Harry Potter and the Knife of Klingsor, Part 7

As he’d predicted, Draco Malfoy wasn’t having a very good summer holiday at all. Alone in his rooms, helpless, he thought about how it had begun.

He’d gotten off of the Hogwart’s Express at King’s Cross Station with the rest of the students, but had spoken to no one. He’d hardly even muttered a ‘goodbye’ to his cronies Crabbe and Goyle, both of which had snickered when he had hobbled off. His bum was still extremely sore, and the jostling ride back on the old red steam engine had done nothing for it. The only good part of the ride, Malfoy realized with some chagrin, had been Harry Potter coming to talk to him and sharing his candy with him.

“I just don’t understand him,” Malfoy muttered as he waited around for his mother to show up. “I’ve been nothing but rude to him, and he’s still nice to me.”
One by one, he watched the others being greeted by their parents with hugs and kisses and jumbled chatter. He sighed and reached into his pocket. Harry had left him a good lot of candy – gifts from people who’d given it to him over the several days that he’d lain unconscious in the Hospital Wing after his fight with Voldemort. He ripped open his last chocolate frog, ate it, and then stared at the trading card. He wondered if anyone would have come to see HIM, had he been the one laid up. He doubted it and sighed, leaning against the brick wall and trying to look inconspicuous.

Malfoy was dressed in a white formal shirt with a black tie. It was a plain tie without the Slytherin House colors on it. He wore a black formal jacket and matching black short pants with white socks that came up to just below his knees with shining soft leather dress shoes. His white-blonde hair was perfectly combed and gelled back, and he looked to be quite the little man. He was anything BUT inconspicuous, attracting looks from several Muggles who passed by and stared at him.

“Who died?” One middle age man asked him, grinning.

“It’s not Sunday, is it, Mummy?” Some little Muggle boy asked as they passed.

“Why’s that boy wearin’ shorts and a jacket?”

Draco tried to ignore them, his attention focused on the trading card he held. He’d made fun of Harry and Ron for collecting them, but in truth, he had a whole cigar box full of them at home. This one was one that he’d never seen before, however, and he was perplexed. “Who the hell is Alessandro Grimaldi?” he mumbled, reading the stats on the back of the card. They were less than helpful; in fact, Grimaldi seemed rather boring and Malfoy wondered how he’d ever gotten onto a card in the first place. Usually, one had to accomplish something like find a use for dragon blood, like Dumbledore had. Grimaldi wasn’t actually on the card, however. That was part of the fun of Wizard Trading cards – you never knew when the resident Wizard or Witch was going to show up on the card, or what he or she would be doing. Grimaldi was obviously busy.

“Hey there, son,” someone said right in his ear, and Malfoy jumped. He looked up to see an average, unremarkable Muggle with thinning hair and a prominent waistline standing behind him and reading the card over his shoulder. He was dressed in a cheap business suit, and Malfoy’s face twitched.

Idiot, Malfoy silently chided himself, You let him sneak up on you and now he’s seen the card!

“Why the long face, boy?” The man asked him, reaching into his jacket pocket. “You look like you could use some candy. That face of yours gets any longer, and it’s gonna fall off.”

“Thank you, no, sir,” Draco replied, looking around for his mother. “My mother should be here to pick me up anytime and she doesn’t allow candy.”

The Muggle, however, wasn’t that easily pushed off. “Well, I think I’ve left it over here in my bag,” he mused, pointing to a briefcase near an overcoat and hat on the nearby bench. “Why don’t you come over and sneak a bite while you wait for her and you can tell me all about what a dapper little fellow like yourself is doing in King’s Cross on a day like today in such a fine outfit? My, but you are the sharp dressed little man!”

Sitting down, however, was the LAST thing that Malfoy wanted to do.

Glancing around, Draco fingered the Wand that he always kept up his sleeve. He made sure that no one else was looking, and then carefully slid the business end of it to the almost invisible hole that he’d carefully crafted just under the elbow so that it was aimed out of his sleeve and at the Muggle. Then he looked up and grinned at him.

“Well, I just got back from school,” Draco began, smiling fictitiously and launching into disconnected, mindless chatter about an imaginary school which seemed to entertain the Muggle very much. They had just made it to the bench when Draco suddenly stopped in mid-word and said “Petrificus totalis!” as he jerked his elbow at him.

The Muggle instantly froze where he sat, a stupid grin on his face. Draco snorted and went back to standing by his trunk. “Where IS she?” He mumbled, staring at the clock and realizing that he really didn’t care if he made it home or not. Then he glanced back at the petrified Muggle. “Pervert,” he mumbled.

Mrs. Malfoy finally arrived after about an hour of making the boy wait. By the time she’d arrived, he’d been forced to use an Overlook-Me Spell on himself due to the fact that someone had sat on the bench next to the frozen Muggle and had run screaming for the police. Draco had let her pass right by him, amused that he’d been good enough to get the Spell to work, even on his own mother.

But then again, she’s already good at overlooking me, he thought bitterly as he lifted the spell. Mrs. Malfoy, unlike all the other parents, didn’t seem happy to see her son. She just seemed to be ‘there’, and only said “Hello, Draco, how was your Year?” as she picked up one of his bags and led him out to their car. Draco didn’t answer her, except with a shrug of his slumped shoulders.

The Malfoy’s car was a large black Rolls limousine, in which Draco seldom rode. In fact, he seldom even saw it. This, however, was fine with him; not seeing the car meant not seeing his father, and Draco was in no rush to see Lucius Malfoy. As the boy got in the back and tried to make himself comfortable, the creature driving (which Draco was sure wasn’t quite human, but he couldn’t really tell) asked “Where to, Ma’am?”

