Fic: Liberalia (LM/DM)

[carolinelamb.livejournal.com]

Title: Liberalia
Author: carolinelamb
Prompt Number: 16 submitted by eevilalice
Kink Showcased: Incest
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy
Summary: For centuries the men of the Malfoy family have been honouring Liber, the Roman god of male fertility. They sometimes forget that Liber also means liberation.
Warnings: Incest, invented Roman history
Word Count: ~18.200
Disclaimer The Harry Potter universe is in its entirety the property of JK Rowling and her affiliates. I, the author make no profit.
Author's Notes: I apologise for the lateness of this, and for the length. Brevity obviously is not amongst my talents.

I want to add a special Thank You for the great mods! Thank you for being so patient and corteous with me! I really appreciate this!

I owe also a special Thank you to my betas starduchess and azure_rosa who beta'ed this in lightning speed for me, scolded me only a bit for my random commas! Also Thank You to schemingreader who helped me find my way through this story.

Part I



Part II

Outside thick, wet clumps of snow are falling, hurtling down from a grey paper sky. I have been watching the small rectangle of the window for two hours now. The first flakes that got stuck on the glass melted away, but now a powdery, white layer of snow is building up on the windowsill.

I am lying beside my father. He is fast asleep like a child. He looks very young and vulnerable. His skin smells of his tiredness, the sadness in his soul. Sometimes he murmurs something, and then I turn and watch the play of muscles in his face. How the thin, purplish eyelids twitch, or the little crease around his mouth deepens.

When I have reason to believe he has bad dreams (he vehemently denies having nightmares), I caress his temples. He doesn’t scream, but he grinds his teeth and clutches the bed sheets. I usually stroke his clenched jaw and he stops.

We have days where we simply forget; it’s easier than you might think. Just close your eyes and give in, really. Peace can be found, even for the likes of us. Even though we both know we don’t deserve happiness, we take it when we find it, with both hands, greedily, as if we might never be able to find it again. And we might not, you know?

Like in many other relationships we have good days and we have bad days.

On good days he talks a lot, like he used to when he was younger, with nearly the same urgency, the same fire. He is filled with energy, a strange youthfulness. At those times he smiles a lot, makes witty remarks and is almost mischievous.

I never interrupt at these occasions. These moments are too precious. I want him to be happy again, and the fact that I am in love with him seems to sadden him, so on these days I don’t remind him that I am his lover. On these days I am simply his son.

There are bad days, too. I can tell the moment he opens his eyes. He doesn’t yawn or stretch or shift. His eyes just snap open, and he stares at the ceiling, and I always wonder if he has been awake the whole time, pretending to be asleep. On bad days he simply lies there, and if it would not be for me, he might not even get up.

Once, in the beginning, when we moved into this flat, I asked him how I could make it better.

Buying time is what we are doing, said my father then, as if he hadn’t heard me. Then he sat at the window and looked down upon the bustling, narrow streets of Nice, his fingers splayed against the cold glass.

I usually get up earlier than him and get dressed silently and quickly. I don’t want him to wake up. Often I lay out my clothing the night before – the shoes with their tips pointed at the door, the jacket over the chair – so I am as silent as possible. Then I walk down barefoot, the shoes in my hand, flight after flight, and only before I reach that big oak entrance door do I set them down and slip into them.

I go to the bakery and buy baguettes, then a couple of spinach foccachias, yoghurt and butter milk, and I buy papers, the English ones for him, the French ones for me. He speaks French, but those papers remind him that he is not in England, and I don’t want that. So I go to the other kiosk that is actually farther away from our flat and buy the English ones. I don’t mind. It’s a nice walk.

Between seven thirty and seven forty-five I am back.

On good days he is still asleep, and I dare to undress and slip back into bed and embrace him from behind. It fills me with happiness to press myself against his sleep-warm body. On some days he even smiles before he wakes up, and then I cannot resist and kiss him, kiss the stubbled jaw, the soft skin behind his ear – still warm and a little damp from sleep – his forearm that is thrown over his face.

On good days the sun shines into the room, floods the bed sheets with buttery soft light, and the world is beautiful and whole like a ripe, sweet orange. On these days Lucius isn’t afraid to simply be Lucius, and he doesn’t pull his hand away when I entwine my fingers with his. I feel not everything is lost on these days.

