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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are
not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner
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And Of Course He Was Cleared Of All
Charges, And Declared A Hero, But That's Not The Part You Want To Read,
Now, Is It?
Summary: Even a brief stay in Azkaban for Harry will be
A/N: Written for Gina for all her wonderful work in the
2006 Merry Smutmas exchange. Merry merry Smutmas, Gina darling! This
story is completely the doing of Nimori. When I pestered her for a
Harry/Lucius plot bunny, she gave me this, and after I spent the better
part of a day wailing that it was too cruel, I couldn't let the idea go.
"Mr. Potter. What a pleasant surprise."
Hands balling into fists he couldn't put to use--not while they were
holding him like this--Harry stood in the grip of Macnair and the one
whose name he didn't remember, forcing himself to meet Lucius Malfoy's
eyes and remembering words he knew Dumbledore had meant as a lesson.
"Jokes? No, no. These are manners."
If Malfoy had the same grace as Dumbledore, the least Harry could do
was show he'd learned it too. "Mr. Malfoy. Roomy accommodations they've
got for us around here."
Of course he'd known the Dementors were gone from Azkaban. Had heard it
two years ago. Harry'd never asked himself what sort of policing system
functioned in Azkaban in their absence, though. Why would it have
mattered at the time?
When the guards had pushed him through the great metal portcullis that
sealed the entrance to the inner stockade of Azkaban--explaining that
they were only issuing him one set of standard prison robes instead of
the regulation three, since they expected him to be released in no more
than a day or two for his trial--and he'd seen, he'd stopped, startled
and speechless and vulnerable, he knew, as a fledgling dropped from its
nest. He'd expected another guard. He'd expected cells. He'd not
expected one great round hall of prisoners, brutish or empty-eyed men
keeping to themselves or gathered in clusters, all of them--save the
sleeping ones--looking up as the portcullis clanged back into place to
see what unlucky soul had been delivered into their midst.
No, he'd thought, feeling the lead in his stomach
and the rising of his gorge. Scrimgeour, you bastard. "Just
until the formality of a trial. I know you understand why I must not
make that exception for you, Mr. Potter." You fucking bastard.
He'd stood there, frozen, until it was too late to remedy anything, too
late to hunch his shoulders and slink off to one wall like he should
have done from the first moment. Until the first murmur of "Potter"
reached his ears, until it was taken up by ten throats, then a hundred,
all peppered with wonder and satisfaction and snide glee with each
Until Macnair and the other former Death Eater, whose name he still
couldn't remember, had come forth with a "Get back, he's ours," and
laid hands on him before he could do more than take a step backwards,
pulling him forward even as Harry dug bare heels into the dirt floor
and found himself dragged to a sizeable grouping of prisoners in one
not-corner of the round room, where more faces were recognizable to him
and in their midst, one silver-haired demon seated against the wall
looked at him with eyes that widened then narrowed in the company of a
smile, as Harry was brought to a halt before him.
Malfoy looked lean and hard and more resilient than the fucker had any
right to. Foppish prig like him should have collapsed under the weight
of two-plus years in Azkaban, been a hollow-gazed broken thing by the
time Harry made this stopover within its walls. Of course, if fate had
had any sense of karma Harry wouldn't be here at all.
Maybe he did deserve it. Dumbledore had said you made your own fate,
prophecies be damned. Harry could have chosen not to cast that spell.
Could have died in a martyred green halo of light at Voldemort's hands
instead of returning the same spell and putting down a murderer and
madman for good. No. He'd chosen. He'd chosen and
sworn to himself he'd never second-guess it. He wasn't going to let
himself do it here, that was certain.
"Yes, well, the accommodations are ample, we'll
grant you," oozed Malfoy, allowing the pretense to go on, "though, I
don't know, sometimes one longs for a little...coziness. I'm sure
you'll come to see."
He saw. Right now Harry'd have given a year of his life to have a tiny
cell and a set of bars between himself and the greater Death Eater
population of the Wizarding World.
