Butterfly 48 - LM/HP LV/HP

[k155_me]

PREVIOUS HERE

Warnings: Sex, lots of sex, underage, and cursing, and Howler-abuse, and non-con if you’re very particular about warnings…

It has been FOREVER! And I am so, so sorry, but RL and exams and work kicked my arse and I’m just so TIRED all of the time… I was meant to be on holidays till the middle of this week gone, which would have been my updating time, but work decided that I should come back to work Sunday, literally a few hours after my plane from London got back into Dublin….! Yeah! Harsh.

Anyway, sorry for the long wait. Hopefully, I’ll get back into the swing of regular updates. I have loads of ideas brewing, and most of them I managed to get written down on paper before the exams sucked out my brain cells, but it’s a matter of time and not being exhausted 24/7… Enjoy this chapter though! It’s the longest chapter for a while, so hopefully it makes up (a little?) for the wait.

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Words: 5,776
Chapter 48

March 9th 1995. Hogwarts.

Breakfast that morning was an odd affair. Harry had stumbled into the Great Hall, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes because that morning was one of the oddly occasional mornings where he had overslept and Terry Boot had been forced to drag him from the bed by his ankles. Grumbling, and throwing the occasional hex at the retreating Ravenclaw fourth year who had been trying to help, Harry had dressed, yawning widely, and made his way down to breakfast. His backside was just about touching the bench when Luna had appeared beside him, her pale hand on his arm, her grip firmer than Harry would have given her credit for. The next thing he knew he was standing, being tugged firmly towards the other end of the Ravenclaw table, where Luna’s breakfast was half-finished and Hermione Granger sat reading a book.

“She made me sit here too,” Hermione said softly in greeting, glancing up quickly.

“Morning,” Harry yawned more than said. It was mornings like these, when he had double potions first thing, that Harry regretted the duelling lessons with Snape. They kept him up half the night, under the guise of ‘detention’, and he was so exhausted, magically and bodily, that he physically couldn’t get up the mornings after, but falling asleep in potions class meant that he’d end up with an actual detention.

Luna hummed softly from her seat beside him. She continued to demolish the bowl of scrambled eggs that sat before her, topping it up whenever it reached three-quarters empty. “The post is here,” she told them needlessly, through a mouthful of chewed-up toast.

Harry didn’t pay her much attention; he was used to her behaviour, knowing she was only doing it for the pleasure of watching Hermione’s face scrunch up in disgust at the sight.

He did, however, glance up at the charmed ceiling and the wide open windows, searching the circling swarm of owls for his own beloved Hedwig, or for Lucius’ eagle-owl, or for whatever bird was currently in the service of Evan or Voldemort.

“Remember that article?” Luna asked suddenly, eyeing the owls with something like amusement as several of them veered away from the flock and came towards Harry. “The one in November? About you and Hermione?” Harry and Hermione both furrowed their brows, trying to remember what Luna was referring to, and both shook their heads simultaneously, because after all November was a long time ago and a lot had happened since then. “Well, it seems your mail box has finally become full.”

As the owls dropped their letters, in Harry’s case, and Howlers for Hermione, Harry thought back to something he had read in Hogwarts: A History, something about each student being magically assigned a shoebox, where any threatening or potentially harmful correspondence was automatically transferred by the wards surrounding the school. It seemed a bit counterproductive though, he thought as the first Howler sprang to life, to protect the students first and then unleash masses of ‘dangerous correspondence’ on them at once when the mailbox was finally full up.

“HOW DARE YOU CHEAT ON VIKTOR KRUM!!” One Howler began, the woman’s voice harsh and piercing. Across the Hall at the Slytherin table, Viktor turned around, glancing at Hermione with a confused frown. She simply shrugged at him, looking as bewildered as she felt, before glancing at Harry as if he could help her.

“YOU BROKE POOR HARRY POTTER’S HEART, YOU HORRID WOMAN!” Another shrieked, and another, and another, all insulting, all vicious, all cruel. One even called her a “MUDBLOOD DAUGHTER OF A MUGGLE WHORE” and went on to sort of half-compliment Harry and then insult him a moment later by dragging his mother’s blood-status into it.

The sight of Hermione bursting into tears, and the sound of sniggering spreading through the hall, was enough to break Harry out of his musings as to why these Howlers were blocked, but Mrs Weasleys’ weren’t.

