Entry tags:

author: kennahijja, character: harry, character: lucius, pairing: lm/hp, type: fic

Good versus Bad Challenge
The Bad
TITLE: Vengeance and Pacifiers
PAIRING: Harry/Lucius
RATING: R
GENRE: humour/romance/parody
SUMMARY: Of all the possible reasons Harry could have to want Voldemort out of the way...


"This is so seedy," Lucius complained - again - and cast the night's sixth cleaning charm on sheets so threadbare they were practically quivering in fear every time the wand pointed at them.

"Seedy but safe." Harry shrugged and swung his legs of the bed in all his nude glory.

Lucius licked his lips and surreptitiously rearranged his nether regions. "I'm not so sure. Bellatrix has been giving me that weird look for the second time in a row when I left to meet you."

"Perhaps taking your Sunday cane on a Wednesday night tipped her off?" Harry speculated, brushing the stick in question with an affectionate look. He quite liked the special effects of Lucius' Sunday cane.

"Mmh." The tip of Lucius' tongue slid over dry lips again.

"Although Ron and Remus have both grilled me over my weekly absences as well," Harry admitted.

"There has to be a better meeting place than the most decrepit inn in Knockturn," Lucius groused again.

"Like what?" Harry sneered, and Lucius admired the way his own expression mirrored itself on the face of his lover. "You could just as well confess to old Voldie and hope he won't mind. Or," he proposed slyly, "change sides".

"Why, you could join us, Harry, dear," Lucius smirked. ""You'd cut a dashing figure next to Draco in a twin set of Death Eater robes."

"Yeah, sure!" Harry grinned and preened himself in front of the cracked, dirty mirror. It sported some rather dodgy stains on its lower half, and gave him a wheezy wolf-whistle.

"Did you have to try and gnaw them off?" Harry complained and fingered the bite marks on his swollen nipples.

"Shush, imp. You loved it."

Harry grinned and fell back on the mattress. The bed bounced. Harry's prick bounced rather fetchingly, too, Lucius noticed.

"Dumbledore I could talk round, if I pile on the guilt," Harry ploughed on doggedly. "It's Voldie who's the problem."

"Don't mangle the Dark Lord's name," Lucius admonished without fire.

"Oh, shut up. You love it." Harry giggled when Lucius' hand slapped his firm behind.

"Even if I agreed - and I have not been too impressed with my Lord's record since his revival..."

Harry nodded and pulled the Death Eater's head up to kiss the angry lines off his lips. No, it hadn't gone over well at all with Narcissa Malfoy that she had to bribe, blackmail and worse to get her husband out of Azkaban. Not that Harry blamed her - having to shag Fudge could put a woman off men a lot faster than Cho's tears two years ago had put him off girls. And he'd got Lucius in return, of course.

"Impressed or not, so far you haven't done anything but hope he'll die of old age sometime within the next 200 years," Harry complained, voice dripping sarcasm.

And then he frowned when Lucius' arm shot out without warning, grabbed him around the middle and pulled him bodily onto Lucius' lap. He went limp and his eyes fluttered shut. Lucius brushed wild hair away from Harry's ear and bent down to whisper to him. His eyes snapped open again.

"What? And the prophecy?"

"No problem," Lucius announced confidently and shoved an indignant Harry off his lap as he reached for his robes. "You'll get to brew it."

"But-"

"No buts, Potter. Same time next week - I'll bring the cauldron, you'll bring the ingredients."

***
"Is it supposed to be quite so pink?"

"You're the one studying for a Potions NEWT, Potter - you tell me." Lucius frowned down at the scrap of parchment with the recipe. "Four drops of Phoenix blood and thirteen Augurey tears - it looks well enough. But your handwriting is atrocious."

"You can read it just fine," Harry protested. He'd copied the recipe down in the Restricted Section at midnight in the light of the weakest Lumos imaginable. Lucius could thank Merlin he'd got more than doodles, he thought as he reached for mortar and pestle to prepare the final ingredient.

"Careful with the Phoenix egg shells," Lucius admonished. "They're rare and valuable, and you've only brought one batch. Grind, not pulverise."

"Bugger!" Harry groaned and poured the rather finely grounded egg shells into the blubbering concoction. "Snape is going to eviscerate me if he ever finds out it was me who cleaned out half his rare ingredients shelf."

"For a good cause," Lucius smirked. "I'd thought the Phoenix blood would give you more trouble."

Harry flushed. Sneaking into Dumbledore's office and poking Fawkes with one of Hermione's knitting needles wasn't among his proudest memories. The ruddy bird had pecked him, too, and had continued to eye him leerily even after Harry had pacified it with a whole bagful of slices of marinated Flobberworm.

"Stir twice, counterclock-wise, and remove from heat," Lucius read the last scrawl. "Potion will thicken as it cools."

Harry pulled out the ladle, wiped his sweaty face and slumped down on the bed - unused for the first time since they'd started meeting here.

"And how are we going to feed it to him?

"Now that," Lucius admitted, "that might be ever so slightly risky."

Harry peered up at him suspiciously through potion-stained glasses.

"How far do you trust me, Harry?"

"Pretty far," Harry admitted grudgingly. "We've been shagging in secret for six months, and you've had three dozen opportunities every night to off me or carry me off to Voldie dearest."

"That's the spirit!" Lucius' voice rang with approval. He drew his young lover into a possessive kiss. "Same time next week, Harry. No need to bring your wand."

***
The Dark Lord leaned back on his ornate throne seat, a satisfied expression on his hideous face.

"Lucius, my friend," he announced to the wizard who rose from one bended knee to stand before his master, "you have surpassed my most ambitious dreams." He stared down at the bundle at his feet. "Victory is ours tonight."

