An Eye For an Eye

Looking back after the final battle, Harry could not believe how naïve he had been. How aghast he'd been when the prophecy had been revealed, when he'd learned that he'd have to kill Voldemort, or be killed.

Voldemort was dead now, by his hand.

But so were others.

He did not regret killing Voldemort. Nor did he regret killing Bellatrix, who had caused Sirius's death two years before. But he'd never intended to hurt Narcissa Malfoy, who had tried to save her sister and been caught by his spell, burned in a pillar of fire she hadn't the time to save herself from.

He'd never liked Draco Malfoy, nor trusted his father Lucius after the incident with the diary, but he still felt terribly guilty over Narcissa's death, a death that he had caused. And so he sighed, and put quill to parchment, and penned heartfelt letters of apology to both of them. Draco had disappeared and was rumoured to be at Durmstrang. Lucius was at Malfoy Manor; despite his obvious involvement with Voldemort, his wife's death sparked sympathy among the Wizengamot, and of course in the aftermath it was easy for him to swear that he had been loyal to the Ministry all along.

Harry still thought Lucius should have been sent to Azkaban. But perhaps he'd suffered enough, losing Narcissa, his son fled to another country.

He held these charitable thoughts until the Ministry owl came, carrying an elaborately-scribed letter that informed him that Lucius Malfoy was suing under the Dermott-MacAllen Law of 1327 to claim Harry Potter as his wife.

"Wife!" expostulated Harry. He was pacing back and forth in the tiny sitting-room of Hermione's Diagon Alley flat. "I can't be his wife! I'm a man!"

"Bloody ridiculous," agreed Ron.

"It doesn't make any sense!" Harry came to a stop by the chair where Hermione sat with two books open on her lap and one more on the floor. "I can't believe the Ministry is going along with this."

Hermione looked up. "It's an old law -- hasn't been used in centuries -- but it hasn't been repealed, so I'm afraid it's still valid."

Harry stared at her. The intent frown on her face; the way her shoulders hunched as though she was trying to hide, the way her glance met his and then slid away. A sudden horrible ball of lead formed in his stomach, and he sat heavily on the floor.

"It's got quite a history, actually," said Hermione brightly. Harry could tell the cheery tone was for his benefit, and he forced himself to look interested. "A witch named Fiona McAllen tossed an iron cauldron out of her window one day and it landed on another witch's head, killing her instantly. Her widower -- that must have been Dermott -- brought a complaint against her to the Wizards' Council, which they settled by declaring that she marry him in compensation."

"But she was a witch," Harry protested. "I'm a wizard."

Hermione's finger ran down the page. "The precedent was invoked sixty-one years later, when Elfrida Muldoon was trampled by a thestral belonging to Crispin Bulstrode. The widower Muldoon exercised his Dermott-McAllen right not on Mr. Bulstrode but on his niece Henrietta."

"So let Lucius Malfoy marry my aunt Petunia."

"Or your fat cousin," snickered Ron.

"Hush," said Hermione absently. She was still turning pages. "Suppose he could, if he wanted to. But let's see…Morgan in 1530…Bonham in 1742…" Her voice trailed off as her eyes scanned the print; her face grew increasingly grave. Finally she sat back and closed the book. "It's the plaintiff's right to choose from among the members of the defendant's family. And there's nothing to specify that the person chosen must be a woman. Nothing at all." Her voice shook slightly. "Oh, Harry."

"I'm fucked," said Harry, burying his face in his hands.

Neither Ron nor Hermione had any answer to that.

They were in that damned Courtroom Ten again, the one where he'd had his expulsion hearing. The high benches were filled with many of the same unfriendly faces. Cornelius Fudge, still Minister of Magic, wore the same forbidding expression. Dolores Umbridge, who had finally been released from St. Mungo's only a year ago, looked down on him with all the affection of a toad gazing at a juicy fly.

Except this time, Harry thought despondently as he climbed the stone dais to sit in the chain-draped chair, Professor Dumbledore wouldn't be there to take his part. Nobody would. Dumbledore had been killed in the same battle as Voldemort. The same battle as Narcissa, whose death had got him into this mess. Ron and Hermione and Remus had walked him to the door, but were not allowed inside the courtroom. He was alone.

"Civil case of the twenty-fourth of July," intoned Fudge in his ringing voice. "Lucius Gaius Malfoy, plaintiff, requesting compensation from Harry James Potter under Dermott-McAllen, for damages resulting from the death of his wife Narcissa Black Malfoy on June twelfth of this year." He looked around the courtroom. "Is the plaintiff present?"

"Yes, Minister," came a quiet drawl from the corner. Blond hair and a pointed, pale face over elegant dark robes. Harry repressed a shudder. The man looked so composed. Yet he was asking for something -- insane.

"Harry Potter," said Fudge. "Did you kill Narcissa Malfoy?"

"The court notes that the defendant admits his guilt," said Fudge.

"But it was an accident!" burst out Harry, feeling slightly desperate. It had been the heat of the battle. He'd been aiming for Bellatrix. The Aurors had told him it was all right, that he wouldn't be charged. He wouldn't be sent to Azkaban. "It was an accident," he repeated. "It was a battle! I was fighting Volde--"

"That is not relevant," said Fudge stiffly. "This is an impartial court. Every witch and wizard who comes before us receives the same treatment. The court does not make an exception for the hero who killed Lord -- You-know."

"Impartial, my arse," muttered Harry, not loud enough to be heard. Fudge hated him. Umbridge hated him. Half the Wizengamot probably hated him, for crying out loud. Everyone loved a hero for exactly as long as it took them to give out the medals. And then the grumbling began.

"Does Dermott-McAllen apply in the case of accidental death in battle?" came a booming voice from the stands. Harry let out a breath when he heard it; that was Madam Bones, he'd recognize her voice anywhere. He could trust her to be fair, at least.

"Accidental death is the only prerequisite," said a wizard several rows behind Fudge. Harry didn't recognize him. "Intentional murder is handled in the criminal court, of course."

"I know that, Morrison," snapped Madam Bones. She sounded impatient. "But is there any provision for the death occurring as the result of war? The boy can't be held responsible for the vagaries of battle."

