Redeem Me

DISCLAIMER: Warning! I make no claim to any property of J.K. Rowling's, and am in no way profiting by this. I do offer her my sincerest thanks for allowing us this garden of the mind in which we play. Further Warning! This story...and likely any I ever write…are dominated by gay themes and characters. That's how it is, if this in any way makes you uncomfortable...do not read further.

Redeem Me…by Samayel

Chapter 16: Truth And Consequences


“Shall I read this for you, Minister Shacklebolt?”

Kingsley’s secretary addressed him politely, clutching the latest Daily Prophet nervously, knowing full well that he wouldn’t enjoy hearing it any more than reading it.

“Go ahead, Alice. Might as well get this part over with right now.”

Kingsley rubbed his temples while he leaned forward on his desk. He simply assumed the worst these days, since over the last year, he’d learned the hard way that the best, or even the acceptable, almost never happened.

“In a cheap hostel for Muggle travelers, located on the outskirts of Leeds, former Death Eater Viktor Kaminski, age 53, was found dead early this morning. The death has officially been declared a murder, but as is typical of the Ministry, no statement has yet been given.

The precise cause of death is as yet unknown, but an undisclosed source has informed us that the body was decapitated after death, with the head used as a grisly display, visible upon entry to the room. The words ‘No Mercy’ were scrawled upon the walls with the blood of the victim.

Mr. Kaminski, widowed, is survived by his son, Milo, age 33, his daughter-in-law Sasha, age 32, and two grandchildren. Milo Kaminski could not be reached for comment.

This is the eighteenth unsolved murder of a former follower of Tom Riddle, deceased, once known as the self-titled Lord Voldemort. As with previous cases, no magical evidence has been recorded, and no specific spells can be traced to the scene of the crime. It can only be confirmed that magic was at least used, and in considerable amounts, at the scene during the last twenty-four hours. No arrests have yet been made in the case, and despite Ministry assurances regarding investigation into these murders, not one suspect has yet been named.

This reporter respectfully suggests a connection between this plague of gory murders, and Harry James Potter, also known as The Boy Who Lived. It is well known that, after the defeat of Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter briefly worked alongside the Auror Service, apprehending members of Lord Voldemort’s corps of followers, long known as the Death Eaters. A series of questionable ’field kills’ occurred, all at the hands of Harry Potter, who severed ties to the Auror Service shortly after Ministry inquiries began. Since that time, eighteen uncaught, untried men and women have been brutally murdered, all of them former Death Eaters.

It is past time for action, and a competently led Ministry of Magic would certainly have more to offer in the face of this crisis than simple platitudes and refusals to comment. A Ministry that cannot be trusted with even the thorough investigation of a highly public suspect, clearly cannot be trusted with much of anything else. Minister Shacklebolt should offer prompt and public explanation regarding the Ministry’s efforts to resolve this crisis, or step down, and appoint a pro-tem Minister who can serve adequately until an election can be held.”

“It’s listed as having been written by a ’staff writer’, so only the editor could say who might have written it, but it has the tone of Rita Skeeter all over it. Shall I send an owl to The Prophet, sir?”

Kingsley steepled his hands, and sighed. This job got worse every day. The Ministry needed a leader, but he hadn’t even imagined that it would be like this.

“Send two. One politely worded request to the editor, informing him that slander is still a crime, and offering up an accusation like that without actual evidence IS, by definition, slander. Second, announce a press conference for tomorrow morning. They’ll love that, the bloody scavengers. Also, before you send those owls, do you know which Aurors were assigned to the casework on the Kaminski killing this morning?”

“Hart and Dawlish, sir. Shall I send for them?”

“Mmm-hmm. Just send Dawlish please. That’s all.”

“Will you be contacting Mr. Potter?”

“Leave that to me, Alice. I’ll see him in person tonight, but start the paperwork to revoke his Ministry Free Agent License.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alice sprung into action, a flurry of robes and paper, Firecalls and owled messages. She was the finest secretary Kingsley had ever seen, and if it hadn’t been for her uncanny ability to guess his needs before he made them known, there’s no telling how much harder his job would be.

Kingsley examined this morning’s event reports, scanning the pages for anything serious enough to merit his intervention. Other than Kaminski’s death, and the series of murders it was included in, very little troubled the wizarding world. In truth, Kingsley had reduced corruption, streamlined management, slashed expenses, balanced the budget, and increased the number of Aurors on the streets. Somehow, he’d imagined that someone would notice some of that, but dead bodies made good news, or at least big news, and that was all he saw in the papers these days.