“Incendio!” He cast, one after another, and again, until all of the Howlers were little more than specks of ash on the table. Harry blew at the piles, spreading them away from them, away from Hermione. “You ok?” he asked her softly.

She gave a small sniffle, keeping her head ducked down so he wouldn’t see the tears on her cheeks. But she shrugged at him, and asked, “What did you get?” Perhaps a part of her was hoping that he would be as abused and humiliated as she had been, but that part of her was left unsatisfied in some ways. Because Harry hadn’t received any Howlers, or written insults, or death threats. Instead, the owls had brought him a shoebox full of marriage proposals.

Harry flicked through the top few quickly, his face turning red at some of the things that had been written to him. One letter even dated back four years, to when Harry would have been ten, and the sender, a 69-year-old Witch from Wales had offered to have his baby for a million galleons in child support. Last year, a teenager had offered him her toddler if Harry let her give him a blowjob. Another offered him the use of her ovaries, because she wasn’t using them anyway, and they might as well start breeding an army of superhero-Boy-Who-Lived-children1. Harry furrowed his brows, not sure whether to smile or cringe at some of the letters, until he picked up one that literally had his breath catching in his throat. Ginny Weasley had written him a love poem. A very bad one, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Harry read it softly, under his breath, but beside him Luna gave a small huff of laughter that meant he hadn’t been reading quietly enough.

“Are they very bad?” Hermione asked, catching the blush on his cheeks.

“Not really. Mostly, it’s kind of gross. A 94-year-old Wizard from Aberdeen would like to buy my kidneys because his are failing, and he’s offered me two out of three of his granddaughters.”

“Isn’t that kind of him?” Hermione asked, though she didn’t look like she was sure it was. Mostly she looked a little horrified by the idea of selling children for body parts.

“Yeah, except the youngest one is six and the eldest is eleven, and is in Hufflepuff, and is looking this way right now. Oh Merlin!” Harry groaned, sliding down in his seat in an attempt to hide from the little blond Hufflepuff that was glancing curiously his way. “Pretend this conversation never happened,” Harry instructed them firmly, tucking all of the letters bar the one from Ginny back into the box. He kept Ginny’s one, and tucked it into his pocket; it should keep Draco entertained for at least an hour this evening, so Harry might have some chance of finishing his Transfiguration essay in peace.

XXX

March 20th 1995.

His hands were tied above his head. Harry strained against the scarves that bound him, woven green and silver, soft and expensive, and tied in knots around his wrists and the headboard bars. He wasn’t sure how he had gotten this way, naked and bound, because the last thing he remembered was climbing into bed in the Ravenclaw tower, fully dressed in his favourite pyjamas, and definitely not tied up.

But here he was, bound and helpless, and painfully erect the second Lucius Malfoy stepped out of the shadows and towards his bed.

It was a dream, Harry realized on some subconscious level. He took in the strange fedora Lucius was wearing, and the unrealistically large smile that dominated the man’s pale features, stretching his mouth unnaturally wide, and the ways the fingers on his hand kept growing and stretching until they were abnormally long and thing, like bones stripped of their meat, and then filling out again until they were Lucius’ once more. He was dreaming, and what would have turned into a wonderful wet dream about his betrothed had somehow twisted and warped into something else.

Harry wasn’t scared, so it wasn’t a nightmare, and he was still hard and wanting, straining up against his restraints even as his legs fell open in invitation, silently begging his lover to come between them, to fill him up. But it wasn’t Lucius that came forward.

It was something other.

There was no nice way to describe the person, nothing that wouldn’t sound cruel. Lucius’ hair shrivelled up until the person was bald. The mouth was still stretched wide, but the lips were gone, and the fingers were once more like bones. Lucius’ proud, roman nose had disappeared into his face, shrinking back into the skin as if in quicksand, and all that was left were two slits like a snake’s nostrils. The man stared at him, eyes wide and bloody, and Harry wasn’t sure if that was actually the colour of the creature’s irises, or if there was something more wrong with this dream than he had first realised.

It came towards him, slipping out of the heavy robes it had been wearing, until it too was naked and pale and erect, climbing up onto the bed to lie between Harry’s spread legs.

