GOLDEN REVERIE
By Lady Bastet and Your Cruise Director

It is like a good dream when his father lets Draco fall asleep beside him, even though it never happens now without a scolding -- a warning that he is not a child anymore and he needs to learn to discipline himself. Usually Draco is more than half-asleep before he dares to approach his father's room. Soon he will be sent away to the school his parents attended, and though he is looking forward to the education he knows he must receive to have any hope of becoming his father's equal, Draco dreads the night when he will no longer be able to creep into his father's bed and let the man's scent and steady breathing fill him with happiness.

What keeps Draco from his father's bed most often nowadays is not fear of his father's rejection. Recently he has discovered pleasures of his own -- delights he can only explore in the privacy of his own bed -- and although he thinks it very likely that these indulgences are known to his father, Draco thinks too that his father would shun the idea of sharing or even discussing them, except to warn the boy in a stern tone that he must stop worrying about gratifying his desires and spend more time on honing his concentration. His father loves Draco but he refuses to spoil him. Sometimes he will break rules at Draco's whim, teaching him to fly on a broomstick and taking him hunting for mooncalves, but more often he will tell Draco that Draco will receive the things he wants when he has earned them himself.

Tonight Draco's father is tired and hardly stirs when his son slips into his bed, letting him snuggle in close. Draco puts an arm around his father's waist, then feels a larger arm cover it, resting a hand on Draco's hip. His father's knee is half-bent and when Draco shifts he can rub his pelvis against the warm thigh, trapping it between his own legs. Lately his father is uncomfortable when Draco tries to hold him this way and when he is awake will not permit it, but tonight he is too relaxed to resist.

Draco squirms slightly. He had too much tea before bedtime. His lower body feels full even though he emptied his bladder before coming into his father's room, using the bedpan he keeps in his room because it is so much more pleasant to piss in his warm bed than to walk across the cold room to the toilet. The pressure has not yet become an unpleasant feeling and the thought of letting it go makes his prick ache enjoyably.

But he dares not indulge in the secret ease he sometimes allows himself in his own bed, relieving himself and bathing his thighs and belly in delicious warmth. His father already considers him immature to wish to sleep here; he would be very upset if his son wet the bed. Nor does Draco want to get up, for if he moves he is certain to disturb his father, who will then encourage him to return to his own room to sleep. No -- better to ignore the urge.

Dozing, Draco dreams of the fountain in the Ministry of Magic where his father works. There are dancing golden animals among the dancing jets of water. A couple of times Draco's father took him to the Ministry to show him off to his colleagues, and Draco wanted to piss in the water, to add his gold to the gilded sculptures and leave a mark on the building where his father spends so much time. Of course he had not dared, but he dreams of pressing close to one of the sculptures so that no one can see what he is doing and letting a stream trickle down the legs of centaur or the tall wizard's robes. They would never know, not being real, and nobody would hear the extra tinkling hiss in the busy hallway, it would be his secret, ahh...

Draco's eyes snap open in horror. He is pissing, like in his dream, but he is in his father's bed, with a warm wet puddle soaking through his nightclothes. His father's leg is still between his own, he is certain to be able to feel what Draco is doing...maybe he will think it is only sweat, the stickiness of sharing sleep, but the fountain is still spraying out of Draco, making the tip of his prick tingle as it spills into his pyjamas.

There is a gentle rustle beside Draco while his father shifts in his sleep before falling still. For a moment Draco dares to hope that the man will doze through the incident, giving Draco a chance to borrow his wand and make it all disappear, but then he hears his father draw in a quick breath and knows that he has been caught.

Will his father be furious? he wonders with an odd thrill. Will the man shove Draco from his bed and demand that he fetch fresh sheets and nightclothes, will he perhaps even pull down Draco's wet clothing, put him over his knee and spank him as he has never done? Or will he be gentle, asking whether something is the matter with Draco's prick, touching the tip with a finger as he examines it? Oh, Draco thinks, if only his father would touch him...

