The Finest Golden Braid

 

 

He wears a mask, to visit. Fine tailored black flannel soft over his face, eyelashes brushing fibers as he blinks. The guards nod; they know; they have always known, and say not a word. Just as they know of the curses all the Ministry has been adding to these walls. Curses of madness, curses born of their own frustrated impotence, curses to replace the lost dementors.

There is only one cell he visits.

Chains dangle rusty and unused from the walls still stained in spots by the black ragged cloaks of dementors. Cranking the barred iron gate takes all the strength in his narrow back, one long strain with the mask clinging tight about his mouth as he sucks air. Barely any light. Half-empty food dishes. One figure propped limply against the wall, dirty, straitjacketed, because, oh, the Ministry was angry.

"You...you...no, go away, go away, I command you..."

He doesn't say anything in response. Matters have become too complicated to say anything anymore. Even for him, when he thought they could be simple. And he is unduly paranoid that Lucius will recognize his voice. But Lucius must have been having a good week; the rubber madman's bit is missing from between his teeth. He smoothes the corner of his mouth with a thumb, feels the unmarked skin. Lucius' eyes spark wearily; he shifts, makes to bite.

He steps back, loosens his tie, wraps it around his hand to cover pale freckles in the gloom, unwraps, doubles over the knot so it would fill a grown man's mouth. Lucius curses, thrashes, but he holds onto the straps across his chest, a convenient handle, until he quiets, panting. Long strands of dirty hair slide over his hands. The gag bites cross his face; above it gray eyes focus, unfocus, focus again. Most of his hair is caught under the tie, clinging close to his neck.

As always, Lucius is flaccid under the leather strap cinched tight between his legs. As always, Lucius whines a muffled whine when he paws roughly at him. He never quite got over that. Never got over that instinctive helpless cringe.

But he isn't here for that.

Running hands down strong narrow legs, he notices the freckles again, the tiny red hairs between the joints of his knuckles. He should have worn gloves, he thought. Lucius would have known what family he was from by now, at least. Not that he would ever have bothered to learn any of their names. Who they were.

Hands over shoulders strapped tight in by the heavy canvas, chest and arms forced into one, heaving as he panted for breath. That beautiful Pureblood body all stained and soiled and rolled up helpless, legs crumpled without the leverage to stand, mind crumpled by curses lining the walls. He's so hard he can hardly stand it, so hard he might leak and stain his pants, and they are good pants, they are.

He stands back, arm's length from the man. Time to open his robes, his pants. Lucius hisses and spits into the gag. He wipes his hand on his robes, getting it as clean as possible, tugs hard on his prick, resists the urge to throw his head back, abandon himself to his own masturbation. No. Keep your eyes on him, watch him, watch that broken Malfoy pride. Quick choking breath, mask fluttering round his nose as his nostrils flare and his thighs clench and he comes, hot spatter over chest and shoulders and perfect, handsome, tie-clenched face.

His panting subsides. Lucius is very still, eyes to the floor, face scrunched up like a child's and teeth tight in the gag.

Slowly he steps back to him, crouches over him. He thumbs Lucius' face, so small between his hands. Wipes the come from fine blond eyelashes, the dirt from the patrician cheekbone. Brushes the clinging strands of his hair aside.

Enough of that. Time is short. He has work to do.

He runs two fingers along the man's scalp, sad that he must retrieve his tie. But remove it he does, tucks it wet and dirty into his pocket. Then back to the a ragged and scabbed spot of Lucius' scalp, above his right ear, and Lucius grits his teeth in angry silence, because words are useless anyway, as he finds a long, strong hair, plucks it, curls it golden around his wrist like a lady's token.

Back on his bureau, he has a slender golden braid of it by now. One for each visit. Blood and flakes of skin dried round the follicles.

The gate heaves shut with a terrible clang. Lucius winces, shifts, buries his face in his hair. The sight blurs a little; his eyes are straining. Too long trying to manage without his glasses, folded in a leather case in his pocket, neat and expensive and stowed deep and unsoiled under his robes.

He turns, does not rub his eyes for that would be weak, and leaves.

The cleaning spells have been lax. The floor is damp, accumulating unnamed filth. He will have to polish his shoes well when he gets home.

 

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