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<lj user[Jul. 23rd, 2007|07:20 am]

Title - Secrets of a Misspent Youth
Author - [info]softly_sweetly
Beta - the peerless [info]potion_lady -
Rating - NC17
Word Count - ~3350
Summary - Draco looks back on his life with his father.
Characters/Pairings - Lucius/Draco
Warnings - Highlight for warnings *Adult Language, Slash, Sex, Incest, First!Person, Figging, Under 18, Bondage, Wax Play, Spanking, Character Death, Flangst*
Disclaimer - I own nothing but the plot lines. I make no money from this, and mean no offence by any scene depicted within this story.
Author's Notes - Told using the prompts from my [info]10_themes table, which can be found here.


I still remember the first time I felt the bond between us. I'd found him shouting at a House Elf – the creature had knocked something over, shattering glass all over the carpet. I was only young, maybe five or six, and I'd never heard him shout like that before. I was scared, and I walked into the room to try and ask him to stop.

As soon as he heard me, he stopped shouting and spun around, immediately ignoring the House Elf and rushing to me. His boots were crunching on the jagged glass as he leant down and swept me into his arms, ensuring I didn't hurt myself, while he left the House Elf to clean up the mess.

He took me back to his office, making room for me in his private sanctuary. He made sure I was settled and comfortable on his lap, and pressed a gentle kiss to my temple before he picked up his quill and resumed amending whatever decree had come to him. With me, he was always out of character, always patient and accommodating, but this felt different. I knew then that he was something more than my Sire.


Sometimes we'd sit in companionable silence – him working while I played with toys or watched the sky out of the windows – and sometimes he'd talk to me. He'd teach me things about our world, about my heritage, and he'd tell me fantastic stories. I loved it; just the lilt of his voice, the way it was smooth and deep and clear and warm…I never heard him use that tone with anyone else, only with me.

I was happy, but then everything changed.

My eleventh birthday came around, and while the presents were fantastic, it was the extra time I got to spend with him, playing on my new broom, that made the day. The summer was long, hot and glorious, but then September came and my world as I knew it ended.

I'd always known that I'd be off to Hogwarts, but suddenly it didn't seem so exciting. Suddenly it hit home that I'd be away from him, and I was devastated. He was everything that I loved and everything that I held dear. The thought of being separated from him broke my heart, and everyone noticed as I receded into myself.

The morning of September 1st he asked me to come to his study. He dropped to his knees in front of me, putting us at eye-level, and I came undone. Even as my cheeks heated with shame the tears fell, streaming down my cheeks in rivers of hurt. His hands came up to cup my face, thumbs stroking over my wet cheeks, smoothing away the tears and the shame.

"It is time for you to grow up, Draco, and to become a young man. But I will always be here, whenever and however you need me."

When I looked in his eyes, I was consumed by his truth.


That first term was the hardest; trying to find a place for myself in amongst all the other people. Dealing with Saint Potter and his public refusal of my friendship. I hated him for a long time because of that, and perhaps things would have been different if I had never offered my hand, never put myself on the line. That's the funny thing though…it was the first time I put myself on the line for Potter, but not the last.

There were other things too, stresses and changes that shook up my carefully crafted world and forced me to reinvent myself as the ideal Malfoy – to be what everyone expected me to be. Sometimes I even believed the hype myself. But as winter drew in my demeanour changed, and I knew that when I returned home, he would help me find myself again.

Mother was waiting on the front steps, wrapped in four dozen dead rats – or a Mink coat as she would chide me when I teased her – and smiling down at me. As childish as it was, I still ran to her, throwing my arms around her and breathing in her sweet smell. Even now, I can still remember the exact scent of her; perfume and lotions and her own natural scent. She held me close, whispering that she'd missed me, that she'd be spoiling me rotten while I was at home. And then she drew back, smiling and telling me, 'He's in his study, he's waiting for you.'

I've always wondered if she knew, even then, when I was still oblivious, where Father and I would end up. If she did know, she accepted it and allowed us our room to grow together. I wish I could ask her, wish I had asked her at the time. But I didn't, and her life was taken as payment for my sins, leaving me no time to ever tell her how much she meant to me…

But then, as now, my attention was taken by the thought of him. I ran through the corridors, skidding to a halt by the closed door and quickly composing myself before I knocked. His deep voice inviting me in sounded so foreign, and yet so like home. Stepping in to the warm office, I walked over, suddenly shy. Would the relentless enthusiasm of youth still hold fast? Did I need to behave more like an adult?

My silent questions were answered when he crossed the study, closing the door with a flick of his wand and swinging me up into the air. I was a delicate child…I am a delicate man…and he lifted me with ease, swinging me in a full circle and making me squeal with joy before he pulled me close, voice catching as he whispered softly to me.

