And Of Course He Was Cleared Of All Charges, And Declared A Hero, But That's Not The Part You Want To Read, Now, Is It? is my longest title to date, hee, and is Harry/Lucius and NC-17 and non-con and about 3200 words.
nimori is to blame for this one; I asked her for a Harry/Lucius plotbunny because I was in the mood to write 'em, and she gave me a plotbunny that hit my, "No no no no no no no" buttons. Not because of the non-con smut, mind you--it's the whole "injustice" theme that makes me run screaming. So having rejected the idea, that night I had a dream where Harry showed up who was clearly the Harry who had survived this story, and he was pissed. I woke up and decided my subconscious was telling me it had to be written. 'S all her fault.
Title: And Of Course He Was Cleared Of All Charges, And Declared A Hero, But That's Not The Part You Want To Read, Now, Is It?
Summary: Even a brief stay in Azkaban for Harry will be disastrous.
"Mr. Potter. What a pleasant surprise."
Hands balling into fists he couldn't put to use--not while they were holding him like this--Harry stood in the grip of Macnair and the one whose name he didn't remember, forcing himself to meet Lucius Malfoy's eyes and remembering words he knew Dumbledore had meant as a lesson. "Jokes? No, no. These are manners."
If Malfoy had the same grace as Dumbledore, the least Harry could do was show he'd learned it too. "Mr. Malfoy. Roomy accommodations they've got for us around here."
Of course he'd known the Dementors were gone from Azkaban. Had heard it two years ago. Harry'd never asked himself what sort of policing system functioned in Azkaban in their absence, though. Why would it have mattered at the time?
When the guards had pushed him through the great metal portcullis that sealed the entrance to the inner stockade of Azkaban--explaining that they were only issuing him one set of standard prison robes instead of the regulation three, since they expected him to be released in no more than a day or two for his trial--and he'd seen, he'd stopped, startled and speechless and vulnerable, he knew, as a fledgling dropped from its nest. He'd expected another guard. He'd expected cells. He'd not expected one great round hall of prisoners, brutish or empty-eyed men keeping to themselves or gathered in clusters, all of them--save the sleeping ones--looking up as the portcullis clanged back into place to see what unlucky soul had been delivered into their midst.
No, he'd thought, feeling the lead in his stomach and the rising of his gorge. Scrimgeour, you bastard. "Just until the formality of a trial. I know you understand why I must not make that exception for you, Mr. Potter." You fucking bastard.
He'd stood there, frozen, until it was too late to remedy anything, too late to hunch his shoulders and slink off to one wall like he should have done from the first moment. Until the first murmur of "Potter" reached his ears, until it was taken up by ten throats, then a hundred, all peppered with wonder and satisfaction and snide glee with each repetition.
Until Macnair and the other former Death Eater, whose name he still couldn't remember, had come forth with a "Get back, he's ours," and laid hands on him before he could do more than take a step backwards, pulling him forward even as Harry dug bare heels into the dirt floor and found himself dragged to a sizeable grouping of prisoners in one not-corner of the round room, where more faces were recognizable to him and in their midst, one silver-haired demon seated against the wall looked at him with eyes that widened then narrowed in the company of a smile, as Harry was brought to a halt before him.
Malfoy looked lean and hard and more resilient than the fucker had any right to. Foppish prig like him should have collapsed under the weight of two-plus years in Azkaban, been a hollow-gazed broken thing by the time Harry made this stopover within its walls. Of course, if fate had had any sense of karma Harry wouldn't be here at all.
Maybe he did deserve it. Dumbledore had said you made your own fate, prophecies be damned. Harry could have chosen not to cast that spell. Could have died in a martyred green halo of light at Voldemort's hands instead of returning the same spell and putting down a murderer and madman for good. No. He'd chosen. He'd chosen and sworn to himself he'd never second-guess it. He wasn't going to let himself do it here, that was certain.
