Non Time, O Parve Mage

I do not own any of these characters, except for the ones that are obviously not Rowling\'s. This isn\'t for profit, just fun.


Chapter I: Punishment for my Transgressions


Shades of green and purple filtered through the gothic, stained glass windows, leaving

splashes of color splayed across the walls and floor. The purple velvet curtains shuddered as a cool

breeze sneaked beneath them, escaped from the cold recesses of the dungeons. The stone walls held

secrets of centuries past. The only protection for bare feet from the chilled stone floor was a solitary

rug, which seemed very out of place, with its warmer green hues.

A tall, slender boy lay on the Cleopatra sofa. His pale arms crossed carelessly athwart his

chest as his sharp chin pointed upwards, his mind deep in contemplation. Silver hair draped delicately

over his mercury eyes, and he pushed it away with a slender, articulate hand. He was staring at the

stone ceiling as though it held all of the answers to his problems. He glanced uninterestedly to the side

when he heard a sharp knocking at the teak door. He groaned at the disturbance and returned to

staring at the omniscient ceiling.

The door swung open to reveal a man and a woman, similarly colored to the boy lounging

on the sofa. The woman stayed behind as she checked and rechecked the contents of her purse. The

man, however, strode forward to the lounging boy with aristocratic grace and expectation. “Draco,” he

spat sharply as he crossed his arms.

The lounging boy looked up at the source of the earlier disturbance and asked

calmly, “what can I do for you, father?” the boys father strode forward, and kicked Draco’s legs over as

to make room for him on the sofa. He draped one arm lazily about the back and used the other to

stress important parts of what he was saying to him. “Your mother and I have business to attend to—“

Draco interrupted him, “do you mean business—“ he raised his hands and made quotation marks with

his fingers—“or business”

His father sighed and rolled his eyes. “Business.”

“Oh, okay…so you’ll be gone for a long time, I expect?” the older man sighed. “Yes. We

are to go to New York and D.C, and L.A.” we’ll have to do it the muggle way, so it will take quite a

while.” Draco looked up at his father suspiciously,” why do you have to travel the muggle way?” the

elder threw up his arms in frustration, “boss’s orders. Hey—can you just imagine me on a bus?”

Draco laughed. “No…no I couldn’t.”

The man patted his son’s knee with artificial affection. “We’ll be back before the end of the

summer.” Draco nodded and returned to gazing at the ceiling. The older man raised himself from the

couch, strode toward the doorway of the study, and turned back to face his only son. “Don’t be alarmed

if you see Macnair, Snape, Bellatrix or Voldemort here—they’re conducting business.” He turned on his

heel and left, the woman followed without a word to her son.

Draco returned to staring at the ceiling—his sharp features grown sharper in his anger.

There was no legitimate reason for Voldemort to order them to travel the muggle way. If they could

apparate, they’d be done and back home in a matter of days. But he knew why he wanted them gone.

His father was the only thing that protected him from the dark lord’s avid eyes. Speaking of the devil

(literally) he looked up to see Voldemort leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed. Draco

hated himself for thinking it, but after he forged a philosopher’s stone imitation and retrieved his

youth, he looked very, very good. He mentally slapped himself.

Voldemort smiled devilishly as a strand of onyx hair draped with casual elegance over his

scarlet eyes—made all the more clear on a canvas of pale, silken skin. Draco had known this man…or

thing…long enough, and close enough to omit flatteries, and praise unlike the rest of his family; one of

the things that drew Voldemort to him.

Draco continued to stare at the ceiling as the tall, slender man walked over to him. Before

he could reach Draco, he stuck out a foot, and held it at his chest. “Why won’t you let them travel

normally?” he demanded furiously. Voldemort rolled his eyes. Had anyone else taken that tone with

him, they’d be dead. “you know perfectly well, why. Don’t ask questions to which you already know the

answer—it’s not prudent.”

“That’s rich.” He lowered his foot and returned it to lounging on the sofa, beside its fellow.

Much like his father had twenty minutes ago, Voldemort pushed aside his legs to make room for

himself to sit. Unlike his father, he pulled Draco’s legs back onto his lap and began absentmindedly

stroking his thigh. “Draco.” He said firmly, as Draco looked up to him angrily. “Don’t be angry with me.”