He should scream, Harry thought. He should wake up. This wasn’t the way wet dreams were supposed to go, and he’d know, because Harry had had plenty. But it wasn’t like a real nightmare, because Harry had had plenty of those as well. As terrifying as the creature was to look at, he wasn’t afraid. Gentle hands cradled his face, and a mouth with no lips pressed softly into his, testing the waters, but Harry didn’t buck or scream or cry and so the creature kissed him harder, with more passion. Harry didn’t kiss back, but his lips were soft and pliant, and a tongue worked its way between them to taste Harry for the first time, even if only in a dream.

And then a cold hand was on his cock, and Harry was jerking forward in his bed, surrounded by blue and bronze and the familiar snoring of his dormmates. But there was someone above him, someone real and tangible, pinning his arms above his head and pressing kisses to the column of his throat.

Harry’s mouth opened, a scream worked its way up into his throat, and his tongue got ready, about to release the sound, to wake a dormmate and seek rescue from the creature that had followed him out of his dreams. Until…

“I love you, beloved,” a voice rasped against his neck, and Harry automatically sagged back into the pillows, his panic evaporating. It was Lucius, it was Lucius!

Harry tugged his arms against Lucius’ grip, and the man let go straight away. There was a small grin on his face when Harry finally looked up to meet his eyes, and the makings of a bruise on his jaw. “Good dreams, beloved? You were thrashing so much I had to pin you down.”

“It was a strange dream, I don’t know what to make of it, but I don’t think it was good.” Harry told him after a moment’s silence. Did he tell Lucius about the dream? He didn’t think he had meant to dream about a monster trying to fuck him in Lucius’ bed, the bed where Harry had lost his virginity to his fiancé, but he had dreamed it nonetheless. Did the dream starting out with Lucius as its star count for anything in his defence, Harry wondered?

“Your scar is red-looking,” Lucius told him, his voice soft. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Harry answered quietly and honestly, because it didn’t hurt. He wouldn’t have even known there was anything off about his scar unless Lucius had brought it up first. Maybe it was something to do with the dream? Or maybe Voldemort was angry about something again, or excited, the way he had been that time Harry watched him kill Frank Bryce? “How’d you get in here anyway?” Harry questioned, raising his hips up as Lucius started tugging down his pyjama bottoms.

His shirt was unbuttoned before Harry realised that Lucius had no clothes to remove. They were either folded neatly on the dresser, or Lucius had come to his dorm stark naked, smug and confident that he could get away with it.

“Severus let me in. It seems now, I owe him a favour, though it is not too steep a price to pay.”

“Suppose I should make it worth your while then, yeah?” Harry asked, looking coyly up at Lucius through his lashes. The blush was back on his cheeks, and Lucius mouth was back on his neck and there were fingers pressing up into him as a cock grinded down against his own furiously.

“Ride me,” Lucius told him, after what seemed like hours had passed and Harry was already sticky with ejaculate. His thighs burned and there was a dull sort of ache settling into the base of his back already, and Lucius was sweaty and flushed and panting, looking like the cat that caught the canary even as he rolled onto his back and allowed Harry to climb on top of him. This was their second night together; their fourth time having sex if you counted each act individually. But this was the first time Lucius had let Harry on top of him.

Mind you, he wasn’t really topping, because Lucius was still inside of him, thick and long and hard as Harry slowly lowered himself down, one hand on Lucius’ stomach and the other gripping the base of the Wizard’s cock to hold it straight and steady. Harry seated himself fully after a few moments, gasping breathlessly as Lucius seemed to sink in further than he’d ever had before, Harry’s weight and gravity pulling him completely down onto the length that impaled him. Butterflies were alive in Harry’s stomach, his thighs trembled and his shoulder muscles bunched and un-bunched with nerves.

“What do I do?” He asked voice breathy and raw from screaming.

Lucius had put wards up around the bed after Harry’s first orgasm, when the boy had bitten into Lucius’ shoulder instead of allowing the blond to hear the extent of his pleasure. But Harry still spoke softly, until he was in the throes of ecstasy, whereas Lucius practically growled in return, voice deep and husky and full of lust. “Raise yourself up, almost all of the way off of me, and then drop back down.”

Harry did as he was told, and nearly screamed once he was fully seated again and Lucius’ cock jabbed unexpectedly straight into his prostate. “Again, but lean forward this time, allow my cock to drag against it,” Lucius instructed, and Harry whimpered, the feeling of being so full, stretched wide open and filled up at the same time, coupled with the sensation of the cock scrapping against his prostate and the walls of his insides with each movement was too much. Harry wasn’t going to last long this time, but he continued to ride the blond man, thighs shaking and arms trembling, as Lucius’ hands on his waist guided him faster and harder, or shallower and slower.

