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. 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.

Prisoner 30665
by Amanuensis

Pairing: Lucius/Dementors
Categories: Horror
Notes: Summary: Dementors gone from Azkaban? If only.
Kinks/Warnings: Horror. Graphic non-consensual Dementor rape. Bukkake.
A/N: Written for Wave 2 of the pornish_pixies 2005 Fantasy Fest, request made by ponderosa121-- "Dementors/Lucius. Lucius raped by the dementors, and/or having his own good memories of Snape and/or Draco twisted back at him. Oral. Bukkake or comeplay. Hair pulling, and chopped off messily before or after. Humiliation. No broken victim, please." Thanks to betas fabularasa, shaggirl, and silentauror.


He faced the guards and knew immediately he would have to fight.

It was the last, the very last option he could have hoped for. The news that Azkaban had resorted to the employ of human guards had been both welcome and not. One couldn't negotiate with Dementors; one couldn't placate Dementors. Dementors would take what they would and no amount of good behavior would change that.

The prospect of human guards, instead, gave Lucius what he knew was a cruel false hope. One couldn't help but believe there was a way to appease one's fellow man, to win him. Earn his respect and make things as smooth as possible.

Some responded well to, "That won't be necessary, my good fellow; I shan't give you any trouble. I can see you're the civilized type, and I thank you."

And some with whom one was better off with, "Yes, sir. No, sir."

Lucius took one look at these two men and knew they were there to make his life hell. Not their size which confirmed this, no, neither their bulk nor their unkempt shabbiness nor the broken noses and rough knuckles and other such scars of a hundred gutterside scraps, no. It was the smiles, of course the smiles, so out-of-place on the faces of guards--of these guards--at the entrance to the cell wing. An Abandon hope sign couldn't have been more unsubtle.

And they smiled, and the one on the right said, "Welcome, Mr. Malfoy." Not sir, not number three-oh-six-six-five--if they'd said either of those things, Lucius would have known to use the my good fellow or the yes sir responses, respectively. No, they were using his name, and they were smiling.

Lucius readied himself for the punch. At least it would not take him by surprise.

And it came, and it was aimed at his gut and he attempted to block it--even tried to bring his bound hands up after the block for a counter hit. Fight back; fight back and win, that was all men like these would respect. One could even turn men like these, if one got their respect.

But it was the winning, of course, that would elude him. The second man was behind him, pulling him back with a strangling arm across his throat, and Lucius's hands were all but useless as the first guard made up for his abortive first punch with a drive into his gut that had Lucius on his knees retching a moment later.

"Now, that wasn't smart of you at all, was it, Mr. Malfoy?" one of them was saying. "'Course, wasn't smart of you to get caught, either."

Lucius knew better than to answer. He couldn't have, throat and sinuses full of acid and lungs empty of anything resembling air.

"Ministry doesn't like Death Eaters. But Ministry positively hates Death Eaters who get caught." Hands on his shoulders, his arms, hauling him up. "Death Eaters on the loose are good for nice tasty bribes, at least. But get caught as bare-arsed guilty as you did, and Ministry has to stammer daft excuses about why they hadn't the faintest before that, and of course those charitable contributions of yours meant nothing. No one believes a word, of course. Right mortifying." They were going to hit him again, he was sure. "Wizard like you falls, Mr. Malfoy, he falls hard." Lucius jerked his bound hands up to his face, fingers clawed into a shield.

They didn't hit him.

Stupid. He should have attacked. Too late.

They had him from behind, pushing him into the cell wing. Too many needs warring in his head--fight back, keep his feet, get air into his lungs, look into the cells he passed to see the wretches he was going to resemble soon. That last--where were the prisoners? Shouldn't some of them have been at the cell bars, peering at the new inmate? Not one. Only shadows beyond each barred door. That was all the more frightening.

The corridor forked; one of the men released his arm long enough to point in the direction opposite the one Lucius was being pushed.

"Your cell's down that passage, but you're not going into it, not yet. Ministry put out that story that the Dementors left Azkaban, but that wasn't it, quite. Ministry didn't want the wizarding public to know the Dementors've come over all unhappy-like, and that Ministry's got less control of them than the public thinks. Dementors've got a new assignment now. Keeps them from going off and preying on the public."

