Categories > Books > Harry Potter > With the Last of This Day's Sun
/Isolation/
Broken wings, blood freed upon the air, a trampled marriage bed.
His eyes follow the curls and tendrils in the deep, dark wood, carved by some craftsmen long ago. Sometimes he reaches a hand up to them.
Does he remember a time before these patterns?
Yes.
He closes his eyes.
But it is slightly hazy and best not dredged up. He fears the memory might break whatever it is that remains inside him, whatever it is that keeps him breathing; keeps him sane. He doesn't need the loneliness that comes from remembering. He doesn't need that carnivorous shadow in his brain.
He ignores the gentle swaying of the mattress, the movements of the svelte body rising over him. His eyes stay on the patterns. Pale hair touches his chest, his face, a faint caress, like spider silk.
The session tonight has not been rough by any means. No, it has been almost...he hesitates over the word...tender. Gentle.
Lucius Malfoy had returned to the manor much sooner then expected, smelling strongly of the night and of other people's blood. There had been the faintest traces of red on his fine robes, on the white cuffs of his shirt, in the lines that outlined the future on his hands.
He had refused to touch Harry until he was clean.
He'd called for a bath and beckoned Harry to follow, which he did without reserve, remembering the last time he'd hesitated on an order...the blinding light, the pain that rushed through his veins so hot that he was sure the tender vessels must have been charred, and then there was flesh on flesh, and blood, and a bright wet hurt blossoming.
He shudders at the memory and a hand caresses his hip.
In the bathroom he had selected an array of soaps and oils that Lucius favored and waited until the older wizard had lowered himself into the bath before removing his own clothing, approaching, and reaching deftly for the soft cloth lying on the porcelain.
It had become a ritual of sorts, tending to the other man in the bath. Lucius had insisted on it; a way for Harry to learn the older man's body. And he found, that so long as he was occupied with the task of washing, he could map the regions of the other man's skin, find which sensitive areas responded to what stimuli. All under the veil of an innocent action.
Sometimes, if he were particularly adroit about his practice, he would be freed from sharing the other's bed for the evening.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Lucius had pulled him into the bath as soon as the red tinged water had been cleared and replaced with fresh. Slick, soapy hands had flowed over his abdomen, gripped his hips and brought him down hard on the erection bobbing beneath the water. Then the movements had started. The agonizingly slow movements, the ones that demanded he recognize the pleasure forced on him. The ones that brought him to a fevered pitch, rendered the logical portions of his brain useless, until all he could do was claw, and bite, and moan like some vacuous animal until his climax released him.
Once out of the water he was not dismissed. Lucius bade him follow to the master chambers without a word.
So here he lies, once more subjected to a leisurely fuck, the cruelty of elegant hands caressing him. Unable to blink his mind out, to pretend that it's not happening. That he doesn't want it to happen. The waves ride him, the surf rolls his mind, and he screams his release into the other man's mouth, which tastes clean and faintly spicy; and Lucius reaches his own climax, thrusts more deeply into him, releasing a torrent of heat.
The older man falls over him like a blanket, his long hair tickling Harry's nose and sides, before he withdraws and rises from the bed, impious and unabashed, in the pale silver and green light that shines through the window.
Harry rises as Lucius offers his hand, feels the cooling essence of his lover slip down his thighs, his own on his flanks.
He is pulled to the window; a strong hand on his chin proffers him to look to the east where the moon has risen bloody silver, and where poison green stars stain the fabric of the night.
It can mean only one thing.
Harry's eyes close.
"Yes. Your fool headmaster has fallen, and the Order lies in chaos without him." The voice is silky as the hair that caresses his shoulders. "Foolish of your comrades to die over such creatures," Lucius says softly as he watches the lights. His gaze turns back to Harry. "I am glad I caught you before the war did, it would have been a shame for your innocence to be soiled by something so prosaic."
Those petal soft lips are against his skin, and he says nothing as he is pushed against the window frame, as Lucius envelopes him from behind. He says nothing as he is taken again, the dark wizard's lust spurred by the domination of the Wizarding World, amidst the silver and green inferno.
He lays his brow against the glass and feels something slide deep inside his head, moving with every green ember, with every thrust. Whatever it is dissolves and lets loose a long stemmed flow.
He sees turrets and iron gates. He sees a hut, a large boarhound sitting guard at its door. He sees Ron's self-conscious smile, Hermione's no nonsense stance. He sees Colin, camera flashing. Neville and Trevor asleep over a potions text in the common room. He sees them all. Cho-McGonagall-Flitwick-Lavender-Cedric-Dumbledore... A whirlpool of faces and long unspoken names; an ocean of memories so deep he could drown.
He is drowning.
His hands are splayed against the panes in a plea; others cover them.
The dam has broken.
He can't see.
He can't breath.
Rain drops slip down the inside of the glass.