“Home!” She snapped, and Draco stretched out the seat opposite her on his stomach his still-aching bum in the air. She sniffed and stared at him. “Problems?” She asked in an uninterested voice.

“I got spanked,” Draco informed her.

“The ‘gluteous fer-er-rio’ or whatever the hell it is Curse, the one with the smoky hand?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Draco replied meekly, using the manners which had been beaten into him almost since birth.

“How many swats?”

“Only ten,” Draco replied.

“Well I’m sure you deserved it. I’ll inform your father when he arrives this evening,” she informed him coldly. “I’m sure he’ll be so impressed that his precious little one and only son has received the first spanking that Hogwart’s has issued in almost a century.”

The boy could feel his heart sinking and his stomach rolling. Harry Potter’s gift of candy threatened to make an encore presentation of itself, and he closed his eyes, turning his head so that she wouldn’t see the look on his pale face. He wasn’t even going to get one night of peace, it seemed. In fact, his father would probably be home early to hear all about how his Year at Hogwart’s had gone.

Draco wanted to cry, but he didn’t dare. Instead, he bit into his fist until he felt the first salty taste of blood in his mouth and began praying to any god out there who would listen to him.

When they arrived at Malfoy Manor, a huge rambling old mansion with several floors and countless rooms and wings, Draco followed his mother into the house as the driver began unloading his things. They were greeted at the door by Dobby, the house elf.

Dobby was a small creature, about three feet tall, with large luminous eyes and even larger batlike ears. He was brown colored, lightly, and wore only a sewed up towel of some kind. House elves were not allowed clothing, and Draco reminded himself to be careful so as not to give Dobby any article of his own clothing that the creature might take as a gift. This of course would set Dobby free of his enslavement, and that was the last thing that Draco wanted to do. His father would, no doubt, kill him if he made that slip.

“Little Master!” Dobby cried, clasping Draco’s leg and kissing his knee. “Dobby missed you, he did! Can Dobby do something for you? Get you something? Anything?”

Draco shook his white head and didn’t reply. He stared down at the pathetic creature, knowing that Dobby was packing powerful Magic; in fact, Dobby was probably thousands of time more powerful than Draco was. Being an enslaved elf, however, he was unable to use his Powers without his Master’s permission.

Looking down at the pathetic little fawning creature, Draco Malfoy realized that he knew exactly how Dobby felt.

“Go to your room, young man,” Mrs. Malfoy dismissed him with an air of indifference. “I’ll be in the Drawing Room awaiting Lucius. He should be here shortly, unless he’s held up. You might consider cleaning up and looking suitably pathetic. You may inspire a mercy or two from him, but I doubt it.”

Draco felt the tiny little fuzzy hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He didn’t answer her; he only nodded his head and pleaded with his eyes. Mrs. Malfoy gave him a withering look and turned away. The boy then looked down, and saw Dobby – still clutching his leg – with tears in his grotesquely huge eyes.

“C’mon, Dobby,” Draco said softly, trying to keep his voice from breaking with emotion, “Let’s go. I could use some help I think.”

Dobby, naturally, squealed with glee. He shrank back a bit, though, when Draco did something that he’d never done before. When Mrs. Malfoy left the room, he reached down and picked Dobby up, pulling him close. He hugged him, and carried the shaking elf back to his room.

“What’s Dobby done bad?” The confused elf whispered in his ear, “Dobby didn’t mean to! Whatever it is, Dobby will fix it, Little Master!”

‘Little Master’ was what Lucius Malfoy had ordered Dobby to call Draco, and he hated it. He’d asked Dobby countless times to call him something else, but Dobby always refused. They both knew it was an insult, but neither of them could do a thing about it. When they arrived in Draco’s rooms, which was about a five-minute walk up two long flights of stairs and enclosed to their own separate wing of the Manor, Draco sat Dobby on the floor. Finally, he spoke.

“Dobby, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Dobby almost collapsed in relief, then jumped up and down on Draco’s bed in delight. He then pulled the blankets back and fluffed the pillow. “Does Little Master need a nap?” He asked helpfully.

“No,” Draco replied, “I haven’t napped in years.”

“Dobby sorry,” the elf replied, “Dobby forgots. Dobby sees so little of Little Master that he forgets, gone all the time you is.”

“I know,” Draco replied, kicking his shoes off and carefully pulling off his socks. He saw that Dobby was watching him with a great deal of interest. “My socks, my clothes,” he stated, thus rendering his clothing incapable of freeing the elf. Dobby’s ears drooped.

He then took off his jacket, followed by his shirt and tie, which Dobby took and neatly hung up for him. He stood there in his boxers for a bit, then sighed and pulled them off. As he turned around, Dobby gasped in shock.

“Little Master’s bum is all messed up!” The elf cried. “What happened to it?”

“Little Master got spanked,” Draco told him, chewing at every word in disgust. “Little Master hurts a LOT and can’t sit down.”

“Dobby will fix it,” the elf promised, starting to run from the room.

“NO!” Draco shouted at him, and then sighed again. He reached a trembling hand down to touch his tiny genitals and rubbed at them. Tears formed up in his pale gray eyes, but he didn’t cry. Dobby has stopped cold in his tracks.

“M-my father w-wouldn’t like it if you fixed my bum for me,” Draco told him.