Today though might be a bad day. When I return, Lucius already sits at the table, cleaning cutlery with a cloth. He is not obsessed with cleanliness, but for some reasons he likes to clean the silver. In the old days it used to be done by our elves, with mother always watching over them like a hawk. He never says anything, but I know he thinks of her when he is tampering with the silver. I think it’s a silent bid for forgiveness. He polishes and scrubs until the last trace of oxidisation is gone.

Before Azkaban he used to hold himself straight, and when he spoke he used to lift his chin in an imperious way, as if he was addressing a whole audience, a room of breathless listeners. Mother used to laugh and say he even did that when he was a child, talking to his stuffed animals.

Well, after Azkaban he began to mumble, to speak with his eyes downcast, his fingers shaking, always searching for the stem of his wine glass. He stopped looking people in the eye. I recall he even couldn’t look at the elves.

He assumed the habits of an old man.

After the war he seemed to recover a little. The improvements were barely noticeable but there nonetheless: a smile here, a little gesture there. Narcissa and I still hoped he would revert enough to his old form to be able to get through the trials, but our hopes were in vain. Some things never returned. The arrogance in his stance was gone forever; the self confidence in his gaze was lost.

After the Wizengamot was through with us, all that had remained from the famous Malfoy fortune consisted of the Manor itself and 50.000 Wizarding galleons.

Our magic was taken. He had of course foreseen it. I hoped until the end stubbornly it was all a tactic to scare us, but it was too clear that people wanted to see him suffer for the crimes he had committed during the wars. To have his magic ripped from him seemed just and fair to many of his former victims or their survivors.

Many of the former Death Eaters were sent to Azkaban, so I guess Lucius was well, comparatively lucky. Potter testified for both of us but could not bring himself to fight Lucius’ sentence. If I were Potter, I would probably do the same. The war has taught me many things. One of them is to put myself in the shoes of someone else, a rudimentary understanding of how other people’s psyche works. Sometimes I think back to the boy I have been, the things I did and said, and can’t quite believe that I was that person.

Which is why I understand first, even before my mother does, why my father won’t ever be again the man she married.

* * * * *

I can remember the day Father left us. It was a grey November morning, and the earth seemed frozen. The fog was so thick that we couldn’t see the gates. Then Think, our last remaining elf, cast a spell, and the fog cleared a little, and I could see my father, wearing a dark grey cloak, opening the gates. Without magic it was hard to unlock them, and I saw him struggling with the heavy chains.

I ran down the stairs. Mother was in the hall, and I pushed her roughly aside. The big oak doors were open, and I ran down the path.

“No!” I screamed. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go.”

The gates fell open with a loud creak. Just before I reached him, he stepped through and pulled the gates shut and locked the chains again.

I rattled uselessly at the gates.

“Everything I possess is now yours, Draco,” he said. “It’s not much anymore, but you and Narcissa can manage.”

“Please, Father!” I sobbed. “I promise, I’ll be good …”

“You’re so much better already than I will ever be,” my father whispered. “It’s better for all of us! You will be forgiven. You can restore our good name, but you can’t accomplish this with me still being here.”

“I don’t care about the family name!” I roared. I hammered against the gates. “Don’t do this! We will find a way, but we need to be together. I need you.”

Lucius smiled at me. “I love you,” he said. Then he walked away.

* * * * *

“Let’s have breakfast,” I tell my father. I don’t like the slightly unfocused way he looks up at me, as if in the first moment he can’t remember who I am or where he is. It makes him look so much older, so much more frail, and I overcome my discomfort in being brusque and cheerful at the same time. I won’t indulge his melancholic phases.

I turn the radio on, letting the silly music and voices of disgustingly chirpy moderators fill our kitchen, and begin bustling about with plates and glasses. Father likes the radio, the Muggle radio. We both like noise. Our days are filled with too much silence as it is.

Father likes Nice, but he misses England. I suspect on some days he misses Voldemort. I know you can’t fathom it. Or maybe you can.

The past is always easier. Our present scares him. He moves like a blind man, without any orientation. In the past he had a destination, a place to go, a goal to pursue; these things have been taken from him.

We don’t talk much about the past, as you might have guessed. Instead of talking we make frantic love. We fill the nights with sex. We stroke and caress each other; we bite and lick and suck. We don’t talk much.

Of course, he says that once I am as old as he is I will understand. Does he think I don’t know how comforting the past can be? Just because I am young? I know how it feels, to be afraid and distrustful of the future.

