Crime And Punishment

Crime And Punishment

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Author\'s Note:This is my first Harry/Draco! Please R&R! This is a one-shot at the moment but I might expand it, because the plot bunnies are threatening to eat me alive! I obviously don\'t own anything Harry/Draco related and I\'m not making any money from this. Any resemblances to stories by Anais Nin, 20th Century erotic writer, are purely intentional because she rocks my socks, but naturally I don\'t own her stuff either.

There\'s a piece of banner artwork that I made to go with this story and it can be found here: http://i8.photobucket.com/albums/a7/underwillow/CrimeAndPunishment.jpg. NO HOTLINKING! Enjoy!

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If Draco Malfoy could have admitted it to himself, he would have told you that he’d never been as scared in his life as he was at this moment. His heart was pounding, his chest was tight, and he was about to watch his father die. But nineteen year olds don’t tell you they’re scared. Eleven year boys on their first day in Hogwarts are scared, but not nineteen year olds. You’re a man at nineteen; you don’t get scared. A Malfoy feels no fear, or regret or remorse, a Malfoy is strong; a Malfoy gets angry. And if you’d asked Draco at that moment, he wouldn’t have said he was scared, he would have said he was furious! After all, who were these half bloods and mudbloods, standing there in judgement of HIS father? He gripped the railing in the courtroom. They’d pay dearly for this. The trial was for show, as had all the others previous to this had been. They had all the evidence they needed; this was all just public humiliation, a final act of vengeance against the Death Eaters by the side of the light. Who said they were all so high and mighty, he grumbled irritably to himself.

As his father, his aunt Bellatrix and his uncle Rodolphus were led out, the people surrounding him pressed closer. He realised he must be quite conspicuous standing amongst the crowd, even in the dark back rows. Black trousers, black and green wizarding robes, white starched shirt, long pale blonde hair, just like his father. He knew he had every right to be right in the front row with his mother; but he also knew she’d be in hysterics and that was most unbecoming of a Malfoy. Besides, he’d spotted Potter earlier with his precious best friends, Granger and the Weasel. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing his face. So he stood at the back, with the hundreds that had crammed into the courtroom, to see the worst and the last of the Death Eaters from the war finally dealt with. It was sweltering with heat. Hundreds of steamy bodies crushed all around him and jammed into the seats below. There was a fog of body heat seeping through his black clothing, but he wouldn’t even admit to sweating as hard as he was. It was the heat that was making him sweat, he told himself. It was all the damn plebeians come to gawk, not any semblance of fear on his part, no, none at all.

He supposed he would have been down there too, if the war hadn’t ended before he’d had a chance to join his father, before Potter had finished off the Dark Lord. He was too young to get involved and too young to die with the rest of his family. The people surrounding him were pushing harder against him, squeezing him on both sides, pressing him forward. People were grinding him by him, occasionally breathing down his neck. It was most unseemly, and it made his skin crawl to be amongst them. Sheer perseverance on his part was keeping him clinging to the railing in front of him, so he wasn’t swept away or crushed in the sea of people. They were cheering and taunting and booing as each of the charges were read out. The roars in the crowd were deafening. The members of the court had long since given up trying to call the gallery to order. The people wanted blood and nobody could stop them. The Wizard who read out the charges had resorted to a sonorous charm, so above the cheering and the shouts, Draco could here the offences being listed off.

“Use of an unforgivable curse; multiple counts. Torture, murder….”

At each word, the people beside him jostled harder and called louder. They wore hoods, as if, even at this point, at the end of the war, they were afraid to show themselves as supporters of Dumbledore and the side of the light. Or maybe there were a few redeemed Death Eaters here, still afraid to show their faces. Cowards, he thought, and he sneered, though his eyes never left the centre of the court where his father and his aunt and uncle stood defiantly. No one else around him would have noticed either, transfixed as Draco was with the proceedings in front of him. He wanted to scream, his hands twisting tighter around the rail with frustration. How dare they take his father from him? Bastards the lot of them, especially Potter!

