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Make Me Bleed	By : Insatiable_Fox Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7610 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any characters from the Harry Potter series. I make no money nor claim a profit off this work.

Chapter List
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"Look at you, filthy fucking whore. No better than dog shit, certainly smell like it. Well go on then. Suck it, dick pig."
Draco obliged, taking the man's verminous cock into his mouth. Hollowing his cheeks, he sucked; rhythmically alternating between deep swallows and teasing licks, his tongue tracing the vein that ran along the underside before swirling around the head. They were all the same to him. Just another dick to blow, to jerk. To have shoved up his ass. It had stopped being violation long ago. Now it was just a means to survive.
"Oi, slut!" A slap landed on his cheek and Draco pulled back slightly, looking up at the man who towered above his knelt position. "Get on your hands and knees. Gonna fuck that hole like it's never been used before." He doubted it. Anything that he hadn't been subjected to at home had been practiced upon him within the dingy alleys of muggle London. The man moved around to kneel behind Draco’s stoic form, fumbling with his zipper. All too soon pressure was at his entrance, the thick head pushing painfully through the ring of muscle, no thought to the discomfort that it may cause. They never cared. To them, Draco was just another waif selling his body on the streets. A pretty whore to shove their dicks into for five minutes of pleasure before a couple of hastily thrown notes and they were gone.
The key was to never give a reaction. No tears, no screams. No begs to stop when blood was trickling down his legs from his brutalised ass.
"So loose you could fit a whole ‘nother dick in you. Maybe two. Ever had that, whore? Ever had three cocks up that gaping hole? Bet it left you a whimpering mess. What would your mother say?"
Draco snapped, anger pulsing through him at the mention of the one person he still cared about. "Don't you dare talk about my mother!" he shouted, jerking away from the man who was momentarily stunned from his outburst. "You don't know shit about my family."
"You fucking cunt." The man's fist connected with the side of Draco's face as he tried to right himself, sending him sprawling back onto the damp concrete. A kick landed to his ribs, followed quickly by another to his chest leaving him winded. Curling into a ball as the blows fell, they rained down across his huddled form. Pain. Draco was used to pain. Used to the sweet sickness, the battle between his body's need to protect itself and his mind’s steely determination to never show weakness.
"Whore. Slut. Cunt. Filth. Dirt. Useless pig" The words were thrown at him as relentlessly as the beatings, but all they did was mimic his own internal monologue. The man wasn't shouting anything that Draco hadn't realised when he was first thrown to the streets five years ago and resorted to pleasuring strangers just to stay alive. His own self image was defined by much darker things then the idiot hunched over his battered body could ever say.
With a heavy boot keeping him pressed to the ground, Draco glanced through a rapidly swelling eye as the man took his dick in hand and started fervently jerking himself off. Within seconds he was cumming in hot streams of milky seed over Draco's battered and bloody face. Tucking himself back in, he cast an eye over his limp body.
"Reckon you'll survive, though it wouldn't be a loss if you just gave up and fucking died. Better think about who you run that mouth to next time, you little faggot." The man spat at Draco before turning and leaving, his hands thrust deep within his jacket pockets.
Draco needed to get home. Or, to the pathetic pile of blankets which offered the only sort of solace within his pitiable excuse for an existence. Panting, he pulled himself to his hands and knees, his aching body protesting from the beating it had just taken. Beaten. That was the word he would use, and not just from that man; he was an abandoned carcass left to rot, ostracized from not only the wizarding world, but shunned by muggles as well. No matter where he went, he would never be more than the disgraced Malfoy heir, abhorred by his once-acquaintances, eschewed by old contacts and desecrated by the very people on which he relied to survive.
Eventually he found his way to his feet, propping himself against the cool stone of a building. He lent his face against the brick, letting the cooling damp soothe his throbbing head. Morning was coming, and Draco needed to get back home, lest some unsuspecting muggle find him and complicate his life even more. There was a reason he was banned from the shelters scattered around the city. The price for showing his face at any one of them again would be death.
Using the wall to support himself, Draco made his way to the mouth of the alley where he took stock of his surroundings, noting with grim pleasure that he wasn't too far from his bed. Fifteen long minutes later and he was rounding the bend, overpass in sight and below it, his refuge. Ducking under a concrete beam he jerked to a stop, confronted with the sight of another person sitting against the supporting pillar of the bridge, a ratty blanket thrown over their legs.
