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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
- 6
- 7
- 8
Three days later, Harry came for him.
They had been playing a game of cat and mouse; a subtle dance around the house, both attempting to avoid the other whilst pretending they weren't. For Draco, it was the coward's move. How could he confront Harry again, when he had gone back on everything he had said? He had judged Potter when he had no right to, questioned his methods used to survive. The worst, the part which shamed Draco deep to his soul, was that Harry had never judged him. Never passed comment on the whore who had offered his ass up so readily, sucked whichever cock was pressed into his mouth, licked up the messes made with an eager tongue. The man who had been the subject of Voldemort’s sexual power plays, his body used and degraded by cold hands and dark curses, instruments of torture, restraints, whips, and the ever present calculating glint in red eyes. The boy whose father had conditioned him to take it, never question it, and act like he wanted it.
Filthy slut. Whore. Eager little dick pig.
He had been idiotic to think he could be more than that.
So he had avoided Potter as best he could, as Harry seemed to be doing also. Draco had only ventured out of his room to eat some of Harry’s ill-gotten gains, and stand under the hot shower till the warmth ran out. A moth to a flame, craving the heat he had gone so long without. Until now.
Harry looked worse than usual as he stepped into the bedroom where Draco sat, idly flicking through ‘The Histories Of The Great and Noble House of Black’, a tomb of a book. The ever present circles under Potter’s eyes seemed deeper, his body thinner, face drawn and gaunt. He was a dead man again, and it was only in hindsight did he realise some of the death had left Potter’s eyes, all of which had now been brought back by a careless comment spoken from Draco’s lips.
"Draco.” His name rasped out of Harry, dry and hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in weeks. Or had screamed too much. “Please.”
Draco knew what he was asking for. “No.”
A little life flared back into Potter’s eyes at the defiance. “You promised you would.”
"I can’t.”
"You’ve said that before.” Harry’s voice was hard.
"But now I mean it.” Couldn't Potter see?
"Please.” There was a desperate edge to the word.
“No.”
Harry’s hand tightened on the doorframe he was gripping, the tendons popping out under the pressure. “Are you happy, Draco ?” Potter asked, and there was malice in his tone, Draco’s name spat out like it pained Harry to even say it. “Isn't this what you had always wanted? Me under your thumb? Even after you insult me, I come crawling back to you like some desperate child, pleading for the intoxicating blackness your cuts give and the judgement they rain down. Begging you to do what even I can't. Begging you to drag me back from the edge. Begging you to make me bleed, so I can repent. Are you going to withhold that from me? The cuts you carve, my blood that flows forth? Are you going to deny the justice it brings?”
It killed Draco to refuse, to break his promise. But a burning Potter was better than dead Potter. A burning man was an alive man; a man who wanted to live.
“Let me do something else for you” Draco tried, desperately attempting to avoid another cutting, while still keeping fire in Harry’s eyes. “Let me help you. Please, Harry. For me.”
“There’s nothing else you can do” Harry whispered wildly, desperately pleading.
“Let me shave you.” The words were out before Draco had even thought them through, but they had the desired effect. Harry stilled abruptly, fixing green eyes on Draco. “Trim your hair, clean up your face” he tried to explain, gesturing randomly at Potter. It was only now that he was realising the repercussions of what he had said, still a blade on skin dragging over delicate flesh, but hopefully it would sate Harry.
Harry ran a hand through his dark, matted hair. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked, seeming to be honestly perplexed, and a small smile pulled at Draco’s lips.
"Harry. When was it last cut? When did you last shave?”
Harry furrowed his brows. “Hermione did. Horcrux hunting.”
"Don’t you think it’s time?” Draco pulled at his own strands of hair. “I’ll do a better job of yours than I have with mine.”
Harry stared at him for a long moment, thumb tracing a wrist, before he finally nodded. “Kitchen” he stated, before leaving.
When Draco entered the kitchen shortly thereafter,where he was once again confronted with Potter, sitting crossed legged on the abattoir table, chest bare. Although, to Draco’s relief, he was wearing pants. “There should be scissors somewhere” Harry commented in a low voice. “And here.” He held out an object for Draco. “To shave.” Draco took the blade, admiring the craftsmanship, the carved bone handle and inscribed metal. Potter watched him intently as he moved around the room, locating a stiff but usable pair of scissors before filling up a dubiously clean bowl with warm water.
"There's no soap, so it will have to be done bare” he informed Potter as he came to stand in front of the man.
“I don't mind” Harry whispered, and he seemed to be holding his breath, pupils dilated as he watched the movements of Draco’s hands with feverish intensity.
Draco motioned for Harry to move forward, bringing him to rest on the edge of the table with his legs hanging down, Draco’s body in between them so as to reach Potter. Draco ignored the somewhat imitate position, concentrating as he wet Harry’s face with the water. A droplet ran down his neck and Draco followed it hypnotically, before dragging himself back to the task at hand. He, too, held his breath as he lifted his hand to Harry’s face and pulled the blade down. Harry let out a muffled noise, eyes closing at the pressure as Draco repeated the movement, soon falling into a trance with only the sound of the blade and Harry’s quiet whimpers to break the daze.
