FIC: World Like Fallen Apples [Harry/Lucius, Ron/Fenrir, NC-17]

[kennahijja]

Now that reveals are up, here is my contribution to hp_rarities - the fic sort of grew on me at the end, but is still the single most troublesome piece of writing I've ever done...

Title: World Like Fallen Apples
Author: kennahijja
Pairing(s): Harry/Lucius, Fenrir/Ron
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: violence, non-con, darkfic, and, um… werewolf!sex of sorts
Length: ~ 9000 words
Summary: "Well, Lucius, if he was captured in your home, you should do the honours. Break him for me, my slippery friend. Show me that you are more than just another failure." AU from Deathly Hallows's Malfoy Manor chapter for severe lack of narrow escape on part of the trio.
Author's Note: Written for idontgiveafaux in the hp_rarities fest. Thanks to everyone who betaed/held my hand/provided endless cups of coffee through this: liriaen, melusinahp, calanthe, LN and hummelchen. Apologies to John Wain for borrowing from his "Poem" for the title.


There comes the moment when the Dark Lord looks at you with that mild expression you have come to dread above everything else over the years.

"Well, Lucius, if he was captured in your home, you should do the honours." A subtle, serpentine smile, and a glint in red-tinted eyes. "Break him for me, my slippery friend. Show me that you are more than just another failure."

A nicely double-edged barb: passing the task on to you, although your talents and inclinations lie elsewhere, one more slur among many; snubbing Bellatrix, who's been veritably salivating at the prospect of getting her hands on Potter. Bellatrix, who has been feted for her timely – and undoubtedly brave – call to the Dark Lord when you weren't even sure that what the Snatchers dragged in was Potter and his little gang. And yet she broke that Mudblood girl too soon, destroying a weapon that could have crushed the boy's resistance in no time. If Bellatrix hadn't killed the Granger girl before the Dark Lord had even arrived, you might not be saddled with domesticating Potter now.

You throw a cold look through the bars of the cell that holds the boy. He crouches on the floor in the battered Muggle clothes he's been caught in, mouth and arms still bleeding from his struggle with the Snatchers.

You pull the huddled figure up by the scruff of his neck, prepared for the boy to collapse again, but although filthy, rank and bruised, he remains on his feet - however unsteadily. His face is still criss-crossed with lines from the disfiguring hex, as if he'd slept on a pillow of wrinkles, but the swelling has faded apart from a yellowing bruise on his cheekbone and a swollen mouth where one of the Snatchers must have punched him. Still, he's way too pale, and his eyes...

You force yourself not to shudder. The famous green has dulled to near black and he doesn’t even refuse to look at you – he looks right through you, seeing nothing. There's nothing left of the fierce little warrior who faced you in the Department of Mysteries before the world went to hell.

It's not surprising – he's heard his Mudblood friend die in agony and been dragged out of his cell only to stumble upon her body. He then had his surviving friend torn from his side by Greyback, who slung the girl's corpse over his shoulder for good measure. You don't ponder what might have happened to it – Greyback likes to feed his cubs well.

Back then, Bellatrix offered you the Mudblood's wand with a mocking smirk, professing pity. You took it, although you would just as cheerfully have stabbed her through the eye with it. But even a Mudblood's wand, unsuitable for you in wood and core, is still a wand.

Now, you use it to shackle Potter's hands behind his back before propelling him though the door. He stumbles once, twice, then moves along like a sleepwalker.




The Manor is huge, and despite its current Death Eater infestation, there are floors of unoccupied rooms left, those neglected and out of the way. You'll be damned if you bring the boy anywhere near your own rooms, where Narcissa could witness this.

Instead, you order a house-elf to prepare your late father's rooms in the west wing – not his sumptuous living quarters, presently occupied by Lord Voldemort, but the room on the ground floor adjacent to the laboratory he'd installed to conduct his dragon research; an exploding dragon egg tore off two of Abraxas's fingers in that room when you were seven, and he'd replaced them with a magical black glove.

Underground or not, Abraxas Malfoy didn't deny himself luxury; not with the gold-inlaid mahogany frame of the bed and the rich dark carpets and drapes that hide the lack of windows.

The other half of the room is taken up by an ornate fountain bath, and you push the boy towards it, past the bed. You may be forced to touch the little mongrel with his dirty blood, but you draw the line at a filthy body.

He startles when you Vanish his clothes, the familiar magic stuttering awkwardly from the alien wand. There is no further reaction – he's still too deeply in shock.

You push Potter into the flat basin. The water isn't deep, barely rising up to his hip, and the fountain plasters his hair to his scalp, sleek as otter fur. He doesn't jump, just stands there shivering although the water is warm. The wounded eyes remain blank, acknowledging nothing and no one.

You shove him backwards, sending him down in a splash, then grab his stiff neck and force him head first into the fountain. The slippery body goes still with surprise, then rigid with tension. He starts to struggle, lightly at first, then more frenzied as the pressure mounts in his chest. When you let him up for a wheezing breath, water runs off his cheeks, and the expression on his face... a little hurt, somewhat confused, but above all that same, horrible indifference. He's more than a bit broken already, but it's not the sort of broken the Dark Lord wants.

You push Potter under once more, overcoming the minimal resistance of his stiff knees with ease. This time, you keep him under until his struggles weaken and his feet curl and thrash in despair. It takes both hands, and the water that laps over the rim of the pool soaks your robes and trousers.