Harry lay where Lucius had thrown him down onto the floor, cheek pressed against the icy stone, hands tied behind his back. He squirmed feebly as Voldemort prodded his prone form with his boot.

One scaly loop hooked around the armrest of the throne, Nagini undulated forward until her tongue touched Harry's ear. He flinched and advised her to do something unmentionable in Parseltongue. The huge triangular head swung back to coil behind Voldemort's heel in a huff.

"Not yet, my sweet." Voldemort petted her coils lovingly. "You'll have what's left of him after vengeance has been served." He licked his lips. "What do you think, my friend? Shall we celebrate our triumph by sharing out this little morsel among my loyal inner circle?"

Lucius tilted his head and cold eyes raked over his victim's bound body, taking in the torn robes and the equally shredded Muggle clothes underneath. Harry squirmed some more under the merciless scrutiny.

"I wouldn't be averse to it," Lucius finally drawled. "He's got quite a delicious arse on him."

Harry squinted up at him in outrage, and the Dark Lord chuckled.

"And I'm sure his mouth could be occupied more productively than by insulting innocent serpents in Parseltongue," Voldemort added, placing his foot on the back of Harry's neck in an eloquent threat. Harry bit his lip and kept silent.

"A toast before the festivities?" Lucius asked and casually held out a spiderwebbed bottle and a goblet from one of the side tables.

"Why not?" the Dark Lord replied, accepting the goblet and holding it up to the light, all the while pressing the tip of his boot into Harry's vulnerable neck. Harry let out a pained whimper, and felt Voldemort's gaze linger heavily on him.

The Dark Lord observed as Lucius took a deep swallow from his own goblet before following suit.

A bitter taste settled in Harry's own throat as Voldemort rose from his seat, seemingly unaffected by the potion. Had Lucius even used it...?

Then the Dark Lord's hand came up to claw at his throat. His whole frame shook once, twice, and he brought his wand up, but before he could strike, a scream broke from his throat. It spiralled higher and higher into a pitiful wail, and then his whole form seemed to crumple and fall in on itself, until black robes and whatever was left of the body fell back onto the throne with a soft thump. His wand clattered to the ground. Lucius Summoned it to his hand and snapped it in one fluid movement. The dry crack made Harry flinch where he lay on the floor.

Lucius stepped up to Harry and Vanished his bonds before reaching down and pulling him up onto shaky legs. A long, cool finger tilted up Harry's chin, and Lucius scrutinised his face for a long moment until Harry nodded.

"It's all right. I was just... nervous there for a moment."

Pale lips pulled back from sharp teeth at that, and then Lucius took his cloak off his shoulders and wrapped it around Harry, who shivered in his strategically ripped robes.

'He's evil, not blind," had been Lucius' sardonic reply when Harry had balked at walking into Voldemort's lair in quite such a rudimentary outfit. In retrospect, it seemed as if Lucius had known his former Master extremely well.

The ex-Death Eater went over to the throne where Nagini poked the discarded robes with her tongue. Lucius thwacked the snake on her triangular head just as she opened her considerable jaws to devour what remained of the Dark Lord. Nagini swayed, uttered a strangled hiss around a mouthful of bitten tongue, and then slithered behind the throne with shuddering coils and amidst foul-mouthed hissing.

"Whoa," Harry breathed, following her with his eyes. "I didn't know that was anatomically possible, even for a snake..."

He fell silent as Lucius continued to stare at the bundle on the throne.

"Now this worked well," he finally stated, and Harry hurried over to stand next to him. And gulped.

Inside the bundle of robes curled a tiny baby with angrily shut eyes under a tuft of black hair. Harry gulped again and picked it up gingerly. One blue-grey eye opened and a deafness-inducing wail insinuated that, no, it had been comfortable on Voldemort's robes, thank you very much and never mind that they smelled somewhat mouldy. It was beyond the immediate state of new-born wrinkliness, but not much.

Lucius took the howling infant from Harry and proceeded to examine it. There was no sign of snake tail or tongue, and it had regular, rosy skin with no scales anywhere. It wailed like the combined forces of hell, though.

Harry quickly ripped the hood of Voldemort's robe and wrapped the his de-aged body up in it.

"It seems as if the Dark Lord has expanded his life expectancy far beyond what I'd estimated," Lucius admitted and plucked the baby's fingers off the end of his braid. It screeched even louder after that. "Using Phoenix blood in an Age-Reversal Elixir would have catapulted everybody else right back into the pre-conception stage."

"Ah, well, it still worked." Harry shrugged, trying to rock the infant against his shoulder. "It's even kind of cute." He grinned as the wailing subsided into an occasional hiccup, and the former Dark Lord took to sucking Harry's hair into his toothless mouth.

"How about a son along with a consort?" Harry asked, not quite daring to look up at Lucius.

"You want to keep it?" Harry flinched at the incredulous note in his lover's voice.

"Well, I always wanted a family, and this way we won't have to fight about who drinks the M-Preg Potion. And little Tommy here didn't have too much luck with his childhood the first time round..." He looked up, a glimmer of challenge in his eyes. "Unless you doubt your parenting skills...?"

"I'll have you know that I'm an exemplary father," Lucius announced with an arrogant tilt of his head.

Harry sneered and rocked the baby some more. "Yes, of course, I've seen the outcome. He'll be my main responsibility."

"We'll see," Lucius drawled. "Does that mean that I'll have a divorce, a trial before the Wizengamot to clear my name and a marriage-plus-adoption on my agenda?"

