Despoiling Harry

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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 Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is being made from the use of these characters and situations; these written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.

A Spell To Turn Tigers To Butter
by Amanuensis

Comparing the stories his enemies tell, we see that Harry remains resourceful even in the worst circumstances...
Pairings: Lucius/Harry, Snape/Harry
Categories: Violence, Non-con, Humor
Notes: This fic is part of the 'Beloved Enemies' Harry/Lucius Fuh-Q-Fest (Second Wave) ( Challenge #182 by Tanya. To read the challenge, see the additional authors notes at the end of the story. Warning for non-con, kink (BDSM, heavy in places), and character death.


"And there he saw all the Tigers fighting, and disputing which
of them was the grandest... And they were so angry, that
they ran round the tree, trying to eat each other up...
And they still ran faster and faster and faster, till they all
just melted away, and there was nothing left but a great big
pool of melted butter (or "ghi," as it is called in India)
round the foot of the tree." - Helen Bannerman, Little Black Sambo,1898 


I cannot, with any surety, reconstruct the collective sound that went up from every one of us when the boy was dragged in. 

It was not a hiss, I do know that. The sound reflected all the anticipation, all the pent-up waiting that had gone into the years of our Lord's frustration. And ours. And took into account the boy's appearance, the way this beautiful, treacherous youth had to be dragged before our Lord, digging his heels into the floor, struggling to break free despite the fact there was nowhere for him to run, snarling defiance in the way only the young and idealistic can. 

What I remember is how the sound dripped with satisfaction. Not a growl, not a laugh, not a taunt. 

The nearest I can come is that it seemed like a huge multi-throated sigh. 

He was as sweetly tender as I had remembered. I know he doesn't even shave yet. And those eyes... The one thing about him that isn't boyish is the look in those long-lashed green eyes. They speak of all the horrors he's seen, from the abuse in his childhood, to the resurrection of his arch-nemesis, to the deaths of his closest friends. 

Said arch-nemesis had the ones holding the struggling boy bring him close, where he set his fingers under the boy's chin and tipped it up, so the boy had to meet his eyes. 

The boy refused to do any such thing. He jerked his face away, and Voldemort only smiled, reaching out again and seizing the boy's jaw in that hand, gripping hard enough to bruise... though not hard enough to make the boy cry out. 

I recalled the day I'd first seen him myself, and how I'd pushed those black, messy locks away from the boy's forehead to reveal the legendary thin line of scar, not so much curious to see it as finding it impossible to resist the need to touch him in some way. 

As that need had manifested itself every time I'd seen him since. And definitely, most definitely today. 

Voldemort squeezed the boy's jaw in his hand; I could see the little glitter of pain that was added to the impudence in those eyes. I had such a clear view of his _expression because of my proximity to Voldemort; I was one of the two allowed to be nearest him during proceedings such as these. 

"Do you understand, Harry Potter, " whispered Voldemort, "that I do not think your death will satisfy me any longer? That your death would be more than anti-climactic, it would be disappointing?" He leaned in closer. "Does that frighten you, boy?" 

"I notice you like to speak in questions," said this insolent child. "Your Death Eaters keep you in the dark that much, or is it just that you're getting forgetful in your old age?" 

I think it was the last defiant thing he ever said. 

Voldemort's eyes hardened, but he did not respond to the gibe, not with violence and not in kind. "I will reduce you to the lowest thing I can, boy. I want you defiled and broken and aware of every moment of your humiliation. No, your death could never equal that for repayment." His other hand lifted and he let his fingers trail down the boy's throat, lightly, all the way down to the open collar of his shirt. The boy shuddered. "And now I want to know if you are still virgin or not." 

Potter's mouth twisted. He spat in Voldemort's face. 

My Lord released the boy and stepped back. "I will ask you that question again in three days, Harry Potter. And on that day you will not dare to speak anything but truth to me." 

Voldemort had the boy taken to the bare stone room that served as his torture chamber. For three days he taught him what it meant to defy the Dark Lord, using the Cruciatus and other, non-magical methods, methods upon which he prides himself as being particularly effective, and yet leaving not a mark upon the body. 

The torture chamber has no door. All of us could-- were encouraged to-- watch the proceedings as much as we liked. 

I watched. 

I watched as the defiance melted away in the space of moments, easily measured in heartbeats, until he was beyond regret, beyond begging, beyond broken. I watched the agonized contortions of that youthful body, all smooth flesh over muscle and bone, every tendon taut under that skin as he was tortured. I watched as the green fire in those eyes was quenched. 

I remembered that he was no older than my own son. 

Three days later he did not need to be dragged into Voldemort's presence. 

He crawled. With no more than the slightest prodding, he crawled. Crawled to the Dark Lord and kissed his feet. He didn't even shudder when he did it. Though all of us could see the slow steady drip of tears off his face as he crossed the distance of the room. 

My knees almost gave way right there and then. 

The boy hunched over himself where he knelt, face pressed to the backs of his hands, which were pressed palm-down against the floor. He was naked, of course, but this was no attempt to conceal himself; it was merely a gesture of miserable prostration. I heard the breath hitch in his chest and again thought I might faint from need right there. 

