Harry Potter and the Knife of Klingsor, Part 11

“Ahhhhhhhh,” Draco Malfoy moaned as Dobby the house elf finished scrubbing him down in the hot, soapy, and heavily scented bath. The young boy floated on top of the water, relaxed, as his white hair floated around the sides of his misleadingly innocent-looking face. His pale eyes were closed, and he was smiling.

Draco had good cause to moan in pleasure. For the past week or more, he’d been held prisoner in his bedroom by a Spell that his father had placed upon him. Lying in bed totally paralyzed, unable to move or speak, he’d slowly lost his grip on Reality as his genitals had been coated, twice a day, with a horribly painful medicinal paste of some kind. Unable to even move his head to look, he’d lain and stared at the ceiling while his genitals had shrunken away to nothing. All alone, with the sunbeams and dust motes for his only company, he’d struggled to break free of the torment. He’d succeeded only a tiny bit, and as a reward, his father had broken his finger for it. Being left alone, however, had been the worst part.

It was what Draco Malfoy feared the most.

And he’d not even been able to get up and go to the bathroom; instead he’d been forced to wear a diaper, which Dobby had been in charge of changing. THAT in itself, the helplessness and humiliation of it all, had almost been enough to break him.

“Time to eat, Little Master,” Dobby reminded him, pushing the floating boy over to the edge of the bath.

“Oh, yes!” Draco breathed, getting his small feet under him and climbing up the steps at the shallow end of the huge swimming pool shaped sunken bath in his own private rooms. He swayed a bit, however, as he stepped up out of the water. His muscles were weak from nonuse, and he was dizzy from hunger. For that last terrible week, he had subsisted on being spoon-fed cold oatmeal once a day along with several glasses of warm water.

Dobby held his hand, and Draco leaned a bit on the much shorter creature’s shoulder. He shook his head and stretched, picking up a towel and beginning to dry himself. He first wiped the water from his smooth face, where there wasn’t even a trace of fuzz. He rubbed at his longish, white hair, thinking that it needed cut. He moved down across his chest, where all of his ribs showed. The boy had lost a lot of weight. He dried his torso, moved down a bit, and paused.

Where his boyhood should have been, Draco’s hand met with only smooth skin. Totally nullified by the painful applications of Magical paste, he rubbed his hand over his crotch a few times. A wave of euphoria swept over him as he did, and he dropped the towel. His soft, red lips that had so recently been healed up parted a bit as he groaned again, his brain flooding with endorphins. He sank slowly to his knees, his legs suddenly going very weak, and Dobby finished drying him off. The elf then produced a soft, black bathrobe, but the boy ignored it.

“Where did he go?” Draco asked in a soft voice.

“Who?” Dobby replied.

“The one who was here just a bit ago, Dobby. The one who let me up out of bed, you remember, don’t you? The one who made me feel so good? Where’d he go? I should thank him again.”

Dobby’s mind raced, fighting with the dilemma of disobeying the Master’s orders, the Big Master’s orders that was, or disobeying the Little Master’s orders. There HAD been another one there, though, and he hadn’t been a man. Dobby was sure of this. He’d given Dobby orders too, most of which the elf was carrying out in getting Draco Malfoy cleaned up and fed. Dobby wrung his hands, finally prioritizing his orders. This of course left Draco at the bottom of the list, and the house elf lied to him.

“Oh Little Master must be making a mistake. Wasn’t that Master Master, Dobby means, Big Master and not Little Master?”

But Draco shook his pale head, his longish white hair a tangled mess. “No, no!” He almost cried, looking around the room in confusion. “The man who was here, who led me in here to you! The one who fixed my finger. He … he touched me, Dobby. He made me feel … he touched … he … and I think it was…”

The boy was at a loss for words, however. How could he describe what he’d felt? He’d been suffering, losing his sanity for a week, and then someone had come to save him. He wanted nothing more than to find him again, to be close to him. And now that someone was gone. Looking around the room again, Draco felt almost lost.

“Dobby don’t remember no one else,” the elf offered, biting his tongue.

Once again, Draco touched himself. He suddenly felt the need to urinate, and out of instinct, he grabbed as if to squeeze his penis. His fingers closed around empty air.

“Uuhhrrggh!” He gasped, flinching, as his pale eyes seemed to light up with understanding. He glanced around, got up and stumbled to the commode, and realized just in time that he had to sit down. He’d hardly even slammed the door before he let loose, very nearly peeing down his legs as went. Dobby flinched back as well, unsure if he could lie to him again. The look on the boy’s face was enough to freeze the elf’s blood.

In a second however, Draco’s eyes glazed back over in calm bliss as the Spell did its job on his mind. It didn’t matter that he could no longer pee standing up. It was just fine to have to sit down. In fact, it felt better and he thought that he could pee faster that way. Add to that the fact that no one was ever going to be able to hit him in the balls again.

“Is you being OK now?” Dobby asked in a strained tone, offering him a piece of toilet paper.

Draco nodded, his eyes unfocused. He stood up slowly and stretched again. Then, as if to make double sure that he had been right, he touched his crotch again.

The boy didn’t seem surprised in the least, or - as any other boy probably would have been – terrified, to find his impending manhood gone. Instead, he seemed to almost relish it, taking pleasure in the fact that he’d been made a eunuch. Blissfully unaware of the Spell that was falsely providing his mind with the wrong information, Draco moaned again. After a few moments, he opened his almost colorless eyes.