Harry felt a grin break out on his lips, so wide that the corners of his mouth hurt. "Make that divorce, marriage-and-adoption and the trial afterwards - I can imagine that being married to me will speed up clearing your name."

"Well," Lucius smirked darkly, "we'll schedule it as soon as you're out of detention again."

Eyes widening in panic, Harry stared. "You told Snape?"

"Well, he asked, and I couldn't have him suspect Draco of stealing valuable potions ingredients." Lucius grinned. "And if I'm going to have you for life, I won't begrudge an old friend the pleasure of watching you scrub cauldrons on your knees for a bit."

Harry hoisted little Tommy up against his chest and glared. "You know, if you hadn't just poisoned Voldemort for me and proposed to make me husband and father, I'd hex you." A scraping sound on the tiles made him turn his head. "Oh, not again!"

Nagini, who had crept closer again, probing the air with her tongue and hungrily eyeing the body of her former master in Harry's arms.

Lucius shook his cane at her. "You better slither off, worm, before I peel you alive and sew your teeth inside your skin to make a baby rattle for my son." He watched with narrowed eyes as the snake sped off and out the door, before turning to Harry. "I hope you did not want a pet, too."

"Not quite," Harry grinned. "And she'd make a rather big rattle for shrimp here - I think you should start with a pacifier."

~ finis ~

Teh Good (or so I hope...)
TITLE: Night Over Azkaban
PAIRING: Harry/Lucius
RATING: NC-17 (went AU after GOF, underage-ness)
GENRE: um, PWP with plot
SUMMARY: Caught together in a deadly trap, two mortal enemies come up with an unusual way of dealing with Dementors...


"Dead end, Potter!"

A grim smile plays around my lips when I notice the white glow of his Patronus around the corner. Stepping into the room I see him holding off a crowd of Dementors with his back to the wall. His Patronus - in the surprisingly mundane shape of a deer - is already extremely fuzzy around the edges. He looks drained and worn out, leaning against the stone wall to keep on his feet. Gracing him with a vicious grin, I lazily point my wand at him.

"Hand over your wand, Potter, and you'll walk out of this room alive."

There is something intensely satisfying about having that insufferable brat at my mercy for once. It makes up a little for the memory of being knocked down a flight of stairs by my own bloody house-elf. Handing my prisoner over to the Dark Lord and watching whatever will happen to him then will be even more satisfying.

"Go to hell, Malfoy!"

So you want to fight, Potter? Good. It'll be my pleasure to reintroduce you to the joys of the Cruciatus Curse.

Potter's eyes flicker from me to the Dementors that are slowly shuffling closer, but he makes no move to lower his wand. Instead, his eyes widen a fraction as he peers over my shoulder. A wave of intense cold sweeps over me, and a surreptitious backward glance reveals a black mass of hooded creatures filling the doorway behind me. Even worse odds for the celebrated hero of the wizarding world, it seems, though I hardly need help to subdue that overrated, arrogant little whelp.

Waving my hand imperiously, I order the Dementors to retreat. Instead of obeying, they titter, a horrible, anticipatory noise, and glide closer like upright Lethifolds.

Oh, this is just what I need! So much for Voldemort's claims to have struck a deal with them, that they're on our side now. But at the core, Dementors are creatures of hunger that cannot always be controlled. And they have very long, collective memories - they will never forget anyone who escaped their clutches. Once they almost had Potter on the ground, ready to be Kissed, and I had spent weeks in Azkaban before being 'cleared' at my trial...

"Expecto Patronum!"

I shoot my Patronus at them, producing a silver-white Peruvian Vipertooth that swoops down on them. They back off - a little. But there are just too many, and we're standing in the very centre of their power. My dragon drives them back again and again, but every time they regroup they've gained a few more inches of ground. My shoulder brushes against skin and cloth, and I realise that my strategic retreat can go no further: behind me is Potter, behind him is the wall. His own Patronus has deteriorated into a vague shape resembling a bed sheet with hooves. He throws me a side glance with a raised eyebrow.

"Impressive, the control you have over your allies, Malfoy," he taunts. "Care to come up with something useful?"

There's an almost amused glint in his eye, rejoicing that I've been caught in my own trap. The sheer nerve of him! We're about to suffer one of the most horrendous fates known to wizardkind, and the little creep is smirking at me.

The smirk is vanishing quickly, though, as the waves of cold are becoming more oppressive and draining, chilling the room until the cold seeps through flesh and bone, and happy thoughts for the Patronus charm become harder and harder to dredge up. I send off another one with the image of Potter being Crucio'ed in the Riddle graveyard, but it peters out rather quickly.

If I keep up like that, I'll run out of strength in no time, just like Potter, and then they'll take us. Well, they're welcome to him of course, but I'm not ready to die just yet. My mind is working furiously on an alternative. Apparating? Impossible. Like Hogwarts, Azkaban is an Apparition Free Zone. Calling for reinforcements? We're too far below the surface, thanks to my eagerness to catch the little bastard, who has obviously run to provide a distraction for whatever his idiotic comrades have come here to accomplish. Shoving Potter at them and making my escape? Not very promising, considering that both exits are packed with Dementors. They'd just drink him dry and then turn on me.

I listen to Potter's ragged breath as his wand produces one last indifferent silver streak the size of a cotton ball, before it is lowered in defeat. He's practically pressed into my side in his desperate attempt to put as much space as possible between himself and the approaching horrors.

Potter... a thought flashes through my mind, but I squash it immediately. If it were anyone but him, there might be a chance. Years ago, while studying various forms of ritual magic with Narcissa, we joked about the possibility quite a bit before retreating to the bedroom, still grinning madly at the absurdity of it. But well, it would explain how Rod and Bella Lestrange survived more than a decade in this hellhole at least somewhat sane...