But I stayed as alert as ever. More so because we knew what our Lord intended for him. I had to be prepared to speak first. 

And again, Voldemort asked the boy, "Tell me the truth: are you a virgin or not?" 

They'd fed the boy a healing potion, so that he might be able to speak, so soon after screaming his throat raw. Without looking up, Potter murmured, "Yes, Master." 

"With either women or men?" 

The boy nodded against the backs of his hands. "Yes, Master." 

We knew that nothing hinged on the boy's answer. Voldemort had the same fate planned for him no matter what the answer was... he just wanted to know, and had needed a starting point for the boy's torture. 

Which had not gone that particular route. Voldemort could have tortured him that way, in addition to all the others. But he had wanted him broken before that began. 

That was what was keeping me alert, and waiting for the very moment of the cue. 

"Well." Voldemort did not smile this time, but there was an air of relaxation about him. It was the answer he'd hoped for, though, as I have said, a different answer would not have changed his plans. "Then it would appear I have a particularly desirable gift to bestow on one of my faithful. Which of you, my devoted, would have The Boy Who Lived as their own personal plaything?" 

I spoke before his voice even closed about the g in the last word. "My Lord, I would." 

There had been... an echo in the room. 

No, not an echo... another voice, the same words... at the very same time. 

And I turned, trying to disguise the rage rising in me, at the one who was privileged to stand at Voldemort's other hand. 


I had always told Albus Dumbledore that I was not to be trusted. Again and again I told him. 

When Voldemort fell 15 years ago, I did not so much as leave his service as I got out of the habit of it. Never mind the reasons that I had joined it to begin with. His agenda was not important to me. I merely have a deep instinct for wanting to be on the winning side. 

So when Albus was killed, my actions should have come as a surprise to no one. 

I was worth more to Voldemort as a penitent Death Eater than I was as a dead example. I knew that and I was not wrong. Voldemort tortured me, before he let me back into the fold, but he knew I wouldn't take it personally. 

And would work harder than ever to secure my place in his ranks. My skills were too valuable for him to let them go to waste. 

When Potter was captured, I watched Voldemort torture him. I knew the boy too well to think that he would do anything so simple as break under pain. I watched those agonized, desperate eyes as it went on, and on, and I saw what Voldemort did not, even though his purpose was still being served: Potter did not so much break as he let himself be remade. More than giving in, what the boy feared was to be left incapable, shattered. He became Voldemort's creature on that first day, or perhaps it was the second. By doing so, he retained himself, even if the essence of what he was was now a slave, a wretched thrall, an obedient, if not unanguished, pet that was made to serve his lord. 

But not, as might have happened to another, a shell. 

I had never wanted him more. 

I had never been completely honest with myself where he was concerned, but even years ago, I knew that my animosity towards him was not solely based on the fact that he was James Potter's son. 

Lily Evans's son. 

And I knew what Voldemort intended for him. 

I had known there would be others eager for the same opportunity. But I thought I had been so carefully ready to seize the first instant to answer him. 

So when I heard my own words spoken at precisely the same time by another, I was caught off guard. But only for a moment. 

I turned my gaze the short distance it took to meet the eyes of Lucius Malfoy, who had done the same thing to meet mine. 

And I saw how he was controlling his _expression. Letting just the smallest of smiles graze his lips, as if to say ah, what a coincidence, my fond comrade. I knew that my own _expression was doing, saying, precisely the same thing. 

When in reality he wanted to tear my throat out. 

And I, his. 

We held each other's eyes until we heard Voldemort chuckle. 

"And why not? Why should I not reward both of my most useful followers, and in doing so, double the debasement of this little whelp? Lucius, Severus, the two of you will share him." 

"My Lord." I bowed my head in deference to his whim, and Lucius echoed me.  

"Let him be passed back and forth between you, each day, and serve your pleasure. I expect neither of you to have mercy on the boy merely because he must serve two masters." 

Mercy was the furthest thing from my mind. It was clever, on that level; Voldemort was counting on our frustration at not being the boy's sole keeper to insure our hunger for him would be sustained. 

And on another level it was pure idiocy. The last thing the Dark Lord needed was to give his servants reasons for rivalry. More reasons, I should say. 

Winning side. Winning side. I keep telling myself that. 

"Now, I suppose the only thing I must determine is which one of you will have him first." 

I knew to look neither too hopeful nor too passive. Unfortunately, knowing and doing were not so easy in this case. I have no idea what exactly I looked like. 

In the end it did not matter. 


I waited. 

"It is my suspicion that you might be... just a bit soft on the boy, for his first time. Lucius will have him first." 

"As you would have it, my Lord." What could I do-- stamp my foot and protest that I was every bit as depraved as that blond sybarite? 

Voldemort reached down and seized Potter by the hair, pulling him up to a kneeling position. He extended his other arm, and we saw a movement: a slender green snake slid out of his sleeve and began to coil about the boy's neck. Potter closed his eyes when he felt the snake touch his skin but otherwise did not flinch. 

When the snake had completed the coil-- it was no longer than the circumference of Potter's neck-- it seized its tail in its mouth and was still. Voldemort touched the snake with the tip of his wand and murmured, "Midas Argenti...", and the living snake became a collar of silver, the head of the silver snake nestled in the hollow of the boy's throat. 