"Rodolphus has given us the entire thrilling narrative. How The Boy Who
Lived denned the Dark Lord, with no outlet for retreat, and faced him
down wand to wand. Rodolphus--" Rodolphus Lestrange, at Malfoy's elbow,
shifted at the repetition of his name-- "saw the casting, heard
Avada Kedavra from two throats and not just one.
Rodolphus," Malfoy graced the man with a smile as though he were a fond
pet, "is cleverer than Goyle, otherwise it might have been attributed
to echoes in the room. But you did slay Voldemort, Potter. Slew him
like a knight with a dragon, one fell blow, is that how you saw it?"
Malfoy leaned forward, and the smile lingered. "Perhaps the authorities
thought otherwise? Is that why you're among our rejected company? Did
they see it as an assassin with a target, Potter?"
A soldier in wartime, Hermione had shrieked at
Scrimgeour, when they led Harry away. He was fighting your war
for you! Your soldier! And Remus had not tried to restrain
her, and had had his own words for the minister--which had brought him
within a hair from getting himself arrested as well as A Dark Creature
Intent On Harm.
Harry imagined Ron would have been less eloquent but even more violent,
had he not been in St. Mungo's at the time. Which was better, in the
end. To have Ron shoved in here with him, because of him...
Only...maybe it would have been useful, the two of them together facing
down this lot. Ron would have said so.
He didn't answer Malfoy. Not to confirm his dig, not to protest that
the arrangement was only until his trial. That last statement might
likely prove fatal.
Malfoy stood. Harry was reminded of a greyhound stretching, impossibly
lean lines unfolding as it prepared to leap. Macnair and the other one
gripped his arms tighter as Malfoy set a finger beneath Harry's jaw and
tipped his head back with that touch.
"They won't let you rot in here, though, will they?" Malfoy pitched his
voice so that it seemed a murmur, but Harry knew it had been meant to
carry to all near them. "Not their hero. Public outrage will have you
pedestaled and laurel-wreathed within days." The finger touching
Harry's jaw turned into the grip of Malfoy's entire hand. "We haven't
Malfoy wanted him to say, Time for what? Harry
expected, and so did not say it. Malfoy could make his own damn segue.
"Let me," said Macnair at his side, and Harry felt the grip on his arm
turn to a pull, trying to tear him from the hold of the other one.
Malfoy raised a hand as gracefully as if he were Caesar in some gaudy
spectacle. Macnair reacted to it as swiftly, too. "No, Walden. We'll
not kill him. You don't really want them to put us into lockdown again,
do you?" There were one or two snorts and headshakes at that. "When
Orvitch killed Gress--before you came, Rodolphus--in the fight over
that spotty youth we had in here, it was two weeks of that--no food but
what we had hoarded, and they didn't even lock up the werewolves on the
full moon. I don't think we want to invite that sort of treatment
again, do we?" Malfoy turned Harry's face up as if contemplating the
vulnerability of his bare throat. "Not when there are alternatives for
which they won't bother to punish us."
"Let me go," Harry said, thinking that if he wasn't going to make the
defiant show now, any later was going to be far too late.
"Where to, Mr. Potter?" Malfoy said softly. It was the way Malfoy
lingered over the repetition of Mister that told
Harry the banter was done at last, and he had to act.
He was too late anyway. Malfoy released his grip and stepped away in
the same moment, and Harry found himself borne forward, the bare stones
of the wall coming at him so quickly he had only time to turn his face
to the side and avoid breaking his nose or teeth. Hands--he suspected
Malfoy's--were side by side on the back of the collar of his robes,
pulling, the collar tightening across his neck until the purr of
tearing fabric heralded the opening of the robes down his back.
The tear was dragged down to the hem and Harry found himself pulled
away from the wall, torn robes grabbed at the throat and wrested from
his body in a snarl of material. They didn't push him against the wall
again, however--Harry was facing Malfoy and the others, all staring at
him in dark amusement or unimaginative hostility.