He eyed the small table that had been set up in the bathroom for him, mainly to save time, like a starving man suddenly confronted by a banquet. Dobby grabbed his legs and helped him to a chair, pushing him up to the table much as a man might do for his lady on a dinner date. He glanced around nervously, finding it odd that he’d been ordered to feed the boy in the large bathroom. It was however, not wanting for space. The private bath that Draco Malfoy had attached to his bedroom was quite large enough to throw a small party in, and the entryway itself was more like a patio.

Not bothering to put on his soft robe, the boy sat down naked at the table.

Finally, after a week’s worth of cold oatmeal, Draco Malfoy began to eat.

There were lamb chops in very light gravy, roasted potatoes in rich butter and cream, and soft white rolls of bread. Dobby poured cold pumpkin juice into a goblet for him. He ignored the small bowl of green vegetables, which looked like some kind of waterlogged weeds, but the elf insisted that he eat those too. Pulling a face, Draco did that.

Dobby watched, politely declining anything that the boy offered him. The boy finished his feast with a slice of something that a boy from Slytherin House had gotten from home once and shared with him. It was a cake of some kind, German he thought, and it was rich and heavy.

Finally, with his tummy bulging a bit and a dreamy look on his face, Draco pushed back from the table and burped.

“Is you all done?” Dobby asked, and the boy nodded.

Instantly, the table vanished.

“Put on your robe, now, Little Master and come with Dobby down to the Drawin’ Room. Father is there, and he is wanting to see you when you is presentable. Is you presentable yet?”

Draco stood up on shaky legs, pulled on the robe, and tied it. Dobby passed him a pair of black house slippers, and he slid his small feet into them. He then tied the sash of his robe, straightening it. The fabric was soft and warm, comforting, and the boy simply wanted to curl up in it and go to sleep.

But hadn’t Dobby just said the word ‘Father’? That meant that he HAD to go. His father, Lucius Malfoy, wanted to see him. He wanted to see him! A thrill of excitement passed through the boy, and he shuddered. He didn’t recall the last time that he thought his father had WANTED to see him.

“AM I presentable?” He asked the elf in a frightened voice, raising an eyebrow.

Dobby pulled a face and cocked his head.

“Tell me!”

Freed of his constraint to not be rude, Dobby grinned. “Little Master’s hair is a mess, needs cut, stands out all over! Looks like a white haystack! You smells good, though.”

“Fix the hair, then,” Draco ordered him, running his fingers through the white, tangled mess. “Do I have a comb somewhere?”

“Dobby will fix it! Hold still! Shut the eyes!” The elf answered happily, extending a very long and thin finger at Draco’s head. He then hopped up on the chair and aimed his finger again. “Better angle,” he mumbled, then whispered a few words in elfish.

How Dobby would love to be doing this to Harry Potter, too, the elf thought.

Draco could feel his hair shifting and pulling. He heard a swishing sound of some kind, and he opened one eye a bit to see tiny clippings of hair, magically sheared from his mop, falling and vanishing before they could even hit the black fabric of his bathrobe. The sides of his head and his nape began to itch a bit, then smoothed out. He felt his hair stand up on top of his head, and something cool and slimy seemed to be touching his scalp. Then it turned warm, and Dobby suddenly pulled his long finger back.

“All done!” He squeaked, popping a small hand-held mirror into existence.

“I wish I could do magic like that,” Draco commented. House elves, he knew, had powerful magic; but they could not use it unless granted permission by their Masters.

He gasped as he looked at his reflection. His white hair was almost yellow on top, but a bit too pale to be fully yellow-blonde. It was gelled and stood straight up, but not too long. There was just enough of it in the front, longer at the bangs, to form a neat bumper. It faded down gradually to fuzzy stubble just above his small, round ears. The back felt smooth at the nape and then stubbly about halfway up as well. It was a stark contrast to the slick-backed, collar-length look he’d worn at school all year long, but he found that the liked it. He smiled, and Dobby breathed a sigh of relief.

“NOW you is presentable, Little Master,” Dobby agreed, taking his soft hand in his and leading him down to the Drawing Room to see his father.

Draco was quite tired and his legs were shaking when they finally arrived in the Drawing Room. It was a long walk through the many hallways of Malfoy Manor, but fortunately for Draco, it was all down and not up stairs. Dobby pushed the huge, heavy wooden doors open and announced their arrival. “Little Master Draco Malfoy to see you, sir,” he sniveled, hiding beneath the trembling boy’s black bathrobe.

The room was huge and cavernous. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and the center was taken up by a long and wide polished table made of some dark wood. It looked as if it could seat two-dozen guests for a meal, and at the end of it sat a dark figure.

“Lumos Decorum,” he said in a loud, clear voice. Instantly, the Drawing Room was lit by hundreds of candles in wrought iron chandeliers. They gave off a bright yellow light, magically challenging noonday itself. Draco gasped and stared down the long table, rapidly looking both ways as if afraid that something were going to grab him.

Various suits of armor from different time periods in history lined the two walls that were free of bookshelves. Assorted antique weapons stood or hung here and there, along with an occasional shelf between the displays of ancient warrior garb that held strange and menacing looking artifacts. Draco gasped, and his left arm began to itch. He scratched at it, and his father cleared his throat.

