The Lion and the Serpent

Outside of Harry's door, Draco slid to the floor slowly, and leaned against the wall. He sat silently, his face buried in his knees, waiting. His anger ebbed and flowed, lashing out at Harry, and then turning inward. He grew tired eventually, and then continued to wait.



It was not until several hours later that Harry emerged from his bedroom. He barely looked at Draco when his finger hooked into the ring on the back of his collar, lifting him to his feet.



“Sit,” Harry said, pushing him towards the dining table.



Still silent and grim, Harry produced a scroll of parchment, an inkwell, and a quill, placing them in front of Draco.



“You will be writing lines for me tonight,” Harry informed him. “Two lines, two hundred times each.”



“No Blood Quill?” Draco said sarcastically, his anger surging again. “Magnanimous.”



“Fine. Let's make it three lines, three hundred times each,” Harry amended. “These are the lines:



I, Draco Malfoy, am Harry Potter's slave.



I will obey Harry Potter instantly.



I will not provoke Harry Potter to anger.”



Draco pushed the inkwell away from him, and stared at Harry defiantly.



“This demeans us both,” he said finally.



“No,” Harry said calmly, sliding the inkwell back to Draco. “Just you.”



Draco could have sworn there was a hint of a smile in Harry's voice. He glanced up at Harry very cautiously.



“Talk to me,” he pleaded. “You know I was joking. You must know this. Why are you ... punishing me?”



Harry's expression softened, and he sat down in front of Draco, facing him.



“This isn't punishment, but you are free to interpret it as such, if it makes it easier for you to accept it,” Harry said slowly. “However, you should know that I intend it as discipline.”



“Discipline,” Draco repeated, a clear note of distaste in his voice.



“I am going to be very straightforward with you, Draco,” Harry said, the kind tone of his voice contrasting starkly with the harsh words, “You are undisciplined. You lack self-control. You act on emotions. Consequently, your obedience leaves much to be desired. And your obedience is a non-negotiable. When I tell you to come to me, you must come. When I tell you to write lines, you must write lines. When I tell you to leave, you must leave. Instantly. Without any hesitation. Do I make myself clear?”



“Yes. Fine,” Draco said resignedly. “Just ... it didn't seem fair. That you would send me away for ... making an idiotic joke. That it would make you that angry.”



“It wasn't the joke,” Harry said impatiently. “It was the Mark. When you said what you did, my Mark had come awake. You know what it's like. You know what it demands, what it requires. Power. Pain. Cruelty. I didn't have the strength, or the words, or the time to explain. I needed you to get out. And you hesitated. That is unacceptable to me.”



Harry moved towards him, and his hand grabbed Draco by the hair, gathering it in his fist.



“Write,” Harry said in a voice that tolerated no objection. “And believe what you write. And when you are done writing, we will talk more.”



Draco leaned into his firm grip and closed his eyes.



“Thanks,” he said simply.



He spent a couple of hours writing diligently, each line careful and clear, Harry's voice echoing in his mind:



I will not provoke Harry Potter to anger.



I will obey Harry Potter instantly.



And finally,



I, Draco Malfoy, am Harry Potter's slave.



When Harry came by to check on his progress, Draco was finishing up the last of the lines. Standing behind Draco, Harry chuckled a little, his left hand squeezing Draco's shoulder.



“Rebel, to the end...” Harry said, wonder in his voice.



“What do you mean?” Draco whispered, not taking his eyes off the tip of the quill.



“You wrote the lines in reverse order.”



Draco looked up at him with a wry smile.



“Well... you could say, that I saved the best for last.”



Draco dropped his eyes, and saw the faded scars from the Blood Quill on Harry's hand. He remembered himself laughing at them, and winced a little. The things they had done to each other, he thought weakly.



“Harry?” he asked suddenly. “What difference does it make?”



“Hmm?” Harry murmured, seemingly taken aback by the question.



“Whether it's the Mark, or the bond... what's the difference? If it happens.. then, well.. Why not just let it happen? Just hurt me.. then heal me. Like always.”



Without saying a word, Harry let go of Draco's shoulder and turned his back to him. Draco watched, stunned, as Harry began to disrobe.



Slowly, methodically, Harry removed his clothes, and stood, just within Draco's reach. Unable to tear his gaze away, Draco stared at Harry's nude body, realizing that Umbridge's quill was not the only thing that had marked Harry's flesh. Harry's back and buttocks were littered with faded scars, different sizes and lengths. They crisscrossed his skin, touching and overlapping, going in different directions.



Instinctively, Draco reached out to touch one of them, but stopped himself at the last moment. His fingertips hovered near Harry's back for a few seconds, unbearably close to it, but never daring to connect with the disfigured flesh. Eventually, Draco withdrew his hand, and regained his voice:



“What the hell... what are those?” Draco asked, swallowing hard, and feeling nauseous. “Voldemort?”



“Family,” Harry said. When he turned to face Draco, there was no trace of embarrassment on Harry's face. It seemed to be inconsequential to him to be disrobed and exposed, if his own body was of little significance to him.



“I will hurt you again, of course,” Harry said unapologetically. “When the bond requires it. When there is no other way. But I will not be inflicting physical injuries on you for no reason... meaninglessly... just to satisfy... that thing,” Harry glanced at the Mark on his shoulder.



Draco nodded quickly.



“Can I ask you something else?” Draco asked, still bewildered. “Why didn't you have them removed?”



Harry shrugged indifferently, his shoulders rising briefly and falling. “I never had a reason for it.”



Draco gazed at him. “You've got to be kidding. I'd Glamour my Mark like crazy whenever I got some action ... but you? Are you trying to tell me that you never made love to someone who would drive you insane with questions? That the first time you had sex, the girl didn't drag you to the school infirmary, crying her heart out to Poppy?”



“No,” Harry said simply. “I have never made love to anyone. And first time I had sex with someone, I raped him.”



Without another word, Harry picked up his clothes and walked away, his bedroom door closing behind him.





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Author's Note: Thanks everyone for reading. This is as much as I have written so far. I'm still working on the story, so I will be updating regularly, just not as frequently.

Many thanks to all who have taken the time to leave feedback. Reviews are more addictive than crack, and they inspire me to keep writing ; )