His father is moving again, looking down at his wet thigh rather than at Draco. He reaches to adjust his nightclothes and then to Draco's surprise he withdraws his own prick. Likely he wants to clean it immediately of the foul reek of Draco's piss. Draco is on the verge of an apology when his breath is stolen, for his father arches closer, aims and sprays a jet of scalding urine onto Draco's belly.

Draco has never watched his father piss so close to him before. Even in the nearly pitch black room he can see the stream, so much thicker and harder than Draco can produce himself. He cannot tear his eyes away, not even to look at his father's face or let him know that he is awake. The hot liquid pours down Draco's abdomen into his groin beneath his nightclothes which grow soaked and cling to his skin. His own feeble stream could never accomplish this so quickly. It feels wonderful.

His father is doing this to discipline him, Draco is vaguely aware. His father is never cruel to him -- he relies on warnings, suggestions of the punishments he could administer if he wished -- now he is showing Draco by example the unpleasantness of being used as a toilet, with the hot stinking flood pouring over his small body. Draco is so drenched that should his father choose to make him walk back to his room without cleaning him first, Draco will leave a trail of piss across the floor and down the hall. The house elves will be scandalized and his mother will be livid.

But his father has miscalculated, for Draco is not disgusted. The golden current burning through his nightclothes is a welcome acknowledgment of his shame, a mark of his father's attention. It excites him in some nameless way, a dirty forbidden secret that will stay with him long after it has been washed away.

When the sharp-smelling stream finally ceases, his father squeezes the last drops from the head of his prick onto the bed. Then he tucks himself back into his nightclothes, still damp with Draco's piss, and reaches up with the same hand to shake Draco's shoulder as if he believes his son to be asleep. Draco does not understand how his father could possibly not be aware of his pounding heart and the unfamiliar filthy pleasure making sweat break out all over his body, but perhaps the sound and smell of the piss have masked even that.

"You're much too old to be having accidents like this," his father hisses as though he had not just urinated all over Draco's flushed torso. "You need to learn control. What do you think will happen when you go to school if you wet your bed like a baby? You'll be the laughingstock of Hogwarts."

Draco does not tell his father that he has been practicing the Scourgify charm in secret in case of such an emergency; though his father would approve of such resourcefulness in a crisis, he would consider it a weakness if he knew of his son's penchant for wetting himself, watching the dark stain spread over the crotch of his pants or soak up through the sheet resting over his overflowing penis. There is a time and place for sensual pleasures, but this is neither. "I'm very sorry, Father," he says humbly. "I didn't want to get up and disturb you..."

Again his father draws a short, startled breath. "Well, you have disturbed me," he spits, reaching for his wand. Draco wonders eagerly whether this will be the time when the spell that hits him will sting or confine him, but his father only commands the bed and their clothing clean. "This must never happen again. Don't make me ashamed." And with those words Draco knows that he will not allow anything like it to happen again -- he will hide his own secret shame from his father, even if it means that he can no longer indulge it for fear of being caught. He would never do anything to make his father ashamed.

Yet his father does not order him out of the bed, and when Draco moves close to him he is surprised to feel that his father's penis seems bigger than usual, although his father quickly shifts it away and uses his hip to block any further contact. Is it possible that his father, too, enjoyed the feeling of piss pouring out on him? Or did he like letting his own out on Draco? Is it the wet warm sensation or the impression of being marked and claimed that might excite a man like Lucius Malfoy?

Draco cannot question him, and he is not sure that he really wants to know the answer. His father is a great man, yet his father loves his not yet worthy son, and sometimes it is enough simply for Draco to know that -- to have proof like the fact that his father keeps him in his bed when they both know he should not. Perhaps it is because he knows Draco would give him anything that the man knows better than to ask, or Draco will never become strong by himself. Yet Draco holds his father as he falls back asleep, his body still glowing with the joy of being Lucius Malfoy's son.

