Title: His Wicked Ways
Genre: Romance / Drama
Rating: M
Pairing: Lucius x Harry
Spoilers: N/A
Summary: "You are mine. I have slept with you, I have assisted you financially, I have… cared for you."
Word Count: 3,205
Warnings: Obviously completely AR

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure which book exactly, but the summary is from the Southern Vampire Mysteries by Charlaine Harris.

A/N: I don't know. This quote just reminded me of something Lucius would say.

After the war, everything falls apart. It had been too much, too fast. Years and years of worrying and training and dreading a single moment, it is over in a flash. They count their dead. It is too many, so many. All for what? Because he wasn't better, stronger, smarter, more. Hogwarts is destroyed. More lives ruined – the staff that live there, the students that call it home, that have no homes but Hogwarts to go to.

Harry knows what that is like.

So he pours out his money – to orphans without families, to rebuilding, to families needing to start over, to rehabilitation, to hospital bills that can't be paid, to school supplies for those with no more money left to buy them. At first it is easy, there is so much money. But Harry never finished school, does not want to be an Auror, does not want the fame of professional Quidditch, so there is money going out, but not coming in. He has no head for finances, hasn't the courage to ask the staff at Gringotts how to earn money without having a job, doesn't even know that's possible.

So one day when he opens his vault, he is dismayed to realize there's not much left. More than most have, yes. But in the scheme of things, no. Not enough to keep helping, to keep giving, to keep repenting. His mind swirls with what he can do, who he can go to. But his mentors – Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore – are gone, gone, gone. Who could he ask? Ron and Hagrid have no head for this. Hermoine would be disappointed and make a fuss. Ginny hasn't spoken to him in the two years since the war, citing that first loves aren't last loves, which is true. He's not close enough with anyone else to ask for help, if he even would.

"Mr. Potter, just the man I was hoping to see."

Harry jerks to a stop at the smooth, cool voice and is startled to see Lucius Malfoy, of all people, standing in the Gringotts foyer before him, looking as calm and collected as he had that day in the bookstore all those years ago. He is still every inch the aristocrat, Harry notes, eying him uneasily. In an effort to maintain ties to those from his school, to give everyone, everyone a chance to start over, he had made a tentative peace with his longtime rival Draco, and when the Slytherin had mentioned something alluding to his father, Harry had put in a good word for the pureblood family. And the elder Malfoy had been released from Azkaban, albeit on a tight leash, ever since. "You were looking for me?"

Lucius lets a slow, languid smirk slid across his face at the tremulous way the boy asks the question. No, not a boy, not anymore. Almost 21 and a man now, in both worlds. The war had given him a haunted look in his emerald eyes that nothing would probably ever change, Lucius supposed it might have something to do with the rumors that he had died briefly. But the years for training and Quidditch had also honed his body – the growth spurt that hit him last year adding inches to his height and making him as lean and limber as a cat. A dark-haired, absinthe-eyed lion. A Gryffindor in Slytherin colors. "I hear I might be able to offer you some assistance."

Harry blinks. "What…?"

"I hear there might be some financial issues for you in the near future, Mr. Potter."

Green eyes widen behind those ridiculous glasses, and he pales even further. "I don't know what – "

Lucius waves his hand dismissively at whatever excuse was about the spew from his lips. He gestures at the boy – man – to follow him and starts walking. "No need to lie, Mr. Potter, as you are well aware, I have eyes and ears everywhere, even in Gringotts, as harsh as their security measures are." He glances side-eyed at Harry, no doubt thinking of an incident with a dragon that had been plastered across the papers for months. "But you… helped my family." It is clearly a struggle for him to utter the words. "Your good word, though I know you did out of a sense of reconciliation for my son, still granted me my freedom and allowed me to keep the Malfoy name strong."

It's the longest that Harry has ever had a conversation with him at one time and it almost sounds as if Malfoy is… thanking him? He doesn't know how to respond, so he continues following along, trying to ignore the loud stage-whispers of people as they notice the Boy-Who-Lived, the Boy-Who-Vanished-the-Dark-Lord, the Savior walks by with ex-Death Eater Lucius Malfoy.

Lucius glances down, not as far as he once had to, at Potter, noticing how his eyes cringe when people point and whisper. How he inches imperceptibly closer when it looks like a group of particularly brave watchers is going to come over and actually speak to him. Lucius peers over Harry's head and catches their eye. With a finely arched brow in their direction, he sends them scurrying on their way. Harry slumps in relief.

It's another two blocks before they're away from the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley, not quite all the way to the darker Knockturn Alley, but somewhere in between. It's here that Lucius stops abruptly. Harry walks another three paces before he realizes he's walking alone and stops and turns to face him. Lucius is struck momentarily by the bloody boy-who-lived standing in a dark alleyway, framed by the faintest halo of light, eyes shining like a dragon's, and staring at him expectantly. "I believe I may be of some assistance to you."

"Yes, you said that before."