With a small noise, the boy glanced up sharply at his father. He looked small at the end of the long table, so far away. Then Draco’s pale eyes fell upon something else to his father’s left. He squinted, and felt Dobby trembling under his bathrobe.

Someone, a guest perhaps, was sitting beside Lucius Malfoy.

He squinted and tried to focus on it, rubbing at his gray eyes. He looked again; yes, there was definitely someone else there. A somewhat indistinct someone, for that matter.

Anything, the boy thought, Anything but glasses! I don’t want to look like Harry Potter!

“Come here, boy,” Mr. Malfoy ordered him in his usual stern voice.

Not needing to think about it, Draco’s weak legs acted on their own accord. He began walking down the left side of the long table, his slippers making small scuffling sounds on the polished hardwood floor. Dobby was still cowering where he’d been, unaware that his protective cover had just walked off without him. Malfoy smiled, only his upper body visible above the table. The light, it seemed, dared not look under it to drive the shadows off.

“You may go, elf,” he snapped, pointing at the door with his Wand. “Take another night off. Go out and party or something. Such a good servant, such a good caretaker of my boy here, deserves a break.” Then Malfoy flicked his Wand, and the elf shot across the polished floor with a yelp and a look of abject terror on his ugly face. He flew out the doors, bumped over the trim board, and the huge doors slammed shut behind him.

The dark hooded figure next to Malfoy laughed, a wheezing, rattling sound. “Laughter, they say, is the best medicine,” he gasped, raising a trembling hand towards a golden goblet on the table before him. It slid to that outstretched hand, and he lifted it, drinking deeply of a shiny, metallic looking fluid. He smacked his lips and groaned. “I prefer this, however,” he commented in a much stronger voice. To Draco, it seemed that he solidified a bit and he was able to almost focus his eyes upon him.

Draco couldn’t remember the last time that he’d been summoned to the Drawing Room. He knew that his father spent a great deal of time in there, alone. He also knew that there were things – dangerous things – in that room not meant for the hands of children. As arrogant as he was, Draco Malfoy knew better than to go into that room uninvited. He assumed that it was also protected by Curses, and he had no wish to anger his father. Yet still he walked towards them, almost unaware that he was drawing closer to the pair of men.

Or IS that a man? He wondered, still walking automatically and trying to make his eyes focus.

Then a moment of lucidity took him, and he began to feel afraid. His small, peach-fuzzy hairs stood up here and there along his arms and back. He felt a chill, despite the heat from the candles and the fact that it was also summertime. He clutched at his robe, set his jaw, and tried not to show them how frightened he was.

Still, he walked towards them.

“Come, my son, and join us,” Malfoy intoned, sliding out his chair and extending his arm.

Draco stopped just short of his father’s arm’s reach, not understanding. With every ounce of will that he could muster, he straightened his back and clasped his hands behind it. He nodded politely at his father, to the guest as well, and then looked down at his slippers. He tried very hard to not shiver, but failed.

The feeling of mindless bliss had left him. The boy’s legs felt numb, and he thought that he might not be able to pick up his leaden feet even if he wanted to. His large dinner, so good after a week’s worth of near starvation, churned in his stomach. His shivers grew stronger, and his eyes began to sting as the silence closed in on him. He could feel their eyes upon him, and his left arm itched terribly. He did not, however, dare to scratch at it. The memory of the tortures he’d just endured were too fresh in his mind, and he felt at his recently broken finger with his opposite hand.

Please don’t hurt me anymore, he cried silently, closing his eyes.

“Hmmm,” he heard the guest’s voice inquiring. “Not a very BIG boy, is he?”

“Not yet, my Lord,” Mr. Malfoy replied. “Draco, say hello to our guest, Mr. Riddle.”

Draco’s blood ran cold, but he had no choice but to obey.

The boy looked up and blinked. Seated next to his father was a man with untidy dark hair that stood out here and there; for an instant, it reminded Draco of Harry Potter! He had pulled his hood down, and his brown eyes, a bit bloodshot, were large and friendly. He smiled at the boy, and his perfect white teeth flashed in the light in an inviting way. He held out a hand, gesturing to Draco to come closer. “I know I must look a fright, boy,” he said in a clear voice, still holding his goblet in the other hand and taking a sip, “But I’ve had a long journey, with your father’s aid of course!”

Draco’s mouth opened, his jaw moved, but no sound came out.

“Come and let’s be properly acquainted,” Mr. Riddle told him, handing a small black book that he’d been looking over back to Mr. Malfoy.

Suddenly, looking into those sincere eyes, Draco’s worries and frets seemed to vanish. He once again felt that euphoric calm sweep over him, and before he knew it, he was standing at Mr. Riddle’s side and smiling at him. Riddle was offering his left hand, and Draco shook it with a warm sensation spreading up his itching arm and throughout his entire body.

Behind his back, Lucius Malfoy was smiling at his son. Riddle nodded.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” he replied, and Mr. Riddle pulled him closer. Something in the back of Draco Malfoy’s mind seemed to scream at him in terror just then, demanding that he run away. The boy felt too good, however, to listen to it. He realized that this was the man who had released him from his torture, helped him out of bed, and made him feel … what he had felt … that feeling … which he wanted to feel again!

Riddle’s arm was around his waist then, pulling him into his lap. Draco sat, staring into his smiling face as a little boy might with some favorite child-spoiling uncle who often came promising – and bearing - gifts. He felt almost as if he were floating on air, and Riddle squeezed him, poking at his ribs. Draco giggled like a toddler.