When I was a child, I was full of certainty that my life would be wonderful, that I would be always loved and cared for. Then one night I was told to kill another man, and since then I have never been that child. That night I learned to fear the future and mourn the past.

Sometimes I do talk about the past though. Mostly about those days when Voldemort was in our house and took his wand, and the last hours of the battle, when he and my mother were looking for me in the castle and I could hear them calling my name. I answered them, and finally they heard me and came running down the corridors. I could see my father’s face, stricken with fear, then relief. I had never seen so much emotion on my father's face. He pressed me against him, and then we sank onto our knees, both of us, and I heard him sobbing. His fingers carded through my hair, and I could hear his frantic heart beat, and for the first time in my life, I was at peace.

He pressed kisses on my face, the way only my mother used to do, and rocked back and forth on his knees holding me tight.

In the nights when we lie beside each other, I often tell him again how happy this made me: to feel the warmth of his embrace, to feel that he had forgiven me. I tell him that this memory was the only thing that kept me going after he had left. It helped me not to give up, to continue looking for him. Then he moves closer and presses me against him, and in these little moments my heart bursts with happiness. It’s for this brief moment I live. I don’t regret anything I did, anything that happened. If everything bad had to happen to me to lead to this single moment, I don’t regret it. I would cry, but I don’t want to worry my father, and so I bury my face in his chest.

What I don’t tell him is how that day after the battle in the Great Hall I could feel my mother looking at us, my hand in Lucius’ hand, my thumb caressing his knuckles. She saw, but said nothing. I looked back at her, because I felt I owed it to her. I pleaded with her with my eyes, and she smiled, but I could see tears running down her face.

I regard this as the day I was really born, the day I finally understood my purpose. I felt that on this day my past finally fell away from me. No, that sounds a bit wrong. I am still very much composed of my past. But what I mean is that I once wanted, like many children, to become like my father. Does not every child dream of these things? Isn’t that what drives most of us, maybe our whole life? The father’s approval?

I did think so. I didn’t want to disappoint. I always wanted to become a Death Eater, because it would make my father proud. I wanted him to come home from Azkaban and be proud of me. But when he learned that I had taken the Mark, he nearly crumbled. Only after horrifying moments of naked panic, sheer terror and sadness, he composed himself and congratulated me. It was then that I really learned that doing what my father did, trying to follow him, did not make him happy or proud of me.

During our time at the Manor, with nowhere else to go, with Voldemort in the house, I finally got to know my father. He was not that young, strong man anymore, filled up to the brim with grand illusions and dreams. I should have despised him like the others did, but I felt closer to him than ever. The man he had been before the war might not have been able to ever love me the way I wanted him to love me. But then in those dark, hopeless days, I sensed he needed me. He needed someone to be in love with him. My mother was not in love with him. She loved him, as much as she could, and she was brave and loyal, but she wasn’t in love with him.

On that last day of the battle when we were in each others arms, I finally knew what he needed. He needed someone to believe in him. He needed someone to be there for him, to mend him. He needed someone to fill the hollow places in his heart. And I knew then that I could be the one.

“René called and said your books arrived,” I tell him, while I cook eggs. “We could go and pick them up.” I pour a dash of white wine into the eggs, and they hiss, so my father’s answer goes unheard. He stands, then I hear him walking down the hallway, into the bedroom where he rummages for a cardigan or a jacket. He freezes easily. It’s not easy to live in a French apartment without Warming charms.

When he comes back, he is wrapped in an old school cloak of mine. I don’t know why it annoys me but it does, and I go back to look for something else. I don’t like him wearing my discarded clothes, the hem’s too short, the wool thin and the shape worn out. I bought him a perfect black sweater a month ago, made from finest cashmere. He doesn’t resist when I pull the cloak off him.

“I am not an invalid,” he says bemused.

I sink down onto my knees beside his chair and put my head into his lap. Like always he hesitates before he touches me. He doesn’t know, but I always count the seconds in between.

Three seconds on good days. Ten seconds on bad days.

When we moved into this flat shortly after my mother’s death, I used to make the mistake of getting up and leaving the room after counting to ten. It meant that my father was in a melancholic mood or burdened by guilt. I thought it best to leave him to his moods.

Now I simply wait it out. And if after fifteen seconds he still doesn’t touch me, I touch him. I begin rubbing my face on the thin cotton fabric of his pyjamas, until I can feel him harden. That takes time. He isn’t young anymore, he apologises. So I pull down the waistband, slowly caress the marks that the elastic made on his skin, and then begin to lick his cock.