"So the whispers on the streets were true" the man stated without looking up. Head hung, bearded and bedraggled, the only movement was of a thumb tracing hypnotically over the underside of a wrist.
"Who sent you?" Draco asked. He didn't know how he had been found, or by which gang, but he had been unable to pay their territory costs, so now he would pay with his life. He found that he couldn't bring himself to care much.
"No one sent me." The voice was low and raw, lacking of any emotion.
"Then why are you here? Who are you?" None of this was making sense, and all he wanted to do was curl down on his blankets and lapse into the sweet oblivion that the mixture of tiredness and concussion promised to give.
"I didn't know anyone could fall as low as me, and I've been falling for a long time. What happened that pushed you over the edge, Malfoy?"
It couldn't be. Of course it was. "I could ask you the same thing, Potter."
Harry Potter.
Harry Potter: Saviour of the Wizarding World, War Hero, Golden Boy.
Harry Potter: Winner of Tri-Wizard Tournaments, Prodigy of Dumbledore, Killer of The Dark Lord himself.
Harry Potter: dirty and grimy, who stunk as bad as Draco did, looking and sounding like he was dead inside.
"That's the question we're all asking, isn't it. Where was the tipping edge? What was the point of no return? When was the drop? Because by the time I knew I'd passed it, there was no going back." Potter was crazy. Harry Potter was sitting on his blankets, having some sort of philosophical conversation with him, and Draco could hardly stand upright.
"You're in my bed, Potter, and I'm close to passing out." Potter made no indication that he had heard Draco, continuing to obsessively stroke his wrist, so he threw caution to the wind. If Potter had wanted him dead, he would have been dead, and Draco was long past caring what others thought of him and how he chose to survive. Instead, he shuffled over the compacted dirt floor and collapsed beside his once-enemy, pulling a smelling blanket over him to ward off the cold. "You don't flinch when you see me. People normally do."
"We've all got scars to hide, Malfoy,” Potter commented emotionlessly, breaking his trance by brushing a hand over his matted hair, dirty jumper sleeve riding up in the process to reveal a mass of angry red cuts and long healed scar tissue. "It's just yours are judged harder than most."
Draco could have commented that it was in fact Potter who boasted the legendary scar. He could have screamed at him, cursed him for his family's downfall, his mother's pain and Draco's demise. Asked him how dare he show up, looking as filthy and fucked as him, when Potter had had the world on a platter.
What he did was go to sleep.

When Draco woke, Potter was asleep beside him. He had slumped in his slumber, an arm thrown out and his sleeve scrunched, exposing the patchwork of scarring that laced up the pale underside to the elbow. Fresh cuts were layered upon old, creating a haunting sort of artistry. If it wasn't for the medium, he would call it beautiful.
Draco tentatively fingered the threadbare hem of his own sleeve, then making up his mind he pulled it up.. Shiny, mottled skin stared back, black lines running like an undercurrent just beneath the skin . 'It's just yours are judged harder than most'.
Potter's words resonated through his frayed mind. It was true that Draco had paid for his mistakes at a considerably higher price than others. His father's wrath as a child when he did not live up to the Malfoy Standard. The punishment when he failed to befriend The Boy Who Lived. Draco's pathetic inability to receive higher marks than a mudblood.
Then the Dark Lord had come, marking the start point of Draco's fall.
An impossible task was set. The agonising war within him to do what was expected of him, or to do what he had long suspected now was right. Frustration, fear, the slow disintegration of faith. Anxiety and anguish. The scars of Sectumsempra long lost among countless others that marred his thin body. However, the memory would always remain: total desolation and the fleeting hope that it would finally be over.
He had failed the light, he had failed the dark; and in turn they had both cast him out.
Draco had survived, but that survival had come with a cost. With no wand and no way to defend himself he had quickly fallen prey to the sharks that ran the shelters, taking more than he should and promising them more than he could give. Consequently, he had been thrown once again to the streets. After payment in the form of pleasure had been taken, of course.
So a cycle had commenced until the day there were no homes willing to take a dirty teenage boy, and he had been forced improvise.