Mouths met, sloppily, before Harry threw his head back with a gasp as Lucius thrust up hard into him. The blond leant forward, raising himself up on his elbows so that he could lean forward and catch Harry’s left nipple in his mouth. He bit down hard, and the boy gave a horrid shriek, that trailed off into the most delightful moan Lucius had ever heard as he came so hard he blacked out.

When Harry woke up again, he was on his back. His legs were spread, and lying limp on the bed, and his arms were pinned over his head, and Lucius was rocking lazily into him, delaying his own orgasm as he stroked Harry’s cock back to life.

“Again?” Lucius asked, mouth curling at the corners because he knew what the answer would be even before he asked.

“Again,” Harry told him firmly, and though his legs shook and his arse burned and his back ached, Harry wrapped his arms around Lucius’ neck and dragged the man down for a kiss, thrusting up to meet every demanding thrust, and offering his neck willingly whenever Lucius moved to bite and suck on his skin.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” Harry cried out, like a chant or a mantra, a prayer, each “I” sobbed as Lucius pulled out of him, and each “you” trailing off into a moan as Lucius pressed back inside, hard and furious and demanding. Harry would have bruises on his hips in the morning, and he’d have to spend a good portion of his bathroom routine trying to expel Lucius’ seed from his body even though he’d rather keep it inside of him where it belonged, and he probably wouldn’t be able to sit right or walk straight for a week. But if Lucius didn’t come with him this time, Harry would offer himself up again, because he would never, ever, get enough of Lucius Malfoy.

XXX

March 21st 1995. Riddle Manor.

Voldemort watched the boy sleep.

He wasn’t really Voldemort, because in the real world Voldemort didn’t have a body, and he doubted that once he did have one it would look anything like the old Tom Riddle of his youth. But this Voldemort was Tom Riddle, because it was his mindscape, and his dream, and he could be whatever he wanted to be.

Harry had not been afraid of him, of the physical manifestation of his tattered soul in flesh-form, but Harry hadn’t been very willing either. But this body, this appearance! People used to throw themselves at his feet when he was in school, begging for dates or attention or kisses from him, and he hadn’t ever felt an interest in them like the interest he had in Harry. There was something about the boy that called to him, that sang to his very being, and perhaps it was the Horcrux, the piece of himself wanting to come home, the piece that recognized him, the way Evan recognized it for what it was. But it wasn’t just the Horcrux.

He hadn’t been able to feel it while possessing Gilderoy Lockhart, and even though Evan had shared that piece of information with him during that summer and their travels through Albania, Voldemort had never really believed him. Evan would not lie to him, he was far too loyal, though he was also unruly and arrogant and troublesome, refusing to cower before him or ever admit that he was wrong (because Lord Voldemort never was, and one of them had to be at times), but there was something fantastical about the idea of the Chosen One being a Horcrux that made Voldemort inclined to not believe Evan Rosier.

He had been proved wrong, though he would never admit it. But even before the belief, even before the knowledge was concrete, something about Harry Potter interested him. It enticed the part of his soul encased in the diary, and Tom, when Voldemort deigned to write with him, waxed poetic about Harry this and Harry that, and if not for Harry’s lover Tom probably would have been the one to take Harry to bed by now. The word ‘love’ was never used in their conversations, but Voldemort was sometimes left with the notion that Tom Riddle (what was left of him) fancied himself in love with the Boy-Who-Lived, and maybe he really was. It was thinking upon that idea, late at night when the homunculus could not sleep, because golems did not sleep at night but turn to sand, and Lord Voldemort refused to do anything so undignified, so… vulnerable, not again, not ever, that led to his current predicament.

How did Tom know he was in love?

And how was Voldemort supposed to know if he was in love? He doubted it, but it didn’t hurt to consider all bases, to think on every option and weigh one against the other to reach a reasonable, proven conclusion. Love was something that Voldemort never saw himself succumbing to. It was a weakness that he had tried to rid himself of, along with most other human emotions, when he had made his Horcrux. And yet, one Horcrux had fallen in love, and another, Harry, apparently had too.

Perhaps they were defective creations? Or perhaps Lord Voldemort felt more than he wished to admit to?

