Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Under the Manor	By : WillGirl Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 13317 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I make no claims to Harry Potter, either books or movies, and all rights belong to JKR. No money or other recompense is being made from this story.

Chapter List
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The door opened, letting in a blinding slash of light that stabbed at Harry’s eyes. He winced and turned away, his whole face scrunched up against the brightness. His eyes watered, and he fought it, not wanting any of them to see him appear to cry.

A hollow thud returned the small cave of a room to its previous darkness, and Harry opened his eyes cautiously, knowing at least that whatever was here, it was not yet the worst; Voldemort was still far away, that much he could feel, and so whatever this was, it was not him.

It was, in fact, the very last thing that Harry had expected:

“Malfoy?”

Draco finished relocking the door from the inside with trembling hands, and looked up at Harry. His pointed face was so pale it nearly glowed in the darkness. There was just enough light to see by, in Harry’s little prison; he thought it was, or had been, a storage room of some kind, hastily cleared to make room for him, when the Death Eaters had decided to split the rest of them up after taking Hermione away to question, to torture. There were scratch-marks on the stone floor where heavy things had been dragged out, and one large cask, apparently overlooked, still loomed sheepishly in the corner.

Draco came forward slowly, reluctantly. A great many emotions passed over his pale, pointed face too quickly for Harry to make out in the dim light, but he could tell that none of them were pleasant.

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered. He said it so quietly, his lips hardly moving—if they indeed had moved at all—that Harry wasn’t sure he’d even heard him.

“What now?” he asked, hoping that the roughness of his voice would be taken for bravado rather than fear. He was not, not in any way, afraid of Draco Malfoy, but he could not help but worry about what the other boy must have been sent to fetch him for.

It was the first that Harry had seen Draco properly for months; everything looked slightly distorted when he was seeing it through Voldemort’s eyes, and when they had come face to face earlier, upstairs, Harry had still been under the effects of the Hermione’s Stinging Jinx and, furthermore, had been too distracted to pay much mind to Draco Malfoy.

Draco looked thin, thinner than Harry had ever seen him, and the lithe blond Slytherin had never had much excess weight to spare. Now he was practically skeletal, with dark hollows under his eyes. They were in shadow from the ash-blond swatch of hair that had fallen into them and that Draco, for once, had not bothered to brush aside. He was, Harry realized as his eyes adjusted once more to the darkness, slightly trembling.

He looked very sad.

“I...I have to...” Draco swallowed hard, his cold, empty eyes never leaving Harry’s face. “I have to do it,” he whispered, sounding more like he was steeling himself than talking to Harry, “I have to, or they’ll...or else...”

“Just spit it out,” Harry snapped, impatient with Draco’s fits of conscience.

He felt bad for his former enemy, because he knew that Draco was a Death Eater only reluctantly; he knew that Draco had taken the Mark, and the mission that came with it, only to save himself and his mother from Voldemort’s wrath. He knew that when faced with the moment of Albus Dumbledore’s death, Draco had lowered his wand, ready to take their late headmaster’s offer of sanctuary, if he’d only had the chance to. He had even seen for himself that Draco did not have it in him to delight in genuine torture, no matter how much he had enjoyed tormenting and bullying his schoolmates, when they had all been kids.

He knew that Draco wanted out, but could see no way to escape. He knew that Draco had recognized him, had recognized all of them, and had not spoken; had not given them away to his parents and his aunt, when he could have. Harry didn’t know why, exactly—had they turned over Harry Potter to their Dark Lord then, all their troubles would have vanished—but he had an inkling that it was because Draco did not want Harry to lose; he just did not have enough hope left in him to believe that he could succeed.

But Harry also knew that he, Ron, and Hermione—and Dean, and Luna, and Ollivander, and Griphook—were probably all to be tortured now, tortured until Voldemort came, and they were killed. He was worried for his friends, and for himself, and he had no pity to spare at the moment for the frightened waif of a boy who wavered in front of him.

Draco’s wand would no doubt soon join the rest that would be pointed at Ron, and Hermione, and Harry, and so right now, Harry did not much care that Draco did not want to do it.

