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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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authorized materials of these owners.
Turn To Ice
Pairings: Fudge+2 minor canon
males/Draco (yes, you read that right).
(Blackmail. Graphic child abuse. Somnophilia. Intended to be
A/N: Written for wave 3 of the
pornish_pixies 2005 Fantasy Fest for slytherin_lord, who requested:
-- "(Draco/Various) Monetary Bribes don't always work. Lucius
keeps out of Azkaban by offering up Draco's tender little body. Anal
please! Very Chan (under 11) Double penetration esp amazing. Sleepy
Draco being passed around a room the best!" I feel like I
need disclaimers the size of countries on this one, guys, but I'm going
to let the challenge and the warnings stand for themselves. Truly,
please, if this is not to your taste, do not read it. Thanks to
betas angiepen and fabularasa.
The alibi had been perfect, the solicitors flawless. The bribes,
And now this odious fucking upstart was going to undo nine years of
priceless, seamlessly-planned defense.
Lucius wanted to throttle the man. His own campaign funds had helped
put Fudge into office over that zealot Crouch, and now this,
this interview, in his very first days as Minister.
Discrepancies in documentation, his pureblooded
"You have," he continued, jaw quite set and trying not to snarl, "every
piece of documentation my solicitors ever generated. You have no trial
documents because there was no trial. As I have been trying to explain
for the past half-hour. Minister, I am delighted to serve your office
in any way, but I am now at a loss as to what 'discrepancies' you
believe I can correct, sir." It was an effort not to drill sarcasm into
the pause before the last word; Lucius knew he hadn't been able to hide
"Ah, I see. There was no trial,
you say?" Arse. He'd seen it before Lucius had ever walked into the
office. "Well, that is most irregular. Are you saying they simply
dismissed all charges, even in the face of...all this evidence?"
Lucius seethed. He'd spent months proving and nine years maintaining
that none of it was evidence, and he would not be thwarted now. "As you
can see from the summaries, calling that irregular collection of
exaggerations 'evidence' is not only erroneous, but spurious, Minister.
It was concocted to implicate my willing involvement." He laughed
easily. "'Willing,' for a tyrant known to throw about the Imperius
Curse like a law-abiding man uses depilatory charms! Of course you can
see why it was dismissed as absurd." He had fucking better, or Lucius
was going to throttle him despite all better judgment.
"Ah." Lucius had already grown to hate that syllable on the man's lips.
"Well. In my review of this case, Mr. Malfoy, I would have thought the
sheer depth of controversy surrounding the...what did you call
it...collection of details--"
Of exaggerations. Twit.
"--would have prompted a trial, and that would have been a more
irrefutable basis upon which to term it absurd." Fudge set the scroll
in his hands down and smiled. "Since, as you say, you are confident the
details are nonsense, you would not disagree, would you not--" Too many
bloody negatives. How Lucius hated politicians. "--that a re-evaluation
of the case, possibly culminating in a trial, would put your mind, not
to mention your reputation, much at ease. Then none could have any
objections to the...irregularity of this dismissal."
A trial. Merlin and Morgana, Fudge was
begging to be throttled. Lucius opened his mouth to
assure the man how very much a waste of time and Ministry hours a trial
would be (though more inclined to tell Fudge which parts of Lucius's
body he could kiss, lick, or bite) when Fudge continued, "But perhaps I
am simply a bit too removed from the circumstances to understand why
the details are considered so patently absurd. Perhaps there is no need
for a trial." He leaned forward as unsubtly as a hyena asking a lion if
that zebra carcass wasn't a bit too large for the lion to finish.
"Perhaps I require a bit more enlightenment."
Lucius blinked. Well. He'd never heard it called
that before. Bloody politicians, always wanting new
euphemisms to cover up their greed. So the late-comer wanted a bit of
profit himself, did he? What a complete boor, Lucius thought. The utter
tactlessness, the size of the man's bollocks--those he could believe,
but the concept of the man who held the Minister's office having no
more grace than a peasant--well, it was enough to make one retch.
On the other hand, it would make things a good deal simpler if all
Fudge wanted was a vulgar handout. Perhaps it would be best to swallow
his bile and comply. "What...manner of enlightenment do you believe I
can best provide, Minister?"
He did not expect the man to name the sum outright. They'd dance about
it for a while longer, and soon Fudge would speak in terms of monetary
measures to finance the time it would require for him to review the
materials at hand, and then Lucius would graciously admit that the
Minister's time was indeed valuable, and soon it would be done and he
could get the hell out of this office. And it would be behind him at
And then Fudge opened his mouth and said nothing of the kind.
The newly-appointed Minister of Magic told Lucius precisely what he
wanted to let the subject of Lucius's guilt drop once and for all.
To which Lucius, stunned into speechlessness, could not even sputter
protests of the man's insanity.
And then, Fudge told Lucius what he would guarantee him, to the letter,
should Lucius decline him this one little whim.
