Pinocchio
Draco was four, small for his age but really too big to sit on anyone's lap for long. Draco was beautiful, in a way that made Albus think of the white marble form of Michelangelo's David, the Muggle legend of Pinocchio: too beautiful for a real boy. Draco was sulking; he had had to be coaxed to sit in Albus' lap, bribed with biscuits and finally threatened with his father's wrath.
Albus held the boy gently, aware of his own arousal and of the boy's lack of response. Narcissa had gone, rather than watch; he supposed that her acquiescence was final proof had he needed it, that she loved her husband more than her son. But it was such a small favor, balanced against the larger one he would do for her. It was only Draco's innocence, a casualty in her battle for Lucius's freedom. Albus would keep his word, and let the man go free, and there would be no lasting harm done to the child.
All of that was for tomorrow: the afternoon was Draco's. He ran a hand down the boy's back, smiling a little at the thought of his Board of Governors, of what they would have said seeing their Headmaster behaving so. But the children in his charge were safe from him; they were far too old to interest him. He had been offered a child of his own--offered Harry Potter, in fact--and he had declined. He would take his fun where it was safe, where it was revenge, even. He would have his fun with the children of his enemies.
Only thinking about it had made him hard. Had made him harder than he had been in years. He couldn't stop himself from pushing his penis against the boy's thighs. So many layers between them, but he had promised Narcissa he would not touch. Or rather, that he would not--. He can imagine the boy's little penis hard in his hand. He can imagine Draco squirming against him, eyes soft and silver. Draco would not understand what was happening to him, but he would enjoy himself all the same. It would be small, so small, and hairless.
Albus was an old man; he had to stop for a moment, stop even thinking such things. His heart beat in his chest like a drum. It would be small and hairless and when the boy came with a squeak it would be dry. Albus was coming, too; he had managed to insert a hand in his pants, under his robes, between his body and Draco's. It was splendid when it happens--it was exquisite. Draco made a disgusted face and struggled to get down and after a moment Albus let him. The back of the boy's pants was wet, and he looked near tears. Albus should have soothed him, should have Obliviated him, but he was too busy hanging on to the moment.
Years later, when Draco came to Hogwarts, he looked at Albus out of cool, disdainful eyes and Albus knew he remembered everything.