It was the only thing he'd be allowed to wear, ever again. 

"I should not have to emphasize," Voldemort said, "that you will obey them in all things, boy." 

Potter shook his head, his awareness of the way the collar around his throat confined him as he did so written on his face. "No, Master. Yes, Master." 

Voldemort said, "He's yours, Lucius." 

I thought Lucius might command the boy to crawl after him. But he was subtler than that, if no less cruel. He stepped forward, hooked a finger under the collar, used it to draw the boy to his feet. 

Potter clearly didn't know whether to meet his eyes or keep them lowered. No one had bothered to give the poor bastard a set of rules, yet. 

I had to hand it to Lucius, he would never try to outdo his Lord, but neither would he fail to show why he was one of those Voldemort most prized. Wand in hand, he drew a line in the air from his hand to the center of the collar, and a black leash appeared to connect the two. Lucius jerked it, almost pulling the boy off his feet, then turned and led him from the room. Even if Voldemort didn't have a spell of protection surrounding him that prevented apparating within a hundred feet of him, I know Lucius would still have led him out that way. 

I watched my... part-time prize, as I had just dubbed him, be taken off by Lucius Malfoy, and forced myself to think about tomorrow, and not tonight. 


So, Voldemort thought that I would be the more likely to give the boy what the Dark Lord wanted him to taste, for his first time. 

I would not disappoint him. 

Though I knew the boy would do whatever he was told, the first thing I did was tie him spread-eagled to my bed. I intended to hurt him, of course. Though that was hardly the only reason to restrain him. 

Declasse as I thought they were, I wished at that moment for black bedsheets, to highlight the uniform youthful fairness of his skin. I considered using magic to transform them, but decided against it. 

If I drew his blood, I wanted to see it. 

How many others had I had in precisely this position? How many had begged me to put them there? 

Absurdly, it seemed as though all of them had been practice for him. 

When I had the last restraint closed around his ankle, I stood at the side of the bed and watched him. He kept his eyes on my face the entire time.  

"Are you afraid of me?" 

He didn't hesitate. He nodded. "Yes, Master." 

I placed a finger on his lips. "You will call me Lucius. I will not have you confusing us, nor retreating behind the anonymity of that word." 

Again, he nodded. "Yes, Lucius." 

Though I had told him to do it, the sound of my name, spoken in his voice for the first time, nearly made me shudder. 

I went to the closet and got the box. 

That night I used every object in it. 

The first clamps I placed upon his nipples, of course, but then I laid an almost solid run of them down the milk lines of his torso, all the way down to his groin. Before I continued the torment there, however, I sought out the other, equally sensitive places upon his body where I could cause similar pain with them: the underside of his arms, down along his sides, the insides of his thighs. Every clamp that found purchase made him cry out, as it bit into his skin, each cry wordless yet seeming as though any moment he would lose control and beg me to stop. At last I took his jaw in my hand, squeezed his cheeks slightly to open his mouth, and let him watch as I brought the largest of the clamps to his mouth and set it on the end of his tongue. 

That did drive him over the edge. Just before that one bit down, he tried to turn his head away, and moaned, "No--", panicked by the event of me rendering him involuntarily inarticulate. I bent down and kissed his forehead, just next to that scar, as he made choked noises in his throat. 

And then I took the remaining clamps and settled myself on the bed between his spread thighs. He continued those strangled sounds as I cupped his balls in my hand, lifting them, stroking the loose skin in circles with my thumb to emphasize the contemplation of where to place the first clamp. Up to this point the boy's cock had been in a semi-erect state, since I had spread-eagled him; now, while I cradled his scrotum in my hand, despite what he knew was to come, his cock was straining upward, almost trying to lie against his belly. 

I took him off-guard by leaning down and drawing the head of his cock into my mouth. As his hips jerked, as he reacted to the feeling of my tongue swirling over the head with a groan so deep it was as if he'd been hit in the solar plexus, I let one clamp bite into the soft flesh of his scrotum. 

I almost came at the violence of his reaction, the sound he made. 

His entire body was slick with sweat by the time I had used up the last of the clamps on his scrotum, and even his hair was dampened with it. His sweat smelled of grass, and of metal, and of lake water. 

Despite the pain I was causing him, however, he'd not lost one degree of his erection. 

I pulled my mouth away, got his attention by reaching up to touch his face. I leaned over him: "There is a charm," I said, "that I could cast on you to prevent you from climaxing until I permit it. I am not going to give you the privilege of that charm. You will not come before I allow you. Do you understand?" 

He looked at me with those tear-wet green irises, and nodded, panting around the obstruction of the clamp on his tongue. 

I turned back to the rest of the contents of the box. 

It had not seemed that I had left any space between the clamps running down his torso, but the surgical pinwheel proved that wrong. Enough of a highly sensitized pathway of flesh existed between each clamp and its neighbor to make the boy spasm as I ran its small spikes over his skin. I let it cover most of his torso and then continued down to his thighs; I'm sure he expected to feel it torture his cock as well, but I skipped that in favor of something more insidiously cruel: he was completely unprepared for the way that small instrument could have him whimpering as the sharp spikes traversed delicately over the soles of his feet. Here he could not be still, though he found, through experience, that moving only caused the spikes to dig in deeper with the unpredictability of his movements. 