Draco scoffed. “I’m always angry with you—I hate you –how could I not be?”

Voldemort smiled coyly and began running his hand gently up Draco’s slender body. “I

know.” He turned to better see Draco, pushed his legs from his lap, and leaned over, such that he was

lying on top of him, their noses almost touching. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” it was

a rhetorical question—Draco knew this. He was not stupid; he knew that if he made Voldemort

unhappy, he would regret it, dearly. Voldemort understood the fact that Lucius and Narcissa were still

young enough to have more children, and he made sure Draco knew it too.

Draco closed his eyes in bitter anticipation of what Voldemort was going to do to him. ‘Just

get it over with,’ he thought to himself, ‘it’s not worth getting killed over—it’ll only last a little while—it’ll

be over soon.’

He felt warm pressure on his lips as the older man leaned in to kiss him. He began licking

his bottom lip demandingly and Draco unwillingly acquiesced. He felt his serpent-like tongue graze over

his tongue and teeth, seizing dominion over his mouth. Draco wanted so much to bite his tongue off,

but knew it would cost him his life. He felt cold, delicate hands unbuttoning his shirt, and slip over his

chest. Voldemort groaned as his hand passed firmly over Draco’s six-pack—toned from quidditch. He

removed himself from his mouth, and began trailing down his neck and chest with his tongue. Draco

shuddered in silent repugnance. Voldemort always had to taste him—to have that so highly valued

Malfoy seed inside him—and he always had his way. As his mouth continued sucking one of his nipples,

his hands crawled over his crotch, and began unfastening his pants.

Draco groaned in revulsion as he felt Voldemort grasp his member, limp in repugnance,

and thrust his hand repeatedly with increasing speed and pressure. Despite himself, Draco could feel

cold heat, rushing down his pelvis and through his groin—hardening in pleasure regardless of who was

touching him; someone was touching him. When he was sufficiently hard, he took the boy in his

mouth, and began swirling his sensitive head with his tongue. Draco pulled the fabric of the sofa into

fists—trying his hardest not to enjoy it—‘if anyone touched you like that…you can’t help it.’ He told

himself.

His pelvis involuntarily thrusted upward when Voldemort took him all the way in. ‘come

already, and he’ll go!’ he tried his hardest to hurry up, and with a final thrust upward, he was met by

mind-crunching orgasm as he spilled his seed into his mouth for the umpteenth time. Voldemort put

him back in hi pants, and fastened them shut. Without a glance at Draco, he left---most likely to

torture and humiliate someone else. Draco felt hi throat tighten and his eyes sting at the realization

that he had just felt pleasure at the mouth of the Dark Lord. He raised himself from the sofa, and ran

to his bedroom. He slammed the door shut and sealed it with every spell he knew.

After he was satisfied, he stripped himself of his clothes and headed into his bathroom. He

ran the tap as cold a it would go, and stepped into the cascading ice. He grabbed the lavender soap,

and began scrubbing at himself furiously, grimacing in pain and disgust as the water began to run red.

He let the icy water run over him for another moment, and then stepped out of the shower. He didn’t

bother drying himself properly, he just draped a towel loosely about his waist. He stood before the

mirror and gazed at his body. His skin was raw red wherever Voldemort had touched him, after he had

tried to scour him, ineffectively, away. His body was covered in dozens of self-inflicted scars—reminders

of his weakness and cowardice. He stepped outside the bathroom, grabbed the clothes he had been

wearing, and threw them out the window. He never wore clothes Voldemort had touched him in twice.

Still disgusted with himself for becoming erect at Voldemort’s ministrations, he walked over

to his desk, and picked up the silver letter opener. He sat down upon his queen-sized bed, and glared

at his right forearm. He trailed the blue vein with the knife playfully, hopefully. His parents had never

noticed he cut himself. they never noticed Voldemort’s hungry eyes, feeding on him whenever he as

present. They never noticed how miserable he was—how he wouldn’t allow anyone to touch him…they

didn’t care enough to notice.

He dragged the silver blade across his forearm, tantalizingly; he traced his skin

dangerously close to his vein. He stared blankly as crimson liquid splashed over his white skin. As the

pain rushed through him, he forgot… for just a moment.

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