Seeing his body twist before you, cold skin under your fingers, is more enticing than you'd like to admit. It reminds you of the flailings of a hooked fish pulled upwards to suffocation. When you jerk his head from the fountain, he doubles over and wheezes, coughing up water. But as soon as reason returns, his eyes are clear for the first time, and you are certain he sees you. His face is dripping wet, but you imagine it's only water – he's not broken enough for tears yet.

When you reach for him, he shies back, mouth moving in mute protest. You grab his chin and force him to look at you.

"Don't ever ignore me again." You wait until a defeated sort of acknowledgement appears on the puffy face. Then you shove him back, watching his legs buckle, and he lands in the basin with a splash. When he surfaces, you spell away his shackles and toss him a lime-scented bar of soap. "Clean yourself and await my return."

His hand closes around the slippery bar, and his neck stiffens.

"What did you do to Ron?"

You backhand him across the face, adding strength to the blow. His head snaps aside, and he nearly slips back underwater. His cheek starts to blossom with a bruise, clearly showing the imprint of each finger; a trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth and fades into pink on his wet chin.

"Don't speak to me unbidden unless you revel in pain."

With that, you swing around without waiting to see whether he's obeying or not, and spell the door closed behind you.

***
You leave him to worry about what's in store for him for several hours, knowing that apprehension will scourge him worse than threats. It is after midnight when you return, having abandoned robes in favour of a loose-falling dressing gown. You didn't expect him to try the bed, and hence aren't surprised to find him curled up on the carpet half underneath it, furthest away from the door.

There is nothing enticing about the boy like this – your taste doesn't run to thin white limbs, bruises and absolute, restless exhaustion. Although sleep must have surged up from the deep and pulled him under at one point, his eyeballs keep darting under thin, bluish lids, and his lips twist every so often.

Your sharp kick to his exposed upper thigh leaves him gasping, awake and scrambling back in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, there is no room to hide, and he ends up against the wall. His face is still puffy, with an edge of fear, but his eyes are bright.

"Up," you command, only too aware that he'd much prefer to remain curled around his vulnerability. He does get to his feet, however, fists balled at his sides rather than timidly shielding his genitals. You'll have to strike hard and leave a mark to establish your superiority from the start. Anything less, and he'll believe he can fool you.

You step up, trapping him against the wall, and hold his head in place with a cruel grip on his hair.

"I am going to fuck you now," you tell him bluntly, inwardly smirking when the vague expression of fear on his face blossoms into panic.

"This first time," you continue in the same tone of bland indifference, "I will not expect your participation. I do, however, expect your submission." You let your fingers slip and squeeze his nipple, hard. "I want you quiet, pliant, and obedient, or you will suffer."

He tries to remain stoic, but you keep up your death grip on his nipple until his glare breaks. He hisses and twists, so you turn him sharply around and shove him face-first against the wall.

With one hand, you open the strings of your dressing gown, leaving the long grey fabric to flutter around your ankles. With the other, you capture his limp wrists and pull them up behind his back. You touch the firm, hot length of your cock, oiled before you came down with an arousal potion. You want to hurt him, obviously, but not yourself, and your body must not betray how little desire you harbour for him.

You kick his legs apart while pushing his upper body into the wall until his cheek is pressed against a rough tapestry of twined dragons, his neck an enticing, tense line. He twists away when he feels the blunt head of your cock between his cheeks, but there is no escape. You give the inside of his ankle another kick for better access and dig your fingers into his arse cheek until he squeals.

His hole clutches the crown of your cock as you press forward, tight and cool but warming angrily as you split him further. He moans and starts to struggle, his cold little bottom wriggling against you as he tries to dislodge your cock.

Twisting his arms harder, you lean over the pained arch of his shoulder. "Pliant, Harry. I will not warn you a second time."

But when you surge forward, eager enough now to acquaint the pressing heat of your cock with the core of him, he begins to flail, kicking out at your shin with bare heels, trying to wrestle his hands out of your hold. Just as expected.

You wrench yourself in even harder, practically nailing Potter against the wall, feeling his frantic flesh ripple and part before you. Then you trap his shoulders with yours, putting your body weight against his, and let go of his wrists to grab his left elbow with both hands.

And pull.

Breaking bones is harder than most people would expect, especially the larger ones. You lace your grip with wandless magic, making the *snap*, when it comes, a matter of willpower as well as force.

For a split second he freezes, like a lamb under the butcher's knife. Then he jerks, and a sound escapes him, the sort of strangled moan that spirals up and up into a shriek. He writhes against you in an awful, arrested motion, keeping his cracked limb motionless in your hand, but the rest of his body simply cannot keep still.



You grab his wrists again, intimately aware of the shudder of pain that flares through him when the cracked bones move.

"No!" he whimpers, and for the first time a spike of real arousal glows in your groin; your cock surges inside him.

"You've been warned," you whisper against his ear, aware of the clammy sweat that has broken out all over his skin. "Now, you suffer."

Cruciatus is an effective tool and you're by no means averse to employing it. It cannot, however, imprint its message on the victim the way actual physical damage can, emphasising fragility and illustrating the many ways in which a body can be broken.

You burrow deeper into the snug, squeezing heat, the pressure around your cock so exquisite it's almost pain. Closing your hand tighter around his wrist you can feel the bones in his elbow shift. He screams, a child-like squeal that cuts through the room and dissolves in the pool. A sound that curls around your cock and winds it tighter even than the sound of his plea.

There's something humiliating about the way his pain is arousing you so. It makes you grip his wrists harder.