"I have missed you, my beautiful boy."

His words, his touch, they soothed the ache that had gnawed at me for months. They made everything okay again, and I buried my face in his neck to inhale his scent, letting the sense of calm and rightness wash through me. I was home.


The transition from father and son to lovers was smooth and easy. I wasn't stupid or naïve. I didn't think that all boys felt that way about their fathers. But that didn't change the way I felt. I wish I could remember how it all started, the turning point, but I can't. There wasn't a moment, a sudden realisation that we should start an incestuous affair; it just happened. Touches became more frequent, kisses moved closer to lips, and before either of us really registered it we were together all the time, stealing glances at each other.

I remember our first proper kiss though; remember the glide of his tongue over my lips, my own tongue sliding out to meet his. His fingers were around the back of my neck, stroking the skin softly as our lips moved in harmony.

It was perfect, and it was only the beginning.


Of course, as soon as we became lovers leaving him each term became so much harder. I had my memories and my imagination, and I'd replay treasured moments over and over as I stroked myself to completion. Regular letters, written in a code only he and I understood, kept me sane. On the surface, they were updates on life at the Manor or at school. But beneath the code they were dirty words and promises, explicit retellings of our fantasies and plans for when we were together again. He'd send me Honeydukes finest, telling me in the letter to let it melt on my fingers, to suck them clean to keep my mouth talented.

I still have them, all the old letters. They are some of my most treasured possessions. I'd hold him to the promises within them over the vacations, demanding he and I enact every fantasy and anything else I'd thought up but not committed to parchment. As each term drew to a close and I got nearer to going home to him, the itching would start; the irritating sensations below my skin that could only be soothed by his touch. The aching in my arse as I clenched and unclenched beneath my robes, desperate to have him filling me again.

People wondered why I was always so skittish in the last week of term, but they all put it down to excitement at school ending. Not one of them knew it was because I'd start to deny myself. No wanking, no exploratory fingers, no sexual release of any kind. That way, when I returned home and went to his study I was practically begging him for release. Being fifteen and not wanking for a week…well, it's a big deal.

I'd strip my robes off almost immediately, but sometimes he'd make me wait. One memory that sticks out is when he bent me over the desk, binding me so that I could find no friction for my aching cock. My head rested by the smooth pad he wrote on, and he sat and wrote out letters to relatives for nearly an hour while I was bound to the desk, his cane stuck in my arse, the weight of the snake-head tip hanging out of my body serving to push the rounded end that was inside me into my prostate. He used a spell to randomly move the cane.

Gods, I loved that cane.


He had it custom made for me, and I loved it. A beautiful flogger, made of the finest silk, designed not to perform any flogging, but to tease and arouse. Silky soft strands caressing my skin as his mouth worked wonders – that was my undoing. It danced across my pale skin, a light touch that tickled my senses and aroused me beyond belief.

He knew what it did to me, because as he sucked kisses along every vertebra on my back, he made sure the long strands brushed over my cleft, teasing my spasming hole into a frenzy. I came again and again, my screams deafening in my mind but muffled in the room by the ball in my mouth. Over and over again the strands kissed my skin, and over and over again I spasmed with ecstasy.

It was so good, being told to keep my hands wrapped around the headboard or he'd stop, but though he had others made – the finest silks and furs – nothing was ever as soft as the kiss he pressed to my temple before I fell asleep

Nothing ever could be.


"Oh fucking Merlin, take it out!"

So many times I’ve woken with those pleas ringing in my ears, my arse clenching violently and my prick hard and leaking between the sheets. The evil smile, the promise that 'This will be a Christmas present you remember forever', should have alerted me to his devious plan. But, like a lamb to the slaughter, I followed him happily to our secret playroom, smiled sweetly when he tied me up, raised no objection when he told me we were trying something new, and the safe word was 'apples' if I needed it.

I didn't though. It's hard to explain ginger to people who haven't tried it. The cool burn, the stinging ache in your body, the pain of the spicy root as it leaks its juices into your most sensitive areas. It hurts, but Merlin it feels so good. He allowed me time to fully feel the burn before he produced the paddle. Every time he spanked me with it, I clenched my arse. And every time I clenched my arse, the burning intensified. It was an inescapable cycle, and I loved it.

It was the dangerous little sliver of pale ginger root that brought me the most sensation. Slipped inside my leaking slit, he wanked me slowly as I screamed, my cock on fire while I begged and pleaded for him to remove them. He was stood behind me as he stroked me, his voice a succulent purr as he whispered to me.