The next item from the box was something that rarely saw use, since I thought it rather too gentle for my tastes, but with the painfully heightened sensitivity of the boy's soles after the pinwheel, the contrast of running the plume end of a feather over his feet and then changing to the quill point, again and again, had him quite on edge. The clamp on his tongue was obstructing him from closing his mouth, and he was beginning to drool. I liked watching that loss of dignity in addition to all the rest. 

After several minutes I abandoned that as well. I was too eager for him to care about what was left in the box at that moment. 

The lubricant was not in the box, but on the bedside table. I greased him with it, hearing him trying to bite back his cries and failing, as I slid coated fingers inside him as deep as I could. "Certainly, Harry, you're as tight as a virgin," I said. "This will hurt just as much as you think." 

I saw in his eyes he was expecting something else. Didn't expect I would take him like this, face up on the bed, still wearing those clamps. I had no intention of taking even a single one of them off. 

When I slid up the bed and let my weight settle completely upon his adolescent body, the sound he made as he felt the clamps compress into and against his flesh surpassed even my expectations for the noise I anticipated when I actually got around to raping him. That howl, rising from deep in his chest as he went rigid with the pain, will stay with me forever. 

Not that the sound that he made when I went inside him was a disappointment, of course. 

I was not brutal in that; opening him was like opening a portal in a dam: designed for that purpose, but no less a moment of violence for all that. I did not give him time to adjust, did not heed his cries as the obvious pleas for mercy that they were. But he was both greased and prepared, and I did not cause him any damage; really, if you think about it, I'm sure he was immensely grateful, later. 

And then I fucked him like the whore he'd become. 

I let him scream as I drove in and out of him (I may not have damaged him, but Voldemort wouldn't have anything to complain about), working to get the depth I wanted given the position he was in. At the same time I wanted to lie against him, let him feel the clamps pull against his skin as I shifted.  

It was his cries, as much as the sensation of my cock driving into him, which brought me to one of the most intense climaxes of my life. 

When the sensations had subsided to a delicious murmur in my entire flesh, I became aware of the hardness of his cock against my belly. He hadn't come yet. Good boy. 

Slowly I withdrew my cock from the tight channel of his arse, slowly I lifted myself off of him. I reached out and took a hold of the clamp on his right nipple, gave it a small twist. He groaned. 

When I removed it, he groaned louder. 

Slowly I took the clamps off. Not in any random order; that struck me as contrived. No, they came off in the same order they went on. I enjoyed his anticipation as he waited for the next one. 

Ah, the sounds that he made as each bite on his scrotum was released. 

While he was in that haze of relief, I began to stroke his cock. The sounds from his throat changed-- I had left the one on his tongue in place--short little moans as he tried to swallow the overflow of saliva threatening to choke him. Tensing against the restraints, he couldn't keep from lifting his hips into my hand, and I chuckled at his eagerness. I also indulged it, stroking faster, watching his eyes grow wider and wider as his moans became louder. 

I let him spurt into my hands. I waited until every drop had leaked from him and his cock was once again soft before I released it. 

There was one thing more in the box. 

I lifted out the small leather case and looked carefully at his body. Oh, yes, I wanted to do this to him. Yet leaving marks wasn't my purpose. Though I could heal him without a scar, if I chose, I wanted to keep him wondering, when it was done. 

I opened the case. He was still in the lassitude of being post-orgasmic and did not actually see me take the blade out of the case. When he saw it in my fingers, it took him a moment to realize what that small gleam of steel was. 

And then his reaction was all I could have hoped for. 

"If you move," I said, so quietly that it meant he had to silence himself to hear what I was saying, "then my hand might slip. Neither of us wants that, do we?" 

He was breathing very fast. "Do we?" I repeated. 

He shook his head, his eyes not leaving mine. 


The blade had a self-sharpening spell upon it, and the steel was very, very thin. Holding the end of the blade between finger and thumb-- that was all that would fit upon its end-- I set the edge of it exactly at the periphery of his right nipple. The lightest amount of pressure and crimson had welled up on both sides of the blade. 

He did not move at all. And at first, made no sound. 

When I began to cut precisely along the outline where the areola met the paler skin of his chest, then he made noise. 

He assumed, of course, that I might be planning to cut it off completely. 

I wasn't. I was cutting very shallowly. I'd chosen that site because it was a natural place to hide a scar, between the places where the skin color and contour changed. 

And because it was rich with nerve endings, and blood vessels. 

Harry didn't know that, though, and his eyes were huge, and wet. And the sound that came from him was a steady whimpering. He was looking down at what I was doing, at the flow of blood-- considerable, for such shallow cuts-- and I was cutting him very, very slowly, in compensation for the sharpness of the blade. 

It looked and felt much worse than it was. Scarring would be minimal even if I didn't choose to heal it. 

I thought about leaving it. 

Until tomorrow. 

Yes. Well. 

If Severus didn't want him wearing a mark I'd left him, then he could waste his energy healing it. 