Harry was hip deep in this, and even if there was no proof, Kingsley had been an Auror long enough to trust his gut instincts. Potter had been dangerous enough after the war to leave people wondering about his sanity, but things had only gotten worse after he quit working alongside the Auror Service. It all came back to Potter. Motive, means, power, and past activities all shouted his guilt, and even Kingsley’s subtle attempts to delay or divert attention from his young friend were starting to fail. If he intervened any further on Harry’s behalf, he’d likely wind up in disgrace. It was time to confront Harry directly.

Auror Dawlish walked into the room, taking a seat with a smile that suggested he was awaiting promotion for his superb service on the Kaminski case. His current partner was a newbie, and supposedly bright, but Kingsley reminded himself to talk to Hart’s superior about training new arrivals alongside veterans who had better records.

“Dawlish. What time did the investigation this morning end…officially?”

“Six-thirty, Minister. We got the call to go in at five after six, and we were there and had the entire matter cleaned up in less than twenty-five minutes.”

“Very good. Very impressive. Sooo…what time did you return to the Auror offices then?”

“About five after seven, sir.”

“That time between the finish and your return…how was that spent?”

“We had breakfast at a little pastry shop down the street. It was still very early, and we hadn’t had breakfast yet, so we stopped for a bite to eat. We made it quick, too, and I have the bill with me if you need it, sir!”

“Oh, good. Very good. Thanks ever so, Dawlish. Say, by the way, did you discuss the case while you were dining? You know, going over details and such after the fact.”

“Well…yes. Compared a few notes and such. Why do you ask, sir?”

Kingsley flopped the copy of The Daily Prophet down in front of Dawlish, page open to the article in question, and waited while the junior Auror hemmed and hawed.

“The next time you accidentally leak ANYTHING…it better be enough blood to excuse your absence from work, because I’ll be stalking the halls, looking for your ASS! You’re on leave, as of now! I’ll let you know when we need you back. You never know, we could need someone to thoroughly investigate the contents of pastry shops! Jackass! Get out of my sight!”

Dawlish hightailed it out of the room while Kingsley reigned in his outrage. It was still ten in the morning, and the day had already gone pear-shaped. Minister Shacklebolt opened his next folder full of problems, and went back to work, cursing frequently under his breath.

---------------------------------------------------

’Enjoy the wine, Mr. Malfoy. It’s a quite remarkable vintage.’

Draco tossed and turned in the grip of his own nightmare. He’d wept himself to sleep, sobbing until his chest hurt, after Harry had left. Slumber came slowly, and even that was punctuated by flashes of sudden terror, as Harry’s wrathful glare came back to him.

The man he’d met in Diagon Alley had invited him to a supper among other refugees from the Ministry’s justice. His stomach had been growling in anticipation, and he’d agreed to come here with almost no hesitation. Hyde-Pratt Apparated them both, and that had been that.

‘Here’ had turned out to be an abandoned estate, overgrown with ivy and out of control hedges, somewhere that felt a bit like lowland Scotland, but he couldn’t be sure. Once they were inside, it was actually quite pleasant, and the place had been cleaned up very handsomely. He was greeted by the sight of two familiar faces. MacNair, the hulking brute of the two, looked upon Draco coolly, showing neither distaste nor favor, and Rodolphus LeStrange stood and smiled, leaving Draco with the impression that sharks could, in fact, catch rabies.

“Why Mr. Malfoy, this is an unexpected pleasure. We’ve been adrift for some time without new company, and your arrival is most welcome. Do take a seat and warm yourself by the fire while Hyde-Pratt prepares our evening’s repast.”

Rodolphus LeStrange was slightly taller than average, and fit for a man nearing his middle years. His hair was thinning gracefully, shot through with streaks of gray that merely seemed distinguished. His every movement was calculated, and adept, displaying an implacable calm and a sense of diffident boredom. Only his toothy smile and occasionally sparkling eyes hinted at emotion, and Draco took that as a warning that he was dealing with a man who lacked compunction, and could turn dangerous at any second.