"Imagine that burn Draco…imagine it further inside you. Gods, but I wish I could get the root further in. I want to drench your prostate in these juices, cover the sensitive little nub and watch you scream. Can you imagine it, Draco, the burning pain? Would you stop me, if I did that would you say the word to end it?"

I clenched my arse harder, screaming louder as the cool burn flared. He whipped the ginger out then, stroking me furiously until I came in great, screaming jets, staining the floor as he kept up the litany of dirty words in my ears.

Ginger is still one of those things that I dread until I'm there, with it buried inside of me. I wouldn't have used the safe word for all the tea in China.


After my positive reaction to ginger, things got a little kinkier. We'd played with wax before – white pillar candles where the anticipation and the shock were a thousand times worse than the actual burn. But then we moved up. He'd bought some candles with added stearine, and they burned hotter than the candles we'd used before. He had them in a variety of colours, getting me accustomed to each one before we finally used them all together.

The burn was enough to make my eyes water, but not to mark me for more than a few hours, a day at most. Those times when we played were so intense, and just the thought of them now can have me coming without a touch. It was the anticipation, I think, that aroused me most.

The sessions always started the same; he'd cast hair removal charms all over my body, except my pubic area. That he did manually, and he never gave me even a scratch. When my body was smooth and hairless he'd set the wax to warm, moving to kiss and caress me and generally ensure I was all right before we started.

He always made sure the wax was the perfect temperature; hot without being burning. Then he'd decorate me, adding colour to my pale skin and reducing me to nothing more than his willing canvas. He'd take pictures of his finished work and give them to me – I still have them safe with the letters. Then came the clean up – the sharpest, pure silver knife I've ever seen, gliding over my skin and removing the wax easily. When I was clean I'd look down my body at the alabaster skin blotched with red.

I always felt beautiful when we did that.


I know he wasn't a good man, not to everyone else. I know he was a Death Eater and that he meant every word he said. But that didn't stop me loving him. That didn't stop me craving him and needing him, and it didn't stop me falling apart when he was imprisoned. I missed him, and it destroyed me on the inside and out.

I used my name to get in to Azkaban and get a meeting room where we wouldn't be watched or listened to. The sex then was fast and hard, up against a wall with the cold stone biting into my back. He made me promise to get out and save myself. That proved his love for me more than anything else; he believed in the Dark Lord, but he was warning me off. He loved me enough to tell me not to be like him.

I ignored him, of course, and got myself into more shit than I could get out of. It cost my mother her life, cost me countless nights of torture, but gave me an opening. I worked both sides, feeding information to the Light. The Dark Lord punished me, but he did not cast me out, and I was able to help the Light fight the war. He helped Father escape from Azkaban, and though I begged and pleaded, Father stayed true to his beliefs.

Things were difficult then; there was no time or space for luxurious afternoons exploring each other. But we still met, and we still had sex, albeit roughly and usually against some kind of vertical surface, fast and furious with choked words of devotion passed between us. It was one such occasion, when the slimy door of the toilets of a seedy club was sliding against my back, that he slipped a package into my pocket. There were tears in his eyes when he kissed me goodbye, and they spilt down his cheeks when he told me he loved me, and always would.


So now I stand here, and I look down at the headstone with tears streaming down my cheeks. I can't hate him for refusing to join the Light. He knew that I did not believe in Voldemort, and he proved his love for me when he let me go. But he did believe and he stayed true to his beliefs, to the promises he had made when he took the Mark. I loved him for his loyalty; I just wish he'd been loyal to a different side.

Of course Potter won the war, and of course Voldemort died. Father died too, killed by a curse hurled at the "Traitorous Malfoy brat!". That shocked everyone – it wasn't quite defiance of his Master, but it was close. That brief second of stunned silence was enough for Potter to drive a stake through the bastard's heart, screaming incantations and rites to destroy the evil that Voldemort was.

I think Potter knew…I think he could see it in my body as I crumpled to the ground. He didn’t say anything, he never has, but he held me like he knew as I screamed out my grief.

That pain begins to consume me again, and I drop to my knees over his grave before I collapse. Hands flat on the ground, I feel the gritty earth beneath my palms, remember it sifting through my fingers as they buried him and I said my goodbyes. I don't know how Potter got my father a funeral when all other Death Eaters were cremated and then dumped in the North Sea, but I'm grateful he did. It means that while everyone else is celebrating the tenth anniversary of the end of the war, I can come here and be with my father.

I was so lost without him, he was my guiding light and when he went out I wished I could too. But instead I fought, living my life as a dedication to him. I think he'd approve of my relationship with Severus…I hope he would at least. Severus knows and understands everything, and he accepts my continued love for my father.

Though it hurts now, though it still hurts intermittently even a decade later, I've reached the point where for the most part I can look back on my father, on my memories of him, and smile.
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