"Excuse me, Madam Bones," said Malfoy. He smiled, showing white teeth that glinted like a predator's. "But I believe I have evidence that makes this a moot point."

Madam Bones adjusted her monocle and peered down at Malfoy. "Yes?"

"As you no doubt know, the Wizards' Council of 1388 ruled that the admission of responsibility on the part of the defendant was sufficient to apply the Dermott-McAllen precedent." Lucius's voice was smooth as silk. "I have here a document in which Harry Potter claims responsibility for my beloved Narcissa's death," he continued, holding aloft a piece of parchment.

The letter. The letter he'd sent, out of pity and sympathy and guilt.

Fudge extended his wand and muttered a spell; the parchment appeared to catch fire, although Lucius's hand did not waver, and after a moment the flames rose fully away from the parchment and formed fiery letters in the air. In Harry's handwriting. There it was, for the entire Wizengamot to see:

I am terribly sorry for the loss of your wife. I am sure you blame me, and I can not fault you. I was aiming at someone else, and Mrs Malfoy stepped into the path of my curse; of course I feel responsible for what happened, but I know that I can't undo what's done, and so I can only apologize.

And at the bottom, in large, looping letters of flame, his name.

A murmur rose from the assembled witches and wizards as they read the letter. Finally Fudge turned to Harry. "Did you write this?"

No use denying it, was there. "Yes." His voice was a croak.

There was another brief buzz among the Wizengamot as they whispered to one another. Fudge waved his wand once to dispel the flaming letters, then tapped it loudly on his podium to silence the room.

"Well. I think the evidence speaks for itself. If there is no objection --" he said, with a quick glance around at the witches and wizards around him, "this court finds for the plaintiff, Mr Malfoy."

Harry jumped to his feet. "I object!"

There was a light wave of laughter. Finally, Madam Bones spoke. "I'm afraid your objections have no bearing. The law is very clear on this point. An eye for an eye, a life for a life."

"And a wife for a wife, eh?" said Fudge.

"Yes, Minister." Lucius's mouth curled upward in a small, triumphant smile. "The wedding will be at Malfoy Manor one week from today."

"Then congratulations to both of you," Fudge said, beaming. "And please do invite me to the wedding."

This was not, Harry reflected glumly as he adjusted his robe, how he would have chosen to spend his eighteenth birthday. If it had been up to him, he'd have played a little one-on-one Quidditch with Ron in the afternoon, maybe gone for an ice cream at Fortescue's afterward.

Instead he was getting married. To Lucius Malfoy.

It was to be a small ceremony, for which he was profoundly grateful. Even Draco wasn't there -- for which he was even more grateful. Draco was probably about as thrilled as he himself was about the whole situation, which was absolutely not at all.

He'd been furious, punching-the-wall furious, after the Ministry hearing. "Fucking ridiculous," he'd muttered as they left the building. "What if I just refuse? What's the worst that could happen to me?"

"Azkaban," said Remus. Harry stared at him.

"The Wizarding world takes debts very seriously, Harry. This is a form of life-debt. Like Snape owed your father. Like Wormtail owed you."

Snape had hated him. And yet in the final battle he had saved Harry's life at the expense of his own, because of the life-debt owed to his father. Wormtail had been unable to kill him on Voldemort's orders, because of the life-debt incurred when Harry spared him in the Shrieking Shack. His whole life, it seemed, was a tricky pile of debts and obligations, owed and owing in a complicated balance. Which had just tipped, tumbling him into Malfoy Manor.

He'd only seen Lucius once in the week since the hearing, when the man peremptorily appeared in his fireplace to tell him the time set for the wedding. Lucius had handed him a Portkey and informed him that he needn't dress; robes would be provided for him. "I don't imagine you have anything suitable for a Malfoy bride," sneered Lucius.

"Wait a minute," Harry'd begged, desperately. "You can't want this. I mean -- your wife. Narcissa. You like women! What do you want with me?"

"I like boys, too," Lucius replied. There was no mistaking the menacing undertone in his soft voice. "And you're lucky that I do. I could have requested a ruling by the Wizengamot to change your sex, you know."

Harry gulped. They wouldn't have made him do that. Would they?

"Until the thirty-first, then." And Lucius had disappeared.

And now it was the thirty-first, and Harry was about to become Lucius's…wife. He'd protested that this word couldn't possibly apply to him, but apparently it had some ancient and proper meaning, and it was more important to keep to form than to acknowledge the absurdity of calling a man someone's wife. At least, he thought, the house-elf who had shown him to the room where he was to dress had called him 'Master Harry.' If anyone called him 'Mistress,' or worse yet 'Mrs Malfoy,' he would scream bloody murder, Azkaban notwithstanding.

And at least he didn't have to wear a white dress. No, the robe that had been laid out for him was a rich, shimmery gold, trimmed with deep green accents around the collar and wrists. Harry had never seen anything quite like it, but the mirror assured him that it was fashionable and becoming. There were even some sort of wizarding underclothes that went with it, a long, loose shirt and pantaloon set in palest linen, and as he admired himself in the mirror he had to admit that as Malfoy's…spouse, at least he'd be well-dressed.

There was a knock at the door, and a house-elf stuck its head in the room. "It is time, Master Harry!"

Running a hand through his hair one last time, he followed the house-elf down.

The ceremony was thankfully brief. The officiant, a dour witch named Wenlock whom Harry recognized from his hearing, muttered a few clearly ritual phrases, made a few incantations (which, Harry realized with growing dread, magically bound him to Lucius so that even if he'd not had the spectre of Azkaban hanging over his head he could not back out, as much as he wanted to), and finally assured them that by the wizarding laws of Great Britain they were now officially married and the terms of Dermott-McAllen satisfied.

He didn't even have to kiss Lucius. Although from the smug look the man gave him, he had a feeling that that particular misery was just being postponed.

After that there was a small reception, which for Harry and the few friends he'd invited as witnesses felt more like a wake. A glass of champagne, a few of the exquisite hors d'oeuvres on the buffet table, and he was ready for the whole farce to be over.