“My...my aunt has gone to check her vault,” Draco said, quietly. He shivered when he mentioned Bellatrix, as if he could not help it. “She needs to see that all is well there before she dares summon the Dark Lord; he gave her something to keep there, something to keep safe, and she needs to make sure that it still is.”

“I don’t think Gringotts is open this time of night,” Harry said, smirking coolly.

Draco’s face was blank and haunted when he replied, his voice a hoarse whisper that shook when he spoke: “They will open for her,” he said, “or I hope they do, at least.”

“Because the sooner she gets there and back, the sooner you can all have your glorious presentation of our corpses to your Dark Lord?”

“Because if they don’t do as she wants, the mood she’s in now, they’ll die,” Draco answered bluntly. “They’ll keep dying, until one of them lets her in.”

“So what are you here for?” Harry asked, not wanting to think about innocents sacrificed to the impatience of Bellatrix Lestrange. “Don’t tell me they think you’re capable of guarding me,” he laughed.

Draco shook his head. “You don’t need guards,” he said bleakly, “there’s no way out of here.” His eyes flickered behind him, to the door, making sure that there was no one there, watching. It occurred to Harry that the spoiled pure-blood boy had at some point figured out what it felt like to be a prisoner in your own home.

Harry started thinking, very hard; he wished Hermione was here. She was good at thinking on her feet, at thinking up stories. If Harry could convince Draco that there was a chance, a way out, he might be able to talk him into helping all of them escape, if he was offered the chance to come along...

Draco turned back around, and the defeat and despair on his face was a palpable thing. It hit Harry like a punch to the gut, almost staggering him where he hung in his bonds. “Besides, you’re not prisoners right now,” he said quietly, “you’re entertainment.”

“And are you here to be entertained, Malfoy?” Harry asked, sneering bitterly. “Should I tell jokes? Dance for you? You might have to take these off first, of course,” Harry said, shaking the magical cords that held him upright, nearly suspended off the floor. His arms were already numb, and his shoulders ached with a dull, stabbing warmth that pulsed right between the blades.

“No,” Draco whispered, then, “yes. I’m sorry, I didn’t...I don’t have a choice...”

Harry snorted. “Sure,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“It’s this or Greyback!” Draco snapped, his chill demeanor gone somewhat wild.

“What?” said Harry, confused.

“I heard—they were talking about—they were discussing what to do with you, how to...pass the time...until my aunt returns, and Greyback was talking about...about you, and...” Draco shuddered.

“Talking about me how?” Harry asked, cold nausea uncurling in his gut.

“About...about what he’d like to...do, to you,” Draco whispered. “And they don’t...people don’t...they don’t recover, from Fenrir Greyback. So I...so I said I’d...” he swallowed, very hard, and dropped his gaze from Harry’s. “So I said I’d do it, instead,” the young Death Eater said, very quietly.

“Do what?” Harry asked, although fear was already whispering the answer in his ear.

“Fuck you,” whispered Draco.

“No way!” shouted Harry, thrashing in his bonds.

“We don’t have a choice!” said Draco, “if I don’t—if I don’t, now, then...then we’ll probably both he handed over to Greyback, for punishment.”

“Oh please! Your parents would never let a werewolf touch you,” Harry sneered. “Not their precious little pure-blood heir.”

“My parents wouldn’t have a choice,” Draco said quietly. “You think I’d be in here if they were in control out there? You think any of us would?”

Harry looked at him, his vain efforts to free himself slowing, then going still under the empty ice of Draco Malfoy’s eyes.

“It’s the—my uncles,” Draco said, “and Greyback, they’re the ones who...who go in for this sort of...” Draco’s lip curled in a sneer of such intense disgust that Harry nearly turned to look for Hermione; surely she had to be in the room, if that expression was on Malfoy’s face. “This sort of thing,” he continued, shuddering. “But father doesn’t have a wand, he can’t object, and mother knows that the only reason she and I are...are protected, as much as we are, is because she’s Bellatrix Lestrange’s sister, and no one wants to push too hard, and risk angering her.”

