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.

No Real Risk

by Amanuensis

Pairing: Harry/Lucius
Implied non-con smut
Summary: Harry goes to confront his demons. He's not ready.
A/N:  Written for beloved_enemies' (the lj community) inaugural Dictionary Drabbles challenge (though a little late and a bit over the word count).

He went alone to the manor, because he knew that his fears, while real and founded, did not actually mean there was any risk to his going. Not to life or limb or liberty. None of those.

Malfoy, of course, received him with smiles, and Harry was hard-pressed not to flinch and respond to the overreaching lie his fears told. The war was ended; Malfoy could not, would not, touch him.

But he is still free, howled the outraged voice inside Harry's head, just as it had howled daily since the conclusion of Malfoy's trial.

"Harry." The name was a caress. "So good of you to visit. What can I get for you?" he asked, casual as if they were longstanding chums.

"Hemlock'd do, as long as you promise to taste it first," he spat, refusing to play.

Malfoy shook his head a little but his smile did not diminish. "So spirited. That's why I always favored you, pet."

He'd given the last word no particular emphasis. He hadn't needed to; it had the same effect on Harry as it had the last time he'd heard Malfoy say it. Six months ago. Just one word, and Harry could feel the stones beneath his naked knees, see the shadows on the floor from his downturned gaze, sense the whisper of Malfoy's breath across his bare shoulders.

He shivered, and knew Malfoy saw it. The internal voice of his clucked its tongue and gave him a predictable I-told-you-so.

Malfoy came no closer; Harry would have bolted if he had. Instead he sat, leaving Harry to choose for himself where to move. "You came," he said, silky as ever, "to confront me, yes? Not with any threat or vow of revenge, but with nothing more than your unbroken self." His hands lay open, one on his thigh and one upon the arm of the chair. "How very commendable of you."

He was stealing it. All the bold pronouncements Harry had thought he'd tell the bastard--you've got no hold on me; I have my life back--they'd all become ash. Garish flashes of fairy-tale cliché.

"You imagined," continued Malfoy, "visiting me in Azkaban, I'm sure, not to gloat of course but nobly contributing to your own healing. Shall I tell you a secret?" He did not rise nor change that patient expression. "Had I actually been sentenced to Azkaban, you would not feel very much different than you do now."

"Wouldn't I." His hands curled into fists at his sides; the anger was a comfort.

"Justice is not as the fables would paint it, all the world's morality in one pithy epigram; it cannot, whatever you believe, set the world back the way it had been." He leaned forward. "Do you think justice could erase your memories?"

"Fuck you."

"You see the truth of my words, don't you. How many know, Harry?" Still he did not rise, but Harry felt suddenly pinned. "How many of your friends did you tell the details of your months in captivity--all in the name of exorcising your demons, of course." His eyes held promises and lies and said that Harry would not care which were which. "Did they weep for you?" The corners of his mouth turned up. "Did your stories excite them?"

"Shut up," Harry croaked.

"Do you think about them, thinking about you? Fantasizing about what it must have been like, and wondering which end of the leash they'd have preferred to have been on?"

There it was, the constriction against his throat, conjured as surely with words as if it had been a wand. "Shut--" he gasped.

"Tell, me Harry: when you climax, am I ever not there?"

He stumbled backwards; the door was behind him and his back met its solidity as he grabbed for the knob. It turned in his hand; of course it turned. There was no real threat here. No real threat at all.

He did not open the door, but he had needed to remind himself that he could. And Malfoy had witnessed that as well.

Malfoy rose; Harry still did not let himself open the door. "I think it would be best if you left now," Malfoy said, brisk but still smiling. "You are not in a state to be received as I...would receive you." Before Harry could demand what Malfoy fucking meant by that--knowing perfectly well but unable to believe it had been said--Malfoy went on, "However, you are welcome to come again. To gloat, if you must. To heal, if you think you can." His eyes, daring Harry to make his outburst. "For anything else you find you wish from me."

In another moment, Harry thought Malfoy might produce the leash itself. As if it were the most natural thing.

In another moment after that, Harry thought he himself might feel it was.

Out. Now. Harry turned the knob again and flung himself out of Malfoy's parlor, willing himself not to run, not to show Malfoy there was even a crumb of truth in his words.

There wasn't.

He was almost sure.


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