But no. Guiding him with a hand on his arm, Lucius informed him that this was his official presentation as Lucius's bride -- his bride! -- to the Malfoy family and the society in which it moved. And so he smiled at Lucius's mother, and his aunt, and his nephew, and his solicitor, and his hunting partner, on and on, shaking hands, murmuring, "How do you do," trying not to let his eyes glaze over at the sheer ridiculous boredom of it all. Trying not to let the heat of anger rise in his gorge when an elegant eyebrow lifted in amusement, or a cultured voice drawled, "Really, Lucius. You continually surprise me." Because the first time he had flushed and tensed at an innuendo, he had felt Lucius's grip tighten painfully. And when the society matron who had made her disapproval clear had floated away, Lucius had bent to his ear and hissed, "You will behave yourself as a Malfoy."

There'd be bruises on his arm the next day, he knew.

It was like taking his NEWTs all over again, being examined and inspected and even pinched by a few of the older Malfoy relatives, but even though it was horrible, hellish, he did not wish for it to be over.

Because when it was over he'd be alone with Lucius.

But eventually the guests drank all the champagne and ate all the hors d'oeuvres, and laughed and kissed the air next to each other's cheeks and shook each other's hands and Apparated or Flooed away. Even Ron and Hermione, who had doggedly stood in the corner alone, gave him one sad, backward glance and finally headed home. And instead of seeming larger, as it became empty, the elegant dining room seemed somehow very small indeed. Too small to contain its two remaining occupants. Harry found himself darting glances at the doors and windows, thinking futile thoughts of escape as Lucius advanced toward him.

"Well done, Harry," he said.

Harry made a noncommittal grunt. It wasn't as though he had any choice. Felt like a fucking trained seal, he did.

Lucius put a hand on Harry's arm -- the same one he'd gripped so tightly before, and even though his touch was light Harry couldn't help but flinch. "Come with me to --"

Oh God oh God, thought Harry, I am so not ready for this.

"-- my study," finished Lucius, and Harry let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. To his study. All right, he could handle that.

On Lucius's desk was a decanter and two brandy snifters; Lucius poured them each a glass and handed one to Harry, rolling his eyes when Harry sniffed at it suspiciously. "For Merlin's sake, it's only Armagnac. I don't need to drug you."

No. Because he'd been magically bound, for better or for worse. And judging by what he knew of Lucius Malfoy, probably worse.

"All right," said Lucius, taking a seat in a leather armchair and motioning for Harry to do the same. "As my wife you have certain obligations. You will escort me to Ministry functions. You will host parties here for my guests. You need not trouble yourself with running the household, as the staff manages the day-to-day aspects. And although the décor of the Manor is traditionally a wife's domain, I doubt you have Narcissa's exquisite taste, so I would prefer that her choices stand."

Harry had no idea what to say to this, and took a sip of Armagnac instead. As if he cared about furnishings!

"Of course, if you would like to have a room for yourself you may certainly decorate it as you like. To that end you have access to the Malfoy account at Gringotts. The house-elves will attend to your needs and obey your commands, and all the wards have been reset to recognize you. You have free run of the house and on the grounds, but do conduct yourself appropriately in public."

Harry stared. Whatever he had thought Lucius had had in mind didn't include an account at Gringotts, or house-elves, or parties. Finally he ventured, "May I…leave the grounds?"

Lucius snorted. "You're not a prisoner, Harry. You may go where you like. Although I think you will find yourself compelled to return," he said thoughtfully, running a hand down Harry's arm.

Which tingled with the magic. It ran sparking from where Lucius touched him down to his hand, to the ring on his finger. Heavy gold and platinum, it was a twin to the one Lucius wore, an heirloom, and he could sense the power which tingled around his body coming to a focus in that ring. He wondered if it would ever come off. Probably not, knowing the Malfoys.

He drank the last of the liquid in his glass; it burned with a sweet fire going down, and he suddenly wished it had been a potion to drug him, because that way he wouldn't have all these strange thoughts swirling in his head. Or at least he could blame them on the potion. He put his glass down and turned to Lucius.

"Why are you doing this to me?" He meant it to sound accusing, but it came out sounding plaintive even to his own ears.

A rich laugh. "Why, Harry, I should think that would be obvious. You have deprived me of my dear wife, and you must make recompense!" One delicate blond eyebrow lifted. "Of course I can't expect you to be the social asset that my lovely Narcissa was, but you are, after all, the Boy Who Defeated Voldemort Twice. It will do my reputation good to have a hero for a wife."

"I can't be your wife!" exploded Harry. "I'm a man!"

"You are my wife," said Lucius, in a voice that had turned to steel. He placed his empty glass on the desk and stood in one graceful movement. "And it is not a term to be scorned or taken lightly. If words didn't have power we would only need to wave our wands in order to cast a spell. But the words are as important as the motion. Wingardium Leviosa," he said suddenly; even though he didn't have his wand out, Harry saw the goblet on the desk quiver, as though it were straining to lift itself into the air.

"Words have power. The word wife is related to the Old Germanic word waffe, which means weapon."

Harry stumbled to his feet, emboldened by the liquor, the taste of which was still on his lips. "I am not your fucking weapon!"

Lucius looked absolutely unruffled. "My dear boy, you have been everybody's 'fucking weapon,' as you put it. That fool Dumbledore's. Our dear departed Lord Voldemort's." A thin smile made its way across his pale face. "And now you are mine."

Oh, that was just fucking great, wasn't it.

"So that's what I am to you. The real reason you made me go through with -- with all this."

Lucius laughed then, a clear ripple of laughter that rang in the small room. "Oh, no, Harry." He walked to where Harry still sat slumped in his chair, reached out a hand. Again Harry felt the strange tingling from Lucius's touch, the swirl of magic and power, and he let himself be pulled to his feet. One of the other man's manicured fingertips trailed gently across his jawline, and he tried not to flinch. Azkaban, he told himself. Be strong.

"There is, of course, one more obligation that I have not yet mentioned. I'm sure you can guess what it is."

"Pervert," muttered Harry.

The fingers paused on his chin, tilted it up so Harry had to look him in the eye. "There is nothing perverted about a sensual appreciation for a fine body. And as I told you, I like boys."