Lucius Malfoy raised an eyebrow and sipped at his own goblet of wine.

“Shall I get you anything else, my Lord?” He asked softly.

“Oh, no, Lucius,” Riddle replied in an oily tone, “This will do nicely, thank you. I must really get to know young Draco here a bit better, mustn’t I?” He mused, taking a long drink and setting the goblet back down.

He had never felt so calm, so secure and safe, in his whole life! It dawned upon Draco then that Mr. Riddle wasn’t at all like his father. When was the last time his father had held him? When was the last time he’d touched him, tickled him? When was the last time he’d even offered a kind word?

As he stared into that face, unaware that he was seeing only what Riddle wanted him to see and NOT what was really under his hood, the boy realized that he’d be willing to do anything for this man who had rescued him. He giggled again as Riddle’s fingers played at his ribs and armpits, tickling at him. He clenched his legs together, laughing aloud, and then gasped.

“Something wrong?” Riddle asked, but the wave of pleasure that swept over the boy made him shake his neatly trimmed head. Riddle touched his nape and rubbed up the back of his head. “Very nice haircut, Draco,” he said, his other hand moving beneath the boy’s bathrobe and rubbing his bare leg. “It looks very good on you, very sharp indeed!”

”Thank you, sir, Dobby did it for me!” He replied happily, trembling just a bit in pleasure as Mr. Riddle’s hand rounded the curve of his bare buttock. He felt it move farther, around towards the front, and he sighed.

He’ll know, Draco thought, suddenly feeling a twinge of shame at his emasculated state. He’d almost forgotten it, in fact, because of how good he was feeling. It would have been rude, however, to have protested as Riddle’s hand moved to his crotch.

A jolt that was almost electric shot through his small body then, and Riddle breathed in sharply. Lucius Malfoy sipped at his wine again, watching, as Riddle caressed his son in a manner that was almost sexual. Riddle breathed in again, and Draco let out a low moan as his hand rubbed at the place that had been, only a day ago, the most painful and tortured spot of his young body. The rush of it hit him hard, and Draco leaned his head down. Riddle held him firmly, breathing hard as well, as the feeling of an impending explosion began to build deep within the boy.

“Do you like it?” Riddle asked.

“Y-yes,” Draco replied, unable to think coherently.

“Shall I stop, if it makes you tremble so?”

“No, p-please, no, sir!”

Again, Riddle inhaled deeply. It was as if he were drawing strength from Draco’s tormented and confused state of bliss. Still, he touched the boy under his bathrobe here and there, rubbing his crotch, his tummy, and moving up to rub his palm over the boy’s hard nipples. The sensations were unbelievable, almost as powerful as they’d been when Riddle had been in his bedroom. Draco had no idea of how to cope with them, nor what to do. He closed his eyes and moaned again, and Riddle pressed his head against his shoulder.

“How do you feel, boy?” He asked in a soft, affectionate voice.

“Good.”

“Yes, good. Not in pain any longer? No Crucio?” Riddle bit the last word off harshly.

The memory of the pain hit Draco like a bucket of cold water. He jerked his pale head up, his eyes wide in terror. For an instant, every nerve in his body took fire and started to scream in agony. And then Riddle’s hand moved to his crotch again, smooth and devoid of boyhood. The pain evaporated in an instant, quickly as it had come.

“Ohhh,” Draco sighed in relief, and Riddle reached up to hold him by the chin.

“So smooth, so perfect,” he whispered, supporting the boy’s back with his other hand. He stared deeply into Draco’s gray and colorless eyes, drinking in the waves of Power that the boy was unconsciously giving off. “Yes, my boy, that’s it! You like feeling like this, don’t you?”

Stunned beyond words, Draco nodded dumbly. He wanted nothing more than to just sit here in Mr. Riddle’s lap, safe and secure, warm and happy, until he went to sleep feeling the way that he did.

“And what would YOU give me in exchange, give freely, for such?” Riddle inquired, his hand moving up and over Draco’s tummy again, then down around his buttock and back to his crotch.

“Anything, my Lord,” he breathed, and Riddle inhaled again. He straightened up a bit, smiling at Mr. Malfoy. “Such a good boy,” he commented, pressing Draco’s head down to his shoulder again and patting his back.

“We DO try, my Lord, but boys are such a handful,” Mr. Malfoy replied coldly.

The words penetrated the stupefying bliss that had enveloped Draco, and went straight to his heart. He felt as if he had failed, and despite how good Mr. Riddle was making him feel, he whimpered. I’ll never be good enough for him. He’ll never like me. Gods, don’t leave, sir, he cried silently, Don’t leave me alone with him anymore!

As if sensing this, Riddle hugged him closer. He pulled his head back a bit to look the crying child in the face, and kissed away the tears on his face. Through the Spell that clouded his vision, Draco couldn’t see the red shining eyes or the hungry look as he licked his thin, gray lips and smiled an evil smile.

“Oh, Lucius, now look what you’ve done!” Riddle admonished his host, “You’ve made the boy upset. And he was just feeling so very good, weren’t you, boy?”

Draco nodded weakly.

“I can fix that for you,” Riddle replied, rubbing the boy’s left arm and patting his back. “Would you like me to make it all better?”

Again, Draco nodded. “But you promised me anything, remember?” Riddle made sure.