Dobby nodded as if understanding. “Master likes it when Little Master is miserable,” Dobby agreed, then promptly banged his head on the wall in self-punishment. “Dobby hates for Little Master to suffer!” He cried. Then he saw the boy’s arm.

Draco’s left arm was red and scratched up on the inside. There were small scabs forming up here and there, and had the boy not chewed his fingernails down to the quick on the train, the damage would have been much, much worse. Dobby shook his head. “Little Master is getting the Bad Mark?” he asked in fear, knowing that he’d be forbidden to fix it, too.

Gods, I’m messed up, Draco thought to himself, nodding, and watching in pity as Dobby banged his head on the wall again and again for saying something bad about Lucius Malfoy. I’ve been so bad to him all this time, and he acts like he really cares about me. Then he paused for a bit. DOES he like me? How could he? No one does.

“I know just how you feel, Dobby. Stop that!” He ordered, and Dobby did.

The elf came over to Draco and took his hand. His large eyes shone in the dim light of Draco’s bedroom, and he gently pulled the boy’s hand away from his genitals. Then he smiled. “They’re not any smaller, Dobby thinks! Same size, they were!” He moved closer, and Draco flinched when Dobby touched him, examining him curiously. “Nope, same size as when Little Master left. Very small, but still there!”

“They’ll be getting smaller when Father gets home,” Draco said dismally, yet enjoying having the elf touching him. Then he thought for a moment. “Dobby, can you run and get me something to drink? Something only you’re good at making, for ME? Something to make me sleepy?”

Dobby jumped at the chance and ran, his ears twitching in delight. He was good at making his Little Master feel better, and from the looks of him, he certainly could use it! Dobby was almost jumping up and down in pure glee when he came back with a large, steaming mug in his hand. He handed it to the boy, who took a long drink. “Thank you, Dobby,” he said, handing the mug back to him. Then he turned to look in his closet for his bathrobe.

As he opened the doors, Draco sniffled. His rooms all smelled musty and unused. It was almost as if, while at Hogwart’s, his parents pretended that he didn’t even exist. Wondering how long it had been since one of the Staff had cleaned in there, he took his red bathrobe in hand and decided to clean up with a good hot bath. “Maybe I’ll feel better,” he told the elf, who followed the naked boy into his private bathroom with the steaming mug in hand.

The bathroom was quite large, tiled in smoothed tan colored stone that had been sealed. There were no windows, but Dobby aimed a long, slim finger at the iron chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. Several candles burst into flame, filling the room with a soft orange light. The elf then gestured again, this time at the floor of the sunken bathtub. It was in the very center of the room, and had two ends – one shallow for soaking, and one much deeper for swimming. The tub filled almost immediately from some hidden water supply at Dobby’s magical orders, and the elf asked, “Plain or soap or scented, or what, Little Master?”

“Can you do lavender?” Draco asked in a weak voice, taking the mug and drinking again. “Lavender’s relaxing. Is this peppermint?” He loved whatever it was that Dobby made for him to drink. He didn’t ask, though, because it made him feel so good and he figured that if his Father found out, he could just say that the elf was trying to poison him.

Dobby nodded, and the room filled with a flowery scent that immediately made the boy feel better. He finished off the drink and gingerly got into the steaming bath. He winced a lot, but finally settled into a floating position and just pretended that he was drifting away. He didn’t move a bit when Dobby began scrubbing him down, albeit gently.

The elf had been helping take care of Draco since as long as the boy could remember. In fact, he seemed to recall Dobby the elf being more of a mother to him than his own real mother had ever been. Of course he’d had nannies, none of which had lasted very long, but good ol’ Dobby had always been there. He sighed now and again as Dobby scrubbed at him, only crying out when Dobby came to his wounded bum.

“Bad welts, Little Master,” the elf moaned, trying not to hurt the boy, “Someone spanked Little Master bad, Dobby sees! Made his little bum bleed!”

“Dumbledore did it,” Draco replied, “Because I was mean to some Gryffindors. They deserved it, though,” he hissed, with some of his old bravado coming back as Dobby tended to his welts and abrasions.

“Little Master is brave then,” Dobby agreed, not daring to mention what he was doing in his rare off-moments. If Draco or Lucius Malfoy found out about his visits to Harry Potter, Dobby knew, they’d likely skin him alive! But the reply that Dobby expected didn’t come. Instead, Draco Malfoy just floated and soaked, making despairing little noises now and then as Dobby moved around to his front.

Like any other boy his age, Draco Malfoy knew that a gentle rubbing on his genitals felt good. In fact, it had been one of his favorite pastimes, up until recently. In the past year, he’d grown more and more depressed, however, and less and less fond of his dwindling boyhood. It was mainly due to the fact that he really LIKED being a boy, but his problem with having very small genitals wasn’t an accident. The incident at Hogwart’s had very nearly been the icing on the proverbial cake, as well. Everyone had laughed at him, and as Dobby tended to his tiny penis, trying to pull the foreskin back to clean under it, Draco stopped him.

“What’s the use?” He asked, “When Father gets home, it won’t matter. It’s not even an inch long when it’s up and rock hard now, and it’ll be even smaller by morning. In a week, it’ll be gone. I wish we could just get it over with,” Draco snarled, very close to tears.

But it appeared that Dobby was trying to drown himself. When he didn’t answer, Draco saw him underwater and dived down into the deep end of the huge sunken tub to get him. The elf was gasping, “Master is bad to shrink up Little Master’s boyness, yes he is!” And banging his fist on his head while he held fast to Draco with the other.