Lucius had assumed they'd gone over to Voldemort, and had been bitter over it: nothing like an ally come too late. He'd been misled, then--as easily as any other rumor-fed fool.

The implication of the word assignment didn't hit home until they reached the open crater in the stone floor.

Absurdly, even as he tried to dig in his heels, a cold, sensible part of his mind understood why the Ministry had chosen brutes like these as the watchmen for Azkaban.

"Dementors haven't left the prison." One had his shoulder between Lucius's shoulder blades, not at all hindered by Lucius's attempt to throw his weight back. "They've just gone under the prison." Shove.

Nothing for him to grab. His feet were in teasing contact with the lip of the crater, and he was over, an inrush of breath for the scream, black abyssal nothing dragging it out of him, thin prison robe tangling him as his every limb sought and flailed and braced for impact.

He was caught.

Not saved, not cushioned. Snatched at, stopped. Flanges of unyielding bone seized his legs, his arms, pulling them apart, the magical bonds on his wrists dissolving with a hiss. But it was a different hissing, all about him, that told him how many of them there were. Many.

The hands brought him upright. Bone fingers lifted his chin--if they had tried to Kiss him at that moment Lucius could have done nothing to prevent it--and more fingers carded through his hair. His robes were twitched at, torn away from his body in a dozen small rendings through the fabric.

He could see them now. There was light, though little of it, and it came from them. Lit from within, the skeletal forms could just be seen, draped in the wispy black wrappings that drifted in a delicate wind--which seemed to come from them in the same way as the light. He could feel those black wisps touching, clinging to his own skin wherever the Dementors held him.

And then the one before him bent its head, and the wisps fell away from that fathomless maw, and it Kissed him.

The Kiss said You are here forever, and There is no escape, and there was something else--it was the look on Narcissa's face as she clutched his arm that night and said, "Kreacher. My fool of a cousin has thrown him out; he serves us now,"--and more than that look, his rising delight that the Dark Lord would be glad of this, would be pleased that Lucius had brought it to him--

--and then it was gone; it not only wasn't there anymore, there was the knowledge that something had been there, something he should have had, something precious and needed as air, and it was gone and would not come back. Ever.

Sick as he was to know it, Lucius nevertheless realized that the thing had not Kissed him, it had...kissed him, and the fate of a soulless husk was not to be his, not yet.

There was, however, scant relief at that thought.

The hands moving through his hair tightened. Gripped. His head tilted back inexorably, eyes watering as the grip kept increasing even when he could move no further in response. His mouth opened in a groan--the first noise he'd made since falling, the only noise other than the hisses of the Dementors.

And another one of the things was above him, maw exposed and leeching onto his mouth. Again the sense of no escape, of hell eternal, and this time it was Severus he saw, Severus naked beside him in Lucius's own marriage bed, Severus who was still not bold enough yet to kiss him on the mouth of his own initiative, though he'd submit to being fucked a dozen times a day with an almost girlish eagerness--Severus kissing him, instead, on the crook of the arm shyly and saying, "I want to join him. I want to give you that, Lucius," and the surge in Lucius's heart--

--and something was gone again, something that mocked his anguish as it fluttered away, letting him fall that much deeper into his loss.

Each one came to him and kissed him; ten, a dozen, twenty or more, and each one took, and took. Moments only; never the loss of anything longer than a moment, but leaving him with the horrible surety that they were all the best he had. Images involving Voldemort. Narcissa, Snape. Draco. Fleeting and fading. What had they been--events when he'd been honored, been gifted, been in love? How did one use a flawed memory to search for gaps in the same memory?

The day he'd joined Voldemort's ranks--no, that was still there; he'd been far more nervous than happy. Draco's birth--God, he knew he'd been there for that, where was it? No. The midwitch had come to him--had come to him--

It just stopped there. He was giving the midwitch his best imperious look, waiting for her to confirm that it was a son and healthy--and then nothing. Damn them to fucking hell.

But--there, his six-month-old son, sitting on the parlor rug and patting at its velvety nap, looking up at him and pronouncing "Da," almost gravely--he still had that. They hadn't taken that one.


At last the dreadful sequence of kisses stopped, though his hair was not released.

He'd thought they were done with him. They were not.

Even Dementors thought it rude to couple without kissing first, it seemed.