“Y-yes,” Draco stammered, just wishing that the awful aching inside of him that his father’s words had made him feel would just go away.

“So be it, then!” Mr. Riddle said in a loud voice, and there was loud BANG.

Draco jumped, but Riddle held him tightly. His hand gripped the boy’s left forearm, and suddenly there was a searing pain that blotted out the hurt in his heart. The room filled with a smell of burnt meat. Riddle was laughing as Draco screamed, but it was over in a second. Something else was happening to him. Something paradoxical.

So frightened and confused by the conflicting waves of euphoria and agony that tore at him at the same time, Draco stared – lost – into the depths of Riddle’s eyes. “You promised,” Riddle reminded him, both hands on the boy’s cheeks.

“Uhhhhhhhh,” Draco breathed weakly, unable to move as he tried to decide whether to scream or laugh. Something was filling him up inside, satisfying his every need. Yet something was pouring out of him too, draining him and leaving him weak. He sniffled, confused at the sickeningly sweet odor of burning flesh and the sudden draft of sun-drenched summer days and green grass in that bright sunshine. He felt like flying, soaring on his Broomstick high into the clouds. He felt like falling, watching the sharp rocks below rushing up to destroy him. He felt as if his body were about to explode into thousands of pieces, but at the same time he felt as if he could not possibly attain this unreachable thing.

Frustrated, yet satisfied therein, Draco gripped Riddle’s dark robes as if hanging on for dear life.

Yet Mr. Riddle was holding him, touching him. Wasn’t it he that had saved him? Wasn’t it he that had rescued him from the horrible torment and made him feel so good? What could he possibly want in return, something that a boy could give him? And didn’t he OWE him? Draco didn’t know what he owned that the man wanted, but he suddenly wanted him to have it very badly.

But I don’t really HAVE anything, he wondered. I don’t think he’d want Wizard trading cards or comic books.

Another loud BANG, and the confusion ended. Draco Malfoy was sitting in Mr. Riddle’s lap again, and he was moving his head closer. His smooth, red lips were parting, and Draco’s did the same. Quickly, they closed over his and sealed in a passionate kiss. His hands were moving over the boy’s body again, and Draco was drowning in the pleasure. He trembled in ecstasy, every nerve jolting with sheer pleasure as Riddle held the kiss and touched him all over once again. Riddle was filling him up as he sucked him down, blurring the lines of where he began and the boy ended. It was pure, unadulterated bliss; Draco surrendered himself to it totally, weeping in gratitude.

Starved for this emotional embrace for most of life, much as he’d been starved for food during the past week, Draco Malfoy drowned in Riddle’s dark affections.

Lucius Malfoy drained his goblet in one final gulp, looking away.

The boy had passed out in his arms, as the dark figure seemed to float back from the table. His red eyes glowed from beneath his hood. He smiled at Lucius Malfoy, who turned to look back at him.

Draco’s breathing was soft and even, and is eyes darted this way and that beneath the eyelids. There was a beatific smile on his face, and an ugly black mark of a snake crawling out of a skull on his left forearm. Mr. Malfoy stared it and smiled.

“Well done, Lord Voldemort,” he whispered.

“He is so full of something that I do not understand, Malfoy,” Voldemort – who had called himself Riddle once again for Draco’s benefit – stated. “He fills me with his unspent Power, his growing abilities. I draw strength from him. You were wise, and I am grateful beyond words, my faithful servant. I do not, however, understand how you knew to do this.” Then Voldemort visibly shivered. “I never would have thought of it, feeding upon the unspent Power of a boy Wizard. Such a horrible price to pay, though, his gelding. How did you know of such arcane Magic, Lucius? There hasn’t been tell of it for over two centuries, and then, only in legend.”

Mr. Malfoy stood up slowly, stretching, as the Dark Lord held the sleeping boy in his arms. His cloak billowed on nonexistent wind beneath the table. He was not fully embodied, not yet, but not actually a spectre either. Caught somewhere between life and death, Lord Voldemort sat at Lucius Malfoy’s table in confusion, sipping unicorn blood from the goblet as he held Draco like a baby in his arms.

He did, however, feel better than he had felt since before Harry Potter had thwarted his attempt at gaining The Sorcerer’s Stone and had crushed his hopes of a quick return to power.

“When I was a boy, my Lord,” Malfoy explained, “My grandfather told me about a boy he’d known at Hogwart’s. His name was … Alexander … no, Alain … no, that’s not it either, no matter! He told me, though, that this boy was possessed of Wizarding Powers so ungodly strong that it was all that he could do not to explode his Wand when he performed the simplest of Spells. It was if his little body housed too much Power for him to channel. Fascinated by this, my grandfather befriended him, seeing that he was a very lonely boy who was often left out of things at school.

“It wasn’t long thereafter,” Malfoy went on, “That my grandfather discovered the boy’s secret. One day in the baths, having noticed that he always bathed alone, my grandfather came upon him unawares and found that he was indeed a eunuch, as smooth and barren of boyhood, as is young Draco now. THAT, my Lord, was the source of his Wild Power! Unable to experience things sexual, his energies were diverted into his Wizarding Powers. He showed my grandfather the Mark that he had been born with, a small infinity symbol on his inner left thigh. He called it ‘The Mark of Klingsor.’”

Voldemort’s red eyes lit up like two bonfires, and he nearly dropped Draco.