And only then did Lucius understand what sort of man he had set into
office over Crouch. And that Lord Voldemort himself might have
shuddered at the man's degree of barbarism.
The potions had the strongest amnestic properties available. Lucius
told himself that again and again.
Let Fudge laugh at him, call him a degenerate of the same order as he.
Let Fudge believe he wanted to watch.
Lucius had broken at the last, giving in when Fudge agreed to his
condition that Lucius might be present throughout the proceedings.
Fudge had been all but delighted to concede.
Lucius did not want to watch. Lucius would have been grateful if he
could have indulged in the same memory-stealing potions he was
administering to his son, so he would never have to remember the moment
he begged, the moment that he broke, the moment he agreed. The
knowledge that he was not one fragment nobler than any other human
creature fearful for his own self, out to save himself at the cost of
any other including his own child.
Lucius had never loathed himself so much as he had then, and did now.
And because of that loathing, he would not make himself forget. Even if
he could risk it, the knowledge was his punishment for being no better
than any wretched human creature.
He had asked to be there for Draco's protection. Certainly there had to
be some level of depravity they might inflict on his child past which
Lucius would find his courage; surely he could not stand by and agree,
and watch, when that line was crossed.
Surely he would know. Surely the core of himself that was more than
mere vile humanity would rise, then.
And he hated himself for hoping that they would not cross that line,
and test him. For Draco's sake, of course, but not a little for his
own. Far more than a little.
The potions produced drowsiness, disorientation in the immediate state,
but were not meant to cause unconsciousness. That, Fudge had said,
would have been unsatisfying. They wanted a reactive victim, one that
would not require restraints nor demonstrate panic, but could move and
follow simple commands and sigh sweetly. Lucius understood all too well
that Fudge's interpretation of sweet was
And Draco would not remember it. Oh, how he hated that he clung to that
thought--that that had been foremost in his mind as he heard himself
conceding to Fudge's demand. Its voice had been so gentle and
insinuating: He will not remember. There is too much at stake
for you to refuse. Fudge will see you in Azkaban and all the wealth in
the world will not save you. He is that pettily vengeful a man and will
do it. And Draco will hardly be aware and will not remember. You would
have done the same for your own father had it been asked of you--you
were that strong, at ten. Your father would have had it of you, under
the same circumstances; you were cut from the same cloth. And Draco
will not remember.
It was a voice he had encountered before, but never had it soothed him
into accepting something as repellent as this.
"I think, Lucius," said Fudge from the divan, "that you look terribly
uncomfortable. Doesn't he look uncomfortable, Cuthbert?" Cuthbert
Mockridge never smiled, but he nodded once in response. Before Lucius
could decide whether to assure Fudge he was not--or offer a seething
response along the lines of, what did the man expect--Fudge continued,
"Perhaps you should be wearing less clothing."
No. Merlin, no. He would not be made a participant in this. There it
was, the line that had been crossed, the boundary that would return
Lucius's backbone. He would stand and pull his boy away from that
filthy reprobate's lap, and go to Azkaban for killing Fudge rather than
any other reason.
Except...Fudge had not actually told him to join in yet, had he. Less
clothing, that was all he had said. Not that the meaning wasn't
obvious. But he could obey the letter, couldn't he.
And as yet another piece of his soul was pinched off and burned to ash
by Lucius's craven attempt to stay on that side of the line, Lucius,
who was in his shirtsleeves but very much more dressed than any other
man--any other person--in the room, lifted an eyebrow at Fudge, raised
a hand to his cravat, unknotted it, and tossed it away, returning his
hand to his side in communication that he would not go further, no.
Fudge lifted an eyebrow back, and chuckled. And turned back to what he
had been doing to Draco with his mouth.
Draco was sighing, at this moment, sighing and
moving his limbs on the divan in his drugged state, much to the
amusement of both Fudge and Whimple. Mockridge never smiled but looked
satisfied if not amused. He was not presently using his mouth on Draco
as the other two were, but the way he held the boy's foot in his hands,
gently as a bird one would keep captive, was no less obscene a caress.
At this moment and that Draco's sighs would become a word or two, the
sound of each falling on Lucius's ears like a lash to his spirit. Every
"What..." was a blow, every "Who..." a cut, each "Please..." a stab.
And once there was a "N-no." That was a brand.
He would never allow himself to forget them.
Fudge sat back, giving Whimple and Mockridge opportunity to move in
more closely. "Delicious," he said, making the word an abomination.
"They're so tender at this age. Give them even a few years more and the
coarseness of puberty ruins them, simply ruins them." He picked his
wineglass up off the endtable and swigged it as if it were rum and not
a vintage worthy of the Malfoy estate. Lucius did not think it ironic
that that added to his fury.
"Mmmph," said Draco, as Mockridge inserted a finger into his mouth and
pinched his lips closed around it with the other hand. Draco began to
suck at it but immediately made a face beneath his sleepy, slitted
eyes. "Nathty," he lisped, trying to push the finger away with his
"Turn him over, Cuthbert," Fudge said, leaning forward again. "I think
he can be made to get up on his knees a bit."