He felt jealousy, he could admit to that. Each time Tom spoke about Harry’s lover, whose name Tom did not know, only that Harry had met his lover before meeting the Horcrux, and so Harry must have been quite young, Voldemort felt something clawing its way into his chest, burning and snarling, and eating away at something inside of him until he wanted nothing more than to hurt somebody. But he didn’t know why. Why should it matter that Harry had a lover? Why should it matter that Harry loved?

Voldemort had not been able to find out the name of the wizard who had seduced the boy wonder. Evan knew, of course, being Harry’s father in all but blood, but Evan couldn’t be threatened or tortured into divulging information he did not wish to part from. Wormtail did not know, and aside from Evan and Barty Crouch Jr., Voldemort had seen no one else since returning from Albania, since leaving Hogwarts and Lockhart behind actually! Barty could not leave Hogwarts, and Voldemort did not want to risk the man sending him letters under Dumbledore’s watchful eye, and so Bartemius was not much use for spying on Harry or his lover.

Wormtail occasionally tried to sneak into the closest Wizarding district and steal a newspaper, but transforming from rat to supposedly-dead-man was rather conspicuous, and his animagus form was too small to drag the paper along behind him, let alone carry it in his mouth, the way Sirius had before. The last time Peter Pettigrew had tried, he had managed to make out the headline of the front cover and the first paragraph before he had been beaten away with the handle of a sweeping broom and had fled for his measly life.

All that he could share with the Dark Lord was that Harry was being courted by a Pureblood man who was married. The paper was obviously a very old one, as Lucius was legally divorced now and he and Harry were not only lovers, but betrothed. But Voldemort didn’t know that. He did not realise Harry’s attachment, his feelings, were so great, so strong. And he saw no harm in trying to sway the boy’s attentions, to steal them for himself, for as long as it took to work out what exactly it was that had him so fascinated with the short, skinny boy spread out naked upon his dreamscape bed.

Voldemort watched him, calmly at first, waiting with patience for Harry to wake up of his own accord. Harry’s body writhed occasionally, legs drawing up before lying flat again, fingers clenched at the sheets, at his naked stomach, at the air above him, as if clinging to something or someone Voldemort could not see. Then, as Voldemort’s carefully structured dream seduction and Harry’s dreams that always followed sex or masturbation merged together, the Dark Lord shed any pretence of patience, of calmness, or apathy. Jealousy burned in his red eyes, a sneer pulled at pale pink lips, and a horrid flush worked its way across pale, high cheek bones. Semen pooled on the bed beneath Harry’s arse, leaking out of him as the boy dreamed about Lucius pulling out, too sore and sated to consider holding it inside of him. Hickeys appeared on his neck, starting as tiny pinpricks of red, like the light from a laser, before growing and swirling outwards, painted on in reds and pinks, and purples, bruising and claiming Harry’s skin as theirs while Voldemort watched with his hands clenched and his eyes narrowed.

Harry’s eyes finally fluttered open.

With the first blink of confused green eyes, Voldemort surged forward, like a river battering down a dam. He pinned Harry to the bed, his arms held over his head by one of Voldemort’s pale hands, and his legs forced wider by Voldemort’s hips. Harry’s cock, half hard from his dream, pressed against Voldemort’s stomach, but the man ignored it, instead leaning down to bite Harry’s neck right over the biggest bruise until he could taste blood. He pulled away, pale pink lips stained with the faintest hint of red, and he ignored the soft sob Harry let out at the pain.

“Who was it?” He asked, voice low and dangerous and much, much worse than if he had been screaming in anger. It was a slow kind of danger, that lulled you in and calmed you down, and then pounced once you were convinced it was safe and your guard was down, and then it tore you apart in its viciousness and its rage. “Who did you let do this to you?”

Voldemort’s free hand darted down suddenly, nudging at Harry’s hole, slick with the ejaculate of Harry’s dream lover, fingering him just long enough to wet his fingers, and ignoring the distraught cry that Harry shouted at him, of “stop, Tom, stop it!”

Voldemort held the hand up to Harry’s face, smearing the seed across the boy’s lips. “Whose is this, Harry? Who did you let fuck you? ANSWER ME!”

“What are you doing?” Harry hissed at him instead, anger finally colouring his features, as he tried to buck Voldemort off of him. “Tom, get the fuck off of me now!”

Voldemort hissed angrily, feeling jealous once more, at the sound of his Horcrux’s name on Harry’s lips, instead of his own.