"Yes, well, the accommodations are ample, we'll grant you," oozed Malfoy, allowing the pretense to go on, "though, I don't know, sometimes one longs for a little...coziness. I'm sure you'll come to see."
He saw. Right now Harry'd have given a year of his life to have a tiny cell and a set of bars between himself and the greater Death Eater population of the Wizarding World.
"Rodolphus has given us the entire thrilling narrative. How The Boy Who Lived denned the Dark Lord, with no outlet for retreat, and faced him down wand to wand. Rodolphus--" Rodolphus Lestrange, at Malfoy's elbow, shifted at the repetition of his name-- "saw the casting, heard Avada Kedavra from two throats and not just one. Rodolphus," Malfoy graced the man with a smile as though he were a fond pet, "is cleverer than Goyle, otherwise it might have been attributed to echoes in the room. But you did slay Voldemort, Potter. Slew him like a knight with a dragon, one fell blow, is that how you saw it?" Malfoy leaned forward, and the smile lingered. "Perhaps the authorities thought otherwise? Is that why you're among our rejected company? Did they see it as an assassin with a target, Potter?"
A soldier in wartime, Hermione had shrieked at Scrimgeour, when they led Harry away. He was fighting your war for you! Your soldier! And Remus had not tried to restrain her, and had had his own words for the minister--which had brought him within a hair from getting himself arrested as well as A Dark Creature Intent On Harm.
Harry imagined Ron would have been less eloquent but even more violent, had he not been in St. Mungo's at the time. Which was better, in the end. To have Ron shoved in here with him, because of him... Only...maybe it would have been useful, the two of them together facing down this lot. Ron would have said so.
He didn't answer Malfoy. Not to confirm his dig, not to protest that the arrangement was only until his trial. That last statement might likely prove fatal.
Malfoy stood. Harry was reminded of a greyhound stretching, impossibly lean lines unfolding as it prepared to leap. Macnair and the other one gripped his arms tighter as Malfoy set a finger beneath Harry's jaw and tipped his head back with that touch.
"They won't let you rot in here, though, will they?" Malfoy pitched his voice so that it seemed a murmur, but Harry knew it had been meant to carry to all near them. "Not their hero. Public outrage will have you pedestaled and laurel-wreathed within days." The finger touching Harry's jaw turned into the grip of Malfoy's entire hand. "We haven't much time."
Malfoy wanted him to say, Time for what? Harry expected, and so did not say it. Malfoy could make his own damn segue.
"Let me," said Macnair at his side, and Harry felt the grip on his arm turn to a pull, trying to tear him from the hold of the other one.
Malfoy raised a hand as gracefully as if he were Caesar in some gaudy spectacle. Macnair reacted to it as swiftly, too. "No, Walden. We'll not kill him. You don't really want them to put us into lockdown again, do you?" There were one or two snorts and headshakes at that. "When Orvitch killed Gress--before you came, Rodolphus--in the fight over that spotty youth we had in here, it was two weeks of that--no food but what we had hoarded, and they didn't even lock up the werewolves on the full moon. I don't think we want to invite that sort of treatment again, do we?" Malfoy turned Harry's face up as if contemplating the vulnerability of his bare throat. "Not when there are alternatives for which they won't bother to punish us."
"Let me go," Harry said, thinking that if he wasn't going to make the defiant show now, any later was going to be far too late.
"Where to, Mr. Potter?" Malfoy said softly. It was the way Malfoy lingered over the repetition of Mister that told Harry the banter was done at last, and he had to act.
He was too late anyway. Malfoy released his grip and stepped away in the same moment, and Harry found himself borne forward, the bare stones of the wall coming at him so quickly he had only time to turn his face to the side and avoid breaking his nose or teeth. Hands--he suspected Malfoy's--were side by side on the back of the collar of his robes, pulling, the collar tightening across his neck until the purr of tearing fabric heralded the opening of the robes down his back.
