounding 'bang!'

('What the fuck!')

Sirius. Sirius with his blazing Gryffindor chivalry and his dark, dark heart; the boy loved to fight like the worst of them - and Lucius laughed and pulled him against him, clothed in inch upon inch of hot human skin and sweat like a thin sheen of oil. ('Like what you see, pretty puppy?') His mouth tasted of whiskey and cigarettes, of rough anger and his blood, his blood was rich and wet and full and pure where it dribbled down from his torn bottom lip; a spider web of liquid down his chin, beneath the collar of his robes, and was it Regulus' nimble fingers that tore the fabric away? ('Fuck you, little brother!') and that boy was smiling; sweet, sweet sidewinder smile and the flash of teeth ('Only if you ask nicely.')

Broad shoulders under Lucius' fingers, ridged bone and tanned chest and dark, flat nipples that rose at the briefest touch; he twisted one harshly, running his hot, wet tongue against the curve of Sirius’ neck, brushed with wild black hair ('Don't ask') - possessive, so possessive, and Regulus blushed like he shouldn't blush, triumphant as he pressed his lips to the dark hollow of a pale throat while Sirius yelped like a kicked dog, cursing, squirming.

('Play nice, little Black') Coarse fabric of his trousers, hot palm on hotter cock, the slick glide of it between his fingers, the fascination of stifled longing within those wide, angry eyes; Lucius kissed those bruised lips again, and felt Sirius' fingers dig into his waist, the boy's own hips thrusting forwards - inelegant, but god did Lucius love the power he so willingly gave him. ('Fuck you, Malfoy! Fuck... oh fuck...')

Savage smile, hand pulled out; trousers torn down around his ankles, body turned, front shoved to the wall with a heavy ‘ummph’ - the bumps of his vertebrae against Lucius' chest, arse cheeks split around the head of his cock. ('Yes, Sirius...') blond hair brushing his shoulders, hot kiss to his neck - promises, promises. ('Fuck.') The white-light demolition of his thrust, sheathed to the balls; god that whore could scream.

Regulus' slim silhouette in the shadows, white fingers curled around his cock - and Sirius' fingers scrambling at the wall till they were raw and bleeding, back arched, head thrown back; that framework of brutal ecstasy, of agony. ('Not so cocky now, brother? No, not so cocky now, you fucking slut.') And he was hot and tight and so, so beautiful when he was broken…

There's magic in the walls, magic in the air; it makes his skin tingle, makes his bones hum - and in the dawn the small fox stretches upon the cobwebbed bed, all lithe limbs and perfect grace and a blood-stained back, whipped in perfect rows - old wounds, old scars torn open. It hurts to move, but it's harder to stay still.

He wants his body, wants two legs and real colours and flesh devoid of fur; wants a wand between his fingers... snapped, wasn't it? Snapped right in half, and it was like being eviscerated when the cold blank walls closed in and the magic, oh the magic died; even if no one but him knew it, because no Malfoy ever shows weakness.

('You would think you would have realized by now that I. Don't. Break.')

No, he won't ever break.

4. The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog / Shall flesh his tooth on every innocent.

There is movement in the house; the front door is opening, there are footsteps down the hallway, a voice saying 'Lumos' in the dark. In the living room, the fox raises its head and watches with quick eyes that flash through a million shades of grey in a heartbeat, following the path of the faint silhouette in the semi-darkness as it pauses on the threshold, cloak tossed over a dusty chair.

"I need another House Elf," and oh, that voice is familiar! Lucius knows it - yet he does not stir from his place on the couch, tail curled around his body, all dried blood and silver fur that glints brightly in the slightest trace of light.

Harry Potter freezes, wand trained on him.

('Fell from my horse,' he said, but in his mind there was only the hard muscle of his father's arm, the tails of the whip slicing through the shroud of smoke; through his skin just as easily, but he never gave him the pleasure of a single scream)

"What the hell? What are you doing here?"

And there are footsteps coming closer, and hesitant hands moving towards him, not quite touching the raw lash-marks down the length of his spine, not quite jostling his half-broken jaw; above him, there is a pale face and bright eyes, wild dark hair wavering in and out of focus. How many days since he last ate?

(There was blood, running down his forearms, down his wrists as he sat there in the moonlight; Abraxas had left no skin on his back, and Merlin, it burned!)

"Shit," he says, and Lucius wants to smile, but he can't.

5. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!

He looks so young and innocent in the moonlight, but Lucius knows he's not. There's brutality lying between them, savage acts committed in a war that Britain cannot forget or forgive - there are memories, dark and desolate.

(She lay upon the bed, light as a feather, a supple curve of pale skin against the black backdrop of silk; she said 'I love you,' and smiled as he kissed her.)

If he knew - if Harry Potter, wild and restless - only knew... but to him the eyes watching from the shadows at the foot of his bed belong to nothing more than a fox, strange and exotic as its colouring may be; he sleeps fitfully on, oblivious.