“I said, answer me.” Pale pink lips descended, brushing lightly across Harry’s own mouth as the boy struggled beneath him, mouth wet and sticky from where Voldemort had wiped semen across it. It was so different from their last kiss, where Harry had lay still and pliant as Voldemort tasted him, and the Dark Lord found he preferred the first kiss, the one where he could almost pretend Harry wanted him back.

“That was unnecessary,” the Dark Lord told him, the closest to an apology that Harry would ever get for this violation. Voldemort got off of him, moving back to lean against the wall and he held his trembling hands behind his back where Harry would not see them. “But I will find out who he is.”

“Voldemort?” Harry breathed, eyes widening as realisation set in. This wasn’t Tom from the diary. This was the real Dark Lord, the real Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, master and commander and leader and lord all rolled into one, and he had pinned Harry to a bed inside of his dreams twice in one night and touched him without permission and forced kisses on him that Harry didn’t want, and hurt him. And yet… He still wasn’t afraid. He should be, he knew that, but he wasn’t. There was nothing to fear from Lord Voldemort right now, except perhaps Lucius’ safety, but Harry would talk to the blond about that when he woke up. Now though, to deal with an emotionally unstable Dark Lord. How did one go about doing as such anyway, Harry wondered.

“It’s ok,” he said eventually, giving a small shrug. He sat up on the bed, curling his legs into his chest to hide his private parts behind them. “I’d like to wake up now, please, my Lord.”

Voldemort waved his hand, a strange look crossing his face, before he was gone and Harry was blinking furiously against the light shining in through the gap in his bed curtains. His dormmates were awake; Harry could hear them moving around, shuffling and stumbling and was that Cornfoot stubbing his toe on the edge of Harry’s trunk again, the stupid muggleborn? He wondered how Lucius would escape unseen, and then realised it was a pointless thought, because he was alone in the bed and Lucius was long gone.

“Harry?” Boot called softly, hesitant about dragging him out of the bed for the third morning in a row. “You coming to breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Harry said softly, glancing wistfully as the side of the pillow Lucius had lain his head on, blond hair surrounding him like a halo, wanting to have been able to wake beside the man again, like he had February 15th after losing his virginity. But it made more sense this way. If Lucius had been here when Harry woke, he would have gotten caught. Harry might be banned from seeing him on Hogwarts grounds, and Snape might have gotten into a lot of trouble. But, still, Harry wished. “I’m getting up now. I’ll meet you in the common room in a moment.”

When the dorm fell silent, and all of his roommates had left, Harry slid back his duvet. There were hand shaped bruises on his hips, he noticed, standing in front of the full length mirror that was mounted on the back of the door. His nipples were red and swollen from Lucius’ attentions, as were his lips, and there were hickeys on his stomach and thighs and neck. There were bruises on his arse too, handprint and finger-shaped, from Lucius’ orgasms, where he had forgotten his own strength. After casting a second locking spell, Harry turned around and bent over. He craned his neck, trying to see what he looked like from behind. As far as he could tell, his back was scratched up around his waist and his shoulders and his arsehole was horribly red and puffy. He thought about asking Dobby (one of his courting gifts from Lucius, though kind and loyal as any house elf could be, was a little exuberant, too much so for a Malfoys tastes) for a cream or potion of some sort, because Harry didn’t think he’d be able to go to the toilet painlessly for at least a few days, and that just wasn’t healthy. But the mark that stood out the most was the only one that hadn’t been left by Lucius Malfoy.

On the left side of his neck, was the perfect imprint of teeth upon flesh. A complete circle of teeth marks, overlapping with a hickey made by Lucius’ teeth and tongue, but darker, angrier, left on his skin within his dreams by Voldemort’s jealous rage. Harry loved Lucius, and he desired him and wanted to marry him, for them to be together forever. But there was something thrilling about the Dark Lord (one of the most powerful Wizards on the planet currently) desiring him enough to lose control in such a manner, and for something as mundane as jealousy over a lover. Not a betrayal, or a threat, or a traitor. Not from anger, or fear, or desire. But from jealousy!