Although I like it when he looks at me, he rarely does. Mostly his hands are balled into fists, and his head is thrown back. He begins to tremble. I think that is a very unique trait of his. I don’t know many men who really tremble when they are aroused. I push his thighs apart. They are still the strongest, most muscular part of his body, although he stopped fencing and riding years ago. The muscles twitch a little. His flesh is cool. The hair on his legs is a little darker. He lifts his hips when I pull his trousers down. His cock is half-hard, still hesitant and a bit sleepy perhaps. Then I lick at the foreskin, the sensitive gland, and it becomes harder in my mouth.

I know what you’re thinking. You are thinking, “He is sucking his father’s cock.” And you’re quite right.

Above me, he begins to breathe more harshly. He never says anything. I would like him to tell me that he likes it. I can imagine his voice, whispering filthy encouragements, but he never does. He bites his lips, turns his head away, as if he can’t bear it. Maybe he can’t.

His hands settle on my shoulders. When that happens, I adjust my position, using his thighs to steady myself. I caress his balls with one hand while I swallow him and he loses himself. He arches off the chair; he moans; he cries out, defeated, unable to not feel pleasure, yet still mournful. With a saliva-slicked finger I push into the skin behind his balls.

My own erection is nearly painful at this point.

Before he comes, his grip on my shoulder becomes tighter, and he gently pushes me away. I look up at him, will him to look at me – open-mouthed, rapt, full of desire. He always avoids my gaze, but he gracefully pulls me to my feet and sits me down on the chair.

I know him too well to object.

He unzips my trousers and pulls them down with my pants and immediately begins to suck my cock. I don’t look away. I used to feel guilt, but now I even rake back his hair so I can see his face, so I can watch his lips around my cock, the way he so lovingly licks at my frenulum, sigh when he sucks the head.

These days I don’t bother with guilt. I wonder if my father notices it.

I cant my hips, moan as loud as I can, and when I yell something – something silly, I guess – I can see him even smile slightly around my cock. Soon he rubs my arsehole with a skilled, knowing finger, and I clench impatiently.

He pulls me closer to his face, then hoists me up a bit, and I grab the wooden seat of the chair and lift my legs while spreading them. I want him to see how much I want this.

“You look obscene,” he whispers. He stares at my hole, entranced.

“Mmh,” I agree, then sigh when he begins to lick me, circle my hole with his tongue. I love how wet it feels; I love his hot breath on my skin, to feel him drown in his desire.

I feel as if I only really exist in these moments.

I always force him to come with me. Sometimes he makes me come earlier, but then refuses to touch himself. It’s his way of trying to tell himself that he doesn’t want this, that he could stop this. Or that he is less guilty when he doesn’t orgasm.

I, on the other hand, want him to accept what we are. We are father and son, and we are lovers. It doesn’t matter if we chose this, or if we had no choice.

I often beg him to fuck me. “Put your cock inside me,” I say. “You want it, don’t you?”

He grinds himself on my leg or strokes his cock. It’s a compromise. It’s as far as he goes. But I always wish he would fuck me, take me, bury his hard cock inside me.

Lucius begins to fuck my hole with his tongue and then comes up to swallow my cock again, and right before I come, he slides a wet, long finger inside me and presses against that point where I lose all control and then I —

“Father!”

He gasps. “Draco!”

Oh, I love this. I love how he shudders, how his fingers dig into my skin, how he succumbs to the sweetness of the little death, how he finally lets go. In this one, tiny, unguarded moment I can see his love in his eyes.

Then I come, too, with a shout that reverberates from the kitchen walls and the tiles.

His come is thicker, whiter than mine. I can feel it on my trouser leg. In a moment I see his face go slack with pleasure, the eyes heavy lidded. His lips touch the white skin of my stomach. His eyebrows are drawn together. He sighs, and I feel him swallowing every drop.

Lucius rests his head against my knees. With one hand he caresses my hip.

He stands up, dishevelled, his cheeks still flushed, sweaty, with heavy and slow movements. “In my age I shouldn’t overexert myself,” he jokes.

I smile at him, because I want him to smile. Have you ever done that, too? Smile at other people so they smile back at you? He kisses me almost too gently, as if I am fragile. I want him to see how strong I can be.

“You …” he says but trails off, uncertain. I won’t stop smiling. I won’t let him see my own doubts. It’s enough that he suffers his own.