“I had always believed that Klingsor was a myth?” He demanded, looking puzzled, yet grateful. He smiled down at the gelded boy in his arms, feeling stronger than he had in years.

“Well, I hardly believed it myself and did not think of it for years and years,” Malfoy explained, “After all, grandfather was VERY old and we thought him senile at the end. Out of his mind, my Lord, and delusional. However, when I heard tell of your horrible demise at the hands of young Harry Potter again,” Malfoy spat, “It came to me almost as a vision. I could see my grandfather, hear his words, but I did not understand them. Truly I felt that the balance of Power had tilted in the other direction, away from our Dark side, but I had no idea of what to do.”

“Go on,” Voldemort said with a great deal of interest, “What sparked your plan? Surely you don’t run about castrating little boys for my benefit all day long? Although I dare say that if I can feel so strong again like this, simply by touching them, I should like to have a whole House full of them!”

“Actually, my Lord, it was something that Draco wrote to me from Hogwart’s last term. He seemed to notice an affection of some sort, a strong bond between Harry Potter and some Irish Mudblood waif named Finnegan. As it turns out, while doing some homework for Professor Snape in Potions, our Draco here overheard an exchange in the hallway or library or somewhere between Potter and Finnegan, something about privacy in the bath and not being embarrassed anymore. He wrote and asked how it was that a young Wizard could be ‘so thick as to burn his eyebrows off’ every time he picks up a Wand. He also wanted to know why it was that he realized that he was never noticing this boy until he was almost right on top of him in passing, overlooking him, perhaps. He was worried that he might need glasses, he mentioned.”

Voldemort’s eyes were shining brighter, and he stroked Draco’s smooth chin. The boy smiled and moaned in his sleep, snuggling into his black robe. “Charming,” he hissed, “Go on.”

“Draco began to refer to Finnegan as ‘Torchboy’ in his letters. For some reason, he was very interested in he and Potter. Of course, given the unfair treatment that Slytherin House has endured at the hands of Albus Dumbledore, I’m proud that he takes every opportunity to stand up for fair treatment. Potter and his cronies, it seems, have free run of Hogwart’s with no consequences for the actions, while points are taken and detentions handed out to Slytherins at the drop of a hat.”

“Amen,” Voldemort nodded, “Gryffindor always was HIS favorite. Senile old fool, but anyway … yes, I do recall that Draco was in the Forbidden Forest with that idiot Hagrid one night. How HE stays employed, I will never know.”

“Uh, yes, my Lord,” Malfoy cleared his throat. “Draco’s mention of this Power, ‘wild’ he called it, set my brain afire as I read that particular letter. I ran to the library and spent the night in fevered study, thinking of my grandfather. It was near about three in the morning when I found it in a very old and rare book, the Tale of Klingsor’s Fall.”

“Spare me the details, Malfoy,” Voldemort hissed, “I shall read it later. Leave the book out for me.”

“In short, my Lord, it was the Wizard Klingsor’s sexual appetites that landed him in so much trouble. An Italian King gelded him as punishment for sleeping with the Queen and it drove his Powers to new heights, this sudden inability to satisfy his lusts. It seems that someone at some time has gone to a great deal of trouble to bury the Tale of Klingsor, my Lord. Did you know that Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry originally started out with FIVE Houses? And it was in driving Klingsor away, after he turned Dark, as they call us, that he laid down the Curse of his Mark?”

Voldemort shook his head, listening as a child might sit and listen to a bedtime story.

“Every so often, at times of chaos and conflict when one side is in danger of overpowering the other, they say, a boy will be born on the Solstice with the Mark of Klingsor. This Mark signals his Wild Powers, which can only be let loose by his gelding on his tenth birthday. He is known as a Eunuch Wizard, with Powers rivaled by NONE. Some say that even if no one knows, if no one will perform the bloody deed, then the boy will even seek out the Knife of Klingsor and emasculate himself, unaided, so strong is the Power.”

Voldemort snorted. “I find it hard to believe that I never knew of all this,” he hissed, “In all of my studies, in all of my travels.” Then he thought for a moment and gasped. “You know of such a boy, then, Lucius? Other than Draco, here?”

Malfoy nodded.

“And Draco knows, too?”

Again, Malfoy nodded. “His name, my Lord, is Seamus Finnegan. The very waif that Draco mentioned, Harry Potter’s newest friend in Gryffindor House at Hogwart’s.”

Voldemort groaned. “There are no words for how I hate that boy, Potter!” He snapped.

“Truly, my Lord. But think of this – what if YOU were to possess such Power? You would rise up again, stronger than ever, and none would be able to stand in your way! Harry Potter would fall before you this time, much as grain before the scythe in the autumn fields! That, or he would kneel before you and become your slave!”

Voldemort thought for a moment, his brow creased and his breathing fast. He took a long drink from his goblet, a tiny drop of the silver unicorn blood falling from his lips. It landed on Draco’s cheek without a sound, and they watched it soak in.

Lucius Malfoy shuddered.

“The last time I touched Harry Potter, while possessing the body of my host servant, Professor Quirrell, he turned to stone and died on me. Set me off as worst than a ghost,” Voldemort replied. “And we all know what happened the first time I attacked him. Gods, I hate that child!” He cried, banging a mostly substantial fist on the table.