"Ah, but I am no boy. I am a man."

Like he couldn't bloody well tell that. Lucius was standing so close to him that he could smell him, the Armagnac on his breath overlaying a mixture of a vaguely floral perfume and a deep musk. "I don't like men either."

Long blond hair brushed his face, tickling and teasing, as Lucius bent forward to speak in his ear, in low tones that sent a shiver down his spine, all the way to his toes.

Lucius Malfoy's bedroom was smaller than he would have expected, for such a wealthy man. Or maybe it just seemed small because of the enormous bed. Of heavy carved wood, it was draped with thickly-textured cloth in intricate patterns of red, blue and gold; and the bedclothes looked so soft and inviting, and the day had been so long, that for a moment Harry thought how nice it would be, to sink down among those welcoming pillows.

But of course Lucius was close behind him as he walked into the room, and he was uncomfortably aware that he probably wouldn't be getting much sleep at all.

What did men do with each other, anyway? He had a general idea of what men did with women, although unfortunately it was all only theoretical knowledge; the girls he had been interested in had not been interested in him, and vice versa, and pretty soon the war began in earnest and nobody had time for anything like that anyway.

Well, from the pressure of Lucius's hand on his shoulder, he reckoned he'd be finding out.

"The robe suits you well," Lucius said, gathering a handful of the shimmering cloth and allowing it to spill over his fingers. "But I think it has outstayed its welcome."

Harry toyed with the clasps, running his fingers over the little metal dragon-heads that held his robe closed. He was clearly expected to undress, and just the thought made him want to turn and flee. And that thought, in turn, made him feel sick. Scared and nervous in a way he'd never felt before, not even when facing Voldemort; and he knew it was the damn magical bonds, forcing him, constricting him.

"Take it off, Harry," said Lucius, and there was a hint of steel, a taste of anger underlying it, and Harry fumbled quickly with the fastenings and allowed the gold cloth to drop to the ground. Lucius easily unfastened his own dark robe and tossed it in the direction of the bed, revealing the same kind of soft undergarments that Harry had been given to wear.

And it was evident from their shape that Lucius was very well endowed. And very hard. And was entirely unembarrassed and unconcerned about it, as he drew Harry close to him and said, consideringly, "I think we shall start with a kiss."

Well. He could handle that.

Or at least that was what Harry thought, until Lucius's mouth took his as though it was a particularly tasty delicacy. Firm lips pressed against his, forcing his mouth open, and a tongue explored every bit of it, each tooth and each millimetre of palate, and he wanted to break away, to gasp for air, but a hand cradled the back of his head tightly and there was nowhere he could go to get away from that plundering mouth. His lower lip was sucked in, gently bitten. Then his upper lip. Finally Lucius's tongue wrapped around his own tongue, which had remained quiescent, hoping to stay out of the whole thing, and pulled it into Lucius's mouth.

He might be forced to allow Lucius his body, but he was damned if he was going to be a participant. Pushing at Lucius's shoulders, he wrenched away.

And his legs gave out from under him, and he collapsed to the floor, panting.

"You can't fight it, Harry." Lucius's voice seemed to come from far away. "Didn't you notice the spells being woven during the ceremony? Surely you didn't think that Pureblood families would allow something as important as marriage to be left to chance? And there are particular rituals surrounding the wedding night, of course."

He lifted his head with what was left of his defiance. "You fucking bastard."

"My lineage is far better than yours, dear boy. And as for the fucking," he said, a dark smile spreading across his face, "soon, I promise you."

Lucius bent to the floor and scooped Harry into his arms, carrying him to the bed as easily as though he were a child. It was useless to fight, he realized. His own limbs barely obeyed him, and when he was deposited on the soft coverlet he lay there unmoving and allowed Lucius to remove his glasses and then move over him, covering him with his body.

"Let's try that again, shall we?" And that rapacious mouth lowered again, the curtain of cornsilk hair blotting out the rest of the room as lips, teeth, and tongue took his mouth with authority.

Stay calm, Harry told himself. Relax. Let him do it. He let his lips slacken, his mouth open under the invasion.

But that apparently wasn't enough for Lucius, who pulled away slightly and frowned. "I do not enjoy kissing a corpse."

Ha. "That's your problem."

"I don't think so," said Lucius, his voice smooth as butter. "It's a pity that the prospect of pleasure fails to compel your interest. Perhaps the threat of pain will have to do."

"Oh, so Malfoys beat their wives?" He spit out the words with a bravado he only partly felt. The marriage spells couldn't allow Lucius to hurt him too badly, could they?

"When they deserve it." With a sudden move Lucius rolled to the side, pulling Harry with him so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed with Harry draped awkwardly across his lap. "And at the moment, my wife is acting like a spoiled child who has decided that if he has to suffer, everyone else will suffer." He leaned close to Harry's ear. "I'd say it will hurt me more than it hurts you, but it would be a lie, wouldn't it. In fact, I think I will rather enjoy this."

He wanted to fight back. He should fight back. But he was not sure what would happen, if he'd just get that odd sick feeling again from those fucking magical bonds, and in any event he was not sure it would have any effect, considering the force with which he was being pinned in place. Lucius's robes had concealed a powerful body, and he could feel the coiled-spring tension in his muscles where he was pressed against them.

One strong hand held Harry down as the other pulled the linen pants down to his knees. This was ridiculous, thought Harry, twisting uncomfortably across Lucius's thighs. He was eighteen, for God's sake. Of course this whole stupid marriage farce was ridiculous, and Lucius was being --

"OW!" The harsh slap on his buttocks forced a yelp out of him, more from indignation than from pain. "What the fuck do you think --"

Another blow. "Language, Harry."

Another blow. It didn't really hurt; well, it hurt a little, sure, but what really hurt was the embarrassment, the knowledge that he was bent over Lucius Malfoy's knee, for crying out loud, being spanked like a five-year-old.

Another blow. The position was not quite comfortable, and he shifted slightly, trying to get away from…oh, fuck. That hardness he was lying across was Lucius's cock, wasn't it.