He cries out at every thrust as you start to fuck him in earnest; sharp, shrill cries that melt into harsh moans on the downstroke when your body weight crushes his arms against your chest. You doubt that he feels much of the violation through the roaring pain, but that's all right – he needs to be broken before he can be taught.

You work yourself to climax against his shuddering body, inside his clenching hole, and you take your time until arousal peaks and spills over and your spine trembles with exquisite heat.

Potter screams again as you let go of his wrists to free your cock from inside him, and leave his broken arm to sag. His neck muscles are rigid under pallid skin, the lines of his collarbone fanning out like the wings of a fossilised bird. The pink-stained smear of come that decorates his inner thigh is a nice additional touch.

You run your lips over the shivering skin of his collarbone, tasting fear and salt. He can't manage to bring his damaged elbow down, too afraid to move the broken bone, so you do it for him. You hear the sound of ligaments tearing before his howl splits the air. His eyes spill over; he goes fishbelly-white and crumbles to the ground.

You raise your wand and cast the night's first "Ennervate!", surprised that you didn't need it earlier.

"If you offer yourself very humbly when I return," you say when the pain-filled eyes are forced open by magic and unwanted life pulses through the boy's veins, "I will heal you."

You leave him lying there, and if you station a house-elf behind a magical mirror to watch over him for fear that he might do damage to himself during his day in lonely agony, he'll never need to know.

***
The following night, his face is flushed and defiant, eyes shining fever-bright and his elbow has swollen to twice its normal size. Potter's teeth chatter when you grip his chin and lift his face.

"Well, Harry? Ready to humble yourself yet?"

The boy snarls and wrenches his face from your hold, his teeth bared in impotent rage like an angry Kneazle hissing from behind the bars of its cage.

You run a fingertip down his bloated elbow, softly enough, and he cries out while his knees buckle. He falls down hard on Abraxas's outsized bed, then draws in on himself like a caterpillar when your eyes crawl over his body. His face morphs into as mask of disbelief when you give him a cold little smirk and say,

"I'll see you tomorrow, then, little Harry."

***
If he looked miserable the day before, Potter is too weak to even crawl to his feet the following night. When the door clicks shut behind you, he weakly uncurls himself from the spot where he has collapsed next to the fountain. If anything, his elbow is even more bloated, and purple streaks have started to run through the sickly flesh.

You put the smoking beaker you are carrying down on Abraxas's prized snakewood escritoire. It's just as you expected: he doesn’t have a third night to break himself on his stubbornness. Bone splinters have travelled into his flesh, infection has set in, and in a few more hours, his injury will be beyond Skelegro's power to heal, no matter how liberally you've laced it with cleansing draught. And the last thing you need is to have to crawl to Snape – or worse yet, to the Dark Lord – to confess that you've damaged your master's toy beyond your ability to repair. It hadn't gone down well for Bellatrix when she killed the Mudblood prematurely.

Potter's eyes are bloodshot, his face even more clammy white than the night before, and he leaves a damp patch of sweat on the carpet when he struggles up onto his knees. A position that would suit him if he weren't half-unconscious and most likely oblivious to the indignity.

You stop right next to him, and lean down to make sure he can hear you; slap his cheek to get his attention.

"You'll drink this tonight, Harry," you tell him, enunciating very clearly. "But whether I continue tomorrow with your other elbow is entirely up to you."

The wild horror that burns the dullness from Potter's eyes sparks warmth in your groin. He shakes his head, and wets his cracked lips a few times.

"No?" you enquire. "You'll be good?"

You'd have expected him to be beyond an appreciation for sarcasm, but he flushes.

"Yes," he whispers, barely more than an exhalation.

"Ah." It's too tempting, Potter on his knees like this, even if he's not a pretty sight, half dead. "Show me."

A little thumb flick is all it takes to open your dressing gown. Potter's lower lip wobbles as if he's going to cry, but he doesn't. He swallows as if he's about to throw up, but doesn't do that either.

Instead, he shuffles forward, shuddering as each move impacts on his broken arm. His mouth is half open and the breaths escape his lungs with a hiss. You stop him, stroking a finger along his bottom lip.

"Try to hurt me and this," you nod at the purple-streaked mass that is his elbow, "will look like a minor scratch in comparison."

He shudders again, nods, and you pull away your finger and allow him to continue.

The moment you feel the trembling mouth close around you and the awkward tongue push against the head of your cock, hot liquid fire licks up your length. Potter's mouth is clumsy, half-delirious as he is with pain and infection. So much that he actually lets you slip from his mouth, then jerks and whimpers when he instinctively reaches for it with the wrong hand. You almost come on the spot when he follows your cock with his mouth and recaptures it between his lips. He doesn't manage to take you deep; inexperience and injury conspire to make him almost useless in the ways of a whore. But the pained hisses he sends along your swelling erection condense your balls into tense knots of need. Once or twice you feel teeth grazing your flesh, but it only adds to the mad thrill of ravaging his mouth. Too good to punish.

A few more lick-sucks and you surrender, allowing the pressure to wash you away. You come in a dizzying rush, semen spilling into the corner of Potter's mouth and dribbling down his chin. You slide out of his mouth when he screws up his face, and the sight of him defiled by your come prompts another pulse from your cock, catching him right below the eye and spraying his cheek and nose with pungent seed.

He makes a small noise of distress and reaches up with his undamaged hand to wipe it off, then freezes when you slap his fingers.