He'd never thought of the Dementors as creatures even possessing gender; the idea was ludicrous. Gender implied reproduction. Dementors mating? Gestating? Absurd.

Yet the Dementor in front of him was disrobing. Black draperies parting in that invisible wind, torso hardly more than a ribcage, but leathery flesh stretched over it all the same. The same repulsive flesh molded over the pelvis and rudimentary fused extensions of legs--nothing so neat that could be called a tail. And there, at the center of the pelvis, a withered parody of an organ, a ghastly tumefaction, stiff in the way aged limbs were stiff, not in any semblance of human virility.

The creatures' hands were questing along his flanks now, moving between his legs to touch and lift his own flaccid cock, his tight retracted scrotum. The fingers seemed to have little interest in these once they encountered them, pushing them out of the way like rejected fruit until they arrived at the entrance of his anus. Lucius imagined he could feel the thrill of communication from the thing's very arm to whatever it used for a brain, impulse jumping from mind to mind among them with its message: here is what we will use.

Twenty of them. Or more. No. God, no.

Hands were pulling his legs apart; he could feel the pressure of one of the Dementors against his back. The naked pressure; its loathsome skin brushed over his without its gauzy covering between them. But the unclad Dementor before him had not moved, save to rise a little in the air. It reached out, fingers touching his lips, prising his panting mouth open that much more.

Oh, fuck. He would rather endure the sodomizing, twenty times over.

He was not given the choice. As the Dementor at his back pulled his buttocks apart and settled its jutting shaft between them--as unyielding and spiny as a wooden stake--the one before him pressed its own vile cock into Lucius's mouth, the taste of it conjuring moldy books in an attic, an ancient lace undergarment, the ash of an edifice burned to the ground. All that spoke of decay and of nothing organic. The sensation was so repellent that Lucius could not even imagine biting to discourage the Dementor--the idea that he might sever the thing and have it loose in his mouth for even a moment was so dreadful it paralyzed him.

And something was adding to the taste, as the Dementor thrust its pelvis and its cock forward. Where the tip of it rasped against the back of his palate, the bitterest seepage touched his tongue, so repugnant it had him crying out. Worse than any healing potion he'd been forced to swallow as a boy--naturally he still had all of those memories--the bitterness was nothing like the mere astringency of male semen. This made him shudder to the very beds of his fingernails, to the roots of his hair. It burned.

It burned as well upon the head of the cock pushing into his anus, though at first he was unable to distinguish it from the pain of the thing stabbing into him, unrelenting and harsh as an injection. But there was wetness there, a trace, and his very membranes seemed to react to its touch with that same shudder-inducing revulsion that it produced on his tongue. He could not escape the slow penetration, his legs held wide and fast by the creatures, and the hands of the one raping him curved about his flanks to pull him back onto its stony fossil of a prick. The continued excretion of its acrid spunk inside him felt like blood from a wound--or perhaps he was bleeding. Impossible to tell.

When it began to thrust, the action so very male, so very human, Lucius's near-voiceless horror snapped. He screamed. Screamed and threatened and pleaded, words lost unintelligibly around the rigid shaft in his mouth. It did not matter that pleas and threats were useless; cruel false hope worked exactly that way.

But he could not sustain that vigorous a level of terror for long. Even horror acclimatizes, and shortly Lucius was back to gasping and shuddering in sickened disgust as he was violated both fore and aft, the cock in his arse crawling ever deeper inside him, the one in his mouth seeking the friction of his tongue despite his utter lack of compliance to do that.

The Dementor raping his mouth pulled away--not suddenly, these creatures did not appear to do anything suddenly. But its prick left Lucius's mouth, and--suddenly, after all--the sickening ooze of its semen splashed onto his lips, into his eyes, burning though not blinding, landing on his cheeks like tears--and indeed, mixing with his own as his eyes spilled over, trying to drive the stinging mess out. His arms were held, his head still immobilized by the grip on his hair; he could not wipe it away, could not do anything but try to blink the ghastly stuff clear.

He was, however, free to curse aloud as the one fucking him clutched at his hipbones, sinking its prick deep and flooding his insides with more of its loathsome spend. When it pulled away with a squelch that had been the loudest sound not made by his own voice, Lucius retched again, dry-heaving against an already-raw throat.