If Harry told Lucius, the man would probably be half-paralysed by fear, awaiting some sort of punishment from the Dark Lord for owning what the Lord coveted. But after the fear had passed, the blond Wizard would probably be smug enough to rival a peacock, Harry thought. It was tempting, he thought to himself, washing and dressing for the day, underwear-less because the material of his boxers were too tight on his bruises and his trousers were looser. Lucius would be jealous, and Lucius’ jealousy was a beautiful, satisfying thing. But Harry didn’t think he could bear the sight of Lucius’ fear. The man should never have to fear anything, not Lord Voldemort, and certainly not that Harry would ever leave him.

Because he wouldn’t.

XXX

April 16th 1995. King’s Cross.

Harry thought it might have been weird, seeing Narcissa for the first time since he had technically stolen her husband. She was a free woman now, for the first time in many, many years, and though while not divorced in the Muggle sense of the word, her and Lucius were separated and free to do as they pleased with whom they pleased. In Lucius’ case, he was going to marry Harry once the boy was sixteen, and Narcissa would continue to live in Malfoy Manor, with her son, Lord Malfoy, and his teenage lover, and said lover’s father on occasion.

Harry thought it would have been weirder. But this Easter, or Ishtar, break, which was now coming to an end, had been wonderful and magical, just like every other holiday Harry had ever spent at Malfoy Manor. Evan had been summoned to Riddle Manor near the end of it, returning shaking from the after effects of the Cruciatus, but smirking with amusement all the same. Lucius had passed the days working in his office or close by Harry’s side, and when Harry wasn’t with Lucius, he was with Draco, playing Quidditch or passing on some of the duelling moves he had learnt from Professor Snape. Harry had told Lucius about the dream with Voldemort, which probably contributed towards Lucius’ possessiveness of him (or clinginess, if you asked Evan’s opinion), and Evan had told him about the Dark Lords interrogation, his insistence on knowing Harry’s lovers name- fiancé, Evan soon corrected Lord Voldemort -and then the gift of the Dark Lord’s stifled congratulations which was passed onto Harry. There were no more dreams of Voldemort over the two week break, but the usual returns into the normal realms of a teenager boy’s dreamscape, where Lucius and sex featured equally to worrying about walking into class naked someday2.

And Narcissa Malfoy, through it all, was her normal, kind and caring self. She always included Harry in everything, spoke to him whenever he and Draco felt left out of Evan and Lucius’ discussions, comforted him if she found him in the kitchen or the parlour after a nightmare, smoothed out the normal petty fights he and Draco had on occasion about stupid things, just like she had done before Harry stole her husband.

She was the one to bring them both back to King’s Cross, and to watch them load their luggage into a carriage. Draco darted back over to give her a tight hug, and as they broke apart, Narcissa held her arms out to Harry, who smiled softly, relieved, and hugged her just as tightly as her son had.

He had thought it would be weird, spending the holidays with the woman who had gotten divorced because of him, for him, but it wasn’t weird at all. Spending the holidays at Malfoy Manor had just been him coming home.

XXX

1 - Reminds me of the Lotto adverts in Ireland. Some of them are so stupid they are funny, see: www dot youtube dot com/ watch ? v = CYOKzAp15 - k

2 - I’ve had that dream before. Funnily enough, the last time I had it was quiet a few years ago (when I was actually still in school), and here’s the funny part, that was the day I walked half way to school before realising I had only put on the top half of my uniform, and was still wearing my pyjama bottoms…. At 5.30am… Obviously, I ran home and went back to bed till 8! And got properly dressed the next time I woke up :P

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Thanks for reading. Please review. Also, Butterfly has been translated into Chinese and posted here, if anyone is interested: www_luvharry_net/bbs/index_php (replace _ with dot)

Oh yeah, some of you might have seen this one facebook, but for those who haven’t… In my last exam, instead of writing “the official secrets act”, I wrote “the statute of secrecy”, and while re-reading the paper before handing it up, I came across that phrase and sat there for ten minutes staring at it, wondering why it didn’t sound right…. POTTERHEAD! Lol.

Butterfly should be completed in about two more chapters, so, hopefully, 50 in total. Not bad. My longest story yet (unless you count all of the parts of the Brothers in Arms series as a single story), and 10 chapters longer than I had originally estimated.


....Yeah, I know, Theodore should have been at the train station at the end too, but the scene was more about Harry feeling like he was still part of the family, having been joining them for Holidays since he was eight, despite causing Narcissa and Lucius' divorce. Think of it as a sort of backward child-blaming-himself-for-parents-divorce thing, but with 'child' being the 'other woman'... :P

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Chapter 49
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