Carefully, oh so carefully, Lucius steps across his sprawling body, claws pricking the fabric under his feet, tail dragged across the heavy coverlet; it brushes that mess of black hair before he leaps nimbly up onto the side table, avoiding the glasses and taking, instead, the long polished length of Potter's wand between his teeth.

Quick and elusive as smoke in a whirlwind, he returns to the ground, slinks into the corner where the moonlight does not reach; the wood clatters on the floor as he drops it, painfully loud in the silence, yet Harry does not so much as stir.

Draping his tail over it, Lucius feels the magic rush up through his body, along his nerves, setting the blood in his veins to fire; and the spell is not said aloud, but the explosive power of Potter's phoenix-feather wand is quick enough to catch at the single spark of it - his bones feel as if they have been turned to water...

('No one will care if he's dead,' they said, and the slap of waves against Azkaban's walls was strong enough to drown in, in and of itself. 'Transfigure him, and we'll toss him down to the rocks!' and they were afraid, oh so very afraid...)

In the shadows, a tall man rises silently from the floor, pale fingers curled around a dark wand; he laughs.

(As they should have been.)

6. When that my care could not withhold thy riots, / What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?

Harry wakes like a wild dog, hand flying to his bedside table, pushing his glasses aside - he freezes, taunt as a bow, when his fingers meet nothing but air; beneath a fringe of tousled hair, his green eyes are widening.

"I took the liberty of removing your wand," Lucius says, and there is a flash of sharpened teeth in the dark as he prowls forwards, the object in question held loosely at his side, the tip brushing his naked thigh. Tangled within the heavy sheets, Harry's blood runs cold, his fingers curling against the wooden table top; his face is drained of colour, pale and sickly in the moonlight - his voice is forced, but steady.

"They said you were dead," he challenges, as if daring Lucius not to disappear, a malignant spirit, no more than a dream. ('You're dead,' Sirius snarled, and the lights in the hallway flickered and fizzed as the back of his head met the cold stone floor) Ah, such gorgeous Gryffindor fire in that single line - Lucius' knee rests easily on the bedspread, his weight taken on the mattress as the pale light ghosts across his features; there is a dark shadow at the corner of his jaw, and his cheekbones press upwards sharply under skin that seems as thin as rice paper.

"I'm not," he whispers, and brings the wand up to point squarely at Harry's chest in one casual movement; "Hands above your head."

(Regulus' wrists were chafed, the shackles clattering as his back arched in the candlelight; Lucius pressed his lips to the sharp nubs of his spine, and he curled his fingers into the boy's sides until there was blood under his nails, thick and wet.)

For a moment, it seems that Harry will not comply - but slowly, so terribly slowly, he raises both hands up towards the ceiling; "Angustior" Lucius murmurs in a voice that is half of the wind creeping through the open window; under his skin, the magic uncoils like a serpent, fragile as parchment left out in the sun too long - for a heartbeat, his world is made up of shadows and the rich pull of animal instinct, the taste of something nearly intangible that clings to the air.

Harry is perfectly still as his wrists are lashed together with dark ribbon, biting into his skin just hard enough for it to hurt; his eyes are bold, frightened in the dark. "How..." he begins, and trails off into silence, dropping his hands into his lap.

When Lucius presses a finger to his lips, they part under the pressure and the fangs he could not banish wordlessly are sharp enough to draw two fat drops of blood from beneath the pale flesh; he smiles, and moves his hand to curl about Harry's calf through the coverlet, leaving a dark smear that gleams wetly in the moonlight for a moment, before it is absorbed.

"I'm a hard man to kill;" and the smile widens dangerously in the moonlight as he pulls on Harry's leg, dragging him down in an undignified tumble until his back is on the bed, head on the pillows - Lucius places a palm on his chest, cutting him off mid-yelp, and holds the wand to his heart.

"Avada," he drawls - sinuous curve of his spine, whitewash of his hair, ends tickling Harry's collar bone; his lips brush a rugged, unshaven jaw, and the skin beneath his hand shivers, the heartbeat racing.

('Avada,' he whispered to the back of Sirius' neck, a hand fisted roughly in his hair, pulling his head back savagely - the hot, tight, wet heat of him around Lucius' cock; the cold burn of the bedroom wall against his chest. 'Avada Ke-.')

A moment, two, three.

"Well?" Harry questions rebelliously, and Lucius' eyes shimmer like the sharp, curved edges of a fractured mirror - bright and brutal.

7. O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, / Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants!

"Lucius!"

It is a startled gasp as Harry's back hits the wall, bound hands held awkwardly away from his body, pale cheeks suffused with a flush that is not entirely born of anger - and his attacker is just another shadow, a quicksilver flash of naked skin, of white teeth and a triumphant smirk and a hand that closes easily around the thin windpipe, not quite hard enough to cut off his breathing.

"Beg for it, now," he purrs, the moist heat of his breath igniting fire through Harry's skin as those lips graze the taunt line of his neck; as the fangs catch at his ear, bite down just enough to make it bleed. "Beg for it, one animal to another."