I look down at the shock of black hair beside me again. Raising enough energy to fuel a protective circle that might scare the creatures off - Merlin, I'd rather propose that to Mad-Eye Moody. Of course he'd cheerfully die before ever accepting, but at least he'd know what I was talking about. It's the sort of magic that wouldn't make it within a hundred miles of the Hogwarts syllabus.

But I will not die like this! I'll make this work, and if I can grind the little bastard's overblown ego and self-respect into dust in the process, all the better!

With a flick of my wand I conjure the outline of the half circle between the wall and the assailants. Complicated chalk symbols draw themselves into being on the stone floor and the wall behind us, glowing in a muted silver-white. A surge of dry warmth crackles through the circle, confusing the cadaverous leeches with its remote likeness to a happy memory. They practically glide all over each other trying to siphon energy from the wards. Good. That should buy me a little time.

Potter frowns at me, obviously having expected some more flashy spell. Bad news for you, Potter, I sneer mentally. I tap a finger against his wand hand and nod at the tapered piece of holly that's still clutched in it.

"Put that away, Potter." The last thing I need is for him to get wand-happy when he starts to panic.

"No."

Sighing, I put my own wand into the pocket of my robe. "You won't be needing it." Not that kind of wand, anyway.

"Like hell I won't!" he snaps angrily. "How dumb do you think I am?"

Potter backs away from my outstretched hand, clinging to his wand as if it was a life line, until scabbed, skeletal fingers wrap around his wrist from behind. He screams and waves his wand, shooting a puff of white light at the Dementor that is holding him. The creature gibbers, torn between the discomfort of having reached through the circle of wards and sheer greed. Not at all impressed by the feeble Patronus, it pulls him closer and grabs his other hand as well. I enjoy the sight of Potter's frantic struggles as long as possible before shooting my Vipertooth at the forward Dementor. Gratifying as it would have been to watch his demise, I still need the boy.

The creature reels back, robes flying, and leaves Potter swaying on his feet, wide, panicked eyes shining with disbelief.

"Don't fall all over yourself to thank me, Potter," I drawl and receive a tired glare for my pains. "If I wouldn't need you, I'd just have let it suck out your soul. And now I'd appreciate it if you would put away your wand. They won't go away by themselves, you know," I point at the crowded exits.

He throws a nervous look at the Dementors, shudders, and complies. The creatures have assembled in a loose ring around the circle, but haven't dared to close in yet. But as we have seen, bare wards won't hold them at bay for long. It's time to infuse them with something more than basic magic.

I meet the confused green eyes, suppressing a malicious grin which would do nothing to reassure him. Putting a finger under his chin, I raise his face up to mine and kiss him firmly. For a second, shock freezes him on the spot. Then he jumps, yelping when the back of his head bumps against the wall. The enraged sputtering is almost amusing, but when he starts to violently wipe his mouth with the back of his hand I feel a flicker of annoyance.

Giving him my best Malfoy sneer, I grab his shoulders, propelling him against the wall and holding him there. Not forcefully enough to spark terror, but with sufficient emphasis to get his immediate attention.

"Stop that," I command. "You will co-operate, or we'll both die. It is this or kissing one of them, Mr. Potter."

His mouth opens for a question, but I cut it off.

"You were so eager to stand up to me at Hogwarts," I snarl coldly. "Now you can put that abundance of Gryffindor courage to use." It's clear from the confused expression and furrowed brow that he still doesn't understand. "Consider it an introduction to the more unorthodox forms of Defence Against the Dark Arts," I add ominously. He'll figure out the details soon enough without me delivering a lecture on magical theory.

Instead, I step up and run my fingers over his cheek, along his chin, sliding them down his neck and over his shoulders. He flinches again, but makes a conscious attempt to suppress the reaction. Very good. Mocking a Gryffindor's courage works like clockwork. They're so utterly predictable that way. Keeping my hands lightly on his shoulders, I lean in and let my lips retrace the path of my fingers. His skin is salty, with the cold sweat of fear and exhaustion, and underneath the undertone of dust that is omnipresent and characteristic of Azkaban fortress.

Potter turns his head slightly, almost unconsciously, as if unsure whether to lean closer to my mouth or twist away from it.

"What...?" It is little more than a breathless whisper and I just smile.

"Keep an eye on the wards, Potter," I murmur into the crook of his neck and urge his head into the right direction.

As soon as his attention is occupied, my free hand moves down to his groin in an insistent, lingering caress. He gasps as if I had stabbed him and jumps again, wide-eyed both from the touch and the bright spark that has kindled inside the circle of wards. Thank Merlin I am dealing with a teenaged boy here! It makes getting a reaction so much easier. Another horrified gasp signals that - finally - he has understood.

When I move to unfasten the clasp of his robes, however, he shakes his head determinedly, lips pressed together.

"I think I'd rather die, Malfoy." It would sound more impressive if proof of his indetermination wouldn't nudge against my thigh, of course.

"That's just too bad, Potter," I drawl. "Because I won't, and definitely not to spare your tender sensibilities."

Pushing his fingers away I open the silver clasp and pull his robes back over his shoulders. My eyebrow rises as I take in his clothes. He's wearing an oversized red jumper, so long it falls down to mid-thigh. The colour has suffered from too many washings, and the cuffs are threadbare. The Muggle trousers are far too large as well, and forcefully secured with a belt around the slender waist.

Who shops for you, Potter? I ask myself incredulously. That flea-infested cur of a godfather, or those Muggles? They give you a top-of-the-line racing broom, but let you dress like something living behind a rubbish bin in Knockturn?