Dear me, I would have to control this impulse, wouldn't I? Or the boy'd be one mass of scars and tattoos from head to toe before the two of us were done, certainly. 

And really, he was too exquisite to... use up like that. 

When the right side of his chest was a bloody mess and I'd finished circumscribing the nipple with the blade, I put the blade back into its case, where it would self-sterilize and resharpen, and went to fetch a towel. 

I pressed the cloth against his chest to staunch the flow, watching the wetness in the boy's eyes spill over as he realized I wasn't plucking any pieces of severed flesh off his chest. Inspecting the wound after a few minutes, I was satisfied. There was no discoloration of the nipple; I hadn't cut too deep. It would need neither charm nor potion to heal, and scarring should be all but invisible. 

Certainly, it would be visible tomorrow. 

I wiped the remaining blood from his chest and at last released his bindings. So disciplined was he, already, that he did not make any attempt to get the clamp off his tongue even when his hands were free. 

I removed that clamp, let him swallow for a moment, and then I leaned forward and kissed him, replacing the constricture of the clamp with my own tongue, sliding into his mouth and twining with his, taking his face between my hands so I could feel the fragile outline of bones underneath. His face was still wet from tears. 

Then I pushed him down to his knees, as I moved to sit on the edge of the bed, glad, as I saw the drops of red blood like flower petals on the sheets, that I had not transfigured them into black ones after all, and forced him to begin learning the at-one-and-the-same-time easy and subtle skills of cocksucking, like the good little whore that he was. 


When Potter was turned over to me the next night, I no longer felt I had anything to prove. That had cooled. 

When I saw the blackened line of scab around his right nipple, it was my irritation that heated again, but not any need to be brutal to the boy. 

Spending the first hour of my time with him putting together another healing potion was not what I'd wanted. But I did it, knowing that if I had to keep looking at that ring of scab-- which would certainly scar, even if subtly, if it wasn't healed-- throughout the night, I would be bringing Lucius into the bed with us every moment. 

Fucking bastard. 

When he'd drunk it and the cut was no longer to be seen, I decided enough time had been wasted for me to spend more of it on mere words. I did what I'd wanted to for as long as I could remember and pulled the boy onto my lap and started kissing him, feeding on his lips and his mouth and tongue like he was sustenance, or oxygen-- no, more like flavor for one who has lived his life without smell or taste up to this point. 

I did not care if he kissed back. Truth be told, I did not notice. He was there for me to use and I was, after all, an opportunist. 

He has this.... wonderful way of letting this little hitch in his chest become audible when he's being kissed, in those moments when he needs breath but is afraid to pull away and risk his master's displeasure. I discovered it that day, and started testing his limits as well, never actually forbidding him to pull away first, but also not telling him that he was allowed. I could hear the breath rasp through his nose when I let it go on long enough, hearing him trying to compensate for the air that he needed, not getting enough that way either. Hearing that made me cruel. I got in the habit of pushing his head back against some surface-- the bed, the back of the chair, whatever-- so that he no longer had a choice, and kissing him until I felt faint, knowing that when I pulled back I'd see his lids all but fluttering over those green eyes, his mouth open and panting as if he were panicked. 

My hands explored him while I kissed him; the fact that he'd started from stark nudity interfering with any fantasy I'd ever had of sliding my hands into his clothing, ravishing him while leaving him a dishevelled mess. But this way had its compensations as well. 

I learned everything about him my hands could learn, as if his flesh, his reactions, were some study in Braille. I learned that the inner surface opposite his elbows made him shudder when lightly stroked, and that his hair was actually rather fine (which was why it resisted every attempt to make it lie flat) and finest at the back of his neck, and that the little finger side of his palm was all one length of callus-- the way it was for anyone who spent so much time gripping a broom, even if they wore Quidditch gloves.  

I thought about how he would certainly lose those calluses, and where he'd gain new ones. Certainly on his knees, to begin with. 

Eventually my mouth wanted to make the same explorations of his body and I took him to the bed. He was such a tidy aggregate of limbs, in the way that only an adolescent boy can be, and whether on my lap or in the bed, he fit beautifully around me. I wanted more than just to hear him gasp breathlessly, I wanted him to moan, to whine in a way that told me what I was doing to him was unbearably good, no matter the circumstances that had put him under my body, my hands, my mouth. 

The first such moan almost made me mad with the need to hear it again. I should have known he would make me hungrier, rather than satisfy me. 

It was too hasty, I knew that at the time, but I no longer cared about pacing, or suspense, or anything of that nature. I no longer cared that he was there as my slave, or that he was still wet with Lucius's seed. I slid down the bed and took his erect cock into my mouth and sucked at him until I had an entire collection of those moans, from overwhelmed to needy to pained. 

I heard him articulate something besides a moan; there was an oh involved, and an I, and it sounded very like there was a please on the verge somewhere. 

I pulled my mouth away just long enough to say, "You don't know what to call me, do you?" 

He moaned, "I-- no..." 

Amused at myself that I was going to make such a crude segue, I crawled up the bed and started turning around. "When the need arises, I want you to call me Severus. For the moment, I will give you something else to occupy your mouth." 