“Stop it,” Draco told him, shaking him a bit. “You’re right, it is mean!”

Then the boy glanced around with a gasp, almost as if afraid that someone might have heard them talking treason against his Father.

Dobby returned to his work, however, doing his best to make sure that Draco was clean all over. The boy moaned in pleasure as the elf pulled the foreskin, or what was left of it, back to reveal the inch of shaft and tiny glans that he still had. He moved his long fingers up and down that twitching shaft, rubbing the bath oil into Draco’s diminutive genitals. The boy closed his eyes and floated, letting the elf try to wank him off. Dobby dutifully stroked his hard shaft, played with his foreskin, and massaged his tiny balls gently. After about twenty minutes of pleasure, however, he gave up and told him to stop.

It was the same thing every time. As he came close to a certain point, Draco Malfoy’s small and nonproductive testicles would begin to hurt. The first few times, he’d tried to go beyond that point, but the pain was simply too much. He assumed that he was under some kind of Curse, but he had no clue which one nor how to counter-curse it. He knew that if he continued, he would be in such agony that the thing called an ‘orgasm’ that he’d heard about – that allegedly felt so good – would probably kill him.

“Little Master all done now?” Dobby asked, and Draco nodded. He climbed out of the bath, and the scented water vanished. Dobby toweled him off carefully. “Dobby wishes he could do something, put something on Little Master’s sore bum to make it get better,” the elf whined.

“We better not,” Draco said dismally. “You know how Father gets.”

“Oh my,” Dobby agreed, glancing about, his eyes wider than usual.

Normally, the boy would have probably told him off, but he didn’t. He just didn’t have it in him. He pulled his robe on and went back to his bedroom, where he stretched out on his queen-sized bed. He lay there on his tummy, frustrated, as his pounding little erection pushed its one useless inch into the blankets. Dobby climbed up onto his back carefully, and began massaging his shoulders.

The boy sighed in pure delight. No human had fingers like a house-elf, and there was no backrub like the ones that Dobby could give.

“Sunset yet, Dobby?” Draco asked, and the elf looked out the window.

“No.”

“Think we could get away with some music?”

Dobby stopped rubbing Draco’s shoulders and gasped. “Master hates music,” the elf reminded him, “And Little Master will be in more trouble, Dobby reminds him!”

“I know,” the boy agreed, “But it’s been so long. I hardly had time at school, and no one else in Slytherin House likes my music. Professor Snape said it sounded like cats being strangled and took five points off of me for it.”

“Little Master listens to crazy Muggle music,” Dobby stated, jumping off of the boy to fetch a tiny device called a Walkman made by someone named Sony. It was a common Muggle toy, Draco knew, and he knew how to work it. He’d gotten it from some boy he’d met on one of their rare excursions into the Muggle world. The boy had left it lying on a bench in a park, and Draco had summoned it to him while no one was looking. He remembered the first time he’d put the headphones on and pushed the PLAY button. Several watts of some woman named “Alice Cooper”, who sounded like a man to Draco, had filled his ears and he was hooked!

His Father, Lucius, of course, hated it and told him that while knowing some about Muggles was not a bad thing, enjoying what THEY did was a VERY bad thing. He ordered the boy to never listen to it again, and destroyed it. Draco, however, being resourceful as he was, had simply poured over every book in the library until he’d found a Spell for restoring mechanical devices and used it. It had worked, and he’d kept the Walkman hidden in his room ever since.

He smiled as Dobby resumed his work on his tight shoulders. The elf had also refilled his mug with something that tasted like peppermint again. Between the drink, the bath, the backrub, and finally – the music – Draco Malfoy began to unwind and feel better. He sang along, careful to keep his voice down, with a band called AC/DC who sang about having ‘big balls, always bouncing, to the left and to the right…’

“Some lucky Muggles,” he sighed, turning the volume up.

Had it not been for Dobby noticing that he’d gone to sleep and hiding the Walkman, candy and mug under the bed, Draco Malfoy would have been punished much more seriously when his Father came home later that night.

Dobby greeted Mr. Lucius Malfoy, his Master, at the door when the man arrived home at the Manor later than he’d planned. He was in a fouler mood than usual, and he kicked the elf out of his way when Dobby tried to wipe his shoes.

“Did my worthless excuse for a son make it home?” He demanded.

Dobby nodded. “Little Master came home with the Mrs., yes, and Dobby put him in his rooms and cleaned him up good and then put him to bed. Master,” the elf informed him, “Little Master is very sad, Dobby thought Master should know.”

Lucius Malfoy snorted. “He’ll be sadder when I get done with him,” he threatened, handing Dobby Draco’s final Year One report card from Hogwart’s. The elf squeaked in terror and backed away. “Follow me to my rooms, Dobby. I’ll like to relax a bit before I punish my son.”

“But Master, look! Little Master got very high marks in Potions class and Broomsticking! Professor Snape has nice, happy comments about him! And Herbology isn’t bad, Master. Look!”

Malfoy jerked the report card out of the elf’s hand and turned it over. He raised an eyebrow. “Well, Madam Hooch is a silly old bitch, and Snape … well, Professor Snape likes my boy, does he? Says he’s so attentive to detail and eager to learn and please? Hmmm… that won’t save him, though, Dobby,” he snarled. “And Herbology, what’s he going to be when he graduates? A bloody gardener?”