('Beg for it, now, my pretty little puppy,' he said; and though Sirius always refused at first, he would snap so quickly under those merciless fingers - like water crashing upon rock, scattered away into eternity in a million pieces, left broken and limp as wet rag-doll and only half as useful.)

Oh, and he fights then, fights like the caged animal he is; fights until he's panting and cursing and more than a little bit desperate - fights until Lucius leans forwards and captures him completely in a kiss that is more violence than anything, biting blood into his lower lip, sliding his tongue inside until he's pressing back, arching against him, the moan dripping down between them, nearly smothered.

Frantic hands pulling at him, scraping over his naked flesh, digging into his hips as Harry rolls his own forwards. "Fuck, yes, yes, fuck, I want it;" the rush of heat between them, the rub of something hard against something just a tiny bit harder - the friction of fabric against his burning cock, and Lucius bends his head to kiss at the hollow of Harry's throat.

If he tenses at the fangs that scrape over the veins of his neck, then it is only for a heartbeat.

When pale fingers curl about his cock through his trousers, Harry bites back a yell, and Lucius laughs delightedly against his bruising skin, squeezing harder - "There's no one here to hear you but me," he whispers, all napalm amusement and spitfire mockery. "And I want to listen to you scream."

('Sweet Regulus can scream in scales, did you know?' and Sirius thrashed upon the bed as Lucius bent his brother over the table, kissed the base of his spine, trailed fingertips down his sides. 'Do you want to hear your little brother scream?' A smirk, and Regulus' lithe body arched upwards, his eyes shut, his mouth open; two gloved fingers slid into him. 'I know just how to make him.')

"Can you do that for me?" he asks, and sees the stubborn flash in Harry's eyes disintegrate as he tugs his belt aside and slides his fingers down beneath his waistband, light and intangible as dragonfly wings - and Lucius is still clutching the wand in his other hand, the tip pressed between two of those protruding ribs, grip steady.

"Yes," Harry breathes; there is a whirl of skin, a sharp press of hands, and with a yelp his chest hits the wall, bound hands held up so that his head is protected by his forearms - there is a flutter of breath against his neck, a murmured spell, and a finger slides inside him with barely any resistance at all.

When those hips thrust forwards automatically, Harry's cock scraps the rough stone wall; he screams.

('Whore,' Lucius whispered, and Regulus laughed as Sirius half-choked on the heavy glide of that cock between his lips, black hair spiking up between long, leather-clad fingers.)

The finger twists, brushes something; Lucius does not know if Harry hears the counter-spell he drawls against the back of his neck, but he notices the black ribbon sliding away from his wrists and he braces himself against the wall, spreading his legs further, gasping, shaking, moaning - mouth moving, gaping wide as a second finger is pushed in alongside the first.

Harry - no, Harry can't scream in scales, can't be played like that, a certain movement does not equal a certain string; there is no fine voice rising higher with the steady deepening of his intrusion, and he presses the wand to the back of that throat and, oh god, oh god...

How easy it would be. How fucking easy it would be to kill him right here and now.

"Fuck!" he howls, and Lucius can feel his pulse racing around his fingers, four of them, buried in as deep as they can go - when he slides them out, murmurs another lubricating charm, Harry growls just like his godfather and shoves his hips back. Wanton and inelegant, oh so dreadfully Gryffindor.

"Yes," Lucius says. (That voice again, that smile again)

"Fuck."

He can't see the smile, the razorblade smile on Lucius' lips when he slides inside in one smooth thrust, presses the wand harder into the smooth skin of his throat; Harry's breath is coming hard, his heartbeat pounding, pounding around the thick intrusion of a that cock - he spreads his legs a little wider, pushes back.

('I love you, you bastard!' he spat, as if the words were nothing more than meaningless - and Lucius dragged the boy forwards, into his arms; Regulus was shivering. 'I'm doing this for you;' and it was little more than a whisper against his throat, little more than the breeze creeping through the open window. 'I'm dying for you, Lucius, so you better fucking love me too.')

"Fuck yes, move, fuck;" and Lucius is pulling back, pulling back until he's almost sliding free and Harry is making a sound that's not entirely pleasure, and nowhere near agonizing pain - his hips jerk forwards with the return thrust, and the muscles in his shoulders tighten, the ligaments in his arms visible as he stops his leaking cock from hitting the wall again by inches.

And Lucius is silent, silent and perfect and deadly, lost somewhere in the darkness and the sweet symphony of Harry's screams, more like the clashing of battle drums than the orchestra, but each one works it's magic in turn - Harry's fingers are scrambling at the wall till they bleed.

('I'm sorry,' he said to the dust that swirled within the rays of the sun, the parchment balled in his fist, ruined just like the images of a boy standing in the moonlight, naked skin and wild hair. Such fragile beauty broken; 'I'm so sorry'.)

(Somewhere in the silence, Lucius can hear the violins playing...)


END.