Another blow. And in his shifting to get away from that hard thing poking at him, he'd somehow trapped his own cock between Lucius's slightly-spread legs, and the force of the slaps were causing it to rub ever so gently against the smooth linen that was so fine he imagined he could feel the hairs on Lucius's thighs right through it, tickling his cock as it slid against them.

Another blow. He was already half-hard, and the tingling in his bare arse was somehow magnifying the sensation, driving his cock against the warm leg below him, driving the iron bar that he knew was Lucius's erection against his stomach.

Another blow, and another, and another, and pretty soon he'd lost count of the number of times Lucius's hand had come down on his arse, and it ached and stung like crazy. And somewhere in the past few minutes he'd stopped trying to arch his prick away from Lucius's thighs and started pushing against them, and that was the worst of all, to know that he'd given in, if only that much.

Finally Lucius's hand came down again, but instead of a hard slap he gave Harry's skin a soft caress that began in the region of his tailbone, slid across a doubtlessly-red buttock and came to rest just for an instant between his thighs before moving back to his tailbone again. Then it slid down his thigh to where his pants were bunched up around his knees, and gave them a tug.

"No point in these staying on any longer, I think." As he pulled them off he gave Harry a gentle push to encourage him to wriggle across his knees and up to the bed.

He felt even more vulnerable, now, with only an undershirt. Not to mention an erection that was, at least, rapidly fading now that it was no longer in contact with the stimulation of those strong thighs. He pulled up his legs a little, so the shirt hid it, but Lucius shook his head. "The shirt, as well."

Fuck. He pulled it over his head, hating that one tense instant when it was over his face, over his eyes, blinding him. Sightless and vulnerable in the presence of an enemy; a situation he had always tried to avoid.

Well, there was no avoiding this situation.

And when the cloth was no longer in his face he could see Lucius looking him over as though he were some expensive artefact at Borgin and Burkes, and Harry felt his face redden under the scrutiny. He wanted to curl into a small, protective ball. Naked in front of Lucius Malfoy, whose thin linen pants did not hide his obvious arousal. He could see that even without his glasses.

And then, never taking his eyes off Harry, Lucius undressed. Somehow he did it in as elegant a manner as he did everything else; the fine cloth seemed to caress his body and only reluctantly whisper to the ground. Harry stared, fascinated by the interplay of pale linen and paler skin, seeing only shapes and movement until Lucius's voice jerked him back into the room.

"You look lovely, all laid out for me like that. So utterly kissable." Lucius sank onto the bed next to him and rolled over on top of him. "I trust that this time I'll have your full cooperation, hm?"

Harry forced his mouth to open to the hot assault, and when Lucius's tongue teased at his he obediently flickered his tongue back at him, sliding his lips along the other man's mouth, back and forth. It wasn't too bad if he just didn't think about what he was doing.

And who he was doing it to.

Then Lucius pressed his body down, against Harry's stomach, and he felt the man's thick cock nudge at his own. Gasping, he tried to wriggle away from its weight.

"You're learning, my dear boy." Lucius propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at Harry. "Not bad for a virgin."

"You'd like it if I were, wouldn't you," Harry muttered, to cover his discomfort. It wouldn't be so bad if Lucius didn't look so fucking pleased with himself. And so much for all that wanking in the showers he'd done, thinking about Ginny, or Susan, or Fleur. Some fucking wedding night.

"Don't deny it. The magic doesn't lie." At Harry's look, he smiled. "Determining the virginity of a Pureblood bride is part of the marriage spell. But I assure you I shall be despoiling you shortly."

"Yeah, well, get on with it."

Lucius's mouth tightened into a thin line, his lips barely more coloured than the surrounding pale skin. "Maybe you don't understand, Harry. This isn't one night of ravishment, after which you can return to your trivial world of Quidditch and Chocolate Frogs. You. Are. My. Wife." He lowered his head to Harry's neck, punctuated each word with a sucking, biting kiss, breaking the blood vessels, marking the skin, inscribing a coded message that Harry knew said Lucius Malfoy Was Here. Then he inclined his neck slightly so that his lips were barely above Harry's ear; Harry could feel the warmth of Lucius's breath, the soft moistness of his tongue just flickering against the shell of his ear as he spoke.

"You will spend every night of the rest of your life in this bed with me. So I suggest you get used to it."

The rest of his life. Fucking hell.

Lucius bent to Harry's collarbone and kissed again, a little more gently this time. Then moved to his left nipple, which he teased with small flickers of his tongue before engulfing it in his mouth and sucking, and holy fuck, there was apparently a cord connecting his nipple to his cock, wasn't there, because it gave a little shiver against Lucius's thigh, and that bastard must have noticed because abruptly Lucius bit his left nipple and pinched his right one at the same time. Harry gave an involuntary jerk and his breath hissed out of him in surprise; he could feel Lucius smiling against his skin.

Then Lucius moved, licking a wet trail down his stomach, cornsilk hair tickling across damp skin in his wake. Hot lips and cool hair, and it sparked new tendrils of sensation that curled from his nipples and his navel and his hipbone and went straight to his cock and bollocks and it would actually feel nice, he would enjoy it, if it wasn't Lucius bloody Malfoy.

Lucius bloody fucking bastard Malfoy. Whose tongue was now curving around his ball sac, gently licking, sucking, pulling the skin into his mouth and then releasing it, and Harry moaned despite himself. He could feel himself getting hard. "No," he whispered. As though just saying the word could counteract the sensation.

Fuck. Lucius wanted to draw this response, didn't he. Harry tried to lie perfectly still, to will the blood out of his cock. Deliberately he slowed his breathing. He would not pant. He would not groan.

And then Lucius's mouth teased at his cock-head, tonguing the slit, pushing back the foreskin with his lips, and every bit of determination and self-control went out the window. A noise escaped his lips that was neither a pant nor a groan but something in between as he was pulled under the mysterious dark waters which engulfed him.

The thought crossed his mind briefly that he never would have believed it if it wasn't being done to him. Lucius Malfoy, sullying his perfect privileged mouth with another man's prick. With his prick. Flicking his tongue along the underside, gently scraping his teeth along the tender skin, driving that thought, all thoughts from his mind, leaving behind only sensation. Another small cry escaped as he rocked his hips desperately into the sweet and dangerous cavern of Lucius's mouth.