Dobby followed Lucius Malfoy back to his rooms, scampering nervously about behind him. Mrs. Malfoy had since fallen asleep with an empty decanter of some kind of alcohol in her lap. Malfoy snorted and ignored her. “Maybe I can get one more son out of her before I have to trade up,” he leered, eyeing his wife’s not-unpleasant, if not pickled, form. Dobby helped him to change into a black robe and slippers, then followed him uneasily back to Draco’s rooms.

Malfoy entered his son’s rooms quietly, as if hoping to catch the boy in the act of something. He was disappointed, however, to find Draco asleep. He was still lying on his stomach, and his robe had slipped over to reveal his smooth legs and one cheek of his raw bum. “So, the old fart DID spank him,” Malfoy mused, grinning wickedly as he eyed the round curve of Draco’s skinned buttock. Dobby faded back into the shadows, afraid of what was about to come. “You may take the night off, Dobby,” Malfoy said in a hungry tone, “You’ve done well. He’s clean and rested and happily dreaming, I don’t doubt. Do what you will, Dobby, I have work to do here. Be back at dawn! Or stay and watch if you like.” Malfoy threatened him.

Dobby fled.

Lucius Malfoy stared down at his only son with a lurid grin on his face.

Draco’s pale eyes were closed, twitching this way and that under the lids. His mouth was slightly open in small smile, and a tiny stream of drool ran from one corner of his red lips. His white-blonde hair, in desperate need of being cut, hung down over his white brows and small ears. His smooth cheeks were flushed a bit, and one hand rested under his cheek between it and the pillow. Lucius saw the nails were all bitten off, and he cringed a bit in disgust.

How he looks like me at that age, he mused, But I was so much more daring, so much more enlightened! I knew what I wanted, and I was not afraid to go after it! Draco, my son, you’re just going to have to learn the hard way about how to succeed as a Wizard!

And with that thought, he brought his large and calloused hand down hard on Draco’s exposed buttock.

SLAAAAAPPPPP!

Draco’s scream filled the entire wing of the house. Mrs. Malfoy, however, was too passed out to hear her child crying for his life. Not that she’d have cared much anyway. Mr. Malfoy, however, DID care. He watched with delight as the boy came straight up off of the bed by a good foot.

“That hurt?” he asked coldly, grabbing the shaking boy by the front of his red robe and pulling him nose to nose.

Tears were streaming openly down Draco’s face. He knew it would only make matters worse for him in the long run, showing weakness in the face of his father, but he couldn’t help it. The slap to his injured bum had sent waves of fiery pain through his entire lower body, and he couldn’t help but cry. In an instant, all of Dobby’s work that had made him feel better and had finally put him to sleep was undone. He stared into his father’s face, pale with rage.

“Average grades,” Lucius snorted at the boy, waving his report card in his face. “Outdone by a Mudblood, a Muggle-born bitch? How could you? And Harry Potter and that red-haired Weasel-boy winning the House Cup out from under you?”

“We t-t-ook the Qui-quid-d-ditch Cup,” Draco stammered, choking as his father shook him. “P-p-potter was too b-b-banged up to play ‘n R-r-ravenc-c-law beat ‘em!”

“Speak up, boy, and stop stuttering!” Lucius roared at him. “And what about this spanking I heard about? Beautiful little bum you’ve got there, son! Did you like the Gluteous Curse? Would you like another one?”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He shook his head, and his long, white-blonde hair flopped in his face. His pale eyes were wide in terror as he stared into the face of his father, and he held up his arms to shrug. His sleeve slipped down.

Lucius Malfoy grinned at him, a horrid sight. He grabbed the boy’s left hand and jerked it up. “Bitten nails? Bite marks on your hand? And what’s this? Been scratching at your arm, boy? Does it itch badly?”

“Harry P-p-potter …” Draco tried to explain, “He s-said that…I…he…”

“Damn him!” Lucius snarled, throwing the boy back against the wall like a rag doll. Draco’s head hit the wall, and he saw stars. “But be nice to him, boy,” he advised, holding a finger up and shaking it at him, “We can’t afford to make him mad at us right now. Precious little Harry, the star of Gryffindor could wreck all of our plans. We have work to do this summer holiday, Draco, and you have to help me with it. Keep on Potter’s good side … or Bad side. Maybe YOU can make him go Bad, or at the very least, find out IF he even has a Bad side!”

“Bad?” Draco whimpered. Were the rumors true? Was his father really … really … one of THEM? Then he thought for a moment. Is he going to make ME Bad too, if he is? He thought about it, ideas flashing through his mind. He’d heard of The Death Eaters, Bad Wizards, and of course – Voldemort. But wasn’t HE done for? Hadn’t he gone down when he’d failed to kill Harry Potter, twice?!

“Potter’s just taken down Lord Voldemort, AGAIN!” Lucius Malfoy snapped at him in disgust, “Or weren’t you paying attention? Or were you too busy getting spanked to see it? Where were YOU when the Dark Lord was going after The Stone?”

Draco flinched at the term “Lord” in front of the word “Voldemort”. His father had just confirmed his worst suspicions, and he felt sick to his stomach.

“Father, please,” Draco began, but Lucius had grabbed him again. He tore the boy’s red robe off and leered at his naked body.

“Sooo pretty, so perfect,” he almost crooned, reaching out as if to touch the boy. Then he pulled his hand back and smacked him across the face. Draco’s head whipped over to the left, and a red handprint arose on his cheek. “Almost too pretty to be a boy,” he added, dropping his son onto the bed and pulling a small jar of something out of his pocket. Draco watched in terror, his bum and face burning, as Lucius opened the jar and then pulled out his Wand.

