SPITTING IMAGE

His mother's make-up boxes litter the floor, the lids cracked and opened. Eye-shadows, delicate blue and pastel green, and scattered jars with rouge and lip gloss. A trail of light-bronze powder is like a miniature dune on the floor, eroded partly with the draft from the cracked window.

She won't need them any more; just like she won't need any of her exquisite robes, heaped on the floor and stuffed negligently into the half-opened wardrobes; those who searched their house didn't put much effort into being careful. She would be irate if she knew how they dealt with her possessions.

But she won't know. They searched the house already after her arrest - and she will never leave Azkaban. Even if in fifty years another Dark Lord rises to power, Draco thinks, he will choose new followers, won't bother with freeing old ones. And anyway, by then Narcissa's mind will be wiped clean by Dementors.

He, Draco, has a chance to join that hypothetical Dark Lord, he thinks wryly. He's young, and fifty years is not a term for wizards.

The cane clatters on the floor as he moves around his mother's bedroom. His father used to carry a cane as well; but what for Lucius was a sign of aristocracy is a necessity for Draco; how trite. He would crumple if he didn't have this additional support for walking. His leg hurts when he moves and aches when he sleeps, giving him bad dreams.

He's alive because of this leg.

How is it, to realize that you're alive - that you're free - just because you were so stupid to get caught on the first mission; and considered too young and impressionable to be punished? He didn't even have time to kill anyone. Those who did - like Millicent, and Crabbe, and Goyle - are facing the trial now.

And his mother is in Azkaban. And his father is dead.

It is a mantra, a chanting, recounting that Draco repeats again and again, the pinnacle of his losses. His money is taken away, his magic is dampened to the lowest possible levels.

But he's alive, and his father isn't.

The house, empty and dark, creaks and shifts around him, as if protesting the absence of its due owner. The Ministry left the house to him, but not much more. The house-elves are gone, probably having picked up something from all those scattered clothes. The vault in Gringotts emptied.

The cracks in the window glass are long and thick, like branches of a strange bush. Draco raises his wand, directing it at the window. Very slowly the cracks go thinner, a few minor ones disappear. His hand drops exhausted. Yes, his magic... it's the extent of it, he needs how many attempts to repair the window? Five, six - and the work is not over yet.

At least there is no more draft in his mother's room.

He moves again - a slow, excruciating walk to the bed. The bed curtains, silver, embroidered richly, hang crooked but Draco has no strength to settle them right. He lets himself slip on the crumpled bedcover and stares up.

He remembers this bed, he'd come here so many times when he was little - waking up from a nightmare or simply when he was bored. He doesn't remember if his mother ever shared a room with his father; not in his memory, anyway.

Yes, he remembers it. The ceiling over the bed is painted in illusion of the underwater world: gently swaying seaweed and flickering bright fishes scuttling through it. And sometimes a bigger shadow of a predator scares them away.

He remembers asking his mother if she wasn't afraid to drown; and she laughed, her cool fingers patting his face.

Now the paint looks chipped and faded, probably with the draft. It doesn't look real any more. He isn't afraid to drown.

He reaches blindly to the side of the bed, groping for the neck of the bottle there. So good that he's got this habit of leaving the bottles everywhere. This way he doesn't have to thirst.

He smiles bringing the bottle to his lips. We're long done with glasses, thank you very much. The Malfoy heir (forget that there is nothing to inherit) swills whiskey right from the bottle.

The liquid burns his throat and it takes an effort to swallow in this position but Draco doesn't bother to rise. All this painted water above him... and no use of it. His only chance to drown is his drink.

The darkness behind the windows is thick and viscous, like the liquid an octopus emits when in danger. Draco wishes he could fall asleep here, on this very comfortable bed. But he knows he won't. His eyes burn with sleeplessness - and his body already twitches in anxiety, urging him to move, to go somewhere else, to seek for another place in the futile quest for repose.

Draco doesn't let the bottle go, struggling up on his feet.

For a moment the room swirls around him as he loses his balance. But the cane saves him from landing on his nose. He laughs; his dignity hasn't suffered, has it?

A stain of red captures his gaze, so bright that he just knows it can't be blood yet it is the first thought that comes to his mind. It's his mother's evening robe - thinnest silk that had wrapped her waist so flatteringly. He leans on the cane heavily, trying to pick it up. But it is half-caught under the door of the wardrobe, and the cloth tears, and Draco is left just with a scrap in his hand.

It is not like he needed it in the first place.

He walks out, along the empty corridor, only few candles lining his way. His nightly visits... first to his mother's room, then to his father's.

Lucius's room is as much a mess as Narcissa's - but Draco barely remembers how it used to be before, hasn't been allowed to come here all that often. The books on the floor, Lucius's precious figurines of Egyptian gods scattered on the floor, broken.