“So this sort of thing,” Harry asked, “it happens often, does it?”

Draco looked down at the floor. “Often enough,” he said.

“And how many people have you forced the ‘family hospitality’ on to?” spat Harry.

It took Draco a moment to work out exactly what Harry meant, and then his head snapped up, his eyes wide and horrified. “No—none, I’ve never—I haven’t—no!” he cried. “Not—not that!”

Harry frowned coldly; his pity for Draco was utterly wiped away, now, by the knowledge of what sort of thing the Death Eaters had been amusing themselves with, and the certainty that he and his friends were going to be treated to it next, and it was all Harry’s fault. If only he hadn’t said the name...

“Really?” he sneered, “not even once?”

“Of course not,” Draco said quickly, his face twisted in a horrified grimace.

“But you’re here now,” Harry pointed out. “What makes me so special?”

“I don’t want to be here, Potter, you moron,” Draco spat. “But I didn’t—Greyback was going to—would you prefer that?” he asked, askance.

“I’d prefer you undoing these ropes, and letting me and my friends walk out of here.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Draco said sadly.

Horror pulsed through Harry’s limbs like a cold drink. “Luna!” he cried, “what about Luna, she hasn’t been—I mean, she’s been here since Christmas, has—”

“No,” Draco interrupted, “not by any of them. She’s been...she’s been tortured,” he winced, guilt passing heavily across his face, “but they can’t...they can’t damage her, because she’s held here to make her father behave.”

Harry nodded, his straining limbs going limp with relief. “Good,” he said, “that’s good.”

Draco nodded, still looking guilty; Harry didn’t bother with accusations. He’d already seen Draco forced to turn his wand on those who had displeased Voldemort, seen the fear and reluctance in his eyes as he’d cast the Cruciatus Curse. Knowing that one of the victims he’d tortured with it had been Luna really didn’t change anything.

Neither did knowing that he regretted it. Harry knew that the next time it came down to a choice between Draco’s skin and someone else’s, that wand would be right there, ready to curse again.

Harry scowled. “So what, they were drawing straws for who got to fuck the ‘Chosen One’ and you decided to throw your lot in, did you?”

“Greyback was going to—I was certain he was going to talk them into letting him...so I interrupted,” Draco explained, very quietly. “I said that no one had known you longer than I had, hated you longer, and if anyone was going to...to express how much w-we all despised you, and what you stand for, then it should...then it should be me.” He winced and looked away. “It was...it wasn’t hard, to rant about you...to convince my uncles that I meant it. I used to hate you quite a bit,” he continued, shrugging, “so it wasn’t hard to ...to pull out all that vehemence and venom, to remember how it felt to hate you. They...they bought into it, happily.”

“So what,” said Harry, “are you saying you don’t hate me anymore?”

Draco shook his head. “I have worse things to hate now,” he said hollowly. “Bigger things than a schoolyard grudge.” He smiled bitterly. “Although I suppose I still ought to,” he said. “It would be pretty easy to convince myself that all of this was your fault. That if only you hadn’t snubbed me all those years ago on that train...” He shrugged, the smile flickering on his face like a candle about to die.

“Meaning what,” Harry sneered, “they wouldn’t expect you to rape someone if you’d been friends with them?”

“Meaning...meaning this,” Draco said, his fingers curling tight around the lower part of his left arm. “Meaning all of this...might not...if we’d been friends,” he said quietly. “But we weren’t. And now...” He shrugged, the smile long gone. “Now we don’t have a choice,” he said bitterly, “unless you want me to bring the werewolf in here.” Draco shuddered, and Harry wondered what the youngest Death Eater had been forced to witness, even if he’d so far been spared participation.

Harry frowned, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Where—where is he, then, if he’s not...here?”

“Sulking,” Draco replied simply.

“But—I’m not the only one...is—is Ron—or Hermione—Dean—are they—?”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to them,” he said, “but the Weasel...he should be all right, he’s a pure-blood, they won’t...they probably won’t...won’t do anything like that to him. They might go amuse themselves with curses,” Draco admitted, “my uncles, but they won’t want to...to damage him, too badly. His blood-status will protect him from the worst.”