“Father, pl-please, no!” Draco begged, curling up in the corner in terror with his hands over his crotch. “Anything, father! Please, not that!” He begged, “Not again!”

But Lucius Malfoy was smiling that evil smile again as he unscrewed the cap on the jar. A wisp of black smoke came out of it, and filled the room with an odor of burning flesh. He breathed it, and sighed in delight. “An extremely potent batch, yes! Wonderful stuff, this Nettle/alum Reducing Paste. Do you know who brewed it up for me? For YOU?”

Draco shook his head, unable to speak. His throat had tightened up, and it was all that he could do to just breath. He knew what the paste was, where it was going, and what it was going to do to him. He curled up tighter on the corner of his bed, pressing himself back into the walls and hoping desperately that he might fall into some secret passageway much like the wall at Platform 9 ¾.

Malfoy shook his head, staring at the cowering boy in disgust. “It’s hard to believe you’re MINE,” he hissed, snapping on a rubber glove that he pulled from his pocket. “Anyway, you got a glowing report from Professor Snape. In fact, you probably helped him mix this very jar. Isn’t that ironic, Draco? Doing extra credit, trying to wheedle your way into Snape’s good graces, while all the while just insuring that you were going to have plenty of suffering to do on holiday when school let out?”

Draco’s jaw dropped in surprise. Snape? he thought madly, HE knew? How could he do this to me? I thought he liked me?! A fresh wave of tears spilled down the boy’s pale face. He couldn’t believe that his favorite teacher would have made something like the Shrinking Pain Paste for his father. He’d often thought about stealing some of it for a joke, seeing if it worked, but he’d never had the chance. He also hadn’t wanted to risk making Snape angry with him, but what did that matter now? He felt betrayed by the last person he’d trusted.

You trusted Potter enough to eat his candy, and he could have poisoned it, Draco told himself. He was nothing but nice to you, you know… That tiny voice in the back of his mind told him. Be nice to him, he thought, his father had said.

“Stretch out on the bed, face up,” Lucius Malfoy ordered.

“N-no father, please! I…I’ll d-do anythin’! Please don’t hurt me anymore!”

“Don’t make me lay you out, boy!” Lucius snapped at him, pointing at the bed with his Wand. It was a long wand, very thick, and made from some kind of wood that was black. It did not shine in the pale light of the room. It was, it seemed, more like the absence of light reflecting off of it, as if the light were afraid to touch it. It showed signs of heavy use, but it also looked to have a lot of life left in it. Draco did as he was told, shivering in fear of what was about to come.

“Sniveling and crying and whining,” Lucius Malfoy complained, scooping a large dollop of the smoking Nettle Paste from the jar with his gloved hand. “Do you know what this kind of behavior would get you from the rest of … us?” he inquired.

Draco shook his head, afraid to answer.

“It would get you DEAD!” His father roared at him. “Or worse.”

Is that all? Draco mused, realizing that his father just might get angry enough to seriously injure him - perhaps even fatally. He almost smiled, but held it back, remembering how he’d tried to use his own Wand on himself with some alleged Death Curses he’d found in a book while snooping in the restricted section of Hogwart’s Library. The Curses had failed though, and Draco had later discovered that a Wizard’s Wand, which had chosen HIM, would not attempt to strike down its Master.

The Wand chooses the Wizard, old Mr. Ollivander had told him, as he did every child who bought a Wand from him.

“Lay very still, boy,” Lucius ordered him, his hand hovering over the boy’s tiny genitals. “It’s been a long year. If Snape had just consented to do this, give you your treatments on a regular basis while at school, we’d be done with this by now! We don’t have much time as it is!”

“Y-you asked Professor S-sn-snape to do this to me too?” Draco cried, finally finding his voice. “Father, why?” He cried.

Lucius Malfoy sighed. “Because, Draco, you senseless twit, you’re at a very tricky age right now. A young Wizard entering puberty, like yourself, is going to have feelings, urges, as your body changes from that of boy to man. You’ve got no time to waste right NOW exploring all of that. You’ve got to concentrate on your Powers, enhance them, learn to use them! The others already have a young Wizard that’s a hundred, a thousand times more powerful than Harry Potter! He just doesn’t know it yet,” Lucius added, almost as an afterthought. “It’s bad enough that POTTER is still around.”

“Huh?” Draco gasped, confused.

“You can’t waste time playing with yourself, boy. Masturbation, sex, and orgasms … those are for adults, not boys! You’ll end up wasting your time and your Energy, dulling your edge and weakening your Powers if you spend all of your time playing with your penis and cumming all about the room! Distracting! Wasteful! NOW do you understand why I’ve been applying this Nettle Paste to your genitals? It sure as hell wasn’t because I was trying to pleasure you!”

Suddenly, Draco Malfoy understood why his genitals were so small! The magic Paste contained alum and who-knew-what-else, and it was the smelly and burning ointment that his father applied liberally to his boyhood whenever he was at home that had made them so small! No wonder they kept shrinking, and then seemed to stabilize while he was at school! Professor Snape wouldn’t do it, and he was, for a moment, grateful. Then he remembered who had made the stuff in the first place.

“Spread you legs a bit, boy,” Lucius ordered. “We need to be done with this so you can concentrate on improving your Powers. I’d say two or three applications of this batch, and those ridiculous little things between your legs will wither away to nothing.” Then he paused, staring at the boy’s long white hair and his smooth face and body. Draco’s tiny little erection twitched, and his balls had pulled up to very nearly hiding in his body cavity. “You’ll like being a eunuch boy, son, trust me. You’ll really like what it does to you when you feel down there and find nothing but smooth skin.”