Draco looks at them, rubbing his face with the back of his hand that clenches on the bottle. His father would've rather die than drink like this.

Well... Lucius *is* dead.

As always Draco feels shame and rage swirling through him at this thought. The bastards killed his father. He was a better man than any of them. And he, Draco, could do nothing to prevent it, wasn't even there.

He was in Azkaban cell when Lucius died - feeling repentant and yet relieved at being alive. But now he sometimes wonders if he got the rotten end of the stick out of it.

Draco moves, and his foot slips on a piece of a broken figurine - and now he's really at risk of falling. He has time to notice, with irony, that, flailing his arms, he lets go the cane, not the bottle.

Then he catches the corner of the bureau and stays on his feet.

For a few moments Draco leans heavily against the piece of furniture, gasping in relief. The incident is not damage-free, though - his hand is scraped, and a few drops of blood fall on the black wood of the bureau.

And then, very slowly, in front of Draco's eyes, the panel in the floor moves away, leaving a small niche open.

That's it, he thinks, in strange, feverish exhilaration. It is the hiding place the Aurors were looking for and haven't found (but they executed his father anyway). That's it, the cache that can't be open in any other way but through the blood of a Malfoy.

He almost doesn't feel pain in his leg as he picks up the cane and moves to the niche.

Papers... rolls of parchments. Books. Some strange artifacts, much like the ones he'd seen in the shops on Knockturn Alley. Small packages of something - Draco is pretty sure it's valuable - and *dark*. All his now. He can use it, a Dark Lord or no Dark Lord. In fact, he can assist the rise of the new Dark Lord, as Malfoys always did. Lord makers, that's how they were called among old blood.

Draco laughs tossing his head back, and the sound is shallow and ends abruptly. He isn't sure he wants to make a new Dark Lord. He isn't sure he wants anything at all.

But his father left it to him on purpose, didn't he?

Draco holds the bottle under his elbow and reaches into the niche carefully. The wards tingle around his fingers but don't harm him, recognizing his origin. He feels force emanating from the books and the things and doesn't know if he wants to touch them.

Then there is shimmering silver among black and grey - and he dives for it, and his fingers clench on a heavy stone bowl. The carving on the stone is old and intricate but it's the swirls of silver that Draco's eyes are locked on.

A pensieve. Lucius's pensieve. He suddenly feels giddy. Perhaps it is where the answer is hidden. There must be a reason why his father kept it here. Maybe there is something for Draco to take his guidance from.

He limps downstairs heavily, clutching the pensieve, and hears the panel over the cache slide in place with a slight rustling sound.

In the sitting room, in front of the unlit fireplace, he slumps into the armchair and for a few moments just looks at the pensieve. He wants to get into it, he won't break into Lucius's secrets, will he? Lucius is his father, he would want Draco to know...

Maybe he wouldn't but Draco doesn't let himself dwell on it, dripping his right hand into the swirling mist of the bowl.

The world goes black around him for a moment - and then he isn't here any more but in the garden in front of Malfoy Manor, and it's spring and everything is in bloom - he's forgotten how the garden was in May, hasn't seen it since he went to Hogwarts.

He sees himself there - a tiny child, not older than four or five, sitting on the ground hugging his bleeding knee and bawling like a cat. He wasn't a cute child, Draco has to admit it, a rather ratty one - especially with his face crumpled and smeared in tears and snots.

He sees Lucius a moment later - standing at some distance, looking much younger than Draco remembers him, almost resplendent with his flawless bearing and immaculate clothes.

He just stands and looks as Draco keeps crying, and there is a small grimace of disgust on his face. And then Narcissa runs up and gathers Draco in her arms, and mutters something meaningless and comforting at him. And her face as she looks up at Lucius twists in hatred.

"You son of bitch, why don't you..."

"He's a wimp," Lucius says. "You should teach him to stop being such a wimp."

The memory fades away, leaving Draco frowning and vaguely dissatisfied. He doesn't remember this occasion in his life, of course, and what was so important in it for Lucius to remember it anyway? Perhaps it's just an accidental thought that stuck to something important, Draco thinks, something Lucius wanted to keep. It happens with pensieves from time to time.

He stirs his fingers, finding another memory.

This one is even shorter and more disjointed, of Narcissa yelling at Lucius, her face red and unsightly, her hand clenched on the wand.

"I can make you scream, you bastard!"

"What will you do? Show me your breasts?"

Another memory - of three bodies intertwined in bed. Draco's father, Draco's mother and another woman, with rich tangled hair and heavy eyelids. Aunt Bellatrix, he recognizes her even though she looks much younger. Aunt Bellatrix - his mother told him to call her like that, in that short spell of time when his aunt was out of Azkaban and before she was killed. He remembers her smile at him then, as if there was some secret between them - something only they shared, and her lips articulate soundlessly for him: 'Bella'.