And yet, there seems to be an advantage in the size of the shirt. I can easily run my hands up under the baggy jumper to caress his sides and back. Soft, cool skin. Goose-bumps are breaking out in the path of my fingertips, and no, I don't think it's because of the chill of the dungeon. He relaxes fractionally as I stroke his back and put my hands on his shoulder blades to draw him closely to me. As I press up against him I can feel his excitement, and slowly grind my hips against his to let him know that the feeling is quite mutual. He bites his lip against the sensation, but the only good that does is to incite my desire to mirror the little movement with my own teeth.

Tension still dominates his whole posture, however. His hands are balled tightly at his sides, and green eyes keep wandering over my shoulder at the crowding Dementors. They swarm around the circle, closing in on the wards from time to time only to recoil again in an agitated rustle of mouldy cloth. Their hunger radiates through the wards, oppressive in its intensity.

Sighing, I reach up and very deliberately steal the horrid glasses off Potter's nose and slide them into his robe pocket.

"Don't look at them," I order. "They can't see us - they only sense life energy, and emotions." Well, we don't know enough about Dementors for me to bet my life on it, but he doesn't need to know that. "Look at me."

My fingers close around the back of his neck and I draw him in for a serious kiss. He almost balks as my tongue slides over his lips, until I finally growl and pull back just enough to murmur with a considerable degree of sarcasm, "It might get a bit more interesting if you opened that bloody mouth of yours, Potter!"

"I hate you!" he hisses quietly, and this time I can't resist the temptation to tug his lower lip between my teeth and bite down until it elicits a groan that is not primarily an expression of pain.

"Good." I smirk against his lips. "That makes it so much sweeter."

He snarls wordlessly and kisses me back with clumsy, harsh determination. And, wonder of wonders, open-mouthed. His mouth tastes overwhelmingly of chocolate - no surprise there. The old cures against Dementors are still the best. Chasing his elusive tongue is an enjoyable pursuit, and when I finally manage to trap and pet it provocatively with my own, he responds quite enthusiastically, leaning into my body and putting his arms around my neck. Oh yes, apart from the company, this could be quite a pleasant experience. The wards seem to agree and begin to sparkle merrily.

I keep control of his mouth until his back slumps against the wall for support and he pulls away, desperate for air. Then I let my hands wander down until they come to rest on the clasp of his belt. His face acquires a delightful expression of terror which I savour as I undo first the clasp, then the buttons of his trousers.

His hands push against my chest as if he wouldn't know just what to do with them. I grab them and link them behind his back, placing my fingers over his for a moment in a commanding clasp. He shivers and obeys, keeping them folded behind his back even as I reach around and slip my hand into the front of his trousers. Too bad we don't have the opportunity to find out whether he enjoys being restrained in earnest.

Carefully, I extricate him from the confining cloth and relish in the sharp intake of breath that the touch provokes. Wrapping my hand around the rapidly hardening length, I begin to stroke from base to tip, none too gently, only pausing at the tip to draw small circles on the flesh with my thumb. It's only when I run my middle finger down the underside of his cock that it forces a sound out of him, an eerie marriage of a moan and keening wail. Not so hard to grate down that self control after all. Poor little Harry. Let's see if we can do something even worse to you.

When I sink to my knees before him, robes gracefully falling into folds around my feet, I'm not certain whether his sudden hitch of breath is disbelief, shock or anticipation. Head almost demurely lowered, I abandon my ministrations, pushing frayed trousers and underwear down to pool around his ankles, insidiously angling his leather belt so that it brushes over his erection on the way down. It produces a very interesting gasp and twitch. Now that they can roam freely, I run both hands up the insides of his thighs. His skin is feather-soft above the back of the knees, but rougher at the joint - a sure sign of spending a lot of time on a broom. The muscles are so very tense as I gently caress the small calluses with my thumbs. He shifts restlessly, small, unconscious movements to bring my hands in contact with his straining erection.

Gently, I lift it to my lips and suck lightly at the tip, tasting sweat and a faintly earthy tang. Then I look up, giving him a lewd smile around his cock, and enjoy the way he first pales, and then blushes a fierce Howler red. He turns his head away, too shamed to face me and yet too aroused to shove me away. A single tear trickles out from under a dark eyelash, and the wards flicker strongly for a moment. Sighing quietly - which provokes another convulsive twist in his nether regions - I decide to abandon the power games for now. Satisfying as they are, this is not really the time. I keep soothing and teasing him with my tongue before sucking again, more insistently.

It has been a long time since I've last done this, but quite like riding a broom, you never forget the technique entirely. Slytherin in my generation had been infamous for trading mortifying sexual favours for lost house points, lost bets, lost Quidditch matches. And very few friends close enough to do that with afterwards - the Lestranges, Evan Rosier the night before he went out to meet his death at Moody's hands...

The unbidden memory brings a bitter sting, and the agitated rustling of cloth alerts me to the source of the feeling. Our hooded friends have realised that something is afoot. Smiling in grim determination, I banish the flicker of grief and concentrate on manipulating the vulnerable body of my little wildcard into a weapon that will make them regret they've ever tried to turn against me.

When I look up at his face again, I can't help but hold my breath at the sight. His head is thrown back, eyes shut so tightly it has to hurt, and sharp little teeth bite down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Two small trickles run down at the corners of his mouth, and with skin almost rendered translucent in the white glare of the wards, he looks like an ecstatic vampire prince feeding on an invisible victim.