Lucius's mouth, anybody's mouth, he didn't care, he didn't care, it was hot and liquid and moving ceaselessly, now encircling his entire shaft, now only dancing over the tip, plunging and sucking and caressing and he was so hard, he was thrusting into the ocean, wet and hot and he was going to come, going to --

Cool air across his shaft, and Lucius was sitting up between his legs, regarding him smugly. "In a more receptive mood now?"

Harry glared at him, trying to regain some composure, some anger.

"Do you still want me to stop?" The voice was mocking, teasing, and it helped reignite the burn of hatred and fury.

"I don't need you to come," Harry spat out, moving his own hand to his cock. It would be a victory for Lucius, having brought him to this, but a victory for him to deprive Lucius of the final push to orgasm, and he grabbed at himself almost viciously.

And was just as viciously knocked away.

"Oh, no. That is mine," said Lucius. He pinned each of Harry's wrists to the mattress, shoved Harry's knees apart with his own. "You will come when I allow it, and not before."

Harry glared at him, panting.

"How amazingly responsive your body is. If I didn't know you were a virgin I'd think you the most perfect trollop I've ever seen."

"Fucking bastard!"

"Of course if you continue to insult me, I won't allow you to come at all."

Fine. He didn't need it. He'd just force himself to relax, concentrate on his anger. Let the pounding pulse of blood in his head slacken. He could do that.

He almost did. But then Lucius lowered himself just a little, ground his flat belly against Harry's straining cock for just a teasing fraction of a second, and that one instant of tantalizing friction undid him.

"Oh, God," he whimpered.

"Oh, yes," said Lucius. "So beautiful you are, spread out under me like this. My little harlot. How can I possibly resist the desire to keep you like this for a little while longer?"

Holding Harry down with his legs, he reached across to the bedside table and withdrew a handful of silk, allowing it to whisper across Harry's chest as he sat back on his haunches. The motion of the delicate cloth on his sensitized skin drew another whimper.

"The goods one can buy in Knockturn Alley are so terribly lacking in refinement, don't you think?" Lucius asked conversationally. "I bought these in Paris -- so clever, the French." Separating one slender piece of cloth from the rest, he held it to his lips, kissed it. "His left wrist to the bedpost."

Instantly the cloth wriggled out of his hand and snaked around Harry's wrist, looping twice before slithering to the bedpost. "Hey!" Harry protested, jerking his arm away quickly. But the silk moved with lightning speed, and despite his Quidditch-honed reflexes he was bound before he knew it.

Fuck. Why had he left his wand in his robe, and his robe on the floor? What he wouldn't give to have it in his hand now.

Lucius was whispering to another silk scarflet, and Harry tried to roll away, hide his arm, but it was futile; Lucius laughed and held him down as the enchanted cloth whipped around his right wrist and wove it to the bed as well.

"Shall I tie your ankles as well?" Lucius mused, drawing another bit of silk across Harry's legs. "Hmm…I think not. For now," he added, dropping the rest of the scarves to the floor beside the bed.

"Fine way to treat your wife, Mister Malfoy," Harry spat out, twisting in the restraints, testing their solidity.

"Be still, boy, I'm not going to hurt you. Much," added Lucius, reaching out to pinch at a nipple. Harry gasped as the sensation rippled from his chest to his cock in record time. "I plan to get a lot of use out of you. Wouldn't do to damage you permanently." His hand moved slowly, caressingly over Harry's cock.

God, the man was acting as though he was his property. Like his house or his carriage. Or his house-elf. The thought crossed his mind that if Hermione knew how wives were treated in the wizarding world, she would stop championing house-elves and take up the banner of marital rights instead.

Fucking bastard, he thought again. "You'd better keep me bound, then. Or I might damage you permanently."

"I don't think so." Lucius gave his cock another light caress, making it twitch, then moved forward so he was straddling Harry's chest. His erection jutted forward, nearly touching Harry's chin; it was his first good look at the man's body, up close where he could see it without his glasses, and he shuddered. It was big and it was pulsing, pulsing with power and need, the tracery of blue veins standing out under the translucent skin. Like a mysterious map of a country Harry didn't want to think about. Lucius's scent, too, rose in pulses, from the ice-blond thatch of hair at its base to the blood-dark tip.

"Go on," said Lucius, nudging Harry's lips with his cock. "Taste me."

"No fucking way."

"Then bite me. If you can."

Oh, yes. He steeled himself against the revulsion and opened his mouth just a little. Enough for Lucius to thrust inside. Just a little.

His mouth would not obey him. His jaw locked and his teeth would not close. Frustrated, he let out a noise that was halfway between a cry and a groan.

"Very nice. Open a little wider and make that noise again."

"You fucker," Harry tried to say, but just forming the words caused his mouth to give way a bit more, allowing Lucius's prick to slide just that much further inside. Just enough to begin thrusting, pushing against his palate, his cheek. And his own prick -- God, he was hard, he was so hard and aching with it, and every so often Lucius would reach behind himself and stroke it just a little, just enough to keep him on the edge. He wanted to come so badly. So fucking badly.

"It's a matter of intent, you see. Which should please you, because I'm bound by the spell as well."

So you can't kill me, Harry tried to say, but he couldn't really talk around Lucius's cock, and it came out as a muffled grunt. But Lucius seemed to grasp his meaning.

"I can, however, withhold pleasure," he said, and the next touch to Harry's cock was a feather-light caress that left him straining. "Don't you want to come?"

Like I can answer that with your prick in my mouth, Harry thought.

"I can tell that you want to," Lucius said, leaning closer, as though confiding a secret. He thrust a few more times, then pulled away, leaving Harry gasping and gagging.

"As much as I'd enjoy giving you much-needed instruction in oral technique, I'm afraid our wedding night calls for a more traditional consummation."

"Yeah, right. Raping boys is so traditional."

"Don't be so dramatic. It's hardly rape for a man to wish to pleasure his wife," said Lucius, moving back down the bed, lowering himself just enough that his spit-slick cock traced a cool wet line down Harry's body. It was enough to make him shiver involuntarily, anticipating the moment when it would touch his own cock. "And I will pleasure you. Whether you like it or not."