The tear was dragged down to the hem and Harry found himself pulled away from the wall, torn robes grabbed at the throat and wrested from his body in a snarl of material. They didn't push him against the wall again, however--Harry was facing Malfoy and the others, all staring at him in dark amusement or unimaginative hostility.
He twisted, unable to get free of either of the men holding him, trying to do something more useful with his arms than just shield his nakedness (though he wasn't able to do that either). Malfoy reached out a single finger again, set it upon his sternum this time and ran it downwards, until it reached his navel and further, down the trail of hair to his groin. "Really, Harry," Malfoy gloated, naming him familiarly for the first time, "someone in authority must have quite the score to settle with you. Azkaban hasn't seen anything this young and pretty since that nightingale flew in by mistake."
"What'd you do, kill and eat it?" Harry snarled. It wasn't as if he could make things better by pleading.
"Turn him, " said Malfoy, jerking his head, and Harry was turned, but not pushed against the wall this time. They forced him to his knees, arms jerked behind him. Harry felt fingers touch his spine, trail down it with the same skin-crawling intimacy. "What would you offer me, I wonder," Malfoy said in that similar murmur meant to carry, "if I promised you my protection while you are here--that I keep the others off you in return for your submission to me?"
Harry choked back the Eat me, Malfoy which was what he wanted to say; there were at least eight others in Malfoy's Death Eater circle, and there were no guarantees that his assailants--he couldn't think the other word--would be limited to just them, here in the prison. Horrible as it was to imagine, the most prudent choice would be to say yes. Even if Malfoy was lying, what did he have to lose by holding still for it?
The question was, how on earth did he think he could hold still for it.
He thought of an answer. "Not sure, Malfoy. Think you're man enough to satisfy me?" There. Let him take that for taunt or goad as he chose.
Malfoy's chuckle sounded surprised. Didn't tell Harry what answer Malfoy thought he'd given. Neither did his growl of, "Clever boy."
Then Malfoy's hands were parting his arsecheeks, one dry finger pushing at his anus. "Can I hope for a virgin?" Malfoy said in a singsong that brought more than one snigger from around them. "Impossible to tell, of course, but I suppose that's easily as good. What a tight little cunt of an arse you have." The finger shoved into him and Harry gasped, thinking he saw stars. This wasn't like sex. It was like being punched in the stomach, for all it had to do with sex.
The finger slid out of him. Malfoy's hand snaked over his shoulder, fingers pushing at Harry's mouth. "Suck, boy," he said. "Get them nice and wet. You'll want to."
"Eat me," he breathed. There was nothing he could do to hold it back.
"It will be all the lubrication you get, Potter," came the croon in his ear. "I suggest you comply."
Harry felt the fingers resting on his lips. He could bite. He could suck. He did neither. He hawked a great clot of phlegm into the back of his throat and spat it onto those hateful fingers.
There was more laughter, and Malfoy's was among it. "As you wish, then." The fingers withdrew, but only back to their former position, questing between his arsecheeks. Harry felt their slimed lengths press against his anus again, what felt like three of the fingers opening him, hurting him. A hand at the back of his head pushed him forward, made him bend at the hips so that his arse was better displayed. The pain of what Malfoy was doing was overtaken by Harry's mind's-eye image of what he had to look like, and, with a moan, he shut his eyes and shook his head as though to jar the image free.
Someone kicked his ankles apart. The image in his head grew worse and then did disappear, as if it was all the human mind could withstand without going mad and his mind had shut it down in a bid for protection. A hand--had to be Malfoy's--cupped his balls and gave the smallest squeeze and Harry's vision blurred, even as the grip stilled him, nearly had him limp in the hands holding him in position.
He could smell Malfoy, smell him above the rank animal and decay smell of the prison and everyone in it as Malfoy pressed closer to him, as he pulled the fabric of his own robes out of the way to bring his bare lower body in contact with Harry's. He wanted to curse him, wanted to say the filthiest insults he knew, but it was all he could do just to keep from being sick, to get his breath past the strangling constriction of panic in his throat.
