Warning: This story is slash, and more than that it is NC-17 for a wide variety of things including graphic sex, bondage, portrayal of sex with and among minors, abuse of teacher-student relations, and, depending upon your interpretation, incest. Do not read if you are under the age of majority in your area; do not read if you are uncomfortable with male/male sexual relations.

Author's note: Thanks to all the lurvely people who reviewed it on my livejournal (http://www.livejournal.com/users/rhoddlet/). The title is from a Rene Magritte painting, and the inspiration for this fic comes in equal parts from KayTay's Slytherin series, slytherlynx's complaints of not enough smut, and the now infamous discussions of bondage in HPslash.

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Lucius Malfoy wasn't always the golden boy he is now -- if you look at him, really, he's not even blonde. White, more like, and when he was younger, he was even paler, even whiter. He's darkened some with age, but when he was young, he was almost freakishly pale with those white lips and fingertips and eyes that were grey to the point of disappearing. So you overestimate what he was like at Hogwarts, and you underestimate what Snape was like in those days.

Not pretty, certainly, but ah, there was this deadly seriousness with him. He'd sit in a room and small animals and household objects would almost drift towards him, pulled by the force of his wanting. He was as much a part of that group of Slytherins who went spectacularly bad -- he was more a part of them, really, than Malfoy was. Malfoy had no ambition, and Snape burnt with it. Incandescent with it underneath the black hair and heavy robes, and you wondered what it was that he could possibly want so badly when here he was, pureblooded and rich and so talented that potions seemed to knit themselves together under his fingers.

This explains why Sirius hated him so much, why Malfoy found him as irresistibly interesting as an iron that's lain in the heart of the fire. The Head of Slytherin from that time was up to his arm pits in Voldemort and died in Akzaban, but if you could have asked him when he still remembered, he would have told you that he wasn't surprised when he walked into their sixth year bedroom unannounced and found them in the middle of sex. It was reasonably common, and the Malfoys had always been sluts, but the image was arresting, none the less. Malfoy, wearing only a white shirt and luminous in the darkness like Diana bathing in moonlight, and Snape, Snape who burned with ambition, crouched before him, swallowing so greedily you could see his throat working in the glow from Malfoy.

The Slytherin Master remembers, too, the way they jerked apart and how he screamed them about the unnaturallness of what they were doing, but he barely remembers how they nodded along with him and promised to never do it again. What he does remember, the poor old man, is Snape. Maybe that's why he never reported it to the Headmaster and let the boys stay together that year and the next. He would touch himself for years afterwards, thinking of Snape, eyes closed and swallowing like it was the elixir of life, of Snape sitting with his hands in his lap, looking very penitent during the lecture all the while probing the back of his teeth with his tongue to get the last of Malfoy.

Snape would do that sometimes during Charms, too. The Master of Slytherin would turn from the board to explicate some subtle point, and there Snape would be, watching him with every trace of being attentive except for his mouth, which would hang ever-so-slightly slack with his tongue gleaming and moving about inside.

This same Master would wonder if Snape ever fucked Malfoy in the ass, but the truth of it was that Malfoy was the one who pounded Snape and made him bleed between the legs. It was Snape's way of paying Malfoy for the blowjobs, and Malfoy would make Snape finger himself to an orgasm afterwards. One finger, now two, harder, faster, curl your fingers damn you, because I want to hear you come, and Snape would kneel on the bed and do it and come so hard that he would cry afterwards.

Other times, Lucius would lie down on his bed and make Snape ride his cock, but in return, he had to let Snape do whatever he wanted to him for an hour. Once, Snape tied him up, slipped the long neck of a glass flask into his ass, and left Lucius, trembling on the bed for fear that the glass would break while Snape went to the library to read for twenty minutes. Came back, untied Lucius, put a robe on him and took him to the Restricted Section of the library, where Snape then proceeded to give him a blowjob against the bookshelf and even slip extra fingers next to the glass flask in Lucius's ass so that Lucius bit through his lip even as he came harder than he ever had in his young life.

It was on one of these expeditions that Sirius came into the Restricted Section and saw Snape kneeling in front of Malfoy who looked like he was verging on religious ecstasy, and Black made all the wrong assumptions about things. He went back and told Potter about it, and the next time Potter was with Malfoy, he remarked on it.

"You're pretty loose down there. Let Severus do you much?" he whispered to the Astronomy tower stone Malfoy was bent over.

Potter, though, didn't understand why Malfoy came almost straight away after that, screaming and tearing fingers on the unfinished stones. Chalked it up to his unerring ability to hit the prostate, which was certainly true, but it took years and years for Lucius to break himself of the habit of masturbating to the things that Snape had done to him in those last two years. Marrying Narcissa had helped, and so did Severus turning traitor to the Dark Lord. Malfoy'd nearly lost his life for that since he'd been the one that had inducted and pushed for Snape's advancement, and even now, he can't help but get a little angry when he sees Snape at the Death Eater meetings. The little fucker had *betrayed* them, and suddenly because Dumbledore trusts him again, he's back in? After Malfoy had spent years, *years* rebuilding the trust he'd lost when he survived the purges? In his worse moments, Lucius thinks he could honestly rip Snape apart with his bare hands for it.

That was his first instinct, too, when he saw Snape coming down the Slytherin hallway with a hand on Draco's shoulder at the end of the fifth year. If people thought that it was Snape who brought Draco into the Death Eaters, then Snape went traitor again, they'd blame Draco. He wouldn't have the Malfoy name to protect him since it'd been almost-disloyal recently, young, too, so nobody would know if he really was working for snape.

If Draco died because of Snape, Lucius was going to hunt Snape down and tear out his liver with Cruicatus. Draco was his *son*, and Snape would keep his filthy, traitorous hands off Draco or he'd feed chop Snape's fingers off and feed them back to him, joint by joint.

Lucius was thus practically incoherent with rage when Snape and Draco came to a stop in front of him, and he was just itching to kill Snape, Voldemort or no, but then, one day in the middle of that fifth summer, he was with Narcissa, drinking iced lemonades and watching Draco dive off the edge of the pier into their lake. As Draco pulled himself out of the water and came strolling up the lawn towards them for a drink, Narcissa said something about seeing Snape the other day in Knockturn Alley and having him ask whether Draco was getting a head start on his summer lessons. Draco had done well through the year but had failed his glassware practical badly at the very end of term.

Lucius's blood had sudden thinned, frozen, and collected in his stomach at that point, and after lecturing Draco about his poor marks, he told them he had some work to do back at the house. Narcissa made some complaining noises and told him that the house-elves would be bringing up lunch, but Lucius went up to the house. Strode through the Great Hall, shouting at the elves to keep away from him, and then went his study, locked the door, locked it again with magic. Knelt behind his desk, shaking with strain, sweat pouring down his forehead as he fumbled for his hard cock underneath his robes and trousers, and tried, very hard, to keep from making any noise as he came harder than he had in years from touching himself, imagining his son, his Draco, pressed against a bookshelf like the one over there, hands bound behind him, a bottle inserted in him, Snape in front of him, around him, all over him and smothering him until he couldn't breathe.

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