Now that was a crazy statement, wasn't it. But Lucius had cut to the heart of things. It was though Harry were split in two, his cock screaming for contact, for friction, for the unthinking bliss of orgasm, but the rest of his body and mind united in a desperate misery.

Then Lucius lifted himself entirely from Harry's body and climbed out of the bed, and Harry wondered if perhaps this was the point of things. To be left tied to the bed, aching and angry. Fine. He closed his eyes and concentrated again on his breathing. In, out. In, out.

In. Oh, fuck. At the touch, his eyes flew open; Lucius was kneeling between his legs, forcing them to spread apart. Poking at his arse. His fingers were slick and unforgiving, and although Harry tensed against them they easily slid in. It was almost an insult, with his bollocks so heavy and wanting, that those fingers should ignore the parts that craved touch and go right for the parts that made him twist uncomfortably against his bindings.

And just as the small stabbings of pain and discomfort started to take a toll on his erection, Lucius's fingers brushed across something that made him moan and harden again. "You see, Harry? It's not so bad."

"Fucking pervert," he muttered. Not sure if he meant Lucius or himself, because his cock was telling him it felt good, but it was Lucius fucking Malfoy on the other end of those feelings, and that couldn't be good. He had Lucius's fingers up his arsehole, and he supposed Lucius would soon have his prick there, and it was absolutely nothing he'd ever wanted to happen. And he didn't want it to stop, and he hated himself for that thought.

And then the fingers were removed. His legs were pushed even farther up and out, and something much, much larger was being thrust into him, and it hurt like fuck and he wanted it to stop right now, damn it, and he must have screamed that out loud, because Lucius laughed.

"I don't intend to stop for a long time. Have you any idea how sweet it is to be buried in your tight little arse? Incomparable pleasure, I assure you." He thrust a few more times, and Harry screamed again. "But I promised you pleasure as well, didn't I." A slippery hand grasped at his cock and pumped it rapidly.

It still hurt. It didn't stop hurting. But each throbbing, painful shove into his arse was matched by a blinding rush of ecstasy in his cock and balls, as though they balanced around his body somehow, the pain and the joy, and he couldn't keep track of which was which. Especially when Lucius's thick length brushed against that same glorious spot, pulling pleasure into the middle of the agony, making him moan again and again.

"Bastard," he whispered, closing his eyes.

"Oh, no, Harry. Look at me," commanded Lucius. His voice was rough, distorted with lust and rage and triumph. "You thought you'd beaten us. You killed my Lord and you killed my wife, and you thought you won, didn't you. But here you are, broken on my cock." Each phrase was punctuated with a thrust into Harry's body and a harsh caress to his erection. "I win, Harry."

"No," he gasped. "Not…not broken."

The smile on Lucius's face was terrible and frightening. "That's what you think," he said, and suddenly somehow he had both hands on Harry, on his cock, on his balls, and they were squeezing and sliding and teasing and pressing, matching the inexorable motion of Lucius's body inside his, and Harry tried to hold back but the orgasm struck him like the Killing Curse, an angry green bolt of fire, and he cried, "I hate you, I hate you," as he spurted wildly into the air.

"I know," whispered Lucius. Moving faster into Harry's limply shuddering body, fingers gripping his arse tightly. Not giving an inch. He stared into Harry's eyes, cold fire blazing. Face red with exertion and fury, blond hair whipping around his head like a halo, faster and faster, until finally his eyes fluttered and his body shook. "I win."

Harry did not sleep well that night, even though Lucius had released the scarves that bound him, laying kisses on his chafed wrists, and then left him alone in the bed. He guessed that Lucius must sleep in some other room, and the thought gave him a small measure of relief. Nonetheless he kept dozing, then waking with a sudden jerk, the terrors receding into the midnight shadows only to return full force when his eyelids closed again. In the morning he dragged himself out from under the covers to find his wand on the bedside table and a robe laid out on the chair next to it. A hot shower washed the last vestiges of Lucius from him, and he cautiously wandered downstairs.

"Master Harry," came a high, squeaky voice from behind him, and he turned to see a house-elf bowing and scraping. "Master Lucius said I is to give you breakfast, anything you is wanting."

Master Lucius. I just bet he loves being called that, thought Harry. "Where is he?"

"Master Lucius is gone for the day. He says you is to do what you like. But first, breakfast!"

Harry was at odds and ends all day, wandering around the unfamiliar opulence of Malfoy Manor, feeling alternately a prisoner and an intruder. What was he supposed to do? Finally he took his broom out -- a house-elf brought it to him, beautifully polished and shining as though new -- and flew laps around the grounds, driving himself as fast as he could go.

Up in the sky with everything spread out like toys beneath him he felt a tiny whiff of freedom, of happiness. He almost smiled. Why, he could fly to London. Or to Hogwarts. And never come back.

Instantly as he thought it came a dark twisting in his stomach, and it took all he had to hang on to his broom. Images of Azkaban flooded his brain; despite the warm sunshine he felt a dementor's chill, and he landed, gasping, next to a hedge.

What stupid instinct had made him imagine himself free? He was caught, by spells and by laws, and he might as well just fly round and round in tiny little circles, because he wasn't going anywhere, was he. Might as well burn his fucking broom. He stood leaning on it, staring off into the distance, not seeing anything, until an elderly woman walking along the path on the other side of the hedge called out to him, "Good day, Mr Malfoy," and in an utter panic he rushed back inside the Manor, throwing his broom at the nearest house-elf and barricading himself in what he supposed was his room.

Dinner with Lucius was a strange, strained affair; they sat on opposite ends of the long table and did not speak to each other, which was perfectly fine with Harry. But when they were finished eating, after Lucius pushed his plate away he walked around the table, and took Harry's hand, and led him upstairs, and fucked him. And made him come, screaming, hating himself for it. Hating Lucius for it.

The pattern had been set: every evening Lucius claimed his due, but every morning he left before Harry awoke, and the days were Harry's own.