The fingers shoving their way casually in and out of him left him then, and Malfoy pushed his hips and his cock up against Harry's arse. Malfoy's hand spread Harry's buttocks and lifted his cock into position against his arsehole in the same motion, but the shove came more from Malfoy's pelvis than his hand and Harry did scream; it was that or be sick. Malfoy had released Harry's balls; now he clutched at Harry's hips as he forced himself in deeper, Harry no longer limp but struggling against every grip, fighting to throw himself forward. It did no good. The hand on the back of his head pushed his face all the way to the floor, held him in place as Malfoy impaled him like something he was killing.
When a hand came to play with his prick, Harry was beyond screaming--not for something that trivial. The hand--from the angle, he couldn't tell if it had to be Malfoy's--rubbed at him, pressed a finger against the very base, then slid his foreskin back and kneaded the head of his cock, trying to tease him into hardness. Harry felt it happening but it was as if it belonged to someone else's body; he felt neither excitement nor betrayal for all that his prick was stiffening in another man's hand.
Malfoy withdrew an inch that Harry thought had pulled his insides free with it, and for that he did scream. The returning thrust seemed almost routine in comparison, and on the next motion in which Malfoy pulled out Harry tried to follow with his hips. He almost succeeded; Malfoy laughed as the move thwarted him, and placed a controlling hand at the base of Harry's spine, tugging himself nearly free as Harry yelled and fought, unable to take any part in the rhythm. As he pushed his cock deep into Harry again, Harry heard him say, "You'll get used to it, dear boy. Believe me, I'll make sure of it."
The motion became more smooth and Malfoy began to move faster. Harry did not get used to it. The pain of each withdrawal seemed to pull him to the brink of unconsciousness each time. The hand on his prick was something happening in another world, one that Harry couldn't be bothered with. There was laughter around him, there were mutterings, there were cheers of encouragement and demands for a place in line. None of it mattered except that Malfoy stop.
Something gathered in his belly and seemed to twist its way out of his cock and balls, leaving him the sense of release and nothing more. Had he come? Harry couldn't believe it; he thought it more likely he'd pissed himself. Whichever it was, it had no more significance than that to him.
Malfoy's rhythm was still faster now, the thrusts short and--Harry realized with vague surprise--perceptibly more bearable. Somewhere in all the noise he recognized Malfoy's gasping, heard his grunt of satisfaction as the thrusting stilled and something wet filled his insides, something that had no power to sicken him any further than he already had been. It had stopped. Only for the moment--Harry did not try to delude himself--but it had stopped.
Perhaps if he begged to suck Malfoy's cock, Malfoy might make the offer again.
Perhaps if Malfoy let him suck it, Harry could get in one crippling bite.
Malfoy's cock had softened and the withdrawal was marginally easier because of it. As Malfoy stood up behind him, Harry wondered if they'd let him up at all or if another would simply drop into place and take his turn. He got his answer when the hand on the back of his head fisted in his hair and yanked his face up.
Malfoy had come around before him, staring down and grinning, as if to ask which shall it be.
"Oh, but...Minister, surely this should be expedited; you said yourself it was merely a formality--"
"I have every intention of scheduling Mr. Potter's trial at the earliest convenience. We are, however, in the middle of a holiday week--"
"Let me finish, Percival. I cannot think the Wizengamot will be favorably inclined towards Mr. Potter if I drag them back prematurely for an emergency session, and I won't risk their ill humor jeopardizing the trial or the outcome. I want Potter exonerated as much as the public does--for the sake of their good will towards me even more than for Potter's noble intentions, I tell you that quite candidly."
"I shall notify the Wizengamot that Mr. Potter's trial--mercifully brief and outcome not in doubt, I trust--will take place the day after our regular sessions resume."
"That's...that's five days away, Minister. With Potter in Azkaban. I respectfully must insist--"
"That will be all, Mr. Weasley."