Soixante-neuf is an awkward sexual act, particularly for someone as inexperienced as Potter was, but I didn't mind that I was overwhelming him enough with the attentions of my own mouth that he kept becoming forgetful about the basic actions of fellatio. I would make time to teach him. 

And it got me back to the concept of prolonging things. 

I wanted to climax with my cock in his arse. 

I wanted him to climax with my cock in his arse. 

And scream my name. 

And beg me for more. 

I didn't want much, did I? 

For the first time, I had something to make me glad of being a Death Eater besides just being on the winning side. 

I put him face down on the bed. Oh, I took my time. I had potions that aroused, and oils that prepared, and I made use of both long before I entered him, and for both of us I had charms that prolonged the fever heat. 

When I finally slid into him his body welcomed me. 

I wrapped my fist around the sweet hardness of his cock while I fucked him, doing nothing quickly. He groaned and breathed and yes, before it was done, begged and murmured my name, all so prettily that I kissed the side of his face and petted his hair over and over again with my free hand even as I made him accommodate me inside him as deep as I could go. 

It was easy to think of him that way: as a pet. He even had the collar to prove it. 

I forgot that it was rape, for a good portion of it. I like to think that there was at least one moment, during all of it, when he forgot as well. 

He came with my hand on his cock, my lips on that fine hair on the back of his neck, and my name on his lips. 

And yes, with me still inside him. 

I erupted within him moments later, hissing and clutching him and yet still not sated. 

I let both of us rest for a hazy, indeterminate time. 

And then I withdrew, pulled him around to face me, and began to make him improve his technique in sucking cock. 


Oh, I was very pleased indeed with the toy Voldemort had so generously given. He howled, he wept, he bled under my hands. He knew his place. He pleaded, when I permitted it. 

And he came, when I permitted it. 

I had to begin a collection of boxes, each one with their own surprises within, like children's commercial breakfast cereal. I did not want him to become accustomed to anything, or, horrors, bored. 

He learned what pleasure there could be in uncertainty... and in the aftermath of pain... and in earning my satisfaction, with demonstrable reward to accompany it, with his diligent and even enthusiastic service. 

I did not use the blade much. On... infrequent, special occasions, yes. But I found that I could have just as certain an effect on Severus by leaving our little toy covered with bite marks, or whip welts, which would still be there the next day but leave no permanent scars. 

Ah, the one fly in the ointment. Or perhaps I should say in the potion. 

That hateful little word our. 


What followed was a weaning of sorts. Not of my pet, but of me: I weaned myself off of using any potions or charms of arousal on the boy, and went about it the non-magical way. They were useful for the first few times, but I wanted more from him. 

And I got it. 

The way he curled in my lap, responded to my kisses. How he nuzzled against my chest like a child. How I could prepare him, take him from behind or facing him or with him on his knees or over a desk (I particularly liked that one), and it didn't matter, he still moaned, "Yes..." each time I penetrated him. 

How he called my name as he came. Wept it, more accurately. 

It was wonderful. 

And it made the nights he was with Lucius all the colder. 


It had been more than a month since Potter's capture. 

My son had found it amusing when he learned that his father was fucking his formal rival, owned him as a slave. Had enjoyed seeing him, naked and collared and on his knees, on the occasions that he was there on the nights that I brought my toy home. 

Even Draco's taunts couldn't bring any of the old defiance out in the boy. One exchange went something along the lines of, filthy little mudblood-lover, little slut of a slave, lying down with a smile on your face and letting my father have you like a girl, this is what you deserve, what you LOVE, isn't it?-- Yes, Master. 

No, if Draco couldn't provoke him, he had to be well and truly broken. 

And then came the day that Draco made his request. 

I want him, Father. Just for one night, or a part of a night. 

I did not say no. 

I did not laugh and tell him he would be entitled to his own such privileges when he'd earned them. 

I did not look at him darkly and tell him not to make such a request again. 

I struck him. 

I struck my own son. Not with a slap. 

I struck him with my fist. 

When my perfect, blond son, the younger copy of myself, or so I'd always seen him, picked himself up from the floor, one hand on his rapidly purpling cheekbone, looking at me-- me, who had not laid a hand on him since he was seven, and that only for the most minor of small-boy discipline spankings-- with that look on his face, I could not let my horror of what I had done keep me frozen, as it was threatening to do. I did not let him run from the room, as he tried to do. I took his arm-- carefully, afraid he would think I was about to hit him again, and told him that I was sorry, that I had done something for which I would not forgive myself. 

I did not try to explain. 

Draco did not make me try to explain. He did not need to. And he certainly did not want it voiced. 

Similarly unvoiced, after my apology, and my administration of a healing charm so that none else would have to witness the evidence of what I'd done, was the fact that both of us agreed that we would never again speak of what had just happened. 


Ultimately it was a good thing, but at the time all I remembered was being furious that I'd ever allowed a fireplace to be put in my bedroom. 

How long had it been-- six weeks since the boy was enslaved by Voldemort? Something like. 