"You can take care of that when I'm gone." You smirk at his disgusted expression. "It suits you, Harry, and won't interfere with your potion. We'll have to do it again soon."

You summon the tall beaker and float it to the floor beside you while you kneel next to the boy and pull his squirming body into your lap. A soft cry escapes him when his limp left hand brushes your thigh. Up close, he smells rank and sick. Your cock, still wet and warm, comes to rest between his arse cheeks and you shift your hips subtly to impress the fact upon him before reaching for the cup. The potion still smokes a little, frothing restlessly in its container. Potter's head tips against your shoulder when you raise the metal rim to his lips.

He shudders at the first sip, even more at the second. Skelegro is vile on its own, but the firegrass extract of the cleansing potion adds to the bite. He gags several times before he's down to the dregs, but somehow manages to keep the stuff down, aided by a few pokes of your cock against his bare crack.

He's hot and covered in sweat when he's drained the beaker and the cleansing potion begins its painful journey through his veins. Oblivious to his groans you pick him up from the floor and deposit him on the bed after ridding him of filth with a heavy-duty Scourgify. You don't want him to soil your father's sheets.

He looks up at you with wide eyes, incapable of lying still while the Skelegro assaults the marrow of his bones. You brush a few sweat-soaked strands of hair off his forehead, marvelling at the rough texture of the scar under your fingertips.

"Not tonight," you answer his unspoken question. His fear is so thick in the air that you can savour its taste on your tongue. "This night will be interesting enough for you without my touch. We shall play tomorrow."

Dismay lights up his eyes at the prospect just before he whimpers and the fingers of his right hands claw the bedclothes. You can almost hear the faint sound of his bones quivering to rearrange themselves under his swollen skin.

"Goodnight, Harry." You give in to the temptation to kiss his forehead, your lips a silken promise against his scar. The light brush elicits another shiver. Then you leave him to his pain.

***
So it begins.

He doesn't need all that many more lessons; despite his fame, Potter is indeed an ordinary boy just as the Dark Lord has always claimed. Not special; as breakable, as vulnerable, as all of his kind. You crack his right wrist once, soon after those first days, when he keeps enquiring about Weasley and won't take no for an answer; his little fingerbone gives way in your hand like a brittle stick when he balks at putting one of your teethed metal clamps on the side of his cock, and his scream trickles through your veins like Fiendfyre. The following night, after a few sips of Skelegro, he puts the clamps on his balls, one after the other, and you press against his back as he arches against you.

He has learned his initial lesson well, though, and punishment renders him biddable and eager to make up for his transgressions the nights after.

Early on, you considered making the boy your ally – telling him the truth about the Dark Lord's reasons for making him your prisoner, concocting an elaborate ruse of submission that would have been so much easier to achieve than the real thing. But he's not Slytherin enough to pull it off – all white-hot emotion and thoughtless instincts. You can't afford to be caught trying to mislead your Master, who has a special link directly into the boy's mind, especially not with Draco and Narcissa in the line of fire.

At times, you feel your son's eyes upon you, pale and speculative as if he's about to speak. Inevitably, you turn away from him then. You do not know whether he would want to beg for a go at Potter - you've always seen his hatred burn hotly – or to beg clemency for a schoolmate. Both would be disturbing. You're not sure you want to see your own desire to inflict damage on Potter mirrored in your son's face, but neither do you want him to show weakness. Neither of you can afford it, and the last thing you want is for Draco to slip back into the Dark Lord's line of sight and become a source of amusement. Among Death Eaters, that is lethal.

The fact that you've been charged with breaking Potter regains you a modicum of respect even as you shrug your way through your fellow Death Eaters' crude chuckling and badly disguised envy. Before seeing Narcissa, you always ensure that no trace of the boy remains on your skin. In her company, his name and existence are never mentioned.

Unlike Bellatrix and the Lestranges, Macnair and Dolohov, you have never found much pleasure in sadism. Abusing the occasional Muggleborn for release or as a warning is one thing, but you've never been inclined to waste time on prolonged torture.

There is a particular lure to Potter's pale skin, however, deprived of sunlight and fresh air as it is. A vulnerability that is beautiful in its own right. You’ve never had such an expanse of near-unblemished skin to play with, a body entirely yours to prod for responses, and that marvellous, hostile little mind as a puzzle for you to unravel.

You delight in the way he cringes before forcing himself to beg you to hurt him; delight even more in the relieved puffs of breath that escape him when he realises that it won't be the sort of pain he's been expecting. Better yet to feel that too-soft arse flesh under your spell-hardened palm until at least he howls, squirms, and tears are leaking from his eyes. Knowing that even when he's reduced to this miserable puddle he's grateful for the pain you are not causing.

Teaching him to please and pleasure is easily accomplished. He's not eager, no, never that, but he doesn't enjoy pain and he's bright enough, Gryffindor or not, to understand that pleasing you will keep him from being hurt. At least not too badly.

Teaching him about pleasure alongside pain is an even more rewarding experience. The confusion, the horror when he realises that he can be aroused by your touch to the point of pure, mindless need are precious, and you delight in fusing pain and ecstasy into a wild jumble until he doesn't know which finally propels him to orgasm.

Not that you grant him release often. Not in exchange for skill or obedience, which can be expected after a while. No, you single out the moments when he goes beyond what is expected, when he puts his considerable ingenuity into play, devising touches to please you without prompting, begging to be touched, to be hurt, to arouse you.