She was the one Draco lost his virginity to - and now looking at her straddling his father, her waist more narrow, her breasts smaller, he feels familiar heaviness and heat build in his groin, and shifts awkwardly.

He doesn't know if he wants to hold this memory - but it is gone, replaced with another.

It's Hogwarts, Draco recognizes, the common room of Slytherin House - and his father, no more than sixteen years old, reclines on the sofa in the company of his housemates. They all look at the skinny first-year in front of them, a black-haired boy in a cheap black robe pressing his scratched, blistered hands to his chest.

"You did well, Snape," Lucius says and reaches his hand. "Give them to me."

The boy looks like he's been crying but now his eyes flash proudly as he hands Lucius something he holds. A handful of small coins, Draco notices, nothing more.

"Ah," Lucius says and smiles - a smile that is charming and cold and intoxicating at the same time. "They're still hot. If you do as good on your next task, Snape, I'll allow you to carry my books."

Students surrounding Lucius snicker. Oh, Draco supposes he knows what it is about. Lucius hadn't told him but the parents of other boys did. There used to be many rituals, some very painful or humiliating, for the first-year before they really were accepted to the House, even twenty years ago. But somewhere between Lucius and Draco this tradition was lost. Some older students sounded disappointed it was not there any more but Draco was not sure.

The scene is frozen as he doesn't move. He frowns looking at the unpretty, pathetic child that Snape used to be.

Snape, the traitor, the defector. It still hurts to think about it. Snape who always had been somewhere near, as long as Draco remembers. Snape who visited their house and brought Draco things that were so unlike the expensive, frail toys Narcissa bought him but were much more interesting. Snape who invariably backed him up at Hogwarts, against teachers and against other students; who never missed a chance to humiliate the damned Potter to amuse Draco.

At one time Draco even thought that he... he could kind of... fancy Snape. Or something. Not like Lucius would allow anything like this - no alternative sexuality for Malfoys. Draco chuckles humorlessly. Snape betrayed Lucius in the worst possible way. He betrayed the Dark Lord. He betrayed Draco. And this Draco will never forgive him.

He changes his position a little, and the place around him changes as well.

The light of one flickering candle is dim and vibrating, and the curtains around the bed in Slytherin dorm are slightly parted. And behind these curtains, there are unmistakable sounds - Draco knows what they are, and flushes a little.

His father is still very young, and reedy slim, and long-haired. The strands of blond hair fall over his moving back in the finest silk skirt. The hips are thrusting in a steady, intense rhythm, every movement burying him to the hilt.

The hand of the boy under him is clenching on the pillow, in a desperate way of someone holding for his life. The knuckles are bloodied, gnawed to splits that don't heal. Lucius's breath is harsh and loud, in cadence with his thrusting, and there is no more sound. The boy's face is wet with tears but he cries silently.

Lucius leans forward closer, pulls a strand of untidy black hair away from the boy's face and whispers in his ear, in a voice hoarse with effort:

"You're doing well, Snape, you're doing so well..."

Then Lucius gasps and comes, slumping down onto his lover.

When he extricates his cock from the boy's body, Lucius's face is haughty and cold. He stares down at the boy with narrowed eyes.

"Why are you always *sniveling*, Snape? If you don't like it here, you can just say a word. I can do better than a little sissy who can't control himself."

The boy curls in a tight ball, pulling his scrawny legs under himself. Dirty hair half-hides his face, black eyes glittering through the tangled strands.

The curtains are pulled apart wider, admitting two bulky figures. Lucius moves with lazy grace, getting up from the bed.

"Crabbe, Goyle. I *do not* want you to make such mess as the previous time. Is it clear?"

The slightly different versions of Draco's own Crabbe and Goyle nod assiduously.

"So, Snape," Lucius says. "You're not leaving, are you?"

The boy is crying again, hair clings to his wet face. Lucius looks down at him, curling his lip.

"You can't say I haven't give you a choice," he says, then turns away, his elegant hand resting on the bedpost for a moment. "Take you time, guys, I have to write a letter to my Intended."

The memory changes again in front of Draco's eyes abruptly.

"You disgust me, Mr. Potter. Your hubris is truly mind-boggling."

The door slams shut behind Lucius's back, with a slight flicker of Lucius's wand.

Lucius looks down; Potter stands in front of him - Harry Potter, the scar a red line on his forehead between uncombed strands of hair. A bit too close, because he is pressed against a desk, having no way to go as Lucius towers over him. This Potter is not as Draco remembers him now, not as he is on the front page of the newspaper thrown on the table. He's smaller, thinner - a mere boy of eleven or twelve, in a school robe that puckers over the baggy clothes. His eyes behind the round glasses of his ugly spectacles are wide, unblinking as he holds Lucius's gaze - and desperately scared. Draco can see it, Potter's defiance doesn't deceive him - and he supposes his father can see it as well.