I was not merely with him, I was inside him. Fucking him slowly, as I had been for hours, as I had been since late afternoon fell and Potter was delivered into my hands for the night, and I'd not been able to wait a moment longer before apparating myself and my pet to my bedroom, falling on him with tongue and hands and cock as if it had been a year that I'd been deprived of him, and not a single night. 

And there was a voice cutting into the room. From the goddamned motherfucking fireplace. 

"Severus? Dammit, Severus, get off your boy whore and talk to me, or we're both going to be in trouble!" 

I spoke to him. I did not get off of the boy. "Walden, I expect this to be very, very good." 

"Severus, I promised Voldemort the Distillation of Thorncurse Fever tomorrow, and you promised it to me tonight! Now where the hell is it?" 

Oh fuck.  

It was.... on my desk, three hours past the point where I was supposed to add the vetiver. 


I never forgot a project like that. Never. 

"It's not complete yet." Fucking right it wasn't. I was going to have to start the whole thing again. If I began right now it would have the necessary twelve hours to brew before the morning. "I will present it to Voldemort tomorrow, on time. Go away, Walden, and be very glad that I'm not going to put out your eyes for interrupting me like this." 

He still looked angry, but knew enough not to reply. His image faded from the fireplace. 

The news and the realization having had no effect on the needs of my body, it seemed, I pulled my still-hard cock out of the boy and barely made time to pull on a robe before storming off to my workroom.  

In childish defiance, I refused to tie the robe. 


I had struck my son. Because he dared to covet my little whore. 

I was obsessed. 


I had left a potion uncompleted. Forgotten it. Because I could not wait to get back to the boy. 

I was obsessed. 


I was releasing him from a particularly intricate Japanese rope bondage-- one that he'd been in for several hours, and during which time, all I had to do was breathe on his cock and he came like a geyser-- and as I reached for the knot behind his neck, he suddenly arched his neck as if I'd dug in a needle there. 

"Oh-- oh, Lucius-- do that again, please..." 

I wasn't quite aware what I'd done. "Do what again, my toy?" 

"With-- your fingers, in my hair like that-- do that again, please.

I remembered that my fingers had stroked through the hair on the side of his head as I'd reached for the knot. 

I reached out and, with my fingers spread like a starfish, slid my hand through his hair again. 

I was about to say Like that? but it was suddenly unnecessary, from the way he arched his neck again and ... purred, I think that is really the only word I can use to describe it, nudging my hand again with his head. "Oh, Lucius, yes..." he murmured, and with a reaction like that, I could hardly keep from doing it again, could I? 

It was more than fond, more than affectionate, the way he continued to push his head into my hand, begging me to continue. The way he nuzzled my palm with his nose and lips in gratitude as I did so. 

It was loving. 

Not that that didn't please me. But that this little gesture, of all things, had inspired it.... 

I did not need to ask who had nurtured that particular liking of his. 


I kissed his shoulder blade as I was driving into him slowly. 

He whispered. 

I didn't hear it. Or didn't think I did. 

"What was that, pet?" 

A louder whisper. 

I heard it that time. 

"Bite me." 

I stopped moving.  

My lips were still just brushing his shoulder. "There?" I murmured, hardly aware that I had done so. 

"Yes, there..." 

I set my teeth into the round head of his shoulder and bit down. 

He hissed. Hissed louder. Moaned. 

I knew his moans now. This was one of the very, very good ones. 

I bit harder. 

"Don't stop...oh, Severus, yes..." 

He usually reserved my name for the actual moment of climax. 

Oh, there had been small bites, little grazes of my teeth on his skin, before. Nothing like this, that was going to leave a mark. 

He was starting to shudder under me. Crying out. 

Not asking me to stop. 

I had to make myself stop. Because I was suddenly so angry I was afraid I would bite out a piece of his flesh. 

And that wasn't right. It wasn't him that I was angry at. 


And then, this: 

The night he hissed. 

I must explain. 

I'd heard the boy hiss before. Hiss, groan, cry out, sob, mewl, wail, a bloody thesaurus of vocalizations. 

And I could categorize them all. 

So I know what a hiss should sound like-- what his sounded like. You understand, the sound of a hiss is not an articulation, no matter how it gets spelled in text. Imagine the sound you make when you view someone's bad sunburn, and you'll understand what I mean. 

It's not actually an S sound. 

He made an S sound that night. 

And then he stopped it. 

And murmured my name: "Lucius..." 

He had been about to say a word that began with S, and had stopped it. 

No. Not a word. 

A name. When he was with me. 


And then, the night he didn't call my name when he came. 

Oh, I can hear you. The hardened cynical Death Eater Severus Snape, hurt because of that? 

No, it was not so simple as that. 

I heard him start to say my name. His teeth were closing around the siblance of an S sound. 

And then he hesitated. 

And what he moaned as he came was not a name, but: "So -- good, yes..." 

A short sentence... but he never was capable of the articulation of a sentence at that moment. 


As if... he'd forgotten whom he was with. 


The next night, when I had him, I did use the blades. 

When I was done, he had my intitials carved into his hip. 

And I could not believe that I had sunk to something so.... cliche. 


The next night, when I had him, I had to heal another wound Lucius had left on his body. This one was in the shape of Lucius's Malfoy's initials. 

I healed the boy. 

And that night, I hurt him. 