Draco screamed and jumped back, clutching at his crotch. “No!” He wailed, trying to bolt past his father as he sprang up from the bed. It didn’t matter that he was naked. It didn’t matter that he had nowhere to go. His mind was in a panic, rational thought gone. He had one vision of fleeing to his fireplace, throwing in a handful of Floo powder, but then where would he go? In his madness, a vision of Harry Potter came to mind and he thought of Ron Weasley as well. He’s there, Draco thought, just able to put the idea together, Ron’s house! I heard him tell someone … he was going there! I could hide there! They’d protect me, they’re like that! They’d never turn anyone away in such a bad state, those Weasleys!

But young Draco Malfoy never got the chance. His father’s large hand closed on the back of his neck, jerking the naked boy back just as he was reaching the fireplace. He threw him down on the bed again and shouted, “Assume the position, you worthless brat! Don’t make me MAKE you lie there while I apply the Paste!”

Draco, however, had no intentions of just complying with his father’s wishes to deprive him of his boyhood. He liked being a boy. He didn’t want to be a eunuch, and he knew what a eunuch was! He’d found a text on them in the Library once, quite by accident. Reading about eunuchs of all types in history had given him nightmares for weeks, and the thought of being one almost made him ill. He screamed and struggled as his father tightened his grip on his neck.

The room was filling with stars, growing fuzzy, and Draco couldn’t breath. He struggled for air, gripping the wrist as his father held him down by the throat. He thrashed about, but his struggles grew weaker as the room grew darker. Finally, he collapsed, his lithe young body going limp as his consciousness began to fade.

He felt the hand release him, and he drew in a great breath.

“Petrificus partialis!” He heard his father say softly, and Draco began to scream again as his body went limp. He could feel his father’s free hand working at his diminutive genitals, but he could do nothing to stop him. He had no control over his body, unable to so much as make a finger twitch. Lucius Malfoy had just enough time to utter a Laundry Spell for drying as the terrified boy wet himself.

“You could have told me you had to pee,” he mused, grinning wickedly again. “You made me do it to you, Draco. I didn’t want to paralyze you, but you made me. See what you’ve done to yourself now?” Lucius asked, drying the boy and bed off with a flick of his dark Wand.

Unable to speak, his voice box paralyzed as well, Draco could only whimper in agony as Lucius Malfoy began to spread the smoking Paste on the boy’s genitals. It felt as if he were rubbing a cactus over his cock and balls. Fiery pain shot up through his groin, into his stomach, and Draco felt like he’d been kicked in the balls. He could feel thousands of tiny little needles jabbing at him, and the heat was unbelievable! He tried to struggle, wanting to curl up and writhe in agony, but he couldn’t move a muscle.

It was worse than it had ever been. Lucius Malfoy had been applying the Paste to his son’s genitals since before Year One had even begun, but the boy hadn’t understood why. He’d merely accepted his doctor’s visits and instructions to apply the Paste “once a week until no longer needed” as something that was physically wrong with him. He’d trusted them, and now where had that gotten him? As the Paste did its work to him, feeling as if some kind of evil creature were literally chewing his tiny penis off, Draco realized that he’d been betrayed. He was going to be a eunuch, just like he’d read about.

I can’t jerk off, he cried to himself, I can’t ever have sex. I won’t have kids. But what else? What if my voice doesn’t change? What if I never have a beard? Everyone will know! What if I’m thin and weak looking? They’ll look at me and know I’m a eunuch!
How could he do this to me? What did I do so wrong to anger him? Why can’t I try harder, why can’t I make him like me? Why won’t he like me?

Unable to move his head, Draco watched as his father spread more of the burning Paste over his tiny boyhood. He worked the foreskin back, spread a thick coat of the stuff on the short shaft, and let it slide back into place. Draco whimpered as he squeezed some into the tip, and then rubbed more of it violently into his scrotum. It felt like a wood rasp tearing at his skin, but there was no blood. It burned, but the smoke didn’t linger. By the time he was done, Lucius Malfoy had coated his son’s shrinking boyhood in a very thick layer of the yellow Paste.

He then flicked his Wand, and a diaper appeared in his hand.

Draco’s eyes went wider still, the only part of his body that he could control. Almost gently, his father raised his hips and slid the diaper into place. “We’ll just put Dobby in charge of changing you,” he mused, “He’s done it before. Pity you can’t be trusted, son, but I know you’d go wash it off as soon as I left. I know you’re frightened, it’s PAINFULLY obvious, but you just don’t understand. I’m doing this for YOU, Draco! I’m doing it for our side! We can’t let THEM have a one-up on us, you know, not if we’re to eliminate the Mudblood infection that’s taking over our world!”

Draco whined, his face going red in shame at the sight of the diaper covering him.

“Since you won’t be able to get up and go to the bathroom for several days, you’ll be needing that,” Lucius told him.

Several days?! Draco thought in total panic, bending every inch of his will to break the Spell that held him.

Lucius Malfoy sighed. “I’m going to have to leave you like this, son, I’m afraid,” he muttered. “I can’t have you washing the Paste off, it cost me a bloody screamin’ fortune to make. We have to leave it on, apply more every morning and night, you know. It’s only for three days, boy; a week at the most. No more than a week,” he promised, but Draco didn’t believe him.

Draco began crying openly again. The thought of lying helpless in bed, in a diaper, for a whole week, was too much. Never mind the burning pain that was tearing at his groin! The thought of that smoking yellow Paste trapped inside of his diaper, slowly shrinking his genitals down to nothing, was nearly too much.