Quite enjoyable, you admit to yourself as your body is slowly cooling on the rumpled silk sheets of Abraxas's bed, one arm slung around Potter's bare hip and your fingers idly playing over the marks your father's dragonhide crop has left on his flank.

He licks his swollen bottom lip, and you realise that even breathless, exhausted and aching, he's up to something.

"Lucius, please… allow me to ask about Ron."

Ah, cleverly woven for a change. You could punish him – again – but you're feeling mellow and sated with his warm body curled against you, and he's been very good tonight.

"You can't obey me to save your life, can you, Harry?"

He ducks his head as if to seek shelter against your chest. "I have to know – it's driving me mad, can't you see that?"

It probably does; you're the only person he ever sees; the house-elf who looks after him has been instructed to appear only when he's asleep. And you yourself, upon realising how much he tempts you, have determined not to succumb every night. He has ample time to fret, locked up on his own.

"Please..." He looks up then, all tangled hair and flushed face and although you never looked twice at his Mudblood mother, if she'd had eyes like his, you might have been more inclined to forgive Severus for his fatal obsession with the woman. "I'll pay for it. I'll do everything you want-"

"But, Harry, you'll do that anyway."

The noise that escapes him is almost a sob of frustration. "Please, Lucius – at least tell me if… Greyback, the others… they didn't kill him, did they?"

You sigh and tug at a strand of his hair to show that you're not pleased with him. "Very well, then. No, your friend is alive. If 'alive' is the right term to describe such creatures."

You watch his eyes widen, and then his face turns pale. He looks away, and you grab his chin again.

"No hiding from me," you remind him, acutely aware of the way his fists are clenching. You idly contemplate which bone to break should he dare strike you. He doesn't. Instead, he forces his fingers to loosen and meets your eyes. You drink in the way his bottom lip trembles, the sheer sea of misery that fills his eyes. For a few seconds you allow yourself to believe that this is it, that the egg-shell façade will crack and break now. Then his chin tenses under your fingers, the hurt eyes harden and you feel him pulling himself together with a strength whose source you can't begin to comprehend. His eyes remain fixed on yours as he's been bidden; there is no overlooking the barefaced challenge, though.

You smile, so thinly that your canines scrape your lip, knowing it must chase little slivers of dread down his back. Then you lean in, still smiling, and take his bottom lip between your teeth, biting it plump until blood wells onto your tongue and he shudders against you. He allows himself to sag against your chest a little, and you savour this as much as his taste on your tongue. Weeks ago, he'd never have given as much without being in severe pain. You break the kiss and pat his cheek. It's time for the next step in his training.

***
He returns from Walden Macnair's room covered in welts, scratches and whip marks, stooped like an old man; you know the white-lipped strain on his face well enough by now to realise it's only his special brand of stubbornness that has prevented him from crawling all the way back on his hands and knees.

Only when he's safely inside does he collapse to his knees beside the pool, and is painfully sick on the tiled rim. You frown, but he's so miserable he barely flinches when you lift your wand - to Vanish the mess, not hurt him further. He wipes his mouth with a handful of water from the fountain, and huddles there, shivering.

You pull him up to examine him and feel a fraction of tension flee the high-strung body at your touch. His lips have been bitten bloody, whether by his own efforts or Macnair's is impossible to say. Dried blood cakes the cleft between his buttocks, and when you probe between them, a fresh red smear taints your fingers. He whimpers and collapses against you when you've finished the sealing charm to stop further bleeding. Too much blood even for a rough fucking, although Macnair is large. You remember his predilection for axes, and how those can be used apart from the obvious, and smile into Potter's hair.

Macnair proves well-pleased by your charge's efforts indeed, and gruffly announces that he wouldn't mind another round with "Lucius's whore". But you're looking for progress, not stagnation. Potter's second outing, however, does not go remotely as well.

They haul him back from Bellatrix's quarters, a beautiful set of rooms right off the gardens that you had fitted out for Narcissa when she was pregnant with Draco.

The boy is hardly less bloody than after suffering Walden's attentions, although he's been gone little more than half an hour. His mouth is bleeding and there are nail marks on his face. The two Death Eater acolytes who drag him in between them - you only recognise Marcus Flint, Draco's former Quidditch captain from Slytherin - throw him down at your feet. Flint's companion crudely kicks the boy's arse for good measure, probably bruising his balls in the process.

"He went for Madam Lestrange," Flint reports. "Tried to strangle her, she says."

You rise from the armchair where you've been reading, and loom over your wayward pet, who still has his eyes on the ground.

"Leave us."

They don't protest, but from the way they drag their feet it's clear that they wanted to watch the infamous Lucius Malfoy punishing the Potter boy for his transgressions, their imaginations fired by whatever stories they've heard about what passes inside these rooms.

Behind them, the door closes, and still Potter doesn't look up or speak; you can see his shoulders tremble. You let the silence build, and peak, and wait for it to crack.

"I couldn't… I wanted…" He slides into a sitting position on the floor and wraps his arms around his knees. Then loosens his hold again and bites down hard on his bloody thumb, grimacing at the taste. At last he looks up, his face a blank mask. "She killed Hermione. I only want her dead."

He hugs his legs again, resting his scratched cheek on his knees and shutting his eyes. You know there will be no apology.

Slowly, you lower yourself back into your chair.

"Give me your hand, Harry."

The boy's huddled form stiffens. He lifts his head from his knees, eyes still closed like a blind animal turning to the sun.

"Your hand, Harry," you repeat.