He was hot and angry and everyone around him was pushing forward. They couldn’t see him, they didn’t look at him; the whole room was consumed with his father and his aunt and uncle. Draco felt like his skin was roasting off his bones. He was hoping desperately to catch his father’s eye before the end, but his back was turned to the audience. The veil of death fluttered innocently in a non-existent breeze, waiting for its victims atop its stately dais. It flapped its tattered sheet like a beckoning wave that summoned his family, waiting as they were at the foot of the steps before the assembled judges of the Wizengamot.

Suddenly Draco became aware of someone standing more closely against him then the others preciously had, if that were possible The person was flush against his back, poring still more heat into his skin. Hot breath tickled the back of his neck. His senses, which the swelling crowd had dulled, started prickling madly again. He felt very acutely aware of this person and this person alone and it sent a shiver through his body. The person sensed this and pressed himself even closer. Draco could tell it was a man, the hard muscular body was a dead give away. He wanted to look around to tell this intruder into his personal space to piss off, but the sight before him was far more important than someone trying to get his jollies from rubbing against him in a public place; one more indignity for a Malfoy to suffer.

It was only when he felt the man’s hands rest lightly on his hips and his breath ghost against his left ear that he froze. As he stiffened, the hands took a firmer grip, and fingers curled around the front of his hipbones to press and stroke the sensitive skin of his lower belly. His skin felt like it was burning from so intimate a touch. Another wave of heat washed through him and his cheeks flushed pink. He could sense the power of the man behind him, and his nerve endings bristled further. It was an oddly familiar sensation. Who was this man, touching him? He wanted to see, to turn his head, but he discovered to his perturbation that he was completely unable to move from where he was standing. He couldn’t even flick his eyes away from where he had them fixed. Something was holding him still; the man pressed to close to him. Another wave of heat washed through him and Draco told himself that’s what it was, not panic.

The man ran his hand over Draco’s groin and a tiny gasp escaped his lips. He really wanted to move now but still nothing was happening. The man was palming him and stroking him through his trousers and his robes and Draco’s traitorous body was slowly beginning to respond. There was a growing hardness pressing against his bum, straining against its owners clothing. He clenched automatically and the man rubbed himself against Draco. The man was undoing himself; Draco could feel his hand between them, urgently undoing a zip. He back of Draco’s robes were lifted and there were hands reaching around his front, undoing the buckle of his belt and his trousers under the cover of his robe. Draco held tighter to the rail. The man pushed his trousers down past his hips to hang below his buttocks, and he ran his hands appreciatively over his black silk boxers, fondling Draco’s firm ass and groin as he did. The man gently slipped Draco’s boxers down to where his trousers were and ran his hands over him again, taking Draco’s shaft in his hands and stroking it. Draco was fully hard now, and he moaned at the touch. The man’s hands were slightly calloused on the tips of his fingers and on the pads of palm just below the base of the fingers. Draco realised he was a quidditch player, he recognised the pattern of dry skin from his own time spent on a broom as seeker for Slytherin; but he’d kept his hands soft and moisturised, not like this man’s hands. The slight rough spots were scraping intoxicatingly over the sensitive skin of Draco’s prick. His breathing was starting to come in shallow pants now, only audible to man at his back. The man thumbed the top of Draco’s cock, as if he knew what Draco was thinking and then the man began to stroke himself before he pressed his hard shaft against the crease of his buttocks.

He realised he had momentarily stopped paying attention to the trial when he saw his uncle Rodolophus being led up the steps to the veil. His face was stoic and resigned, but somehow without defeat, as if the whole thing were his idea in the first place and he were secretly pleased. The man\'s rigid cock was pressing against his entrance, wet, slippery and lubricated though Draco didn’t remember hearing a charm being cast. The man kept a hand on Draco’s cock and spread apart the cheeks of his ass with the other. Draco desperately tried to relax as the next minute he was impaled on the man’s cock. It filled him completely, thick and hot and Draco felt the pain of the sudden stretch. His uncle was flung through the veil and the noise inside the chamber exploded. His ass was tight and he clenched his muscles around the man’s shaft, trying to relief the awful pressure, but it only seemed to draw him deeper inside. The man slowly started to slide in and out him, stroking Draco’s cock in rhythm.