“Would you like to tell me how good I look?” I ask. “Or how perfect I am?”

He smiles against his will and shakes his head, bemused. There are slight shadows under his eyes.

“You should,” I continue, pretending to preen. “I am. I can’t help it.”

He smiles more, then pulls me up and shoves me into the bath room.

I have to hurry now, so I shower very fast, with scalding hot water that turns my skin pink, then put on my suit and leave to work.

* * * * *

By now you have surely guessed that we live Muggle lives. Of course we could have stayed in the Wizarding world. I know of some former Death Eaters who have, and I understand their reasons. To be honest, if it weren’t for my father I would have stayed as well. It is hard to leave the known, the familiar, no matter how unsuitable it has become.

Father has adjusted well. He never complains much, not as much as I do because he isn’t the one who works. I won’t allow it anyway. Where would he work? With his credentials he wouldn’t find a job anyway. Then there is the issue of his age. For Muggles he looks no older than thirty-five. His papers though tell everyone that he is in fact nearly fifty. Fortunately, Father doesn’t challenge me on this.

When I began working, I got a nine to five office job. The company is small, and at times it gets hectic. At the beginning I worked in administration – payroll and such – and was responsible for the more or less secretarial duties like fetching coffee, organising meetings, answering the phone. It was maybe a little boring, but at least I got home at 5.20pm in time to have tea with my father.

Lately though, I have been asked to take over some of the smaller projects that require me to talk to clients, write concepts, plan a budget, compile a task list, and so on. I got a pay raise, and last month my boss hinted that he wanted me to build up to an account manager.

In my lunch break I called my father and told him the news, and he was even more excited than I.

That night a bottle of excellent red wine and two crystal glasses awaited me when I got home. We talked and laughed half the night, and the other half we made slow, languid love. He was so pleased because he saw for the first time that I really could survive in the new world he told me. He had been afraid that I would lose the fight and go down, but instead I thrived.

The downside of my new position is that I get home late in the nights. I sometimes cannot call him, because I have to take lunch with my clients. There is so much to learn, and it’s a small mercy that the memories of magic seem to slip away.

I still sneak out of the office and call him now and then, just to make sure he is still here and he is alright, but it gets harder.

He always picks up, at the first ring, as if he’s waiting beside the phone. I need these random little conversations. They give our life a much needed aspect of normalcy. We talk about things he read in the news, we remind each other of our chores and tasks, he asks me about my projects and work. I love how much my father sometimes tells me.

Every time I talk to him I tell him that I love him. I can’t help it. The words fall out of me, every time, although I don’t even know if he wants to hear them. He always says, I love you, too. He never hesitates, he never pauses, but it never sounds … I don’t know. I might imagine it, but I think he says it because he thinks I need to hear it. But I don’t. I don’t want him to tell me he loves me to make me feel good, or because he doesn’t want to hurt me. Well, I don’t know.

I only know, I need to say it. Every time.

I know you think I need him too much. But, you see, when I was a child, I never had him. He was never there. There were numerous reasons for that: my mother being in love with Marco, an Italian (whom I consider as my real father, because I spent my early childhood in his house in Tuscany), the chaos after Voldemort’s disappearance, and Narcissa's and Lucius’ determination to keep me safe as long as possible.

For the longest time my father was merely a benevolent visitor, someone who came by every few months, laden with gifts. To me he was a beautiful, somewhat mysterious stranger.

Before my father came to see me, my mother bathed, combed and dressed me up in the most uncomfortable velvet robes she could find. I looked like a mixture of a sailor and a lace curtain. But my father was always immensely pleased, lifted me up and enveloped me in a warm, fragrant embrace.

Then he was gone again, and the only thing I had from him were his gifts: clothes, toys and sometimes photographs. Every week he sent letters which Marco read to me.

Only when it was time to go to Hogwarts did Mother and I move back into the Manor.

You know the rest, of course. I spent the whole year at Hogwarts. I came home at Yuletide and in the summers. So, even after our return to England, I didn’t see my father often.

What I want to say perhaps is that I am not in love with my father. Because my father is Marco. And Lucius … I never felt the same kind of love I felt for Marco and Narcissa towards him.

You of course might say that this is my way of closing my eyes to the wrongness of our love.

While I am at work my father reads the newspapers. At noon he cleans the dishes, prepares himself a light lunch. Afterward he likes to go for his walks. Every day he tells me where he goes. I warn him of the dangerous areas in Nice. He doesn’t like that, of course, because I sound like my mother. He has a tendency to be careless.