Lucius makes one step forward, and Potter is nearly flattened against the desk, leaning back in an attempt to keep some space between them.

"Have you really thought you could rob me of my property?" Lucius hisses softly, bending towards Potter. Draco sees Potter's hands clench on the edge of the desk, knuckles going white. His throat moves as he swallows. There is a glint in Lucius's eyes that Draco recognizes, appearing there when he enjoys something very, very much. "See this?"

A hand in an immaculate white glove whips out a parchment. Potter swallows again, convulsively.

"A court's order. Returning me the custody over *my* house-elf."

Oh yes; Draco's mouth quirks. Like it's even possible.

"It's... it's not possible... sir." All the color is drained from Potter's face, the words are almost soundless as he articulates them with bloodless lips.

"Really?" Lucius's raises an eyebrow, straightening a little. "Taking into account that you deprived me of my possessions through fraud... and taking into account my good standing with the Ministry..."

Potter blinks. For a moment his face crumples but he doesn't cry, reacquires his composure and stares at Lucius again. The man smiles.

"So much effort - and all in vain, Potter. And just to think how angry I must be about poor Dobby's attempt to escape me. He *will* feel my anger, I can assure you."

There is a haunted, trapped expression in Potter's eyes - even as Lucius steps back, putting some space between them. They are in some classroom at Hogwarts, now Draco can see it. The desks are lined neatly and the chairs are pushed under them to the very backs, as it is done before vacations. Bright sunlight pours through the high windows, making tiny particles of dust dance in it.

Potter moves his hand, as if pushing something away from his face, and this gesture, so defeated, tired and *adult* at the same time, makes something in Draco clench. He had hated Potter as a boy; he hates him as a man now. But seeing him as a child from his current age is different.

Hating a child would've been somewhat low; Draco doesn't want it.

"Harry Potter," Lucius drawls. "The hero. The hope of the wizard world. Dooming someone who trusted him to even worse fate."

"Please, sir," Potter says, and it sounds quite hopeless. How easily Lucius has turned him into such a meek creature. Draco's taunts could never achieve it. "Please don't do it."

"Why shouldn't I?" For a few seconds it looks as if Lucius genuinely muses about it. "It is not as if you can offer me something to indemnify for the loss I suffered."

Potter's eyes are serious, almost pleading.

"I have money... sir."

"Money? Do you suppose I'm some kind of a beggar, like your friends, the Weasleys, Mr. Potter?" Lucius looks scary at this moment, an insulted expression on his face. "I have no need of your money."

Potter falls silent; and a few moments later Lucius continues:

"Of course, if you agreed to accept the brunt of my wrath, Mr. Potter... if you agreed to satisfy my anger - in this case maybe, maybe I wouldn't have such a keen wish to get my recalcitrant house-elf back."

A part of Draco's mind wants to yell: 'Don't listen to this bullshit, we never got any chance to get Dobby back.' Another part of him admires his father, the way Lucius plays his part, pushing Potter into the direction Lucius wants him to go - even if Draco hasn't realized yet what this direction is... or probably doesn't want to realize.

Potter looks puzzled. His myopic eyes blink behind the glasses as he looks up at Lucius; Lucius smiles.

"No? I thought so. Without Dumbledore behind your back you're nothing. You're probably going to run to him as soon as we finish our conversation, to complain."

"No," Potter says and frowns. "I... I won't."

"All your heroism, Mr. Potter, is just for the cases when you can be watched and admired. What is the destiny of one house-elf for you... You aren't prepared to sacrifice anything for it."

It looks like Potter desperately tries to penetrate the meaning of Lucius's words. He looks... vulnerable at this moment, Draco thinks. It's not something he's ever thought he would see in Potter - but here it is.

"I am," Potter says. "I mean I'm prepared. I want... please don't take Dobby back, sir."

"You realize that the damage you caused me is *very* significant, don't you?" Lucius says. Potter nods. "There is no way you can pay it up with money or with anything else. But... your obedience to my orders, your full submission, Mr. Potter - perhaps it will assuage my wrath in a way."

Potter nods again. His fists are clenched at his sides now, he seems so tense he'd jump should anyone touch him.

"It is your own choice, Mr. Potter," Draco's father says. "Should we proceed?"

For a moment it looks like Potter can't make himself speak. He looks at the door longingly, as if he wants to be anywhere but here. But then he nods again.

"I don't hear you, Potter."

"Yes... sir. I agree." The last phrase sounds a little more resolute.

"Fine."