I snort mentally at myself for waxing about the look of my enemy in the grip of passion, but the picture is so very inviting that I can't resist the urge to slide up along his body to chase the bloody traces from his chin up to his mouth with my tongue, first one, then the other. The coppery tang is strong enough to rival the chocolate as I fasten my mouth on his, further milking the swollen lower lip for its precious fluid. He moans into my mouth in despair at the lack of contact where he needs it most, and I have to grip his hips with both hands to hold him still against the wall. I lick my way up to his ear and he shudders, eyes still closed tightly, when the tip of my tongue tickles the outer shell.

"Would you like me to continue?" I murmur, giving his still twitching hips an inquisitive squeeze.

It provokes a desperate intake of breath, and with his body coiled so tightly I wonder where his lungs are still drawing air from.

"If your... spell... requires it," he grinds out.

I feel my face going white with anger at this incredible, wilful self-control. Anger that is quickly followed by searing rage. How dare he stand up to me like that? He has no idea how lucky he is that I can't deal with him as I would like to! If matters would be different, I would torment him until he was beyond begging, and use him for my pleasure instead of the other way round. The mere thought sends a jolt of heat through my own cock and causes me to bare my teeth in a feral snarl. But then he pulls a hand out from behind his back with no small effort, and raises it up to my face. Close, but not touching.

"I'm sorry. Please, do."

Silly Gryffindor child, to win such a victory and then throw it away! I grab his hand and crush it against the wall next to his cheek before plundering his mouth viciously to remind him of his place. But then I decide to accept the peace offering and return to my previous position and put my mouth back to where he wants it.

This time, I take him in as far as possible, and he gives a whimper of sheer need because my hands are again forcing his hips to still against the wall despite his urge to move. For a moment, I feel his hand on my head, not pushing, but instead touching my hair in an almost unnoticeable, achingly gentle caress. So very careful that it provokes a vague, raw sensation in my chest I do most definitely not want to linger on. Then he raises the hand to his mouth and bites down on the knuckles to stifle any further sound while I continue to worry his cock. It doesn't take long from there. With a sardonic smile I swallow around him, hard, and even if I couldn't feel the spurt of salty wetness on my tongue I would notice the flare of white light crackling through the wards, throwing the dim stone chamber into glaring relief.

An intense sense of restlessness emanates from the crowd of Dementors behind me. Oh yes, my young acolyte may indeed be happy to be here right now, but while the disgusting creatures thrive on leeching happy memories out of their victims' brains, they don't handle sheer mindless sensation very well. Too raw, too immediate, too overwhelming. Like a child that is looking forward to a drought of iced pumpkin juice on a hot summer day, and is bowled over the head with a pumpkin instead.

I raise my fingers to my mouth to catch a trickle of his fluid and stand up to trace one of the wall sigils with it. Then I reach for the mutilated hand which is still pressed to his mouth. The tangled black hair and dilated green eyes above the bleeding fingers make for quite a fascinating colour contrast, which again reminds me forcefully of the tension coiled inside my body. Carefully, I take his wrist and trail his bitten knuckles along another of the wards. The chalk sucks up the blood like a sponge. It is mainly symbolic, of course, but the sigils seem to burn a tad brighter yet, and that is all it takes to raise the pervasive feeling of inhuman unease another notch and to ease the pressure in the room another bit. A look over my shoulder confirms that the rows of Dementors have thinned out considerably. What is left are about a dozen of the creatures, too many still to dispel by conventional means, but a lot better than expected.

For a moment, I wrap my arms around Potter's near-boneless body, and just hold him against me. Again, being embraced and feeling my hands caressing his back seems to calm him. The aftershocks subside, and when he finally draws back it is to my intense surprise to raise my sticky hand to his lips in a trembling, hesitant kiss. Like a sliver of lightning, the seemingly innocent gesture ignites a flash that runs right from the nerve points in my neck to my groin. The sudden urge to spin him around, shove him face-first against the wall and fuck him until the tension melts out of my bones is so strong that my hands are shaking. I can almost feel the firm flesh under my hands, the tight heat, the desperate whimpers. I have not craved anything with such urgency in a long, long time. It is a very close call, but rationality at least pulls me back from the brink. Much as I would desire it, I can't take him like that without hurting him, and that would be counterproductive.

Instead, I tangle one hand in his hair and suck him into an almost murderous kiss while pressing my body against his so that it leaves no questions about my state of mind. Deciding to emphasise the point, I grab his wrist and pull his hand down to rest against the lower front of my robes, only to suppress a moan when he curls it around my erection through the cloth.

"Care to reciprocate, Potter?" I ask with what I know is a supremely evil grin.

The wild eyes stare up at me with a half nervous, half calculating expression that makes me wonder if I have misjudged him. But no, there is the telltale flush again. If I had harboured any doubts before, I'd be sure now that the prim, dull members of Gryffindor house are not in the habit of trading sexual favours.

Although his sheer nerve astonishes me again. He pulls up his clothes and then fastidiously arranges his robe back around his body like a knight would fasten the buckles of his harness before riding into tournament. Then he takes a deep breath and kneels. If his shoulders weren't trembling faintly, his aura of self-possession might have hidden how anxious he is, and how much out of his depth. Of course, seeing him on his knees at my feet is almost enough to make me go weak-kneed myself. This is what the Dark Lord dreams of at night, and it falls to me, effortlessly.

After another panicky breath he finally works up the courage to use both hands to caress my cock through the heavy fabric of my robes. A vivid shade of red colours his ears, which are all I can see considering that he keeps his head bowed to make sure I won't be able to read his expression.

Although his touches are light and tentative, I feel my erection rise upward to rub against the cloth, giving him more to work with. Actually, being Gryffindor, I expect him to have more experience with his hands than his mouth anyway. Though it is clear enough from the again-muted glow of the wards and the tension in his posture that the implications of his position distress him deeply. The room has gone slightly cooler again as well. Considering that my challenge was mostly fuelled by curiosity about how far I could push him and the fact that the lack of distinct pressure against my cock is driving me quietly insane, I decide to put him out of his misery. I'm not a patient man, and denying myself gratification in whatever form is not a Malfoy trait either.