Malfoy feels his mouth snap shut at the abrupt reply. That's a glimmer of the defiant young boy who stood toe-to-toe with a man that terrified Lucius. "To elaborate then, Mr. Potter: I understand, however much you choose to deny it, that certain proclivities have left you less financially stable as you once were. In an effort to blotting out the past discrepancies of my House, I am willing to finance your post-war time heroics and generosity." He pauses for a moment, letting that sink in. "In addition, in order to repay the kindness you once did my family, I am willing to assist you in keeping the… rabble… away from you."

A long slow blink and Lucius has the sudden urge to see those eyes without the hindrance of glasses. "You'd what then? Keep my fan club away from?"

"My name still harbors a certain… fear for the most commonplace wizards," Lucius says with a cocky tilt of his mouth. "If we are seen together it will no doubt keep all but the most foolish of mudbloods away."

Though he frowns at the slur, he doesn't say anything. It's possible that as a muggle-born the idea of the word as an insult irks him, but there's no real animosity behind it. He's silent a long moment. "Why would you do this for me?"

"As I stated – "

"Don't give me another speech, Malfoy." His tone is sharp, bold. A warrior's tone. "And don't lie. Why are you doing this?" The tone sends a shock down the length of Lucius' spine.

He weighs his answer for a moment, but in the end, honesty wins out. This boy trained in Legilimency with Severus, who deceived the Dark Lord for years. Lucius had the distinct sense that Harry would know if he was lying. "Because I wish to."

It is blindingly easy to slide into this agreement. Harry doesn't know how or when the money is transferred to his vault, but the next time he's there, it's as full as it was the first day Hagrid brought him there. There's no pause in momentum for his projects and charities and helping hands. The only thing that stops is the incessant groups of hero worshippers coming up to him at every moment to gawk and stare and fawn over him.

It takes Lucius a surprisingly swift amount of time to realize that it's not every person Harry wishes to avoid – it the fame-seekers. The ones who want to say that they met Harry Potter, that they touched Harry Potter's hand, to get his autograph. Those people take time out of his day, they don't see him, they see the scar, the story, the battle. They don't see what it cost him. But there are others – school children with no parents anymore who Harry is helping through school, teachers who have a place to work, parents with children who would have never been born without him, who want to thank him. Mothers who want to know if he's okay because he's just a young boy and the same age as their own children. Harry is relaxed and easy with them. They see him.

Lucius realizes this, and doesn't scare them away, even encourages them to come closer when he sees them, by wandering away. After a few weeks, the people who want to just see Harry don't even appear to notice Lucius. He becomes a shadow in the background of their conversations, silent, observant, but there. There is a palpable difference in Harry when he is with these people. He is relaxed in a way the Lucius had never seen him before. In his glimpses of the boy during his school years he always seemed tired and wrung out, stressed to the breaking point about a prophecy he had no notion or say in. But within a group of normal people, Harry is carefree and glowing – the very picture of mirth and cheer. A front page add of Harry with his head thrown back amidst a group of young children while their mother and Lucius Malfoy look on is plastered to the front of the Prophet for weeks. As he had anticipated, it makes people wonder at his motive, at his angle, but over time it becomes commonplace. Over time, as he frequents Potter at events, his name becomes synonymous with post-war rehabilitation. The only thing that irritates him is all the headlines continuously read "Potter and Malfoy together again" like some kind of joke about a schoolyard rivalry, like some kind of spin on the past.

"Malfoy – "

"I must insist you stop calling me that."

Harry comes up short, startled by what appears to him a non-sequitur. "I – what?"

"You refer to my son as Malfoy, do you not?" Harry's barely nodded before he continues. "Then I must you insist you refer to me in some other manner. It is… irritating."

Harry blinks. "Mr. – "

"No." He won't be called Mr. Malfoy either, he's no ancient wizened stump.

"Sir – "

"No." The response to being called sir is both immediate and startling. Lucius feels the thrill of the word from his chest to his suddenly rigid length and he can't dwell on that here and now, but maybe later when he is alone and he can contemplate and maybe touch and tease and – "Lucius is fine."

"I – " Another blink. He does that a lot. "Alright… Lucius." He seems shy saying his name, making it more intimate and close than Malfoy had anticipated. "Then I guess you can call me Harry."

Months pass, and suddenly Lucius realizes he hasn't had to scare away an autograph-seeker in weeks. That part of the plan has worked as beautifully as everything else. Everything went exactly to plan. With one unforeseen outcome…

"Ah… Lucius… Lucius, please… ugh, ah, ah, ah!... fuck, oh fuck, please, please, please…"

The litany is music to his ears, something Malfoy couldn't have imagined before and now cannot imagine being without. It is enough to make his slow and even thrusts waver and shake, enough to make him groan, low and deep, and bury his face into that long, pale, swan-like throat and breathe deep and ragged breaths. The nails on his shoulders are leaving bloody trenches in his skin, the thighs around his waist leaving crushing bruises. But it is good, it is so, so good. Narcissa is a frigid woman, as cold in bed as she is in life. They had their heir, their son, and went their separate ways. But no one had ever been like this.