Lucius moves with his inherent grace, swiping his cloak - scarlet lining flashes for a moment. His wand is directed at the door as he puts the wards preventing it from opening and silence spells. Potter has a queasy expression on his face watching it - leans back against the desk as if feeling weak in knees. Lucius turns to him, smiling.

"Now, Mr. Potter. Take off your robe."

Potter's hands fly up - clenching on the fastening of his robe convulsively. He looks shocked; as if he expected anything but this order. Yet Draco supposes he hasn't expected anything at all.

"What's wrong, Potter?" Lucius asks softly. "Already having second thoughts? Well... you can walk out of here at any moment. And I'll go collect my house-elf."

Potter shakes his head, his eyes glimmering. He doesn't look at Lucius, there is an expression of desperate determination on his face. Then he moves and pulls off his robe.

His pants are baggy, ugly, torn and untidily darned on the knees - held in place only by the belt. His t-shirt is ratty and worn and hangs on his shoulders like a sack. Potter readjusts the glasses that slide awry when he was taking off the robe - and Draco sees his face flush under Lucius's stare.

Lucius looks at him as if he doesn't understand how something so pathetic could ever catch his eye. He looks and looks, and it seems time stretches, seconds dripping into minutes. Potter takes a hitching breath that sounds very loudly in the quiet room.

"Very well, Potter," Lucius says disdainfully. "Now unfasten the belt."

Is he going to cane him, Draco thinks. Lucius had never done it to Draco although promised on some occasions. Potter's eyes stop on the shimmering polished cane in Lucius's hands as well. He gulps audibly and braces himself to what's going to come.

But his hands are obviously less in control than his mind. They move too slowly, fumbling with the belt, as if confused with the orders the brain gives. Finally the buckle is opened; Potter's fingers clasp on the waist of his pants, trying to keep them from slipping down.

He grips too hard, Draco can see it, with more effort than necessary. But he probably can't help it.

"Turn around and put your hands on the desk," Lucius says.

Somnambular-like, Potter turns and does what is ordered. His pants fall, showing skinny legs and a bit of dark-blue underwear under the t-shirt. He makes a spasmodic movement trying to grab his pants back - and then white strands shoot from Lucius's wand, wrapping around Potter's wrists, pulling them apart, tying to the legs of the desk. Until he is almost stretched face down on the desk, bent over.

He gasps and struggles frantically. His breath gets too hasty, shallow and acquires panicky loud notes in it.

"You have agreed, Mr. Potter," Lucius says coolly. "But if you say 'no' now, I'll let you go."

Draco sees a shiver going through Potter's body. The position must be highly uncomfortable; his thin legs tremble with the strain. He twists, trying to turn his face - the glasses slipped aside again but now he can't readjust them.

Potter's mouth is half-opened, as if he's stuck in the middle of saying something. Then, very desperately, he whispers.

"No... I mean yes, I agree..."

"Very Gryffindor-like."

There is satisfaction in Lucius's voice than makes Draco feel a bit cold. His father was a dangerous man, he had always known it. But what he sees in Lucius's face now is rather unsettling.

Lucius takes the cane by the other end and reaches it to Potter. The touch of the handle - the snake's head - against the bare thigh makes the boy shiver. It slides along his hip - a skinny childish hip - in the way that is almost caressing. And there is something obscene in it as well, Draco can't help noticing it.

Obscene and arousing? He barely can believe it when the heat in his groin returns. It's sick, isn't it? He can't, shouldn't be aroused - looking at a boy. Even if this boy is Potter, and Draco hates him, and sometimes hatred is as heady and intoxicating as an attraction.

Lucius's cane slides along Potter's legs, over the inner sides of his thighs, and Potter trembles, vibrates now. His cheek is pressed to the table, his lip bitten - and in a desperate effort of control he makes his breath calm down and go even.

"So far I find our interaction very satisfactory, Mr. Potter," Lucius says.

And then the handle of the cane hooks Potter's y-fronts and yanks them down.

The sound Potter makes is a loud 'oh' - and Draco sees him pressing his legs together, trying to squish against the desk, hiding. A smirk flickers on Lucius's face, distorting it - and for a moment dignified features look as if something has eroded them, leprosy probably.

"No, Mr. Potter." Lucius shakes his head disapprovingly. "We cannot have it. It is not how I want you."

The cane squeezes between Potter's thighs, rocks, forcing them apart wider, as wide as the pants pooling around his ankles allow it.

Draco sees Potter's eyes close in mortification, squeezed shut behind the round glasses. A shackle of the spectacles is caught between his cheek and the table, probably hurting him, but he doesn't move. His mouth is half-opened and, strangely, this sight, sad and pathetic as it is, adds something to Draco's bitter, annoying arousal.