I grab his shoulders, pull him up to me and then slam his back against the wall with considerable force. He winces slightly and gives me another one of those snarls which express my own feelings perfectly. Returning his look with my most feral expression, I pin his hands over his head before grinding my hips against his groin so harshly it's more an assault than a caress - a vivid indication of what I'd like to do to him if I could. His face is still flustered, but the expression of sheer mortification has softened to one of mere embarrassment. Holding his gaze with mine, I repeat the movement, a little less violent, but still a far cry from gentle. I am acutely aware that I'm digging the back of his hands and wrists into the roughly-hewn stone. It has to hurt, but he does not try to struggle, and if anything, the light of the wards burns slightly brighter. So it seems you can handle rough, Potter. Let's see if we can accommodate you, then.

I rock my hips against his lower body until a mutual touch of hardness answers my probing and a new wave of heat creeps up from his neck at my triumphant grin. I keep pinning his eyes with mine, and although being forced to expose his expression to my gaze bothers him to no end, it's the kind of challenge a Gryffindor can't walk away from. His eyes narrow to vicious green slits, and long, slender fingers interlace forcefully with my own. I stare down at his mouth, slightly open in a savage growl that reveals the tips of his canines. I close my lips over his harshly, and feel the pointed teeth grazing my tongue. So we've stopped pulling punches, have we, Potter? Not so shy when our passion has been ignited...

This time when I rub my cock against his through our robes he shoves right back, and it produces a stab of heat that jolts right up into the pulse point in my neck. I breathe a little, satisfied moan into his mouth and feel him shiver against my body in pleasure. A spark of fire gleams in his eyes when he realises that he has drawn a reaction out of me. It amuses me to no end because he's playing into my hands with that as well. I lower my head to trail a line of light bites down his throat, hiding my grin against his skin. He is quite delightful to play with.

I resume the movement of my groin against his at a maddeningly slow pace which is grating on my own control as much as it's designed to wear down his. The friction passed back and forth by hard flesh against cloth and matching hard flesh underneath is almost painful, but not in a way I would mind about. It's an unsatisfactory and at the same time electrifying sensation, and watching him strive and fail to keep his face from mirroring his pleasure is as arousing as his hips rocking into mine.

Beads of sweat appear on his forehead, and I swipe them off with my tongue. This time it is him who initiates the kiss, careful at first, but not at all hesitant at exploring when I allow him access to my mouth. His intuition, it seems, is not limited to the battle against the dark. Gradually, our bodies move into a steady, accelerating rhythm and I feel the heat pooling in my groin, radiating outward until it burns through the entire length of my spine.

With a moan that is half agony, half ecstasy he throws back his head again until it rests against the wall, eyes shut, mouth half-open and forehead crinkled in concentration as he grinds himself against me with furious intensity. His neck, arm and thigh muscles are so rigid that their touch feels more like damp stone than flesh. He almost shatters my self-control, looking like that. I attack his invitingly parted lips to draw him out of his reverie. Synchronising the jabs of my tongue against his with the grinding of my hips is almost enough to do him in. He whimpers into my mouth and begins to struggle against my restraining hands like a trapped animal. Of course it only makes me hold him harder, which seems to excite him even more.

He is so very close and I understand that he fights both to force his body over the edge and out of a primal, almost unconscious anger at me for driving him to the brink in the first place. And perhaps, I realise as I take in his heated face and sweat-soaked hair, he hates himself most of all because deep down the last thing he really wants is to escape.

When the last brittle vestiges of control finally break, his nails dig into my hands so forcefully that they shred skin and leave trails of blood on my wrists. His whole body shudders and he arches against me like something that has been dealt a mortal blow. Kindly, I close in to steal the breath for his scream out of his lungs. The small sound that remains reverberates through my mouth in an echo of the shock that runs through my cock when I feel him coming against me. Like a torch being kindled by another, I give a final merciless thrust before the flame ignites me as well, a terrible, searing heat incinerating my cock, my spine and even the insides of my eyelids. The wards flash so brightly it almost feels as if they're bathing my bones in light through skin and flesh.

Too winded to think I sag against him, resting my head on his shoulder for a moment, feeling his rapid breaths against my chest. Just for a moment, of course, until reality asserts itself and I throw another glance over at the exits. Empty. Not one of the Dementors has chosen to brave the wards, and a honest wave of happiness floods through me like an internal smile. Even the fact that my groin hurts like bloody hell from the intense friction and the less-than-comfortable wet spot on the front of my robes do nothing to check my relief.

I release his restrained hands and only now notice how awfully my own hurt. But then he winces just as badly and cradles his fingers to his chest protectively. I don't permit myself any expression of discomfort, but instead inconspicuously reach into my robe to angle for my wand. Of course, let's not forget that I'm dealing with the Boy Who Lived To Be Almost As Devious As A Slytherin. We both look up at the same time, each facing the other over the tip of a wand. Quick thinking, Potter! Although his features are still a bit too unguarded to make me believe he could switch from sex to battle at once. I give him a malicious smile and cast a strong, short-range cleaning spell. He does not even move to interfere, only flushes that interesting flame colour again when he realises what I'm doing.

