Despoiling Harry

Home Page   Amanuensis's Fanfiction   Art/Fic Tributes  Fic Recommendations       Amanuensis's LiveJournal     Other Links    amanuensis1 @ earthlink . net

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.

Turn To Ice
by Amanuensis

Pairings: Fudge+2 minor canon males/Draco (yes, you read that right).
Categories: Non-con. (Blackmail. Graphic child abuse. Somnophilia. Intended to be disturbing.)
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, immense.

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 lily-white arse.

"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 it completely.

"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 last.

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 dual-meaninged.

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 tongue.

"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 chest.

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 have this."


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 the no.

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.


Home Page   Amanuensis's Fanfiction   Art/Fic Tributes  Fic Recommendations       Amanuensis's LiveJournal     Other Links    amanuensis1 @ earthlink . net