Potter can't see Lucius's face - but Draco can. There is such coldness in it as he looks down at the boy bent over in front of him - and such satisfaction.

Potter's t-shirt is long enough to cover almost all his ass. And between his legs only a vague shape of his small cock can be visible, and small, still hairless balls.

Lucius raises his hand and pulls off one of his gloves carefully. Finger after finger, slowly - then lets it fall on the desk next to Potter.

"How do your Muggle relatives punish you when you anger them?" he asks almost conversationally. It looks like it takes a few moments for the words to penetrate Potter's mind. He shifts a little, his face smoothing although he still doesn't open his eyes.

"They..." he says. "They yell at me. And lock me in the cupboard. And Aunt Petunia, she... she sometimes slaps me."

Lucius's laughter is like a crack of the whip.

"Then... you'll be surprised at our, wizard way of punishment."

Draco frowns; whatever it can mean... And then bare fingers of Lucius slide along the crack of Potter's ass.

Draco goes cold and hot at the same moment. His father can't... he can't have done it... it's too dangerous... it's a crime... Potter is how old? Twelve, not even thirteen. His father can't want... But he remembers what he's seen earlier, the bony black-haired boy struggling to escape his father's thrusting body. And he knows it is possible.

And in a way Draco wants it to happen because he wants to see it. He is so hard it hurts.

Is he a kind of pervert? But *his father* had done it, his father, Lucius Malfoy, was not a pervert, a criminal... Or maybe he was.

Potter shakes and writhes, trying to escape the touch. The hand is persistent, moving, half-hidden under the hem of the t-shirt. And then it moves in such a way that makes Potter's face crumple, his eyes shut even tighter as he makes a small complaining sound of pain.

Draco feels his mouth go dry, his throat parch. He almost can't breathe as he understands, as he knows what his father is doing. And... Lucius's finger is dry, he hasn't even used anything. Oh shit... it must hurt.

But why would he care about Potter's discomfort? Why would his father care?

The movements of the hand are recognizable now, the finger slipping in and out, even if Draco can't see it. He sees Potter's face relax a little - till the moment when Lucius twists his hand deliberately.

"What, Mr. Potter? Can't you handle a little bit of pain? One word from you - and I will release you immediately."

Potter breathes loudly and is silent.

He twitches and shudders when Draco's father must've added another finger. Sickness raises in Draco's throat. It is wrong, Potter is just a boy... But his cock is so hard it almost feels numb. Lucius's fingers move, pull apart, turn back and forth. Potter is silent, just grimaces, his face rippling in pain.

Then Draco sees a thin trickle of blood sliding down his leg. Blood is bright-red, as bright as the color of his mother's evening robe.

It makes him wince; in a way it's worse for him than for Potter who doesn't even probably know he's torn. His father keeps working with his fingers, for what feels like eternity. It's not merciful, and partly Draco knows Lucius does it not only to ease the penetration but because he enjoys prolonging it.

Potter gasps as fingers are removed finally. His chest is heaving, t-shirt wet with sweat, clinging to his sides. There is a slight slump in his body, as if in relief, and Draco suddenly realizes that it is that, Potter thinks it's over, the punishment is done. His throat constricts a little.

He sees his father's face, focused, as Lucius opens his pants. The man stands so close to Potter that Draco can't see his groin - and in a way it's a relief, he wouldn't want to see it. But he sees Lucius's hands, one gloved and the other bare, lie down on Potter's hips - and the push, the first thrust is so unmistakable that Draco cannot miss it. He doesn't want to watch but he can't stop - and his hand lies down on his own cock, curls around it.

Potter writhes and tries to escape the pressure, the pain - but he has nowhere to go, he's pressed so tightly to the desk that the edge of it must be cutting against his groin. Lucius pushes, moves his hips - it looks like he's trying to crush the smaller body in front of him. Then his face changes, a brief expression of bliss on it. He pushes some more, shoves impatiently. Potter's breath is rattling but he doesn't cry out.

It must hurt a lot, why doesn't he...

"Potter..." Lucius's gloved hand grasps the boy's hair, jerking his head back. "Gryffindor hero. Tell me to stop, and I'll stop."

Potter's body is twisted, between the bonds that hold him and Lucius's hand pulling his head up. His eyelashes are wet although tears haven't trickled down yet. Lucius makes a short movement, snake-like, and for a moment it seems to Draco he wants to lick Potter's face. But he never does it.

"Very well." He lets Potter's hair go, and the boy's head drops on the desk. Lucius slams hard, and Potter bites his lip, so hard it starts bleeding. Lucius puts his hands on his hips and pull out. A trickle of tears slides over Potter's face, under the glasses, over the bridge of his nose.