Then, still very pink around the ears, he points his wand at my hands, first the wand hand, then the other, and invokes a healing spell to fade out the deep gashes his nails have left on my skin. Then he uses it to heal himself, still carefully prepared to ward off whatever curse may leave my mouth.
It's an awkward moment, and just when I've settled on the right scathing remark to break it, I hear a faint sound in the distance. Not the rustling of Dementors gliding, but the soft click of boots on stone. Whispering voices, too quiet for me to make out.

Potter's eyes light up as the voices come nearer.

"Sirius," he whispers.

Cursing mentally, I raise my wand, but Potter puts a restraining hand on my elbow. I stare down at his face coldly, but he just shakes his head and keeps looking at me in this silly, open, Gryffindor fashion. As I would look at him were the roles reversed, only that I'd use the first opportunity when his wand was lowered to knock him unconscious or curse him to the ground. Whereas he is likely to mean it. Chivalrous Gryffindorism, and unlike us Slytherins his type is not ruthless enough to assault the person they've just been shagging. Yes, it's probably a safe bet. I return the intense look with a calculating pretence at honesty and lower my wand.



It is, indeed, as he said. They file in, one after the other, Dumbledore, Black and Lupin, wands drawn with the afterglow of their Patroni still burning around them. The infamous Order of the Phoenix has come to reclaim their most precious tool. Or what's left of it.

Dumbledore's eyes run over the wards, wide and with an expression closer to disbelief than I've ever seen on the silly coot's face.

Shocked you, old man? I think smugly. And I thought that would be harder, considering that lecherous old goat you have for a brother.

Black follows his glance, but there's no hint of recognition on his face. That surprises me, to be honest. Black had quite a reputation in his Hogwarts and pre-Azkaban days, and I'd have thought that this kind of magic would be right up his alley.

"Harry! Get away from him," Black calls to Potter, wand aimed at me. I smile at him contemptuously as Potter steps between us, one hand stretched out.

"It's all right, Sirius. He... saved my life." Yes, that's one way of putting it.

Lupin looks at Potter, then at the wards, and his face closes off completely, not betraying the slightest flicker of emotion. To spare Potter embarrassment, certainly, but probably just as much to stop his best friend from flying into a killing rage should he discover the truth. Oh, yes, this one is quite steeped in the Dark Arts, by virtue of nature as much as inclination.

Potter walks up to Black and puts a hand on his arm in reassurance.

"I'm fine. We... chased them off." The red tinge on his face is almost swallowed by the harsh light, but now I know what to look for. "Let's go," he urges the trio.

Dumbledore eyes him sharply.

"Are you owing Mr. Malfoy a life debt, Harry?"

Potter's lips curl with something akin to humour. It looks quite sensuous considering that his lower lip is still slightly swollen.

"I doubt it. Mutual life debts cancel each other out, don't they?"

Dumbledore nods thoughtfully and steps up to me, face under very tight control.

"I would advise you to quit Azkaban as quickly as possible, Lucius. I'm afraid Voldemort's agreement with the Dementors is... at an end."

My eyes narrow as I stare back at him.

"What have you done?"

"When the Dementors agreed to put Azkaban and themselves at the service of the Ministry," Dumbledore says with a slight twist of disgust on his face at the thought, "they permitted a controlling spell to be put on them in return for the freedom of movement they would be given." He smiles pleasantly. "We came here to undo that spell, which means the creatures will both be trapped inside the fortress and free to follow their particular... instincts."

And, I add to myself, utterly useless to our cause. It took the Ministry years to negotiate a deal with the monsters in the 1960s, not to mention to weave the complex spellwork accompanying it. Damn them to hell!

My eyes wander to Potter, and he gives me a very small mischievous grin. That little bastard knew all along! That fucking Gryffindor idiot led me off right into the core of Azkaban while his companions went about setting free the very Dementors that would come swooping down on him in the dungeons. In this moment, I desperately wish I had wrung his dumb, vulnerable neck instead of shagging him, and to hell with the consequences.

When he passes me by on his way to the exit, I grab the sleeve of his robe and yank him into my arms. Black growls in outrage and raises his wand, but of course he cannot curse me over the unprotected back of his godson. Ignoring his furious shout of "Let go of him, you bastard!", I kiss Potter, in front of his comrades, very harsh, very possessive. Green eyes flash in surprised indignation, but then he relaxes against me, like a spring unhooked from the mattress, and parts his lips for me. I can feel his mouth smiling against mine and draw back. He is humouring me, the arrogant little git. As if it were me who has to save face after tonight!

"We'll have to finish this another time, my little virgin," I hiss into his ear, quietly enough so only he can hear me. "Because I'd love to see you naked and chained to my bed without any Dementors around forcing me to play nice." And I can't for the life of me determine how much of that statement is truth and how much scare tactics.

One corner of his mouth curls in a strange expression, fluttering somewhere between grin and grimace.

"Thanks for the warning, Mr. Malfoy. I'll make sure to watch my back." His voice is surprisingly soft, considering the sarcasm of his words. For an artless Gryffindor, he's rather good at saying what he's not saying.

I roughly shove him backwards at his friends, making sure that he's between me and Black's wand, and watch him turn and drag them out without another glance. Perhaps it's a good thing that matters turned out this way, I muse. I may have lost Voldemort the Boy Who Lived, but then he doesn't need to know that. And I would not have been too eager to publicly announce to my fellow Death Eaters how exactly I've chased off the Dementors tonight.

As for Potter... I'm certain that we will meet again another day. He has that habit of turning up in the most impossible places at the very worst of times. We will resolve our little... dispute, one way or the other. And I hope that when I get my hands on that delectable body again, I'll have sufficient time to show him everything I could not do to him tonight before Voldemort gets around to killing him.

~ finis ~

Of course the embarrassing thing is that The Good was written way earlier than Teh Bad… so much for improvement…