He doesn't recognize them as his own tears.
Broken wings, blood freed upon the air, a trampled marriage bed.
His eyes follow the curls and tendrils in the deep, dark wood, carved by some craftsmen long ago. Sometimes he reaches a hand up to them.
Does he remember a time before these patterns?
Yes.
He closes his eyes.
But it is slightly hazy and best not dredged up. He fears the memory might break whatever it is that remains inside him, whatever it is that keeps him breathing; keeps him sane. He doesn't need the loneliness that comes from remembering. He doesn't need that carnivorous shadow in his brain.
He ignores the gentle swaying of the mattress, the movements of the svelte body rising over him. His eyes stay on the patterns. Pale hair touches his chest, his face, a faint caress, like spider silk.
The session tonight has not been rough by any means. No, it has been almost...he hesitates over the word...tender. Gentle.
Lucius Malfoy had returned to the manor much sooner then expected, smelling strongly of the night and of other people's blood. There had been the faintest traces of red on his fine robes, on the white cuffs of his shirt, in the lines that outlined the future on his hands.
He had refused to touch Harry until he was clean.
He'd called for a bath and beckoned Harry to follow, which he did without reserve, remembering the last time he'd hesitated on an order...the blinding light, the pain that rushed through his veins so hot that he was sure the tender vessels must have been charred, and then there was flesh on flesh, and blood, and a bright wet hurt blossoming.
He shudders at the memory and a hand caresses his hip.
In the bathroom he had selected an array of soaps and oils that Lucius favored and waited until the older wizard had lowered himself into the bath before removing his own clothing, approaching, and reaching deftly for the soft cloth lying on the porcelain.
It had become a ritual of sorts, tending to the other man in the bath. Lucius had insisted on it; a way for Harry to learn the older man's body. And he found, that so long as he was occupied with the task of washing, he could map the regions of the other man's skin, find which sensitive areas responded to what stimuli. All under the veil of an innocent action.
Sometimes, if he were particularly adroit about his practice, he would be freed from sharing the other's bed for the evening.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Lucius had pulled him into the bath as soon as the red tinged water had been cleared and replaced with fresh. Slick, soapy hands had flowed over his abdomen, gripped his hips and brought him down hard on the erection bobbing beneath the water. Then the movements had started. The agonizingly slow movements, the ones that demanded he recognize the pleasure forced on him. The ones that brought him to a fevered pitch, rendered the logical portions of his brain useless, until all he could do was claw, and bite, and moan like some vacuous animal until his climax released him.
Once out of the water he was not dismissed. Lucius bade him follow to the master chambers without a word.
So here he lies, once more subjected to a leisurely fuck, the cruelty of elegant hands caressing him. Unable to blink his mind out, to pretend that it's not happening. That he doesn't want it to happen. The waves ride him, the surf rolls his mind, and he screams his release into the other man's mouth, which tastes clean and faintly spicy; and Lucius reaches his own climax, thrusts more deeply into him, releasing a torrent of heat.
The older man falls over him like a blanket, his long hair tickling Harry's nose and sides, before he withdraws and rises from the bed, impious and unabashed, in the pale silver and green light that shines through the window.
Harry rises as Lucius offers his hand, feels the cooling essence of his lover slip down his thighs, his own on his flanks.
He is pulled to the window; a strong hand on his chin proffers him to look to the east where the moon has risen bloody silver, and where poison green stars stain the fabric of the night.
It can mean only one thing.
Harry's eyes close.
"Yes. Your fool headmaster has fallen, and the Order lies in chaos without him." The voice is silky as the hair that caresses his shoulders. "Foolish of your comrades to die over such creatures," Lucius says softly as he watches the lights. His gaze turns back to Harry. "I am glad I caught you before the war did, it would have been a shame for your innocence to be soiled by something so prosaic."
Those petal soft lips are against his skin, and he says nothing as he is pushed against the window frame, as Lucius envelopes him from behind. He says nothing as he is taken again, the dark wizard's lust spurred by the domination of the Wizarding World, amidst the silver and green inferno.
He lays his brow against the glass and feels something slide deep inside his head, moving with every green ember, with every thrust. Whatever it is dissolves and lets loose a long stemmed flow.
He sees turrets and iron gates. He sees a hut, a large boarhound sitting guard at its door. He sees Ron's self-conscious smile, Hermione's no nonsense stance. He sees Colin, camera flashing. Neville and Trevor asleep over a potions text in the common room. He sees them all. Cho-McGonagall-Flitwick-Lavender-Cedric-Dumbledore... A whirlpool of faces and long unspoken names; an ocean of memories so deep he could drown.
He is drowning.
His hands are splayed against the panes in a plea; others cover them.
The dam has broken.
He can't see.
He can't breath.
Rain drops slip down the inside of the glass.
He doesn't recognize them as his own tears.
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