He twisted, unable to get free of either of the men holding him, trying
to do something more useful with his arms than just shield his
nakedness (though he wasn't able to do that either). Malfoy reached out
a single finger again, set it upon his sternum this time and ran it
downwards, until it reached his navel and further, down the trail of
hair to his groin. "Really, Harry," Malfoy gloated, naming him
familiarly for the first time, "someone in authority must have
quite the score to settle with you. Azkaban hasn't
seen anything this young and pretty since that nightingale flew in by
"What'd you do, kill and eat it?" Harry snarled. It wasn't as if he
could make things better by pleading.
"Turn him, " said Malfoy, jerking his head, and Harry was turned, but
not pushed against the wall this time. They forced him to his knees,
arms jerked behind him. Harry felt fingers touch his spine, trail down
it with the same skin-crawling intimacy. "What would you offer me, I
wonder," Malfoy said in that similar murmur meant to carry, "if I
promised you my protection while you are here--that I keep the others
off you in return for your submission to me?"
Harry choked back the Eat me, Malfoy which was what
he wanted to say; there were at least eight others in Malfoy's Death
Eater circle, and there were no guarantees that his assailants--he
couldn't think the other word--would be limited to just them, here in
the prison. Horrible as it was to imagine, the most prudent choice
would be to say yes. Even if Malfoy was lying, what did he have to lose
by holding still for it?
The question was, how on earth did he think he could
hold still for it.
He thought of an answer. "Not sure, Malfoy. Think you're man enough to
satisfy me?" There. Let him take that for taunt or goad as he chose.
Malfoy's chuckle sounded surprised. Didn't tell Harry what answer
Malfoy thought he'd given. Neither did his growl of, "Clever boy."
Then Malfoy's hands were parting his arsecheeks, one dry finger pushing
at his anus. "Can I hope for a virgin?" Malfoy said in a singsong that
brought more than one snigger from around them. "Impossible to tell, of
course, but I suppose that's easily as good. What a tight little
cunt of an arse you have." The finger shoved into
him and Harry gasped, thinking he saw stars. This wasn't like sex. It
was like being punched in the stomach, for all it had to do with sex.
The finger slid out of him. Malfoy's hand snaked over his shoulder,
fingers pushing at Harry's mouth. "Suck, boy," he said. "Get them nice
and wet. You'll want to."
"Eat me," he breathed. There was nothing he could do to hold it back.
"It will be all the lubrication you get, Potter," came the croon in his
ear. "I suggest you comply."
Harry felt the fingers resting on his lips. He could bite. He could
suck. He did neither. He hawked a great clot of phlegm into the back of
his throat and spat it onto those hateful fingers.
There was more laughter, and Malfoy's was among it. "As you wish,
then." The fingers withdrew, but only back to their former position,
questing between his arsecheeks. Harry felt their slimed lengths press
against his anus again, what felt like three of the fingers opening
him, hurting him. A hand at the back of his head pushed him forward,
made him bend at the hips so that his arse was better displayed. The
pain of what Malfoy was doing was overtaken by Harry's mind's-eye image
of what he had to look like, and, with a moan, he shut his eyes and
shook his head as though to jar the image free.
Someone kicked his ankles apart. The image in his head grew worse and
then did disappear, as if it was all the human mind could withstand
without going mad and his mind had shut it down in a bid for
protection. A hand--had to be Malfoy's--cupped his balls and gave the
smallest squeeze and Harry's vision blurred, even as the grip stilled
him, nearly had him limp in the hands holding him in position.
He could smell Malfoy, smell him above the rank animal and decay smell
of the prison and everyone in it as Malfoy pressed closer to him, as he
pulled the fabric of his own robes out of the way to bring his bare
lower body in contact with Harry's. He wanted to curse him, wanted to
say the filthiest insults he knew, but it was all he could do just to
keep from being sick, to get his breath past the strangling
constriction of panic in his throat.