I am toying with the thought of learning to drive and buying a small car. There were times when I had to go off and look for him, and it was bothersome to argue with the cab driver. My French isn’t good enough to really argue with them. With my own car I could just drive to the spots my father is most likely to sit around.

I make it a habit to walk past the two or three most frequent spots when I go home, so I can find him. And I do, at least once a week. He would forget dinner if it were not for me.

One favourite spot is the beach, a small cafe at the Promenade. He doesn’t go to the beach in summer, only in winter when the sky is grey and cold. He orders his coffee and sits at the window and looks out at the sea until night falls.

The first time I found him there, I was half panicked. I had driven countless cab drivers crazy, and finally it had occurred to me to look for Lucius in the cafes and bars along the beach. I burst into the cafe, hair plastered wet against my temples, my coat soaked. Lucius rose, embarrassed by my entree.

After I scolded him for at least twenty minutes, I realised that he didn’t even say a single word. He only kept looking out at the beach.

“What are you looking at?” I asked him.

“I like looking at people,” he simply said. “It’s peaceful here. Nice can be so noisy.”

After we sat for a while, I said: “At least leave me a message and tell me where you are. I was half mad with worry.”

Lucius looked at me. “You don’t need to.” He frowned. “I am capable of taking care of myself.”

I sat back and realised that it wasn’t true. My father was not capable of taking care of himself, because he simply had no desire to do so. He was like a vagabond. His soul was torn; he was without roots. He did not belong anywhere anymore.

“When I was young,” he said, when the silence became too long, “the dreams I had of the future were filled with beauty. They were good dreams.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed silent.

“I never dreamed of destruction,” he said, and I couldn’t help but shake my head. All I could remember was darkness. All I could remember was despair and madness and death.

“We were all young,” my father said. “We were all children. We felt entitled to follow our dreams, and to make the time we were living in ours, to create an era, our own destiny.”

He paused and took a sip from his red wine.

“And after the war, my palace of dreams was gone. It was all ashes, all burnt down. Nothing had remained. When I sat alone in the Manor, I tried to remember the dreams of my youth. I tried to recall their beauty, but it was all gone. I could not …” he looked at me, and I could see the despair in his eyes, the regret, “I could for the life of me not recall what I had fought for. I once gave everything for the idea. All that remained was a broken wand, an empty house … regrets.”

“Let’s go home, Father,” I said and reached over the table. “You must be tired.”

“No,” he hissed and jerked his arm away from my touch. The light fell onto his face and I saw how dark his lips were. He must have drunk more than a glass of wine.

He stared at me. “But I had good intentions, I told myself. Whatever I did, it was for the greater good, I could at least tell myself that.”

“You did, Father,” I said. “You believed in something …”

“No,” he said, so loud that other guests turned around and looked at us.

I made a placating gesture with my hands.

Lucius shook his head vehemently. “No, I lied to myself that night at the Quidditch World Cup.”

I was confused. “What ... what are you talking about?”

“The Quidditch World Cup,” he repeated impatiently. “When they had the Roberts family.”

“Oh.” I remembered then. The Muggle family. They had Leviated them and their children. But my parents hadn't taken part. I had baited Potter but I had known, even then, that my parents would never lower themselves to behave like drunk hooligans.

“You didn’t do anything,” I said.

“I can’t forget them,” he muttered. “I watched, standing near Fudge so I couldn’t be accused of partaking. But I watched. And for the briefest moment I thought, what if this would be my son? What if he would be the one tormented by a group of Death Eaters? Later that night your mother said, what if our son would be one of those one day? One of those people in the masks? I think we both realised that in our future you would end up being either one of them or hunted by them. It was hard to decide which would be worse.”

“Father,” I mumble softly. “This makes no sense. There is no use in dwelling in the past.”

“The past is all I have,” he snarled.

I closed my eyes.

“No,” I whispered, carried away by my father’s melodramatic mood. “You have me. I am not the past. I am still here. And I need you.”

At these words he softened.

I paid, got us out on the street and took a taxi home. In the taxi we began kissing, ignoring the looks of the taxi driver.

“I love you,” I said. “I love you; don’t scare me like this.”

He gripped my hair, tore at my coat lapels. We kissed like drowning men.

“With every touch I want to erase the past,” I whispered. He tasted of red wine. I licked his dry lips and sucked at them. “You don’t belong to your past anymore.”