It turned out that the three of them had been together almost since the end of the war, safely hidden here by LeStrange’s prowess in magic. This location had been rendered Unplottable, and with the exception of occasional journeys for supplies, they had lived quite comfortably for some time. Hyde-Pratt seemed to be the most domestic of the three, running errands and attending to household needs. MacNair was obviously the muscle. There was no question that Rodolphus LeStrange was the brains behind this motley crew, so Draco centered his attention on keeping LeStrange amused. He had no intention of offending his hosts until he had a good meal in his stomach.

Their calm and pleasant demeanor seemed a fraud, and Draco suspected agendas and motives just behind their eyes. He kept his hand from reaching for his wand, and made up his mind to Apparate out, however poor he was at that skill, at the first opportunity after supper.

Whatever his faults, LeStrange insisted upon keeping a good table, and there was no want of good food here. After relating highly censored accounts of their respective activities this past year, they took their seats in a rather sparsely furnished, but still vaguely grand, dining room. Draco stuffed himself well, enjoying second and third helpings of everything available. There was no telling when his next meal might be.

“Enjoy the wine, Mr. Malfoy. It’s a quite remarkable vintage.”

If he hadn’t been starved. If the food hadn’t been incredible. If he hadn’t been exhausted almost to the point of collapse. If…if…if.

Draco drank the wine. Nothing tasted amiss. In fact, it really was a remarkable vintage. Five minutes passed before his eyelids were sagging. He felt pleasantly detached from reality, as well as terribly tired, but his vision kept blurring and slipping completely out of focus. Panic threaded its way through him, and he intended to push himself out of the chair and reach for his wand, but his efforts only resulted in his slumping to the floor. The floor was polished wood. He remembered the pattern so very clearly.

“Alas. I’m afraid Mr. Malfoy has had too much to drink. See him to the ‘guest quarters’ will you, MacNair.”

And then there was nothing.

Draco muttered fitfully in his sleep. His body twitched at random, fearful of touch even in slumber, and his breath came in short and ragged gasps.

“I see you’re awakening, Mr. Malfoy. I hope you’ve enjoyed our hospitality. I’m afraid the wine didn’t agree with you, but it appears that you slept the better for it.”

Draco felt utterly strange. His body thrummed with weird energy, and his imagination tore off on flights of fancy at random intervals. It was hard to concentrate, and everything seemed as though it was far away…even voices…and yet, he did feel vaguely good. Completely relaxed, peaceful and a little giddy, even though his rational mind screamed danger.

He was lying upon a small bed, a single sheet covering him. He realized that, beneath the sheet, he was entirely naked, and a blush stole to his cheeks when it occurred to him that his hosts must have undressed him. He was suddenly distracted by the way the sheets felt against his bare skin. Sheer, warm and fine, and every time he moved against them his body thrummed with alien pleasure where cloth met flesh. Forgetting his purpose, he simply mumbled with pleasure while he rubbed the cloth of the sheet against himself.

“You know, many Muggles your age use illicit substances to enhance or alter their state of mind. I consider Muggles to be mere cattle, Mr. Malfoy, but that does not mean they have no use. I’ve made a study of their pharmacology…their potion-making techniques if you will, and I found quite a number of helpful substances. You’re enjoying several of them right now. Ecstasy, also called E or X, is the primary ingredient you’re experiencing at the moment. You appear to be enjoying it.”

Draco giggled a little, then stared at his hand, enjoying the way the fingers of it fluttered, even though he didn’t think he was actually moving them. LeStrange stepped forward and sat down on the bed beside him, while Draco largely ignored him in favor of continuing to gaze at his own hand.

“Let us see what lies inside that pretty little head of yours, shall we? In this state, you won’t feel a thing.”

Piercing brown eyes, flecked with gold, bored into Draco’s skull, and images flickered in his head, but it certainly wasn’t painful, or even worrisome. Memories and fragments of inner thoughts flashed and drifted, and Draco melted peacefully among them, enjoying the show.

“Snape. He was the spy all along, but even you didn’t know that. Hmmm. Not a killer are you, boy? I somehow thought not. You haven’t your father’s nerve. How fortunate for you...that you have his looks. Potter. You envied him, feared him, hated him, but you could scarcely stop thinking of him, could you? How interesting. Weeping over the cabinet. Such a sentimental little thing, you are. The Parkinson girl…your first kiss. How very sweet…cloying, actually. I see you scarcely enjoyed it. Your father seems to loom large in your memory as the source of fear, anxiety…and a fierce need for approval. My, my. You scarcely know yourself, my dear boy. The pleasures you could know, the dizzying heights of ecstasy, all denied you by the fear your father filled you with. Nonsense. I know your every desire, and I shall grant them to you.”