The fingers shoving their way casually in and out of him left him then,
and Malfoy pushed his hips and his cock up against Harry's arse.
Malfoy's hand spread Harry's buttocks and lifted his cock into position
against his arsehole in the same motion, but the shove came more from
Malfoy's pelvis than his hand and Harry did scream; it was that or be
sick. Malfoy had released Harry's balls; now he clutched at Harry's
hips as he forced himself in deeper, Harry no longer limp but
struggling against every grip, fighting to throw himself forward. It
did no good. The hand on the back of his head pushed his face all the
way to the floor, held him in place as Malfoy impaled him like
something he was killing.
When a hand came to play with his prick, Harry was beyond
screaming--not for something that trivial. The hand--from the angle, he
couldn't tell if it had to be Malfoy's--rubbed at him, pressed a finger
against the very base, then slid his foreskin back and kneaded the head
of his cock, trying to tease him into hardness. Harry felt it happening
but it was as if it belonged to someone else's body; he felt neither
excitement nor betrayal for all that his prick was stiffening in
another man's hand.
Malfoy withdrew an inch that Harry thought had pulled his insides free
with it, and for that he did scream. The returning thrust seemed almost
routine in comparison, and on the next motion in which Malfoy pulled
out Harry tried to follow with his hips. He almost succeeded; Malfoy
laughed as the move thwarted him, and placed a controlling hand at the
base of Harry's spine, tugging himself nearly free as Harry yelled and
fought, unable to take any part in the rhythm. As he pushed his cock
deep into Harry again, Harry heard him say, "You'll get used to it,
dear boy. Believe me, I'll make sure of it."
The motion became more smooth and Malfoy began to move faster. Harry
did not get used to it. The pain of each withdrawal seemed to pull him
to the brink of unconsciousness each time. The hand on his prick was
something happening in another world, one that Harry couldn't be
bothered with. There was laughter around him, there were mutterings,
there were cheers of encouragement and demands for a place in line.
None of it mattered except that Malfoy stop.
Something gathered in his belly and seemed to twist its way out of his
cock and balls, leaving him the sense of release and nothing more. Had
he come? Harry couldn't believe it; he thought it
more likely he'd pissed himself. Whichever it was, it had no more
significance than that to him.
Malfoy's rhythm was still faster now, the thrusts short and--Harry
realized with vague surprise--perceptibly more bearable. Somewhere in
all the noise he recognized Malfoy's gasping, heard his grunt of
satisfaction as the thrusting stilled and something wet filled his
insides, something that had no power to sicken him any further than he
already had been. It had stopped. Only for the moment--Harry did not
try to delude himself--but it had stopped.
Perhaps if he begged to suck Malfoy's cock, Malfoy might make the offer
Perhaps if Malfoy let him suck it, Harry could get in one crippling
Malfoy's cock had softened and the withdrawal was marginally easier
because of it. As Malfoy stood up behind him, Harry wondered if they'd
let him up at all or if another would simply drop into place and take
his turn. He got his answer when the hand on the back of his head
fisted in his hair and yanked his face up.
Malfoy had come around before him, staring down and grinning, as if to
ask which shall it be.
"Oh, but...Minister, surely this should be expedited; you said yourself
it was merely a formality--"
"I have every intention of scheduling Mr. Potter's trial at the
earliest convenience. We are, however, in the middle of a holiday
"Let me finish, Percival. I cannot think the Wizengamot will be
favorably inclined towards Mr. Potter if I drag them back prematurely
for an emergency session, and I won't risk their ill humor jeopardizing
the trial or the outcome. I want Potter exonerated as much as the
public does--for the sake of their good will towards me even more than
for Potter's noble intentions, I tell you that quite candidly."
"I shall notify the Wizengamot that Mr. Potter's trial--mercifully
brief and outcome not in doubt, I trust--will take place the day after
our regular sessions resume."
"That's...that's five days away, Minister. With
Potter in Azkaban. I respectfully must insist--"
"That will be all, Mr. Weasley."
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