Lucius did all he could to tamp down the fury as Draco was turned over
on the divan, cheek turned against its surface and his knees pushed up
to put his rump on display. Lucius had known they would go this far,
and farther. If he was to bear this he must retreat behind the
hatefully soothing voice.
He was able to bear Fudge spreading the boy's knees further, lulled
enough to suffer the man's fingerings of Draco's small pink balls in
this position. The voice was reassuring him that his presence assured
he would not let Draco truly be harmed, injured,
when Fudge set his thumbs on each side of Draco's buttocks to expose
his furled anus and bent forward to tongue the tiny rosebud. Lucius
kept his seat.
Draco, eyes closed, furrowed his brow and moaned, "Unh." But by then
Lucius had reached almost a state of quietude. Even when Whimple and
Mockridge leaned in to take their turns, Lucius did not move. But he
did not let himself close his eyes.
Though he could feel the sweat trickling from his armpits as the three
men continued. Particularly when Fudge began to speak to Draco in
soothing tones not far off from the voice in Lucius's own head. "Now
this won't hurt, dear child. Perhaps only a little, but we'll go
slowly, oh, ever so slowly. We'll begin with this--" that was in
reference to the vial of oil Fudge held, and showed to Draco's pliant,
side-turned face as though he could see it; Fudge wasn't looking at
Lucius at all during this--"and you'll be more than ready for us by the
time we're ready for you, sweet boy."
They were slow. They were thorough. Lucius saw, impassively, that they
were even gentle as they prepared his son: fingers so well-greased and
unhurried that they got no more than moans from the boy for the most
part. Several times Draco lifted his head to gasp, but frequently this
was in response to one of the men crooking his finger over his
fledgling prostate as Fudge alternated commands to the other two and
cooing blandishments to the boy: "Again.--There, doesn't that feel
nice? Again.--Doesn't that make your little prick swell, your little
balls tighten. So lovely.--Again."
He knew it would get worse. Fudge's loathsome narrations were nothing
beside the sight of the man's ill-used rotund body pressed to Draco's
perfect young skin, his fat purple cock questing between Draco's
buttocks where his fingers had gone before. Despite all the
preparations, many a "no" came from Draco during the insertion--though
none of them more distressed than a petulant pout, as if the boy was
being told to drink a bitter bedtime potion.
Fudge dripped sweat unglamorously onto Draco's back as he fucked him,
rocking the boy back and forth and causing Draco, in his drugged state,
to protest only in the manner of a child being carried from his bed
when he would much rather stay in its warm confines and sleep. Lucius
fancied he could feel the very places where his heart was being picked
free of its moorings, seam by seam at aorta and vena cava in readiness
for the great violent wrenching of the utterly useless organ from his
He found it odd that he could have missed such a moment, for surely it
had already been taken from him when Whimple and Mockridge could repeat
the same act with his son and Lucius could remain where he was,
scourging himself with the sights and sounds but failing to move.
Permitting this. Sanctioning it.
And Draco lay whimpering, not with pain but like a child denied a sweet
as Mockridge, sated, withdrew from him and left Draco to curl on his
side, unhindered at last by the weight of the men upon his young hips,
eyes shut, his moue of a mouth innocent as infancy.
Fudge yawned, swilled more wine from his glass, and said, "I should
like to have two of us use him at once. He should be well-stretched
enough for it by now."
And Lucius stood, heart surging within him--not gone after all. Not
quite gone after all. "No."
Fudge looked up at him. "Something wrong?"
"You've had enough. Leave him. Get out of my house," he said, allowing
the starkness of his words to substitute for all volume needed.
One side of Fudge's mouth turned up. "Oh, Lucius. We've come this far;
surely you'll not throw it all away now?...I will
But Fudge had all his defenses ready for repetition. "When I have had
what I want today, we will leave him. I will leave
him. But if you are in Azkaban, you will not be able to protect him
further. I'm surprised you need the reminding."
"No." But his voice cracked on it.
It was a softer smile now. There was wheedling in it. "I want to feel
my cock inside him, with another man's cock beside it. If you've never
felt the like you cannot imagine. To know that sort of--geometry.
There's nothing to compare." The smile grew. "If you are fearful that
we might damage him, I might propose an alternative. You, Lucius, can
join me. Would that please you?"
He could not begin to find the words. The only word that he
could give was no, and it would not come. Had stuck
between heart and throat and could not be uttered.
You can make sure Draco is not harmed this way.
--No. Not the voice. He did not need to be soothed, he needed to speak
And then Fudge will be done. And you will be safe, and can
stand between him and your son. If you go to prison then Draco will be
at this bastard's mercy.
And Draco...will not remember.
"Mn," sighed his son, shifting.
Lucius began to unfasten his shirt--he might have left it on, but did
not wish it soiled by close contact with Fudge--and thought about what
a strange thing his necroscopy would be, one day, when the sepulchrist
opened his body and found only ice where a heart should be.
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