Suddenly, it struck him; his father was really about to die. He’d been so intent on hating everyone in the room, he’d forgotten the most important thing; that was his father down there, the man he worshipped and the next few minutes were the last he’d ever see of him again. The realisation made him let loose a distraught sob, but the man only took that as some sort of encouragement and pressed into him harder. Draco gasped; an intensely pleasurable ache was growing, spreading and getting worse. Draco could feel his orgasm approaching; it was building to an agonising peak. The man fisted his cock harder and it throbbed painfully between his legs. His legs had begun to tremble slightly.

His aunt Bellatrix was led up the steps to the veil of death. She was smiling remorselessly, like a true Black, and her eyes flicked to where Draco’s mother was sitting, and she gave her a wink. The man thrust deep inside Draco, hitting a spot that made him cry out sharply. He grabbed a fistful of Draco’s silky hair, breathing heavily into his ear, and continued the hard, deep thrusting, causing Draco to sob with pleasure at the apex of each penetration. Bellatrix was pushed through the veil and the crowd roared again.

His father was now the only one left. Pleasure was rocketing through his body, precum was leaking from his aching cock, the man smeared it down his shaft, continuing to fist and stroke him and fondle his balls firmly. Draco could do nothing but rock and moan in time to the man’s penetrating thrusts until he could barely see his father but for spots of light on his vision. He felt it start to roll through, that unbelievable wave of heat and pleasure that came right before release; the man speeded up, impaling him almost painfully, keeping a dizzying pace. The Aurors walked his father up the steps to the veil, but he shrugged off their grip at the last step and continued on his own. Draco whimpered ‘please’ and the man gave him a sucking kiss on the back of his neck right below his hairline. Lucius walked calmly through the archway, and Draco came violently into the man’s hand to the sound of deafening cheers from all assembled.

Draco cried out, letting it melt into a series of gasping, breathy moans, but they were all drowned by the shouts of the crowd. The man came inside him, filling him with hot seed. Draco thought for a second he heard his name being called in a voice he knew but it was only a whisper in the melee. Hot breath baked his neck and then suddenly, the man withdrew from him, releasing the fist full of Draco’s hair and taking away the physical support that Draco didn’t realise he needed. His head swam, his nerves sparked and he felt the heat and intensity of it all overpower him. He thought he was going to pass out. His knees started to buckle but before he could crumple to the ground there was a strong arm wound tightly around his waste, bracing him against the man’s body and holding him steady. His eyes closed in a near faint; his head lolled back onto the man’s shoulder. Now was the time to open his eyes and see who this man was, but he still found himself unable to. Draco was dimly aware that a wandless cleaning spell was being performed on him, and that the man was now gently tucking Draco back in and arranging his clothes as best as he could. His robes were drawn across him and he was properly righted so he could get a hold of the rail that he hadn’t realised he’d let go of in his delirium. The hands were back on his hips again, making sure he was steady on his feet, though the man wasn’t pressed so tightly against him anymore.

And just as quietly the man was gone, using the movement of the crowd to carry him away without giving Draco the chance to see whom he was. The crowd was shifting and starting to dissipate and he was finally allowed a few inches to breath. He leaned his head forward, his hands still on the rail, as he desperately tried to recover his breath. His father was dead, his father was dead and as he calmly walked to his fate he was spilling semen into the hand of a stranger and coming harder than he ever had in his life. His father was dead. Draco started to cry. He looked up; at last able to tear his eyes away from the veil, only to see Potter standing behind his seated friends across the courtroom. Their eyes were lingering where his had been fixated only moments before, the veil that had returned to fluttering innocently in a non-existent breeze. Potter’s face was flushed and intent looking, and Draco thought involuntarily of his blood traitor cousin Sirius Black, then he pushed the thought away, unwilling even now to admit any commonality between himself and that bastard. His father was dead he realised again. He dropped his head and choked back a sob, but when he looked up once more, he caught Harry staring unblinkingly at him. Draco felt ill and turned away to flee the room.