“But this is NOT Harry Potter,” Malfoy replied, “This is a common half-Muggle boy. A boy, who right now, possesses enough Power to rule the world. If only HE knew how! And he is there for the taking, my Lord!”

“And when I do TAKE him, Malfoy? Then what? What is to insure me that I will not be Cursed as I was twice already? With great Power comes great danger, Malfoy. Who else would try and attack this boy, this Irish eunuch you speak of, BEFORE I do? Why not take your Draco instead and use him?”

Malfoy smiled back his Master, a sly grin. “Because Draco is not a ‘real’ eunuch Wizard, my Lord. He was not cut with the very Knife of Klingsor, the same bejeweled and Cursed Knife that cut that first Eunuch Wizard and set him on the course to Power! Draco has been emasculated and condemned to frustration by other magic, by medicine. Why take a small bite, my Lord, when the entire feast lies before you?”

Then Lucius Malfoy paused. “Besides, our young servant here doesn’t like Finnegan OR Harry Potter. Why deny Draco the pleasure of attacking him first? If nothing elsse, it should prove to be a good fist-fight.”

“Spoken like a true and good servant, Malfoy,” Voldemort nodded, after a long pause. He rocked back and forth a bit, holding Draco almost tenderly in his half-solid arms. “I shall use this boy, Lucius, this young eunuch you have presented me with. I shall draw upon his frustrated Powers to sustain me, along with the blood, until we can take this other one. I shall possess him utterly, this Irish boy, and although I have no wish to live as a eunuch myself for all time to come, I have been disembodied in this odd state long enough to survive it for a time. I will break him, this Seamus Finnegan, take his little body and imprison his Will somewhere in a deep, dark place. And then I shall find a way to rebuild or take the form of a man for my own once again. I shall repay them all, Lucius, ALL OF THEM! They shall suffer for what they did to me!”

“As you wish, my Lord, but it is late,” Malfoy noted, “Would you care to tuck Draco in, or shall I?”

Draco awoke the next morning to find himself refreshed and feeling very good. He got out of bed, yawned and stretched, and headed for the bathroom. As usual, he felt the discomfort of a full bladder and the frustration of knowing that he was going to have to try and pee with an erection in his way. He ran to the commode, and then suddenly realized that he was naked. Someone had stripped him and put him to bed. He looked around for Dobby, but the elf wasn’t there. Then his hand, out of reflex, reached down to grab his penis.

It found nothing to grab on to.

Still feeling the surges of his phantom erection, Draco looked down and grabbed again. There was nothing there.

With a gasp, he sat down and relieved himself as a feeling of utter peace descended upon him. He stood up when he was done, stared down, looked up into the full length mirror, and touched himself.

“It’s gone,” he said in a surprised voice, “It’s really gone, it wasn’t a dream! It’s … I’m … and … oh gods, I’m a eunuch! He really did it! But why can I still feel it?”

But Draco wasn’t upset at all, and this surprised him. He thought that he should run screaming in horror at what had been done to him, but found that he rather liked it. The memories of the previous evening came back, and he smiled as he recalled it all. Then his left arm itched.

Oh, no! What if father saw what happened? What if he saw Mr. Riddle touch me? Men shouldn’t touch boys like that … and he … he … oh my!

Still, his arm itched. He glanced down and saw the faint red outline of what looked like a skull with an odd tongue hanging out of it, but then it vanished. He rubbed at the spot on his arm, but there was only unmarked skin. He shook his head, filled the bath, and cleaned up. He looked around for Dobby again, but the elf was nowhere to be found. Confused, he fixed his hair. He smiled at the new haircut that Dobby had given him, and found his black robe on the end of his bed. He was just putting it on and wondering what was for breakfast, his tummy rumbling, when the door opened.

“Good morning, son,” Lucius Malfoy greeted him. Draco averted his eyes.

“Good morning, father,” he replied, face flushing. His robe was untied and open, and his father was staring right at him.

He took a step closer, and Draco braced himself.

Lucius Malfoy’s hand came to rest on his son’s shoulder, and he squeezed it. Draco looked up then, not knowing what to make of it. He’d never had even this much affection from his father, and it set him off balance. Then Malfoy’s other hand reached down to touch his son’s unscarred and perfect gelding, rubbing him gently. Draco watched, stunned, as his father smiled at him.

“That was a very noble thing you did last night, son,” he said tenderly.

“Father, you … you saw? I didn’t … I mean, I did, but it was him! Mr. Riddle, he… he touched me and …” Draco tried to explain, in fear of his very life at that moment for what he knew that he had done and how much he’d liked it.

“I know what he did, and I know what it did to you, son. I’m not angry.”

Draco’s jaw dropped.

“It wasn’t dirty, it wasn’t even sexual. Not really. You’re a eunuch, now, Draco. That sort of lets you out of the sexual classifications, doesn’t it? A neutral gender, so to say? You have nothing to be ashamed of for what you did for Mr. Riddle.”

Indeed, Malfoy thought. Draco’s a eunuch, and Voldemort’s not even alive, OR dead! What WOULD they call that?

“Father? Just what DID I do?” Draco asked in wonder, unable to believe that he was hearing words of praise from Lucius Malfoy. His heart was pounding.

Mr. Malfoy, however, looked mysterious. He patted the boy’s white head, flattening his spikes. He then looked at his hand, and wiped the gel off on Draco’s sleeve with a laugh. “Dress up neatly, Draco,” he told him, “Formally, that is. Try and look suitably Mugglish. And hurry down to breakfast. Mr. Riddle wishes to see you, and we must be off for Ireland!”