"You think you're a hero," Lucius says thrusting in and out. "You think you endure it to save your friend. Is Dobby your friend? Or is he someone you feel you *have to* protect - a weak and helpless one? Do you enjoy sacrificing yourself for his sake?"

There is no answer from Potter. Draco actually think he doesn't even hear what his father says, too preoccupied with staying silent. Lucius's cloak rustles softly as he slams his hips forward, leaning over Potter's body. Draco can't see if there is more blood running down - can just see how Potter's legs tremble, under Lucius's weight.

"Or do you simply enjoy what I'm doing?" Lucius whispers. "Do you enjoy feeling my cock inside you, being torn apart by me? The Boy-Who-Lived is a little cock-hungry slut."

It's bullshit, Draco knows it, dirty talk that gets Lucius off. He feels a bit of anger, at his father for doing it, using such cheap means - against a mere child. But this anger is mixed with excitement as well.

Now Lucius's hands grip the boy's shoulders as he almost lies over Potter. And it must hurt because Potter's face is desperate, as if he keeps himself from screaming by the last effort of will. It wouldn't change anything even if he screamed, Draco thinks, he remembers his father put silence charms - but for some reason the stupid boy stays silent.

Lucius fucks and fucks, grinding his hips as his hands twist Potter's shoulders back.

And at this moment the picture starts shifting in front of Draco's eyes. Not because he's losing it in the pensieve. It's his perception that changes. One moment it's his father, blond and beautiful Lucius Malfoy, taking advantage over their enemy, the damned Potter boy. And the next moment it's just an adult man, with flushed, sweaty face, battering into the body of a child. And then Draco feels revolted, wants out of here.

It was all well and good, to talk about Muggles, and Mudbloods, and the Dark Lord's enemies who don't deserve to live. And theoretically Draco knows that, had he not been caught so early, he would have had to come to their houses at night and slaughter, and burn, and yes, rape.

But he'd never had a chance to do it. And maybe it was his luck indeed.

Yet his hand keeps pumping his cock without stopping.

It's Lucius who comes first. His head tossed back, he growls, thrusting shortly into Potter's body, and then freezes. Potter's face is smeared with tears and blood from his bitten lip. For a while Lucius stays inside him, silent. Then he yanks out, and Potter jerks.

He's a mess, now Draco can see it - torn pretty badly. It looks like he needs medical help. But then someone would find out - and Draco knows no one had ever found out, he's the first one apart from his father and Potter who knows about it.

This thought could make him feel exulted but he's too worn out with his arousal that still can't reach climax. How low he fell... Draco Malfoy, lusted for by everyone in Slytherin and many in other Houses, reduced to taking care of himself in the empty house.

Potter slumps on the desk, panting wetly. Draco sees Lucius reach for the discarded glove, take it - and then wipe dribbling blood and come from Potter's leg.

The glove is too thin and there is too much fluid to wipe it clean. Lucius holds the glove and brings it to his face. His face distorts as he sniffs it - and Draco can't understand what's more in it, contentedness or disgust.

He drops it - and makes it vanish with the movement of his wand before it touches the floor.

Another flick of the wand - and blood and semen are gone from Potter's legs. The boy gasps. Draco supposes Lucius has healed him a little bit, too.

Then the bonds disintegrate and fall on the floor, disappearing.

"I wonder, Mr. Potter, if you're ever intended to dress. Unlike anything you can think, I do not enjoy the sight of your bare backside presented to me."

The boy flinches and turns and grabs his pants - and nearly flops. His body must be numb and he's obviously hurt. But his eyes are dry, even if his face is still stained with tears.

He looks at Lucius, his lips trembling, but then he says:

"Now you won't take Dobby, will you, sir?"

In Lucius's face, Draco can see that his father feels the urge to continue the charade, to pretend he's changed his mind and still wants Dobby. But it'll probably be dangerous, then nothing would stop Potter from going to Dumbledore - so he says:

"We have an agreement, Potter. Old blood families don't break their word. Although how you, Mudblood, would know it?"

Potter's chin jerks up, his eyes burning.

"From a pureblood wizard, I would expect to be able to keep silent about our agreement. But from you, Potter..."

"I..." he says and swallows painfully. "I won't say anything - if you leave Dobby alone... sir."

His father's mask almost breaks as his eyes flash up with triumph. But Lucius's smile is exemplary disdainful as he peers at Potter.

"Agreed, then. Now get out of my face."

The boy moves hastily, trying to belt his pants on the way, scrambles to the door - and clings to the doorjamb, panting. Moving must hurt like hell. Potter's face is ghostly pale, Draco thinks he won't be able to hide what happened, anyone who sees him will understand. But he apparently managed to hide it...

"Potter," Lucius says. The boy turns, with an expression that makes something crack in Draco - so tired and so trapped it is. "Your robe."