Another of the creatures was before him, bony fingers on his jaw, not even waiting for him to finish gagging as it opened his mouth and pushed its decrepit cock inside. This one had the same taste of decay and inhumanly bitter seed, but the images conjured were different: dust-hung spider's webs, stone crumbled to chalk, the splintered edge of a long-buried coffin. It did not seem to matter if these were his own remembered smells and tastes or not.

Yet another Dementor pressed its near-fleshless body against his back. The prick of this one penetrated him with greater ease yet no greater comfort; the caustic slime inside him ate away at Lucius's nerve endings as the cock drove its way in, harsh as a rasp. It sank in to the hilt on the first thrust, and began an unhurried pace that seemed to scour him with each pass.

The Dementor using his mouth this time also declined to come into it, again pulling out and spilling its foul ejaculate over his face, some of it spattering into his hairline and trickling down to gather in his eyebrows, where its slow drip into his eyes was maddening as well as stinging. How could there be so bloody much of it?

That observation was confirmed when the third of his irrumators did indeed ejaculate down his throat. Lucius found himself forced to swallow or choke, as the creature's prick thrust to the very back of his tongue, pouring an impossible quantity of its tainted spunk into his gorge. Lucius gagged and swallowed, gagged and swallowed until the prick had withdrawn and all he had to do was gag, but again his retchings were useless dry heaves that were cut short when the fourth came forward to have its turn.

He could not keep from counting. He could not keep from losing count. It was more than twenty, he knew; perhaps not as much as twice that number, so he did not know if each of the creatures had had him both in the mouth and arse. But when they stopped using his orifices, they were still not done. They laid him back on the icy stone floor of the pit--the first realization he had that the abyss did have a floor--and bound his hair around something, a sunken ring, it seemed--and swarmed over him, not even bothering to restrain his limbs as they stroked their abhorrent forms against his body, his writhings and attempts to escape them only fueling their interest, it seemed, while each ground against him, frotting against his belly and breast and face and neck and fingers and thighs and one of them pressing its prick into his groin, rubbing mercilessly until Lucius's own cock twitched its way to dismayed erection in sheer involuntary response. And when they did come, each of them spurted a quantity of semen enough to drench him where he lay, saturating him from head to foot in their secretions, marking his body and memory with the phantasms of an excavated sepulchre, of moth-eaten yellowed bandages, of a plague-destroyed civilization. Lucius lay drowning in it in every sense.

And then they left him.

How long he lay there Lucius could not know, but when voices--voices not his own--became distinct, he tried to focus on them.

"Much obliged, Mr. Malfoy; that should keep them happy for a day or so."

"Thorough, weren't they?"

"Quite. Must have liked him especially."

A light. One of the two guards had a lantern.

"Hell, this knot's never going to come loose." Something caught the light for a moment, and Lucius heard--felt--a rasping close at his scalp, a series of jerks on his hair that were abruptly ended. "Up you get, Mr. Malfoy."

Indifferent to the corrupt ooze that covered him, the two men hoisted him up and draped him heedlessly about their shoulders. A few steps, and they were ascending: a staircase that had been concealed behind a door in the pit. Lucius realized, carried as he was in his lolling-head position, that the one had cut his hair off all the way to the crown. Though he thought it should matter little after what the Dementors had done, they had not taken away his ability to feel anguish. For that small thing, more than for the unbearable horror he'd suffered in the pit, he wanted to weep.

The light of the cell corridor was too much for him; he shut his eyes against it. Noises of metal, of keys. A shrug of the men's shoulders and he was dumped to the floor without ceremony. He cracked one eye open: his cell.

"Now, Mr. Malfoy, a session with the Dementors seems to do wonders with prisoners. No trouble from them for a good week, after. 'Course, not much in the way of speech or movement either." Again, those horrible harbingers of smiles. "You can have all the time you like to recover. Expect you'll be able to crawl to the food bucket in a day or so. Also expect that's about all you'll be up for, most of the week. And after a week?" They leaned in; the smiles grew wider. "Expect it'll be your turn to keep the Dementors happy again. Pleasant dreams, Mr. Malfoy."

Lucius closed his eyes and did not bother to watch them exit the cell.

In his mind, six-month old Draco looked up at him and said, "Da."

He wondered for how long.



Despoiling Harry

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