Fic: Beyond Daylight (HP/SM(/LM))
Title: Beyond Daylight Author: stonegrad Pairing: Harry/Scorpius(/Lucius) Rating: Hard R Warnings: Incest, a little bit dubious on Harry's side of things, sort-of voyeurism (but it's more like participation)... Summary: Scorpius Malfoy is always watching, and Harry can't convince himself that he doesn't want to know why.
Prompt: #76. You look at the child, whose frustration glimmers on the lower lashes of his eyes, whose fury lies delicate in the vein-blue at his jaw; you look and you look and you dig your nails in. Your hands will remain clenched on the arms of this chair... Author Note: An absolutely massive amount of thanks to starlightforest for the beta!
“God it hurts, give a name to the pain, our primrose path to hell is growing weed.”
-- Nightwish, Slaying the Dreamer
You look at the child, whose frustration glimmers on the lower lashes of his eyes, whose fury lies delicate in the vein - blue at his jaw; you look and you look and you dig your nails in. Your hands will remain clenched on the arms of this chair, your fingers will grip so hard that there will be splinters in them when you finally just realise that they hurt for a reason other than the fact that your blood is on fire.
Because it's wrong, you know it's wrong; that he can't possibly understand what's he's doing because he's just some fucking child, for Merlin's sake! He's just some fucking child, and you're an adult, and you aren't supposed to want him like that, like he's just some whore from down in Knockturn to be spread over your bed - spread his legs for you, scream for you, want you like a man three times his age even though he's only twelve and in the same year as your youngest son.
Your own son, you depraved bastard.
But none of that matters, because deep down you realise that he knows exactly what he's doing - he's a Malfoy, after all... there's no innocence there, even if you refuse to see the spark behind the nebulous sarcasm of his silver eyes, even if you blind yourself to the way he pouts, so prettily, and eyes you over the Ministry desk.
Just like he watched you in the classroom, and the hallways, and trailed you like a puppy, wrapped up in spices like some devilish fruitcake Molly sent over for Christmas; because of course you're too damn busy to spend it with what little family you have.
'He's just like his father,' you think, and try to forget the way Draco looked when he was all wind-tousled and rage-flushed on the Quidditch pitch, or standing beneath the showers with his hair slicked to his face - because you weren't supposed to be hidden in the Slytherin changing rooms, were you? And he didn't know, he never will know because he'd still skin you alive, even now, years after the fact.
So you think, 'he's just like his grandfather', but that doesn't help because you've seen him too, stripped down to his pale skin under the bright Saint Mungo's lights - and he didn't care that you were watching; why would he? Why the fuck would Lucius bloody Malfoy give a damn if the Savior of the Wizarding World got an eyeful of cream-white flesh and sculpted muscle? Of crisscrossed scars and the flat, angry glare of the Mark seared into his forearm?
Why would he care if he ruined you with his own excellence and his damnable, perfect spawn?
And maybe, maybe you think you can say 'he's like his mother, then,' but you know that isn't true, because no Malfoy male ever comes out that way, and certainly not him.
Not Scorpius, all twelve years old and too slender as he stares at you - as he just keeps staring, and you wish he wouldn't because until he stops the only thing you can do is sit there and hold onto that chair as if it's your last link to this earth.
Not him, with his straight back and his damn perfect manners - with his thick drawl, accent picked up from Montpellier over the holidays as he just watches you and waits for you, calming himself until he can peer up through heavy blond lashes and wrap you around his fingers just like his family does to nearly everyone.
You thought you were exempt, untouchable.
Your hands are trembling - your hands are fucking trembling as you release the chair and interlink your fingers in your lap, trying to ignore the fact that you’re getting hard from this, from the weight of his gaze and the lilt of his voice as he says “Are you all right, sir?” like he’s the most innocent creature in the world.
Like he’s some sort of tame little rabbit, even though his entire family is made up of snakes and both of you know it.
“Yes,” you can say, and hope that the air won’t catch in your throat because wouldn’t that just be wonderful, to choke on your own words just as the door flies open and the inexplicable presence that is Lucius Malfoy comes sweeping through? - and suddenly there are two of them, TWO of them…
And you know that if they stay for long then you’ll just fucking break - and you know that Scorpius knows it too, because he’s smiling softly; and if he understands it, then so does his grandfather…
Which means you’re doomed, so you might as well just leave the splinters in your fingers and stand up and do something, anything before they can grab the upper hand - before that fucking child can climb into your lap, a squirming bundle of flesh that’s all angles, all bone.
But he’s doing just that, a choking vine as he slithers up until his sweet little arse rests on your thighs and you can feel every ridge of him, every single rib as you tug your hands out from under him and accidentally, on purpose, brush his stomach as you do so - and the fabric is so light it’s barely even there, and you can feel his heartbeat thudding against your fingertips and your hands are just stuck there, on his chest.
Your hands are stuck, and Lucius is the one who brushes the hair from his grandson’s eyes and kisses him on the crown of his head, so that Scorpius beams and laughs and wriggles like the little snake he is - and tilts his head up to you, and presses his mouth to yours without preamble, without any mockery of innocence because of course he knows how to do this, even though he’s only twelve and your son sure as hell doesn’t.
He knows more than you do, you think, as he pries your mouth open and tempts your tongue inside - and his mouth tastes like chocolate and the faintest trace of wine, and that’s wrong too, that’s wrong because it’s not his and it belongs to someone else, someone else who’s had their tongue there and their teeth where yours are now, biting into the child’s bottom lip.
You think you know who - you think you know, but you can’t believe it and so maybe if you ignore it then the truth will simply go away.
His mouth is sweet, it bends, he bends in a way no older man ever would; and it’s not like he trusts you, more as if he wants to please his grandfather, standing behind him, watching you so intently it’s as if he’s waiting for you to slip, to do something that hurts Scorpius so that he can have a reason to curse you into oblivion - and that should bother you, and it does, but not as much as it’s supposed to.
Mostly because you want him - of course you want him.
Who doesn’t want one of them?
A slender fumble at your belt, and nimble fingers loosening your buttons before you even have time to think, to just fucking think and breathe and decide if you want to do this or not; and Lucius is always watching, with his hooded eyes and his not-quite smile, stroking his fingers down Scorpius’ back, making the boy writhe into you, grind into you, which doesn’t help at all.
Which is probably the whole point, anyway.
They’re probably just using you.
Not that it matters.
Your hands are up his shirt, under his robes; the child is warm and strangely damp, as if fresh from the bath, and he rubs against you like the most wanton whore and laughs into the curve of your neck - and of course his hair is just as soft as it looks, like feather down, where it brushes your bared skin.
It’s wrong, so fucking wrong that you should just be pushing him off, shoving him off and screaming for the guards.
Lucius bends, whispers something into his ear, and Scorpius slips his hand beneath your trousers and makes you groan and throw your head back and arch into the sure grip of his slim little fingers - and he’s done this before too, you can tell, but it doesn’t matter.
You bite your lip until it bleeds, and he slides his hand up and down, up and down, and squirms and taunts with his spice-scent and his chocolate-taste; you’ll never last, you’re going to explode and that’s horrible, that’s disgusting.
But you can’t help it, it happens anyway.
He stills, immediately, as you shudder underneath him - he stills and tips his head back and smiles shyly up at Lucius, as if seeking approval; and you’re too far gone to actually care that they’re fucking kissing right in front of you, pressing their lips together for a split second of a moment before Scorpius wriggles his way right back off your lap and holds his hands out for Lucius to cast a cleaning spell on.