“Ireland, sir?” Draco asked, confused. “What’s in Ireland?”

Mr. Malfoy stopped at the door with a lurid grin on his face. “Seamus Finnegan is in Ireland, son,” he replied with a grin.

Draco snorted, digging about in his wardrobe for something to wear. He noticed that his father was looking at him, and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t frighten him.

“Why would we want to go see HIM?” He asked, holding up a pair of green and sliver briefs and touching himself. I don’t think these are gonna fit anymore, he thought.

Lucius Malfoy watched his son put his briefs on, and indeed they didn’t fit right. There wasn’t anything for them to hold in anymore, and the front was very loose. With a flick of his Wand, he shrank down the front and the soft, cotton fabric snugged right up to Draco’s smooth form.

“Thank you,” he replied, pulling on a pair of black short pants that seemed to be almost too small at the legs.

“Now, as I was saying, son, Ireland,” Malfoy told him, and amazingly, not angry with him at all for not seeing the point right off. “Mr. Riddle wants to go to Ireland to see Seamus, because like you, Seamus Finnegan of Gryffindor House is a Eunuch Wizard.”

Draco’s mouth fell open as he dropped the white collared shirt he was just going to put on.

“Uhhh … oh! Oh my!” he squeaked, trying to get his clothes on so that they could be off on the trip. When he’d finally managed it, he noticed that his father was still standing there, and he was still smiling!

Lucius Malfoy took in the sight of his thin, twelve-year-old son. His white hair was gelled and spiked up, smartly blended and showing his small, round ears. The boy was wearing a white pressed shirt with a blood red tie and black short pants, holidng his black jacket over his shoulder. His socks were also the same deep blood red color, capped in black trim, and came up to almost his knees. His soft leather shoes were polished, and he looked every bit the proper little gentleman.

Malfoy felt a sudden and unexpected erection beginning to stir within his own trousers as he looked at the boy before him. Those pale, gray eyes were staring back at him earnestly, and his perfect red lips – in stark contrast to his pale face – were pursed in excitement. Lucius shivered, shifting in his trousers.

Why didn’t I ever notice it before, he wondered, Why did I never see how lovely he is, until now?

Very slowly, he bent down and straightened the boy’s tie. He touched his smooth cheek, wondering that it would remain forever so – beardless and unflawed – and wondered at his own confused welter of feelings. Pity we’ve got to run now, and he’s already put his clothes on. But being used to Dark thoughts, this sudden revelation did not upset Lucius in the least. He’d always had a taste for fine women, but his mind was open to the possibility…

“I am so very proud of you right now,” he informed the boy, and Draco’s smile nearly lit up the dim room. He took the boy’s small hand in his own, turning so that he wouldn’t see him adjusting himself, and led him into the hallway. To Draco’s surprise, he held his hand all the way down the staircases and down the long corridors until they finally arrived at the front door where the Rolls was parked.

“We’re driving?” Draco asked excitedly. It wasn’t often that he went anywhere with his father, much less in the car.

Lucius Malfoy nodded. “Mr. Riddle is waiting in the back for you to join him, son,” he said, opening the back door and shooing the grinning boy in. “I’m driving.”

THAT came as something of a shock to the boy. Of the few times he’d been anywhere in the car, mainly back and forth to King’s Cross Station to catch the Hogwart’s Express to school and to come home on holidays, the Rolls was always driven by that thing that Draco couldn’t decide about. Was it human, elf, goblin, or something else? He climbed in, however, and found Mr. Riddle awaiting him.

“Good morning, Draco,” Riddle greeted him, pulling him into a hug and inhaling deeply. Draco returned the greeting, and his tummy rumbled. Riddle laughed, his arm about the boy’s shoulders as Lucius Malfoy started the engine.

“Ah, not to worry,” he told the boy, as a panel in front of them dropped open to reveal a tray of streaming breakfast foods. “I always ride in style,” he said, sipping at a silver goblet in his other hand.

Draco hesitated.

“Well, do have at it!” He ordered the boy, smiling. “Don’t let it get cold!”

Draco didn’t need to be told twice. He attacked the breakfast as the long, black car accelerated towards Ireland. When he’d finished his last scone and glass of juice, the tray folded back up and Riddle laid a hand on his bare thigh. “We’ll be there before you know it, Draco,” he informed him. “Your father has expertly bewitched this fine Muggle automobile to travel much like a Wizard should. Look there!”

The boy looked out the window. The green countryside was sliding by at an alarming rate of speed. “How fast are we going?” He asked, delighted at the ride.

Then there was a lurch, and Draco’s tummy rolled. He became dizzy, and the landscape seemed to blur into a haze of green and brown streaks. Then it became clear again, as the car rolled smoothly on towards Ireland.

Once he was used to the lurches and blurs, Draco settled in close to Mr. Riddle. He was full and warm and happy, and as children are prone to do on long car rides, he soon drifted back to sleep in that secure embrace.

Riddle slid a hand between the buttons of his neat shirt, undoing his short pants and moving his hand to Draco’s crotch once again. The boy moaned in his sleep, his lips parted in a smile. “And now I shall have my breakfast,” he whispered, inhaling deeply of Draco’s unused Powers and growing slightly stronger with each passing mile.