It was Potter stirring that pulled Draco out of his dark musings, mind lost wandering through the desolate bleak paths of memory and crumbling buildings which once housed self-worth. Draco hurried to push his sleeve back down, masking the ruin of flesh with the ever present mark still visible and turned to look at Potter who was peeling crusted eyes open and squinting even in the deep shadows of the bridge.
"You're still here" he stated.
"This is where I live, Potter." Draco tried for snarky, but all that came out was a voice emulating Potter's own dead tone.
"Come home with me."
Draco froze, wondering if last night's activities had left him with more than a bruised and aching body. "Why?"
"Does it matter why?" Potter asked, turning to stare at him with eyes that were still impossibly green.
He thought about it. A roof over his head, a shower. A reprieve from selling his ass, even if it was only for a few days. "I guess not."
Potter got to his feet a little unsteadily, bracing a hand on the concrete wall for support. Draco followed suit, jumping when Potter wrapped an arm around his bicep and pulled him close. "Its been a while since I did this" Potter muttered, furrowing his brows.
"Fuck, Potter. Are you drunk?" Draco asked, smelling for the first time the stench of alcohol beneath the general stink of filth.
Potter look at him, and for a second his eyes lightened before they quickly fell flat again. "Does it matter how I survive, Malfoy?"
"I guess not." Who was Draco to judge? Potter grunted and then Draco was lost to the sick spinning tightness as Potter disapparated them.
As soon as they appeared, Draco was gone, pulling out of Potter's embrace to heave stringy bile over stone floor, his stomach not full enough to provide a full vomit. It had been years since he had felt the embrace of another's magic wrap around him. It was strangely intimate. "I haven't been apparated in ages" he muttered, wiping the back of his mouth with his jersey. Straightening, Draco looked around the shabby room which he assumed was Potter's kitchen. Grime marred the cabinets and floor, the counter tops a mess of empty spirit bottles. A chair was leaning broken beside a fist size hole in the wall and what appeared to have once been a beautiful antique wooden mirror now knelt smashed, its jagged edges spread below it like the shed plumage of a once-regal bird. The solid oak kitchen island stood in the middle of the room, with what Draco horrifically realised was dried blood sprayed wildly across the surface. It would have looked more at home in an abattoir.
It was the first roof Draco had been under in three years. It was glorious.
Draco turned back to Potter, who was wearing his now familiar haunted expression. "How long can I stay?" he asked, knowing that he would be happy as long as Potter allowed him long enough to have a proper shower and sleep in a bed.
Potter glanced away, eyes falling on the stained mess of table. "As long as you like."
"I can't give you anything in return." He didn't know why he was here, why Potter had turned up in the middle of muggle London and taken Draco away. He didn't know what was wrong with the other man, who looked like he carried as many ghosts in his head and as much death in his eyes as Draco did. He didn't know what Potter wanted from him, but there was very little that Draco wouldn't give just to be sleeping in a house. Those were the perks of having nothing to lose.
Potter ignored Draco's question, bending to pick a sliver of glass from the broken mirror off the floor. He held it up to the light, studying it intensely as if expecting something other than his own dirtied expression to be looking back. "A piece of mirror saved me, you know?"
"What?" Draco asked, wishing that this… shell of Potter would start making sense, or at least show him where a shower was.
"I’d be dead without it. Fuck, I should be dead. It wasn't me who won the war, Draco" Potter blandly stated. "The people who died, the people who I got killed. They are the real reason. All those bodies, and their blood on my hands. For instance, if Aberforth wasn't watching for me in a piece of mirror, he wouldn't have sent Dobby. I would have died in the Manor, Dobby would still be alive, and you would have remained the aristocratic Draco Malfoy."
"Draco Malfoy wasn't that great to be." He breathed out. "And trust me Potter, I deserve everything I got."
Potter stepped closer to him, and fuck, Draco hadn't been looked at like that for a very long time; like he wasn't just a piece of meat. "When did you get so humble?"
"About the same time I started selling myself just to stay alive" Draco blandly stated, not welcoming the reminder of his past. "Probably round the point you gave up. Now if you’ll excuse me, I'm going to go wash the spunk from the last three years out of my ass."
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Make Me Bleed