He wept, and he said my name. But not in passion. 

And I was angry with myself.


I smiled at Severus. 

"Is he to your taste, then?" 

Severus did not smile, but then, he never smiled. 

"He is satisfactory." 

Oh, he was so casual about it. No wonder we were at such odds with one another; he was the only one of Voldemort's minions who was a match for me. 

"I have a proposal for you, if you'd like to hear it." 

Severus didn't answer. Telling me quite plainly that no, he didn't want to. 

Well, I had only myself to blame for my choice of words. I went ahead: "I think we might be wearing him out. And... he is to my tastes, Severus. Quite so." I paused the requisite number of seconds. "Release your claim on him, Severus." 

He performed the same pause. "Why should I wish to do that?" 

"Well, naturally I expect you to profit by it." 

"Ah. By your generous gratitude, no doubt." 

"No doubt. Come, Severus, let us not quarrel over something so petty as a little catamite. The others would laugh if they knew." 

"Which they do not. I know both of us will keep it that way." 

Again, that is why we may dislike each other, but have always respected the other. No. Neither of us would let the others know what was obsessing us. 

"Of course. Now. Name a price, Severus." I gave him a tight little smile. 

And then he did the most extraordinary thing. 

He returned it. 


I thought about the wealth of the Malfoy family. What sort of price I could set for the boy. 

I thought about the way his breath whispered past my cheek when I kissed his eyelids. 

"No," I said. 


The rest of the conversation... 

Well. It was moot, so it would be moot to report it. 

I would have to think of something else. 


My first instinct had been right. I should have ripped that fireplace OUT of my bedroom. 

It could not have been more than a few minutes past dawn when the voice woke me. "Severus." 

I turned from the warmth of the boy at my side to see Lucius's face, looking quite smugly at me from the fireplace. 

"I'm afraid I must insist that you wake the boy and send him to me, Severus." 

"Why?" I said-- stupidly, I realized. 

"I find I don't wish to wait. It is morning, you know." 

I could have snarled, I could have name-called. 

I did neither. 

I said, "Very well."" 

I woke the boy, told him he must go to Lucius. 

I think... 

I think he woke up too quickly when I told him. 

I think... 

...he was pleased to go. 


Twelve midnight. 

The black-haired, hook-nosed bastard apparated into my bedroom at twelve midnight. 

It's the next day, you know, Lucius. 

I was too angry to even move. Certainly too much so to release the boy from his restraints. 

So Severus did it. Used his wand and just released all of the bonds at once. 

Oh, I know the boy always gave me a look of gratitude when I took him out of whatever bondage he was in that night. 

But that he should give that look to him... 


That was this morning. 

This afternoon, as I sat in conference with Abigail Lestrange and several others about the status of the project to induce infertility amongst mudblood wizards and witches, Lucius walked in. 

He crossed the room to me. 

I did not realize that what was in his hand was a glove until he struck me with it. 


Severus put a hand to his face but did not otherwise move as I stood before him. I ignored the startled inhalations of the others in the room. 

So did he. 

He looked at me. "Choose your witnesses." 

I nodded. "Dawn, then?" 

His mouth twisted. "Why wait?" 

I gave him a cold smile. "Why indeed." 


I will kill him. 


I will kill him. 


I am going to find an entire bulding of muggles and kill them all. One by one. Personally. 

Because I need to kill something. 

And I cannot take any more lives from my own ranks. 

Both of them. 

Both of my most useful Death Eaters, dead. 

Each at the wand of the other. 

Lestrange and Nott brought the news. Malfoy and Snape had dueled. Saying nothing to anyone, from what I can discern, what had brought it on. A wizard's duel. But not to first blood. 

Both used Avada Kedavra. And neither missed. 

My two most useful servants, dead! Not by enemy hands but by their own! Over an insult about which I know nothing... 

Two buildings full of muggles. No, a city block. A city. I will...! 

I am raving. 

If they were here, I would kill them. 

That makes a kind of sense, somehow. 

I need to determine who will take over their duties. That will take some doing. I must step up my plans to bring that son of Lucius's into the fold... 


And I need to determine what to do with the Potter brat, now. 

He was utterly cowed in their hands, I saw. It would be satisfying to see him continue as a slave to my minions' pleasure. 

Both MacNair and Pettigrew came to me, soon after I'd received the news, and asked for him. 

I suppose they can both share him. 

There. That's enough to lift my spirits a bit. Imagining how he will continue to suffer this ultimate humiliation. 

At least there's one thing that's been going right. 



Thanks to the listmoderators at Beloved Enemies, and to Tanya for the inspiration for this one! Plotchallenge #182 was as follows: Voldie captures Harry. He can not choose who to give Harry as slave to, between his top two DE, Severus and Lucius. They both want him, so Voldie gives him to them both. But arguments continue between the two concerning Harry. Harry starts playing each one against the other. (Tanya)

The story inspiring the title, Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman, has been heavily criticized for racial stereotyping in the choice of names and particularly in the illustrations that accompanied so many versions of the story (no kidding, it was written in the freaking nineteenth century). Nevertheless many of us remember the essential story fondly, and its lesson about greedy vain tigers.

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