When it came, it was a shock. Having moved down to Harry’s neck, it was the swallow as blade moved over adam's apple, pulling and nicking the skin, resulting in the bright well of blood under the blade. Draco cursed and Harry’s eyes flashed open, sucking in a breath as he narrowed in on Draco’s finger which he had pressed to the cut without thinking. Time seemed to hang still as Harry studied the drop of blood before looking up to hold Draco’s face in scrutiny. Without breaking his gaze he reached out and took Draco’s wrist in hand, bringing it slowly to his lips before sliding the blood-tipped finger into his mouth and sucking gently.
Draco froze, eyes going wide as Harry let out an appreciative groan, tongue tracing Draco’s fingertip in what seemed an intentional imitation, performed to excite the imagination. Or - in Draco’s case - induce full paralysis, his mind trying to frantically quell the crippling panic that was attempting to seize his body. He wrenched his eyes away from his finger, only to let out an audible gasp as his gaze was drawn downwards, coming to rest on the prominent bulge tenting the softly worn material of Harry’s pants.
"Now, doesn't that make a pretty sight?” Voldemort had taken a step back, hand tracing sinisterly over the ropes that held Draco bound, finger slipping under the taut threads wrapped intimately around his torso. Draco had hung, suspended in mid-air, held by magic and restrained by Incarcerous, the rope chafing his skin and leaving him bleeding.
“I could not agree more, my Lord.” Lucius had stepped out of the shadowed recess, moving forward to leer at his son, giving Draco a smirk as he dragged his gaze painstakingly slowly across his bare flesh. Draco had kept his eyes downcast, desperately schooling his features into an empty stare. No weakness. No screams. No tears.
“I’ll start with something soft, shall I, Lucius? Before moving on to things a little more fitting? That way your pathetic excuse for an heir can get to experience my displeasure to its fullest.” Voldemort had paused, fingers caressing the white yew of his wand. “But let us not forget the pleasure, first.” A flick of his wand and the ropes rearranged, retracting from his limbs to come wind noose-like around his neck. Another movement, and Draco’s hands had moved without his permission, body responding under a perfect Imperius to trail his own fingers delicately down his nude form, ghosting over soft flesh with a lovers touch. A groan was wrenched forcibly from his dry throat even as tears attempted to spill their way down flushed cheeks, his mind and body waging a battle for power Draco knew he could not win.
“Such a responsive whore” Voldemort had laughed delightedly. “Such a pretty slut. Does he moan for you like this, Lucius?” he had asked, dragging a keening wail from Draco as one, then two of his fingers were forced up his tight ass, unable to ignore the pleasure that was being compelled upon him.
“Yes, my Lord” Lucius had answered, a slight hitch in his breath as he watched Draco’s performance with hungry eyes.
Voldemort had spun abruptly to face Lucius. “Pardon? I would hate to think you were implying that you are better with your son than I am, Lucius.”
“N-never, my Lord” Lucius had hurried to reply, pulling his gaze away from Draco to meet the Dark Lord’s.
Voldemort had cut off the Imperius with a flick, Draco’s body slumping with a gasp, his own fingers stilling their attack even as his cock bounced wantonly against his stomach. “That’s what I thought.” Voldemort had stalked towards Draco, a predatory grin stretched across white chapped lips. “Come, Lucius. Come watch what it’s like to really make our dear Draco scream.”
Cold spidery fingers had wrapped languidly around Draco’s dick, his eyes flashing open in horror as Voldemort had started to move lazily up and down the length, the ever present conniving glint reflecting in red eyes.
Draco had squirmed, fighting the revulsion, the terror, the repugnancy . The sharp stab of arousal which seared forbidden through him, carnal desire an unwanted but ungovernable force leaving his mind broken whilst his body ached for release.
A besmirched desire, a battle for control. Mind versus body in an internalised war of wills.
“The muggles-” Draco had startled, the whispering voice closer to his ear than he had initially realised “-have this delightful device called a Judas Cradle. Do you know what that is, my boy?”
Draco shook his head, fighting arousal. Fighting pleasure. What sort of sick, twisted, deviant was he, for his body to respond, even with Voldemort’s hand wrapped around him?
“A Judas Cradle was one of the few acceptable instruments to come out of muggle society. Think, Draco, of a pyramid-like seat, the triangular-shaped end inserted into the ass your Father craves so much, your feet bound together in a way that moving one would move the other, increasing the pain, perhaps coupled with a Crucio or two. Does that sound like it may be an acceptable way, Draco, for my displeasure at your failures to be made apparent? Surely it cannot be hard, to smuggle a few of my death eaters into your beloved Hogwarts?”
A week after that session of punishment, Draco had succeeded.
"No!” Draco scrambled back, away from Harry, tripping over the too long hem of his pants in the process. He fell in a jumbled heap on the stone floor, his limbs buckling in the attempt to flee, his head snapping up in sheer panic to watch Harry with obvious fear.