Moving excruciatingly, Potter returns and picks it up - and walks to the door again, as Lucius chants the spells removing the wards. Potter's shoulders are hunched - and Draco sees his hand tremble as he pushes the door open.

Then he walks out without looking back.

In the room bright alit with late spring sun, Lucius stands and smiles to himself.

Draco's hand moves a little, almost accidentally, slipping into another strand of memory - but the truth is, and deep in his heart he admits it, that he simply doesn't want to see his father like that, can't bear to see him.

The next memory is of Draco - slightly older than Potter looked in the previous one, his arm still bandaged after Buckbeak bit him. And Lucius holds his chin in a tight grip, twisting his face up.

"I will destroy the animal, of course. But... a Malfoy who can't defend himself - it's so disappointing."

Draco remembers this conversation, the coldness in his father's eyes - the fear and despair gripping his heart as he sees Lucius's disappointment.

He finally climaxes with this thought, almost unexpectedly and without pleasure, as if his body just extorts something that doesn't belong to it.

His hand slips out of the pensieve and he slumps on the armchair, spent and exhausted.

The candles flicker and emit smoke. There is no enough magic even for keeping them burning steady. But he almost doesn't care.

The bottle is nearly empty and he drains it in one gulp.

Draco will never disappoint his father again; Lucius Malfoy is dead. He thought he had disappointed him one last time, when he was captured - but suddenly it doesn't seem so important any more. Draco wanted to be better for Lucius, to become what his father wanted to see in him...

He laughs. His father. The sound of the laughter is high and piercing, quite crazy in the silent rooms. His father; a pervert. A rapist. A pedophile - is it the word?

But he'd never done anything like that to Draco. Or had he? Were there any signs? Draco doesn't remember. His head hurts.

Lucius was a good father, always protected him. Lucius was a lousy father, caring only for their name and their reputation.

Draco doesn't know. He doesn't know. He feels as if what he's seen robbed him in some way, has taken away from him what he took for granted. As if he exchanged something that got him going for a shitty orgasm.

He slams his fist on the table - and the pensieve bounces and falls on the floor. Silver-grey wisps of memory spill out. Half-translucent faces, so pale they are unrecognizable, fade in front of Draco's eyes. Here, he thinks, he's even lost that.

But it's too late to gather them.

And isn't it the story of his life - that he's always losing? He lost Potter to Weasley just a moment after meeting him. He's lost his standing and his money and his dignity. He's lost his family. And now he's lost his father, irrevocably.

He thinks about Potter's face, pressed to the desk, distorted in pain - and thinks how Potter's eyes burn as he looks at Draco's father. Despite what happened, despite all the pain and humiliation, and being cheated... and probably knowing it later... Potter *is* a hero. Even if Lucius used this word sarcastically.

Potter has everything. He has the knowledge that he freed Dobby. And he has friends. And he defeated the Dark Lord. And he...

Almost unwillingly, Draco reaches for the newspaper folded on the table. The front page screams: 'Former Death Eater acquitted. The Boy-Who-Lived testifies."

On the picture, Snape standing in the middle of the crowd at the courthouse looks like something a cat dragged in. His hair is more limp than usual and messed up, and he looks as if he hadn't slept or eaten for days, and the movements of his hands are twitchy and uncontrollable - but he still tries to stare at everyone down his nose.

And Potter next to his side - Potter, tall and slim, in a well-fitted robe - moves protectively, shielding him from the crowd, his hand lying on Snape's forearm in a supporting, possessive gesture.

Draco winces and drops the paper - and winces again, trying to get up on his feet. His leg, unbending, sends a hot pang of pain through his body but he still manages to straighten.

He doesn't even know what he's going to do; it's not like he has anywhere to go. Could have spent the rest of the night in the armchair as well.

Something scarlet and gauzy is on the floor, and he would've picked it up if bending down were not so agonizing. But he knows what it is; a shred of his mother's robe.

Did his mother know, he wonders suddenly? Well, she wouldn't probably care about Potter, granted. But there must be a reason why she shuddered every time her husband brushed against her hand accidentally, right?

Draco will never know. He looks at the scrap on the floor until it starts blurring in front of his eyes.

Yes, this is what he still has - the red gossamer cloth... this is what is left for him.

Draco smiles crookedly and catches his reflection in the dim mirror on the wall.

His hair is tangled and unwashed, sticking from his head in every direction - and his face is puffy from all that drinking and sleepless nights, and covered in blond stubble. But the eyes are the worst - bloodshot and surrounded with purple - and looking so haunted as if he'd seen the whole world going to ruins in front of him.

But he still breathes; he hasn't crumbled down, with his world or not.

And straightening, reacquiring a shadow of his usual bearing, Draco thinks that there is another thing he still has left.

He still has himself.

THE END