Harry is unlike any of his other lovers. He tumbles into Lucius' bed every time as shy and nervous as the first time (could it only have been weeks ago, drunk and loose-limbed after a black tie event?), but as wild and wicked as Lucius' wildest dreams. He is wanton and enthusiastic, every touch seems to awaken some new beast in him and Lucius strives to learn every one. He's never had a lover so responsive to his hands, to his mouth. He's never found such pleasure in pleasing another. But watching Harry's grip go white-knuckled tight in the sheets, watching that taut stomach shiver, watching the hips writhe restless and impatient makes him want to see more. Watching him bite down on the flesh of his palm to keep quiet makes Lucius want to make him scream, makes him want to tease the sound out of him with coy swipes of tongue up trembling thighs, makes him want to see him lose control of the power that simmers below the surface of his skin.

So he plays the boy – the man, no boy was every this provocative and lustful – like a fiddle. First laving his tongue over the hollow of each rib, swirling around his bellybutton, dipping in and out in playful parody. His fingers brush, butterfly soft across downy thigh and caves, first the outside, then the inside, watching them fall open in restless anticipation, but no… Instead Lucius rolls him over, repeats the process, lets his tongue and fingers come so, so close the dip at the bottom of his spine that Harry ruts into the mattress with incoherent noises muffled into the pillow. He slides up that body, lets his own rigid length brush against the same dip, lets the garbled cry of his name wash over him.

With a gentle touch he prompts Harry to roll over and slides between the hollow of his thighs with a sigh. He fits here, somehow, in a way he never has before. They do not make sense, but, yet somehow they do. The Slytherin and the Gryffindor, the Savior and the Death Eater, the hero and the villain. A tale as old as time. No one would accept this, but Lucius is selfish, he doesn't want the world to know. He wants this for himself. He wants the sights and the moans and the pleasure. He wants the trembling limbs and clenching inner walls that pull him in so tightly it's painful, so deeply it's divine. He wants to be the only one to see those eyes, free of glasses so he can see every speck of vivid green as it disappears behind blown pupils, the only one to see the way he sleeps, pliant and still and curled into Lucius like a sleeping lion. The only one to run fingers through the hair that is wild from their cloud dancing.

The only one.

"Lucius…"

His name is loud in the quiet room and he glances up rather than speak. His head is pillowed on Harry's stomach and Harry has been idly carding his fingers through long blond hair. He is too relaxed and languorous to move. "Hm?"

"Are you…" He swallows, and Lucius can hear his heartbeat kick into a staggering tempo. "Is this… Why are you here?"

"I live here."

"No, I mean… with me."

At that Lucius raises his head, looking at the poster child for sin beneath him. Nothing had ever looked so beckoning and wicked, nothing had ever been so wholly his before. "Because you are mine." Green eyes snap down to him, the hand in his hair stills. "I have slept with you." He dips his tongue into the navel before him as a reminder, and Harry gasps, his hips giving an incoherent jerk. "I have assisted you financially." When Harry would frown at the reminder, Lucius begins a slow glide up that body until they are face-to-face. "I have…" it is hard to admit "cared for you."

Harry's eyes are glazing over in the beginnings of arousal, but they are sharp and focused on him as he admits that, even to himself, for the first time. "I – "

Lucius gives a shallow thrust to sway his argument. "I do not give up what is mine."

"I – " Long fingered hands grip pale thighs and begin to pry them apart. "I – " Harry's breath hiccups when another slow thrust brings their members in full contact. "I – ah – " A nipple is tweaked and pulled. "Oooohhh," A mark is worried into the place where his neck becomes his shoulder. "I – I – I – " Every aborted sentence is a shallow thrust, a slow glide of skin to skin, heat to heat, nothing but this contact. Lucius leans up to suck on the lobe of ear. "AH!" Harry tries to arch off the bed at the sensation, but Lucius holds him still.

"Say it."

"I – I can't, please, fuck please I need… I need, oh God, please fuck, fuck, please ahhh ! ah! Pleeasssee…"

"I'll let you come." Harry gives a sobbing breath. "If you say it."

"I – I – I – " Lucius presses down more firmly, pressing more weight against the leaking length between them and Harry cries out in almost pain. "I'm yours!" He keens, writhes, tries to create more friction, just a little more. "Yours, Lucius, oh God, please, please, I need – "

Satisfied, he reaches down and wraps one slender hand against the throbbing length of the Savior. One stroke, two, a twist and then Lucius bares all his weight down, presses him into the mattress so hard Harry can barely suck in a breath, then gives two, three harsh thrusts and Harry is screaming, eyes going wide and blind and he's almost crying as his release rocks through him like a storm. Paintings rattle on the walls, the bedframe shakes. The wave of magic that washes over the room washes over Lucius and at the first touch he feels his own release shoot through him like a tidal wave.

They come down in shuddering fits and starts, until Lucius is boneless on top of Harry, and Harry is sunken deep into the mattress with no apparent care. When he finally catches his breath enough to take a deep pull of air and steady his pounding heart, Lucius sinks even deeper into the pliant body beneath him.

"You are mine."

EDIT: Now with less typos!