~*~

“Where did you go?” asked Hermione.

“I just went to get a better view.”

Harry didn’t tear his eyes away from the veil as he answered, and his tone suggested he didn’t want to be pressed any further about the subject. She looked at him for a second longer and then turned to gather her things and give Ron a look that said ‘Don’t talk about it’. When Harry felt her gaze had left him, he turned to where Malfoy was standing. Draco was still holding onto the railing as if it were a life raft, head bent. Harry’s glance didn’t waver when Draco suddenly looked up and caught his eye. There were tears in his eyes that were visible even from where he was standing; they were streaming unchecked down his face. He looked so truly, miserably unhappy, hurt and alone that Harry wanted to go to him and tell him how sorry he was, but he knew it wasn’t yet the time. A few seconds of that pitiful gaze, a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, was more than enough and Harry found he couldn’t bear anymore. Draco’s first physical sign of a real human emotion was a powerful thing to watch. Harry realised just how much Draco had been hiding behind that mask of indifference he’d cultivated. It was almost like he had let it all out at once, and it was nearly painful to see it.

Good, Harry thought vehemently, let him feel it. Let him know what real loss is like for the first time in his life. Let him feel helpless and useless and lower than low and see how he likes it. It’ll do him some good. But he cursed himself almost immediately for thinking such unkind things as he watched Draco turn away and run from the room like the hounds of hell were chasing him.

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Draco stumbled blindly into the hallway of the Ministry, past the thronging crowds and their stares, past the reporters and their cameras, almost breaking into a run to where he could apparate away. He didn’t even wait for his mother, didn’t even notice that she’d passed out in the courtroom and was being taken to St. Mungo’s. He didn’t make a sound or even open his eyes properly until he was standing outside the gates of the Malfoy estate, where he started breathing heavily again as panic gripped him. No sooner was he through the wards then he apparated straight to his room.

Grateful at least that he could hold out that long, he collapsed in a sobbing heap on the floor of his bedroom. He cried until he’d stopped shaking, trying to regain control of himself and failing miserably. He’d never felt so frightened in his life, never had anything like that happen to him before. He never felt so used; it made him nauseous to think of the hard body of that man pressed against his back, burying himself in Draco. It made him sicker still to realise that at some deep level, he felt he deserved it all. Eventually when the wracking sobs had subsided, he sat up, leaning against the end of his bed, drawing his knees up close to his chin as he wiped his wet eyes. His tears had left a small pool on the plush navy carpet and he stared at the patch miserably. He was sore in places he shouldn’t be and he was so drained that clinging to himself was an effort.

Suddenly, despite the cleaning spell the man had performed, he realised he’d never felt more filthy in his life. Desperate to somehow feel clean again, he gingerly raised himself to his feet and staggered to his en-suite bathroom. By some blessed foresight, the house elves had thought to run him a bath, not realising exactly how much he would need it. He stared and the steaming, frothy depths of the bubbles in his enormous bathtub, reluctant for a moment to feel that hot again when he’d only just managed to cool down. Eventually the seamy filth that he imagined was crawling across his flesh drove him to undress and step in.

Heat surrounded him, stinging the spots of delicate skin, made tenderer by his treatment. He sat for a long while soaking, letting the heat sooth his aches, lulling him gently. He stared at the painted ceiling. Cherubs and water nymphs that had once stared cheekily at him while he bathed now seemed to be leering unwholesomely. He looked away. There was a large sea sponge sitting at the edge of the bath and he grabbed it suddenly, rubbing it vigorously over his skin. He scrubbed and scrubbed until his skin was almost raw, trying to get the imagined uncleanness to go away; he had started crying weakly again. Letting go of the sponge, he sank back down into the warmth of the water. It was the closest thing he had right at that moment to a pair of comforting arms around him, telling him that everything would be all right. He had never felt so truly dirty and worthless, and he missed his father terribly. More so now that he knew he’d never see him again. He leant against the edge of the tub and cried until the water went cold.

~Fin~