He gave into my kisses, opening his mouth, embracing me.

“Tell me you love me,” I begged. “Please, Father!”

“I love you, my Draco,” Lucius murmured, his eyes closed. I slid my hand underneath the fabric of his shirt and felt his naked skin. I rubbed his clavicle with my thumbs.

“Tell me you won’t ever leave me,” I urged him.

“I won’t leave you, you know that,” he said gently. He kissed me again and again, and I felt I was crying.

“I want you to fuck me,” I said. “Take me.”

Lucius hushed me with a finger on my lips. “Quiet, son,” he whispered. “I am here. I will not go. I promise. I could never leave you.”

“I need to feel you,” I said, pressing myself against him. When we arrived at our flat, the taxi driver stubbornly refused to look at me when I paid. We stumbled up the flights, kissing, biting.

I refused to let him out of my sight, I refused to stop touching him, and we ended up on the floor of the living room where I tore my clothes off me.

“Sleep with me, please,” I whispered, over and over again. I undressed him. Once, he lifted his hands as if to stop me, but upon seeing the look on my face, he let them sink again.

We had no lube, so I got up and got oil from the kitchen. Lucius shook his head, but I was anxious that if I took the time to look for it in the bathroom, he would have found the time to deny me, to refuse to go through with it.

He bent over me and licked my cock while stroking my balls, my perineum, that soft, thin skin behind my cleft.

I lifted up my hips to urge him on.

When he pushed a finger inside me, I let out a long sigh. It felt so good. So good, so right. I clenched around him. I felt happiness creep into he corners of my mind.

“Yes, yes,” I encouraged him. “Come on.” I begged him with my whispers, my body, but Lucius held me down.

“Listen,” he said, trying to calm me. But I didn’t want to be calmed, I wanted to burn. “You don’t ever need to be afraid; I am not going to leave you. I am here with you, forever!”

I shook my head, fighting his grip. “No, that’s not true. You’re a liar!” I screamed.

He stilled.

“Draco,” he said, his voice broken.

“You were never there, and I was so alone, and after the war … you just left,” I sobbed. I was pathetic. I knew inside that I was still trying to bind him to me. To make him fuck me. “Don’t leave me again. You must not leave me again.”

My father kissed my face. He kissed my lips and the corners of my lips. He kissed the tears away; he kissed my eyes and took my face with both hands. “I love you,” he said.

“Then show me,” I demanded.

Lucius continued kissing, then straddled me. He locked eyes with me and lifted himself up. With one hand he steadied himself, then I felt the tip of my cock touch his entrance.

“I can’t,” he simply said. “But we can have this.” And then my cock was surrounded by tight heat. I could not think clearly anymore. He rode me, at first very slowly. As his gasps grew louder, he held my arms down. I could see his muscles in his shoulders and in his thighs tense, as he moved faster and faster.

With one hand he stroked his cock to hardness, then he bit his lips and came, rigid and groaning. It sounded painful, as if that groan was torn from him. When I felt him clench around me, I screamed and came inside him, frantically rubbing his come into the skin of my chest.

For a long while we stayed on the warm rug, listening to the rain outside. We fell asleep after I wiped us both off with my discarded shirt.

Now Father leaves text messages when he goes out. He still grumbles about it, but he admits it would worry him too, if he didn’t know my whereabouts. I like that he never mistypes. Once or twice I caught him using abbreviations: “Where are u?”

Can you imagine my father doing that? He complains about the tiny buttons on his mobile, but he likes it. He often flicks it out when we’re talking, snapping the lid open and fiddling with the settings. He says he is embracing technology as the next best thing to magic.

He reads a lot. For a while he didn’t, but recently he bought a lot of books. Some of them I peruse, but I don’t really understand them. Muggle history is messy. It makes my head spin. I wonder if it alleviates the guilt that seems to plague my father, to learn about Muggles. Sometimes he tells me random facts he has read in the books, and we have lengthy dinner conversations.

It’s all good. As I said before – I did, didn’t I? – we have our peace. Sometimes our identities as father and son get in the way of us being lovers. Mostly they don’t. I keep it that way.

Every love is hard work. No love is perfect. Don’t delude yourself that some things are meant to be and others aren’t, or that some loves are healthy and some aren’t. You only need to look at your own life, your own love.

Part III

Comments

[tinarebekka.livejournal.com]

Ouch... Now I can't wait to click on part 3. :-)