He holds it out to you, slowly and surprisingly gracefully, like a bride at the altar. You take his fingers, running the pad of your thumb over his blunt, bitten nails. Pull them close, and drop a chaste kiss on his fingertips.

There will be a full moon tomorrow.

"I think it's time for you to be reunited with your friend."

***
It isn't hard to set up. Fenrir never refuses one of his cubs, inclined to believe that adversity will make them stronger. Even Bellatrix's boiling fury cools when the intricacy of the plan dawns on her. Facing her, you have to suppress the urge to curse her as she cursed Potter, splashing him with Cruciatus after you spent so much time and effort conditioning him to respond to a different sort of pain.

You lead the boy into the spacious conservatory reserved for this entertainment, unbound because leash and collar are what Walden and Bellatrix would choose, and you're here to prove you've progressed beyond mere force. Still, you have to steer him forward with a hand on his bare shoulder when his back stiffens and his feet drag at the sight of his friend.

Weasley crouches on the floor, naked and secured by a rope that binds his wrists before him, tied to an iron ring in the floor. The position leaves him on his knees, arse higher than head, and the angry strain in his shoulders screams how much he hates it. No cowering and hiding for this one, it seems.

There are more Death Eaters present than you'd like to see – Bellatrix and the Lestranges, of course, Mulciber and Yaxley and a number of the younger ones, even Alecto Carrow who should have found sufficient entertainment of her own at Hogwarts. All are lolling in their seats, waiting for the show to begin.

When you bring Potter forward, Weasley looks up once, prompting the assembled Death Eaters to titter. A green-amber glow that's anything but human is lighting up the formerly bland blue of his eyes. His gaze brushes Potter, freezes on him for a moment, then he looks away and down at his bound wrists before him. But that's all right. Whatever it means, Potter will read it as rejection – accusation.

You conjure an armchair for yourself and the boy, frowning when the Mudblood's inferior wand gives you well-worn wood and battered leather in place of the silk upholstery you were aiming for. Still, it'll do. You sit and pull Potter's reluctant form into your lap, well aware of his tightly balled fists.

When Fenrir Greyback enters, it is to catcalls and laughter. He saunters forward, barefooted and clad only in old Muggle trousers, which he sheds as naturally as a wizard would remove his cloak. There has never been a trace of shame in Greyback, something you admired in your youth, and he's the perfect choice for this – stubbornly protective of his 'pack', but not at all fussy about establishing his dominance in public.

The werewolf is already half erect; it doesn't take much to send an animal like him into rut – an audience and a naked and bound victim seems to be all he requires. His prick surges when the Weasley boy starts to pull at the rope.

Greyback kicks the kneeling boy's thighs apart and delivers a meaty slap to his bottom when Weasley kicks out at him with his heels. The blow rocks the smaller body forward, almost tumbling it onto its face. The boy shifts, trying to curl away, and the movement exposes the rows of thin scars on his flanks and sides, fanning out like stylised gills. Greyback must have taken great effort and creativity in turning this one, undoubtedly inspired by the Dark Lord's less than favourable reaction to Bellatrix's careless handling of the Granger girl. Potter draws in a hiss of air through his teeth at the sight.

Greyback lowers himself between Weasley's spread thighs, pulling him open wide with both hands, then spits at his hole while Weasley struggles ineffectively in the iron grip. He freezes when Greyback probes his opening with a claw-tipped finger, prodding and rotating, and reflexively spreads himself wider to escape the sharp nail. Satisfied, Greyback gives Weasley's arse cheek a squeeze that immediately darkens it into a purple bruise, and shoves his cock forward.

Potter lets out the soft whimper that Weasley is too proud – or too hardened – to give, and looks away as if to escape the sight of the actual penetration. You grab his chin and force his head back up.

"You made this happen, Harry," you hiss against the soft shell of his ear. "The least you can do is watch."

He trembles in the loose cage of your arms, but he watches.

Greyback works himself into Weasley's arse without care or finesse, the force of his thrusts rocking the boy like a rag doll until all he can manage is to keep himself from falling on his face. The treatment wrings a series of pained grunts from him, but no screams, as if he knows that his audience will enjoy those above all else.

A glint of light seeps in through the ceiling-high glass wall of the conservatory, drawing a line across the floor and bathing Greyback's hair and back in silver.

You look at the carefully painted, dark green circle that curves in front of the stage and raise your wand. Your tongue forms the proper incantation and you can feel the magic surge, silently warning Granger's wand not to let you down again. It doesn't. The circle crackles, sparks, and subsides again into inertia. It's an effective if costly way of containing werewolves, though not one applicable for everyday use; your ordinary wizard, pursued by a werewolf, will rarely find himself in possession of crushed aconite paste at 110 Galleons a jar, plus hairs of the creature in human and wolf form and the means to make it sit still long enough to paint and invoke a circle around it. Here, however, even a half-circle will be sufficient. None of the creatures can cross it.

Greyback's back... elongates, as if his spine has been transfigured into fluid, and grey fur starts to sprout from his skin with such speed it looks as if it's racing to cover his body.

His limbs twist and reshape, an awful melting whose full horror is thankfully obscured by fur. Greyback's fingers harden and cut into Weasley's skin, and now the boy screams while Greyback's claws rake over him with all the callousness of a cat playing with a caught mouse.

Potter twists on your lap, tears leaking from his eyes; you wrap an arm around his middle to keep him from pulling free and doing something stupid.