I’ll kill you! Draco swore to himself, I’ll get loose and I’ll run away! I’ll come back someday, when I’m grown up, and I’ll kill you for doing this to me!

“No you won’t,” Lucius told him, as if reading his mind. “You’ll thank me someday. You see, I intend to get your mother pregnant again, and soon, I’m sure you know all about how that’s done, even if YOU will never get to do it now. No woman’s ever going to want YOU, what with nothing down there to please HER with. Oh, and they like it Draco! How a woman loves to have her man take her! I’ll make you a little brother, maybe two, and we’ll continue the Malfoy Line that way – as Pureblood as you and I are. We can’t have our Pureblood Line going out, now can we, Draco? And you’ll soon be in no shape to carry it on, I daresay, when the Paste had made a full, perfect eunuch of you.”

Draco managed to twist his mouth into a sneer, gasping for breath from the effort.

Lucius Malfoy nodded, seemingly pleased. “Fight it, boy, that’s it! I wondered when you’d start to TRY! Fight me like the true Pureblood you are! Proud, strong, growing stronger as your manhood fades away!”

Inspired by the burning pain in his crotch and the total humiliation of his situation, young Draco Malfoy concentrated hard. The veins beneath his temples throbbed, showing though his pale skin as he struggled. He felt movement in his right hand, and bent his will into twitching his middle finger. Very slowly, it raised up alone to insult his father.

“Excellent!” Lucius praised him, taking his shaking hand in his own. “You’re breaking out of the ‘partialis’ part. However, I can’t have you breaking all the way out, son,” he advised the boy. Then, without warning, he bent the boy’s finger backward until the bone between the first and second knuckle snapped.

Draco screamed in new pain, waves of it shooting up his arm to mix with the searing hot pains that spread up through his torso from his burning crotch. Combined with the pain from his raw bum, Draco found himself awash in a sea of misery as his entire body seemed to scream at him for relief.

He’s going to kill me, Draco thought, gasping for air as if his lungs were simply not large enough. Somebody help me!

But there was no one there who could. The only one who could was busy, far away, smashing a pudding in the kitchen at Privet Drive.

“And now you have something else to think about, boy. NEVER insult your father!” He said coldly, standing up and shaking his head.

Then Lucius Malfoy aimed his Wand at his son again. “Addendum totalis,” he said softly, and Draco’s injured hand fell to his side. His mouth went slack, and his eyelids drooped. Fresh pain surged up his arm, but he couldn’t even scream again.

He found himself staring up at the ceiling, his eyes focused on the gray plaster there. He tried to look away, but found that he couldn’t. He tried to scream again, but no sound escaped his lips. He was totally frozen, much like he’d done to the Muggle who had accosted him at King’s Cross Station.

“Don’t even hope that Dobby will fix your finger, boy, or let you loose,” Lucius informed him. “He’ll take care of you, relax your jaw enough to feed you once a day, and keep your diapers changed. He’ll also keep a good supply of the Nettle Paste on what’s left of your manhood down there. You’ll be well cared for, I dare say. When Dobby advises me that you’re no longer a real boy, we’ll fix your finger and set out to training you up as a Wizard in search of Wild Power should be trained up!”

Draco wanted to vomit at the thought, but even his stomach was frozen.

Lucius Malfoy left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Some holiday, Draco told himself, wondering just how many others from his First Year Class were spending the onset of the summer locked in their rooms, helpless and probably facing starvation and humiliation.

Then he realized something else – his father had put Dobby in charge of taking care of him!

Maybe he’ll get lost or die or run away or something, the boy thought darkly, He’ll not ever come back for me and father won’t take the time to check up on me. Hell, the Staff hasn’t even cleaned in here in months. Dobby will never report to him, and I’ll just lay here and die in my bed. They’ll find my skeleton when someone else new moves in here.

Draco Malfoy closed his eyes and tried hard not to dwell upon the pain in his hand and arm, or the horrible pain in his groin. It made the burning and stinging pain from his raw bum pale in comparison.

The rooms were all silent as, several hours later, he finally fell asleep. He dreamed of a great Lion holding him high in the air, strangling him and cutting at his boyhood with a strange and small curved Knife. Harry Potter and his cohort Ron were there, and that bitch Hermione was laughing at him. Neville, the worthless little blob, and that Irish waif Finnegan were laughing at him too as the Lion ripped into him with the odd Knife.

In the dream, Malfoy glared at them in rage, but he couldn’t break free as the Lion slashed at his balls with the Knife. Seamus, the Irish brat, was yelling something at him, grasping his own crotch and laughing hysterically. The roars of the mad Lion drowned out what Seamus was yelling though, and Draco watched in horror as the jeweled Knife severed his penis. It fell to the ground, and Hermione kicked it off to the side.

He stared down at it in horror, choking, but there was someone else there, too. Someone else to laugh at his suffering. An old man, some grungy looking old Wizard, was walking up to see what all the fuss was about. He had his arm around a small boy, probably a First Year, who had short blonde hair and a ring in his left ear.

Then the Lion dropped him, and he hit the ground hard.

Draco jerked awake just as the dream-Potter was bending down over him. “He’s hurt bad,” the phantom-Harry was saying to the dream-Seamus, and his emerald eyes were full of tears.

Unable to move or to even cry out, Draco Malfoy lay helplessly on his large bed and fumed.

“This is all YOUR fault, Potter, you and that Irish waif,” he thought in misery.