"Draco?” Potter queried, confused by Draco’s sudden outburst.
Draco shook his head wildly, hair flying in a tangle as he tried to right himself, pulling his gaunt frame up only to move further back, his arms coming to wrap protectively around his body. “I just... you need to... no...” Draco knew he was being irrational, Harry was nothing like the monsters who had ripped his body from him, violating it beyond return. Still. To see that reaction from Harry, desire for him, joined with the blood. “I need to go” he whispered, before turning and high tailing it through the door.
He could hear Potter’s shouts as he ran through the house, along corridors and up. Flight after flight of stairs he climbed, higher than he had ventured before, not thinking, simply fleeing, away from Harry and his carnal desire and hard dicks and the twinge Draco had felt just before the memories had surfaced once again, the twinge in his lower gut which reminded him he was nothing more than the dirty whore he had always been told he was.
He was at the top of the house before he realised it. The harshly pitched ceiling left an attic only big enough for a single bed onto which Draco climbed, curling up into a ball with his arms wrapped around his shivering body.
It was just a memory.
The thing, though, about memories, was that they had the power to ignite the past, drench up feelings one thought they had long since suppressed. Draco couldn't count the number of times he had wished for death, begged for its sweet release as his body was forced to endure not only punishment with magic, but also the instruments of medieval muggle torture Voldemort seemed to enjoy so much. “You are as low in the food chain as they are, Draco” even now echoed through his head.
Death was not always a cruelty, and he had longed for it with an all consuming obsession.
It was also the coward's way out, and it was only this belief that had stilled his hand for all those years.
"Coward’s way out” he recited softly, wishing he could believe it even as the dark lulled him to sleep.
*
“Wingardium Leviosa”
"Wingardium Leviosa!”
“Wingardium fucking Leviosa!” Draco screamed, sweat pouring down his brow, flicking his hand wildly in the direction of where the feather lay, refusing to move. He had initially started with an old boot he had found under the bed, but had to admit defeat when it refused to budge. Now he sat on the single bed in the attic, surrounded by a sea of soft, downy, duck feathers. The outer lining of a pillowcase lay ripped and dejected in the corner, it's once-plump stuffing strewn around the room like the torn out entrails of some exotic beast. One lone feather singled out to sit mockingly in front of Draco.
But it was no use.
Ever since waking from the fitful slumber that had followed the... erection incident... he had been trying. Yet he had been unsuccessful. T wandless magic that had come so naturally the other day now refusing to comply, an impenetrable lake which Draco knew if he could just break the surface would flow freely. He felt like a first year again, his magic completely useless to him, its grasp somewhere off in the far distance, too far for him to understand. But it had worked, once, which meant he could do it again.
"If he could work his wandless magic, he could leave Harry in peace.
"Wingardium Levi-O-sa!” Again there was nothing, and the panic, the need, for it to work was overwhelming.
"Win-gar-dium Leviosa!” It had to work. He had to leave.
"Fucking Wingardium fucking Levio- fucking -sa!”
"That’s not going to work.”
"Fuck!” Draco squealed, jumping and managing to almost fall off the bed, concentrating so fully on his magic that he hadn't heard Harry enter the room. He sat back and eyed the man wearily, trying to push the image of Harry's straining cock aside, the way his finger had been sucked, the automatic panic that even now tried to rise in his stomach.
"I came to apologise” Harry said softly, not moving out of the doorway, as if he was afraid of how Draco would react. Which wasn't uncalled for, following last night's performance. Potter’s face was still half-shaven.
"You don't need to” Draco answered, voice equally as soft. “It was my fault for reacting how I did.”
Potter looked sad, his head held dejectedly to the side. “Is it always going to be like this for us? One step forward and two steps back?”
Draco let out a forced laugh. “Well, it was never going to be easy, was it? Both of us are fucked.”
"Do you ever think you’re too broken to fix?” Harry asked quietly.
"You can be fixed.” Draco sighed. “I’m not sure my scars can be erased.”
"I don't like seeing you like this” Harry looked away.
“I don't remember being anything else.”
“I do. Remember you.” Draco stayed silent, studying the pile of feathers around him. “Did you murder a chicken?” Harry tried again, as if he had only just noticed the plumage garnishing the room.
“I sacrificed a pillow in the name of wandless magic.”
"Was it a dark magic sacrifice, or more Pagan in nature?” Harry queried, and it took Draco a moment to realise he was joking.
Draco let out a small smile. “Bit of both.”
Harry stepped into the room further, watching Draco’s reaction carefully. “Are you trying to perform wandless magic again?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at the state of the room.
“There’s no point. I can't do it.”
“You've got to really want it.” Harry studied him intently. “Want it, and mean it. Believe it. In here.” He motioned to his heart. “Channel what you were feeling the other day.”
Draco took a breath.
"Wingardium Leviosa!”
Nothing.
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Make Me Bleed