Greyback's head is the last thing to shift, and even you have to fight back a whorl of nausea when it lengthens and compresses into a snout before your eyes. Greyback lets out a shrill howl and his entire body contracts. He shoves that knotted, raw cock forward and back into Weasley's arse to the hilt of its furry sheath, condensing all the agony of transformation into one vengeful thrust. Then his head falls back, exposing the wolf's muzzle and animal eyes to the world. He howls again in triumph.

Weasley's struggles have become feeble; he's bleeding steadily now, wrists raw from fighting against the rope, and spitted onto the werewolf's cock. When Greyback lowers his head to nip at his neck, playful almost, Weasley's skin splits like over-ripe fruit and fresh blood spills onto the werewolf's eager tongue.

Next to you, you can see Alecto touching herself under her robes, face flushed with excitement.

Obscured from the moonlight by Greyback's bulk, Weasley's entire body contorts. His head bows until his forehead is pressed against his fists, and you realise he's not only fighting against the pain of the claws and the rape. Unlike Greyback, who embraces his beast with open arms, Weasley battles against the monster straining to burst out of him. The moon that makes the tips of Greyback's fur glint like silver turns Weasley's skin a ghostly white. When the first patches of hair appear on his arms, it's not like a glove being slipped on, more like worms being forced out of the ground against their will. The new fur is curly and wet, and the boy stares at it in horror.

When the pain of transformation curves his spine, his scream echoes through the conservatory. He rears up and tries to get out from under Greyback, but is pinned down by the larger body that seems to ride out his writhing without effort.

Bones shift, skin expands and then shrinks to suit a smaller body, and reddish, uneven patches of fur sprout all over it. The sounds Weasley makes while thrashing under Greyback's bulk are terrifying, gurgling squeals as he fights the force of the change. Potter's fingers are gripping the armrests of the chair so hard that you wonder what will give first, the wood or his fingerbones; he's barely breathing, his skin icy against yours. You look down at the crown of his head while Weasley's skull twists into a malformed oval, ears elongating and pointing up, a muzzle forming around rows of alien teeth.

He gives a shrill, dog-like howl and his hind legs scrabble wildly as his smaller, wolfish channel tries to accommodate the size of Greyback's cock, probably tearing in the process. His tail, fox-red and handsome, is pulled to the side in a painful arc.

Weasley's claws, grown from ineffective to razor-sharp, slice through the rope that binds him, but before he can sink them into Greyback's hide, the larger werewolf growls and closes his jaws around Weasley's furry neck. He's sheathed in the writhing body as far as he can go, and you can see something large forming at the base of his cock, stretching Weasley impossibly wide and reducing him to helpless whines of pain. Greyback pounds into his victim, raised up with effort until he almost stands on his hind legs, raping Weasley with fast, shallow thrusts as if he's trying to shake the seed out of his prick and into the slighter wolf.

You stare at the two creatures, locked together with the larger one rutting atop the other, pumping seed into the smaller body beneath him in wild abandon, and you shudder in revulsion. Such things demean the nature of wizard and should be put down, not tolerated, not even in the Dark Lord's service.

Greyback withdraws as soon as the ring at the base of his cock has loosened, slipping free a wet, red prick that retracts quickly into its sheath. He gives the twitching, rust-furred body beneath him a dismissive sniff, a cursory lick at the mess of blood and come that drips down from under the red-tufted tail. Then he rears to his full height, showing off a bulk that displays just how different from a true wolf the werewolf really is. His jaws open, revealing deadly teeth and a lolling tongue that looks like he's laughing at you, all of you.

Abruptly, he turns towards the glass front of the conservatory, tail rising in expectation, and you quickly spell the glass front open before you're left with a rain of shards. The monster gives you another open-jawed leer that makes you wonder just how much more control Greyback has over his instincts during the full moon than an average werewolf, then lopes out towards the grounds.

The grey shadow disappears into the moonlight, and you hear a rising howl in the direction of the peacock enclosure. It's warded, of course, but you suspect that tomorrow you'll find the ground littered with feathers dropped in panic, and perhaps one or two of the precious chicks dead from fright.

The red wolf scrabbles on the ground, claws scratching on the tiles, to drag himself up. You hear Alecto giggle and throw a stinging hex at the creature. What's left of Weasley scrambles away, rolling to his feet and uttering a growl deep in his throat.

At this moment Potter moves, as if in a dream. He slides off your lap, draws his wrist from your grip so naturally that you let him go before realising what he's doing. He throws himself forward, towards the crackling barrier that isn't reacting to him at all. Why would it? It's designed to keep werewolves in, not fools out.


You're on your feet before he's fully across the ring, a stone fist squeezing your heart in your chest. The wolf's head whips round, its stance of hurt confusion shaken off in a second. His reddish fur, matted with blood on neck, flanks and hind legs, is bristling with fury.

He crouches, then hurls himself towards Potter, a compact force of rage seeking revenge on anyone, anything. Potter stills, his naked skin and the slender curve of his neck terribly vulnerable against the onslaught.

Your wand is out again without you consciously drawing it, and you bark a summoning charm. Magic crackles along the unfamiliar wood with enough force to break it. The wand jerks, snaps in your hand just as Potter is pulled back, away from the monster that rushes for his jugular. The werewolf careens after the boy's body, crashing headlong into the barrier. The line flares up, green sparks engulfing the creature. It yelps, shrill and surprised, and falls back amidst the stench of singed fur and aconite.