~*~

They are hidden behind the hedge, father and son, hands together on Lucius' dark wand, waiting for the gnome to reappear. Then, Lucius has promised, Draco can kill it all by himself. It is necessary for his father to be here because of those silly Ministry regulations that would punish both of them if it was known that the Malfoys had taught their son magic at such a young age, but Lucius feels no guilt. This is how a boy should learn, from his father -- not from some stuffy professors under Albus Dumbledore's thumb.

With his hand on the wood over Draco's, Lucius can feel the burst of energy that surges through the wand before erupting from the tip. It is not quite enough to destroy the gnome, which squeals and races from the garden, but Draco gives a scornful laugh and Lucius knows then that the boy did not really wish to take its life, only to feel the power that accompanies the curse. "You did very well for your first try," Lucius tells him and feels Draco swell with pride. He is sorry that he will lose his son so soon to Hogwarts; though Draco will, of course, return home for the summers and they will write and visit one another, things will never be as they are now, when Lucius is Draco's entire world. He has spent the past ten years trying to be a good parent and could have no better proof of his success than the sweet-faced boy turning to face him, cheeks pink with exertion and excitement. In a few days it will be his birthday and Lucius is determined to reward him for how much he has grown up this past year. "What would you like for your birthday present?" he asks.

The boy's smile is greedy and a little shy; Lucius thinks that his son is about to ask for something beyond what he knows to be reasonable. Approvingly he wonders whether Draco will ask for golden gobstones to bring to school with him or one of the new fast brooms that might win him a place on a Quidditch team even as a first-year. Perhaps his son will hint at something he knows is forbidden, like a dragon egg! "Well, go on -- tell me."

"I want..." Draco pauses to chew on his lip, shifting his weight and studying the ground for a moment. "I want you to do what you did that night when I wet your bed. I want you to do that to me again."

It is as if his son had punched him unexpectedly, knocking the wind from Lucius, so difficult does he find it to draw a breath. "I don't know what you're talking about," he wheezes, though he is certain Draco will hear the lie in his voice.

"You thought I was asleep, but I wasn't. You pissed on me. I guess so I would be sorry I made such a mess." Lucius feels as though he has been frozen by a curse, though his cheeks are burning; for the first time in memory he cannot meet his son's gaze. "I was sorry I made you angry, but I wasn't sorry you did it. I want you to do it again."

At least the boy believes the act had not been selfish; at least he cannot know how much Lucius enjoyed it and how many times he has conjured that memory, which sometimes makes him grow painfully hard just from lying beside Draco. He had not known that his attempt at humiliating the boy into exercising control would give him such intense pleasure. Even though he had suspected that Draco had not been asleep -- and that the rapid uneven breathing indicated not shame but excitement, which had in turn excited Lucius-- he had vowed to himself that he would not surrender to such temptation again, such monstrous weakness.

"I shouldn't have done that, Draco," he tells his son, who gives him a stare of pure astonishment. Lucius doubts that Draco has ever heard him say those words. He can imagine the rush of power the boy must be feeling, a combination of gloating and terror -- is he aroused? Lucius had not known whether the boy was capable of that feeling yet. Of course it is not his place to ask -- as his father, that is one area of his son's education where he knows he must not interfere, as his own father tried to interfere with his youthful crushes, taunting and tormenting any boy in whom Lucius showed the slightest interest while arranging for pretty vapid girls to be paraded before him like a toy display. Draco must learn for himself what he desires without interference, or those desires may consume him.

Yet there are stains on his son's wide-eyed innocence -- stains that Lucius realizes now are not new, but something he did not wish to see. For a moment he fears that he has corrupted his beloved child, but children have a way of corrupting themselves. It was Draco who first pissed on Lucius, after all -- not truly an accident in a boy of his age, but a choice, perhaps a test. And instead of responding as he should have done, shaking his head and telling his son calmly the reasons that such behavior was inappropriate, he had allowed himself to be provoked, and nurtured these dangerous lusts in both of them.