A hand slid beneath the sheet, brushing slowly across Draco’s chest, and every where that warm skin contacted his own, his body seemed to throb and tingle with desire for more. A nipple was gently kneaded between a thumb and forefinger, and Draco sighed, barely cognizant of his body’s fairly obvious reaction.

There were many parts that Draco couldn’t remember clearly, but they were overshadowed by a general sense of floating, punctuated by the skillful caresses that Rodolphus lavished upon him. Fingers, hands and tongue labored gently to please him in ways he couldn’t have conceived of until this moment. He had no fear, and his father’s harsh words had fled from his mind, scoured from him by a rising tide of pleasure. He couldn’t count the number of times or ways he came to orgasm, but each felt unique and magnificent, a tribute to the sensual.

“So responsive. My dear Draco, I wouldn’t squander your virginity on some pathetic night of mindless rutting. Such a thing deserves to be surrendered to the gods with a certain flair. Be still…I promise that you will enjoy this.”

Rodolphus did not lie. Long before Draco was granted the satisfaction of entry, he was aching for it in ways he hadn’t imagined. Fingers had elegantly awoken a place inside of him, their passage smoothed by the adept use of a silken tongue, and his cock was rigid with need despite having been sated several times already. He was quite audibly keening with need when he felt the pressure against his entrance, and, utterly relaxed as he was, he allowed it prompt ingress. The sensation was exquisite, combined with his altered state of consciousness, and his amplified sense of touch. Every movement within him left trails of stars exploding across his eyelids, and waves of desire rippling through his mind.

He couldn’t recall anything in his entire life feeling this good. The cock inside him left him panting, weeping, begging incoherently for more, and Rodolphus gave. The older man’s body was lean and fit, and his every move was controlled and planned, aimed to extract the highest level of pleasure from Draco. Cooling trails of seed dripped down Draco’s stomach and ribs, mingled with the leavings of each new orgasm. He was no longer even erect, but the sensations inside him spurred him to yet another orgasm that rendered him a shuddering and utterly wanton ruin.

Reality came to him only in the aftermath, sated and limp, half-asleep by Rodolphus’ side. He was aware of a gentle and precise hand, stroking his chest, and his eyes flicked open, taking in the lean and tawny gentleman who had shown him pleasure beyond even the wildest of dreams.

“How very beautiful you are, my dear Mr. Malfoy. Not at all your father’s son. Far better in fact.”

Draco felt his cheeks flush. Even though he scarcely remembered how this had all come to pass, he remembered enough to know that he should be grateful to anyone who had lavished so much effort into pleasing him…and so successfully as well.

“Thank you. That…that was…it was incredible. It was perfect.”

Draco stalled, unsure of what else to say, hating himself for feeling so terribly awkward. Rodolphus LeStrange smiled wickedly.

“Your accolades are welcome, but sadly misplaced.”

His host rose from the bed and slid into a long day robe, plucking a glass of wine from the counter.

“It would have been such a waste, to exercise the whole of my skills upon you, without first giving you a glimpse of the heights of pleasure. Without that knowledge, what meaning would the depths of agony actually possess?”

Rodolphus waved a hand while Draco blinked in confusion, still drug-muddled, sleepy, and pleasantly sore. He found himself Immobilized in an instant. As Rodolphus opened the door to the small room they had just shared so intimately, MacNair and Hyde-Pratt entered with feral smiles upon their faces.

“Gentlemen. He was as delightful as I expected, moreso even. Now hurt him as you please, and do take your time. When you’re finished, deposit him in the dungeon. I have some new ‘experiences’ I wish to begin work upon in earnest tomorrow. And MacNair, see to it that you at least heal him enough to survive your putting that monstrosity you call a penis into him. With that, I shall leave you to your pleasures. Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Malfoy.”

And Draco entered hell.

Draco screamed in the night, bolt upright and drenched in sweat. He pulled the blankets into a pile, dragging them along the floor as he fled for the corner, cocooning himself in them and hunkering down as he had in the cell that had taken almost a year of his life away. Each breath that emerged came with a short, sharp cry of panic. Even the spells of the others that came to him, even the potions they poured down his throat, couldn’t dim the anguish in his half-waking mind.

TBC!!!