Some of the time he spent in the Manor library, whose contents rivalled the Restricted Section at Hogwarts. Every door opened to him from the attic to the cellar; he poked into store-rooms and cupboards and even into Lucius's study. He discovered that he could, after all, leave the grounds -- even Apparate -- provided that he intended to return.

He sent Hedwig to Ron and Hermione, and arranged to meet them at the Leaky Cauldron for lunch on Friday, one week to the day after the wedding. "The one thing I will not talk about is him," he said, as Hermione hugged him and Ron shook his hand, so instead he listened to Hermione tell him about her Healer's apprenticeship, and Ron tell him about Auror training.

That evening, over dinner, he ventured that maybe he could apply for Auror training. Or another Ministry position, maybe in the Department of Mysteries? But Lucius fixed him with a cold gaze and said that Malfoy wives did not work, and he was particularly demanding in bed, that night.

In the morning, as usual, Lucius was absent. Harry finished his breakfast and went to the library; he had decided to read everything he could find on wizards' marital traditions, on wedding spells and on marriage law. If he could just find something that would let him…he deliberately forced his thoughts away from dangerous words like "escape" and "freedom." Accommodation. That's all he needed. Something to turn the tide, to give him back a little power.

He was just thinking that he ought to owl Hermione -- she'd go green over this library, he knew -- when he heard the front door to the Manor slam. Quickly he closed Fifty-six Ways to Bind Your Family and pushed it back onto the shelf; no sense in tipping off Lucius too soon.

But it wasn't Lucius who came stomping into the library, red-faced and ranting. It was Draco.

"Potter, you conniving bastard! What have you done with my father?"

"Look, Malfoy, it wasn't me. He forced me --"

"Forced you! You forced him, I'm sure. What was it, blackmail? You two-Knut tosser, think you can get your slimy hands on our money? Damned gold-digger." Brandishing his wand, he advanced on Harry, who backed nervously away as he felt in his pocket for his own wand. "He even changed the wards, can you believe it? I had to Apparate outside the property and walk in!"

"I changed them," came Lucius's voice from the doorway, "because I suspected you'd overreact. And you've proven me right."

Great. If there was one thing Harry liked less than being in the same room as a Malfoy, it was being in the same room with two of them. Lucius must have had some sort of alarm set to notify him when Draco showed up. Maybe they'll Avada Kedavra each other, he thought hopefully, as Draco whirled to face his father.

"If you want to take a catamite that's your business. But there's no reason --"

"Accord my wife the respect he deserves." Lucius's face was tight, his voice measured.

"So the Prophet was right!" exclaimed Draco. "Have you gone mad?" He gestured toward Harry. "You can't have married him. Can't have. Mother's turning in her grave, I'm sure."

"It is to honour your mother that I've done this. You might not see it that way now, but --"

"Honour! Honour!" Draco was shouting again. If he didn't die of apoplexy on the spot, thought Harry, he might make a good ally. Because it was obvious that Draco was nearly as unhappy as Harry about the current state of affairs. "This is Potter! He killed my mother, in case you've forgotten!"

"Actually, Draco, his name is no longer 'Potter.' He's a Malfoy now."

That stopped him in his tracks. He looked over at Harry.

Harry gave a tiny shrug. "I don't like it any more than you do."

"But I," said Draco, his voice strangely calm, "can do something about it."

"Don't be foolish," said Lucius.

Draco merely smiled. "A bit rich coming from you, I'd say." He turned to Harry. "You're welcome to both the name and the money. I've got enough of both from my mother."

"Draco," started Lucius warningly, but Draco cut him off.

"And I imagine this will honour her more." He raised his voice slightly. "I, Draco, born of the houses of Black and Malfoy, renounce my father's house of Malfoy and sever all ties to it. I deny my father. I deny my patrimony. I renounce all claims to Malfoy property and deny any claims, magical or physical, of the house of Malfoy upon me or my heirs. From this day forward I shall be known as Draco Black, son and heir of Narcissa Black Malfoy. By God and by Merlin and by Salazar I swear this, and let all wizards and witches honour my oath."

Harry felt the crackle of magic building around Draco as he spoke. It was clearly some ritual speech, something with power and meaning, binding Draco to his words as much as the wedding ceremony had bound him to Lucius. He stole a quick glance at Lucius; he was glaring at Draco, his face a thundercloud, but he made no move to interfere. Perhaps the magic kept him from interfering, thought Harry. Certainly he himself felt as though he couldn't move, as though he too was bound by the currents of spellwork swirling around Draco -- and suddenly Harry felt them swirl around him, too, surrounding him, diving into his body with an abrupt pain that shot from his groin to his chest like the pillar of fire that had consumed Narcissa.

He screamed, and dropped to his knees.

"You'd better tend to your wife, Lucius," said Draco. "I'll see myself out."

Harry watched him go. That was the kind of spell he needed, something he could use to cut the bonds that Lucius had woven around him. Draco had done it, and Harry didn't think he had ever envied a person as much as, at that moment, he envied Draco.

Especially since Lucius had his hands on him, was lifting him up, helping him to a padded bench under a window. Even worse was that he needed the help; his midsection throbbed with a terrible pain that reminded him of that time he'd drunk Skele-Gro to regain the bones in his arm. And Lucius was looking at him oddly.

Finally Harry gave in. "What happened?"

"You couldn't tell?"

He snorted feebly. "Well, obviously Draco decided to change his name. But why did that affect me?"

"Harry," Lucius purred, "you might remember that last week we discussed your, shall we say, wifely obligations." He raised his hand to the clasp holding Harry's robe together at the throat, released it. "There was one I omitted at the time, thinking it didn't apply. After all, I already had an heir." Another clasp was undone.

Oh, no. Harry felt an icy ball of apprehension form in his gut. Right where that pain that had struck him was only slowly fading.

Right where…

Oh, fuck.

"You don't quite have Narcissa's looks," Lucius was saying, as he unfastened the last clasp of Harry's robe and allowed it to fall to the floor. "But I think we'll have lovely children. Don't you?"

"Oh, fuck." This time he said it out loud. With feeling.

Lucius smiled as he slipped a hand between Harry's legs. "What an excellent idea."

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http://hieroglyfics.net/hp/eyeforeye.htm | written December 2003 by Isis