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.

by Amanuensis

Drabblefic: Beloved Enemies Challenge, Harry/Lucius, 100-500 words, theme: *oubliette*

"If I turn in my analysis of the bones," says Severus, "it will mean more than Azkaban. It will mean a Dementor's Kiss."

I don't look at him.

"I cannot falsify the report," he says. "But... I can refuse to turn it in. Another would be assigned to perform the analysis. And might not conclude what I have."

Dear Severus. You forgave me, too, didn't you?

I know there's no hiding it. Neither of us is young any more; neither of us is even what one could honestly call middle-aged. But the bones will speak, even after all these years.

And the pain... is as fresh as yesterday.

He was... so young. So helpless. But he never begged.

For mercy, at any rate.

I wanted him. I told him I'd shelter him... for a price.

He was more afraid of Voldemort than of anything he knew I would ever do to him. And that was the entrance that let me get into his heart.

To this day I taste him. If one could taste mercury and not be poisoned by it, then I would know if he truly tasted like mercury or not.

That was how I thought he tasted, how he seemed, under my mouth, in my arms, in my bed. Always changing, offering something new to be discovered, whether it was the sound of my name on his lips, or the way he sank to his knees to wrap his arms so delicately around my waist while he sucked me into his mouth, or the tightness of his arse clenching around me as I rode him hard, or the way he nuzzled my breastbone as we lay together through the night.

Neither of us truly assaulted that entrance into each other's hearts. We simply let each of our own... fall open.

And then Voldemort took him from me. I promised him shelter, and I failed him.

My Lord handed me the knife, told me to do it.

Harry saw me hesitate. Knew that my hesitation would mean my death as well as his.

Seized the knife in my hand and drove it into his own throat, like a Japanese woman committing seppuku.

Voldemort told me to dispose of the body.

I took that exsanguinated, pale form, laid it on my bed, and lay wrapped around it for three days.

And then I dropped it down the oubliette, unable to do anything else.

Hoping, I suppose, I could inspire his ghost to haunt my mansion.

It didn't work.

It just meant that they finally found evidence to use against me, all these years later, about my part in Voldemort's ranks and the disappearance of The Boy Who Lived.

"The scar," says Severus. "Ingrained on the skull. It's almost as old as the bones. Shaped like a lightning bolt. I don't think... anyone will miss that, Lucius."

I think about the look in those green eyes, held on mine, as he died.


"Do it, Severus."

Severus puts something in my hand before he leaves my cell. A small packet.

Powdered hemlock.

Dear Severus.


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