"Why shouldn't you have?" Draco persists. "If you wanted to punish me, and I deserved to be punished..."

"But I didn't punish you, did I? You just said you weren't sorry I did it." Beneath his robes Lucius' prick gives a hard twitch. He had never dared to spank Draco, not because he thought corporal punishment to be cruel, but for the opposite reason -- because sometimes the thought of the smack of a cane was reason enough to decide to misbehave. Worse, he had known that he would enjoy spanking those smooth buttocks, if he bared the boy's backside and laid him in his lap...again his prick throbs, justifying his refusal, though Narcissa had thought the boy should have been beaten on occasion as a reminder of all the reasons Draco would wish to be strong rather than weak.

Looking into his son's eyes now, though, Lucius can see that he is not weak at all. He is becoming a perfect Slytherin. That bashful blush, the deferral to his father's discipline...these are tools of manipulation, and Draco has twisted him perfectly, ferreting out Lucius' secret shame, turning it inside out. "I haven't made a mess in your bed again, have I?" the boy asks in a voice that is somehow desperate and defiant all at once. "The punishment worked. You're always telling me there are things that will get me in trouble as a child that I can do when I'm older, like the spell to conjure a serpent. I'm going away to school, and I want this for my birthday before I leave."

It would be so easy, thinks Lucius. He could do it right here in the garden, with Draco on his knees looking up at him, adoringly or perhaps naughtily, the wind cool on his back and Lucius' piss hot flowing down his front...his prick jerks up and Lucius shudders, breaking the gaze between them again as if Draco could pluck the thoughts out of his mind. The strongest Legilimens in Draco's family, his mother's sister, is in Azkaban and cannot possibly have taught him her wicked tricks, yet Lucius feels like his son can see straight to the forbidden thoughts pulsing through his body.

"No," he declares, to the impulse as much as to Draco. "I won't do that. Choose something else."

"Please," the boy begs, looking wounded at Lucius' vehement refusal. "You could make it an accident. You could lie on top of me and start to fall asleep..."

"Stop," orders Lucius in his most vicious tone. He knows it will hurt Draco even more but it is necessary -- necessary to protect him. For if Draco becomes any bolder, if he touches his father, he will realize that Lucius' prick has gone rigid with arousal, that Lucius can imagine all too well this delight that he had never dared to hope to share with his own son. It is impossible; they cannot touch one another this way! When Draco grows older he would never forgive his father for failing to be a father, just as Lucius has never forgiven his own father. It would be a crushing admission of weakness even to admit that he is tempted.

Draco pouts, but there is something else in his expression: triumph. He knows, realizes Lucius with dawning horror. Perhaps Draco even knew that night when it first happened; perhaps this is why he has asked for it again, and why he waited so long to do so. The scent of victory is rising from the boy like heat, like blood-lust...like arousal. What a Death-Eater he would have made, did he not suffer from the same weakness as Lucius: a passionate attachment to family and to home.

"All right then," Draco says in a voice tinged with regret yet gloating nonetheless. "If I can't have that for my birthday, I want to go flying past London and dodging Muggle helicopters." Lucius blinks at him. The boy is perfectly serious: if he cannot have this forbidden desire fulfilled, then he wants to do something dangerous and thrilling -- something he will be able to brag about at school.

It is a relief and a disappointment all at once, but Lucius is careful to let neither feeling show on his face. "You know the laws," he says neutrally. "We are not allowed to be seen, we are not..."

"Yes," nods Draco. "I know the rules. I promise to be very careful. I'm not allowed to test curses on gnomes, either, am I, Father? But you let me."

A loving smile lights up the boy's eyes. This is what Lucius cannot risk, this simple affection; he does not know what he would do if his son ever turned away from him, in disgust or anger or out of spite. He has worked too hard for too long to jeopardize their relationship for a few moments of physical pleasure.

"I let you," Lucius concedes with a small smile, trying not to let his full fondness show. For that, too, can be a weakness, and it is not one with which he wishes to encumber Draco.