You land on the floor, hard, with Potter in your arms. You close both arms around his middle while he squirms to get away, peering in fear at the twitching creature inside the circle. The fool fears for the monster rather than for himself! Slowly, painfully, it rolls onto its side to weakly lick the burns that mar its coat.

"That's the amount of control you have over your 'pet'?" Bellatrix jeers. "The Dark Lord will not be pleased with your efforts."

Without sparing him a look, you wrap your arm around Potter’s throat and choke him to still his struggles.

"Well, Bella," you snap, "you certainly have enough experience of how to invoke our Master's displeasure to know." Ignoring Bellatrix's hateful snarl and the angry frown that bisects Rodolphus's forehead, you swing around, Potter still tucked under your arm.

***
You barely remember making it back to the fountain chamber, dragging Potter behind you. For once, he doesn't resist. You fling him inside and ward the door.

You want to strike him down where he stands, flay every inch of skin from his body, crush his bones to dust in a flurry of cracks until he howls with the knowledge of what true pain is.

You don't. You don't even command him to kneel, and he doesn’t offer to. Your fingers are still trembling; you struggle for composure, but inside you shake with the aftershocks of fear. Fear not fuelled by the thought of the Dark Lord's rage should your prey be lost to death in your care. No. All you felt was a flash of pure, all-consuming panic at the thought of watching the boy die.

You want to grab and shake him, but are afraid that when you touch him, you'll kill him – or worse.

He's disgraced you, humiliated you in front of your fellow Death Eaters, and the tale will undoubtedly get back to the Dark Lord among malicious sniggers. It probably already has.

"That was bravely done," you finally grind out, acid dripping off every syllable.

He shivers but doesn't look up, and you're not sure whether he's still in the grip of his memories, or actually listening to you. You grab his shoulder, shake him until his head flies back. It's a pity he's naked – you feel like choking him by the front of his robes.

"Brave indeed," you repeat. "Have you considered for a second what it would to do your 'friend', to wake up tomorrow morning in his own shape, covered in your blood and with bits of your flesh stuck between his teeth?"

His eyes fly open, round with shock.

"No?" You let one corner of your mouth turn up in a malicious smile. "You didn't consider it? Didn't spare a thought about what the Dark Lord would do with him if he'd killed you unbidden?"

You should punish Potter, break his other elbow as you threatened a long time ago, or at least bathe his skin in blood with a whip. But here you've been handed another, better weapon, one that will break him far more effectively than pain: words. You let your voice go soft.

"You didn't care, Harry? I grant you, he's little more than an animal now, but I'd have expected you to view it differently."

He stumbles back, catching himself on the armrest of a chair. "No! I didn't… I just-"

"You just wanted an easy way out of the mess you made? I always knew you were a fool, Potter, but I never took you for a coward."

He turns away from you then, stares at the fountain pool where the water still dances merrily. It reminds you of the few, rare occasions when he has buried his face against your chest, seeking solace. It won't happen again, you know. He's beyond solace now.

"You're right," he says, after a long, leaden pause. "I am a fool - and a coward." No, you think. Only desperate, and very human. But he can't be allowed to know that.

"Can I make up for it?"

With a snort, you grab his elbow – the other one – and jerk him around. "Like this?"

His already white face goes almost green. His Adam's apple moves as he swallows. Then he inclines his head, a gesture of defeat that is beautiful in its simplicity. The thin skin over his elbow feels icy in your grip. You drop it in disgust.

"There's no making it up to me," you say, willing him to understand.

His mouth twists with distaste. "Lestrange, then. Anyone – all of them, if necessary. To make sure it never happens again."

"There is no making sure." The urge to touch his shoulder itches in your fingertips, but you fold your hands behind your back and force them to stay still. "They may single out your friend again just to cause you pain. To watch you squirm." You've tried to teach him that, and now it seems that you've failed after all.

Potter cranes his head around. "I know." His face is blank, as if the sight of Weasley thrashing under Greyback's bulk has extinguished his rage, all that beautiful fire and doomed courage. "But not because of me. Not ever again."

You step forward until you're right behind him and your nose fills with his scent. "You understand that ultimately, the Dark Lord will decide that your suffering no longer amuses him, that your death won't pose a danger, and then he'll kill you?"

"I know." A razor-edge smirk touches his lip, and you doubt that even young Tom Riddle ever managed to look quite as cynical. Yes; that's the day he will be waiting for.

He lowers his eyes and slides to his knees as if he were made for that sort of thing, and for the first time there is no stiffness in his joints, no pride that needs to be overcome.

Part of you will miss him, you realise as you sink into your father's favourite armchair and allow Potter to settle down at your feet. You commanded a grudging respect from your fellow Death Eaters for being in charge of the boy, and you did find pleasure in having absolute control over his flesh.

You run your fingertips over the rough lightning shape of his scar and close your eyes.

This is what the Dark Lord desired – Potter, destroyed and broken, enclosed in misery like a fly in amber. Helpless. Hopeless. His life a torment and a source of torment for others. Utterly alone.

Your fingers toy with his hair, calming yourself with those soft little touches. A gentle, finite pleasure.

Then you withdraw your hand, loss jolting your fingertips like a jinx. You want to take him to bed – not for sex, not after the night's events have killed every spark of desire inside you – but to feel him curled up against you once more before having to give him up. You don't. In a few moments, you'll go, back to your own bed and your wife. You'll leave him to Bellatrix and whoever else can fabricate a convincing claim, and ultimately to Lord Voldemort and destruction.

As you were bidden.

As it should be.

~ finis ~