“And...and Hermione?” Harry asked, his voice shrill with fear. “What—what about her? Greyback—he said he wanted her, earlier—and your aunt, I heard her—she said he’d probably—later—if he touches her—!”

“He won’t,” Draco interrupted quickly. “I...I made sure of that, before...before they were even talking about you...that’s why Greyback wanted you, because he couldn’t have her, anymore...”

“Oh what,” snarled Harry, “did you offer to rape her, too?”

“NO!” Draco cried, and something like disgust—or maybe just horror—flickered across his face. “No,” he continued, more quietly. “I simply pointed out how displeased my aunt would be, if she came back to...to question the Mudbl—the girl, more, and she was...indisposed.”

“Nice language,” Harry said, scowling bitterly. He didn’t want to think about what had almost happened to Hermione, what still might happen to her, and rancor towards Malfoy was a familiar, comfortable refuge.

Draco actually winced. “I know,” he said quietly, his tone pleading, apologetic. “But I can’t...I can’t let them think I...I have to keep up the act,” he whispered. He looked over his shoulder, an involuntary glance of fear, as if watching his back had become a constant, desperate habit.

“It’s an act, now?” Harry asked scornfully. “Because I remember when you were pretty comfortable using words like that...”

“Of course it’s an act,” Draco said tiredly. “You think I still give a damn about blood-status? As if Granger weren’t smart enough to prove that the idea of Muggle-borns being less than the rest of us was nonsense...” He shook his head, and then he shook all over, shuddering. “Besides, there are worse things than Muggles, and their offspring...and some of those things are as pure-blooded as anyone...”

“He’s not, you know,” Harry said suddenly. Draco looked at him questioningly. “You-Know-Who,” Harry continued, “he’s not. Pure-blooded, I mean. His father was a Muggle.”

Draco stared at him, wide-eyed. His mouth had dropped open in shock, or maybe just disbelief.

“Impossible,” he gasped.

“Very possible,” said Harry. “His name before he became all ‘I Am Lord Vold-a-thingy,’” Harry explained, careful not to say the word this time; he didn’t know what worse could possibly happen to them if they broke the Taboo when they were already prisoners at Malfoy Manor, but he didn’t want to risk Voldemort himself coming to see what was going on. “His name when he was born was Tom Marvolo Riddle, and he was named after his father.”

Draco stared. He looked like he’d been Petrified.

“His mum was a Gaunt,” Harry continued, “so he is Slytherin’s heir, just like he’s always said, but a pure-blood?” Harry shook his head. “Nope,” he said, “he’s just as half-blooded as I am.”

Draco still just stared. “That...that can’t...” He shook his head, shaking off the spell that Harry’s words had cast. “It doesn’t matter,” he said firmly, “it won’t change anything. No one’s going to believe you, and if they do—if they do, he’ll just kill them.”

Harry nodded. “Probably, yeah,” he said, “but it’s still the truth.”

“You think the truth matters at a time like this?” Draco asked.

“I think the truth matters more now than ever,” said Harry.

Draco looked at him silently, pity and hope warring with each other in his cold grey eyes, but pity won—pity and despair—and he sighed and looked away. “Gryffindors,” he muttered sadly.

“And proud of it,” said Harry fiercely, thinking of the sword upstairs, out of reach, and of hats and phoenixes.

“What good’s your pride now?” Draco asked, his voice low and empty. “What good is any of it?”

“If we stop fighting, he wins,” said Harry.

“He’s already won!” Draco cried.

Harry shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “No he hasn’t. Not until we’re all of us dead, every single person who’s prepared to stand up to him, to stop him. Not until we’ve failed, and everyone who tries after us has, too.”

“That shouldn’t take long,” Draco said hoarsely.

“We’re not doing so bad,” Harry said, even though he knew it was a lie. “We have a plan, after all, Hermione and Ron and I, and we’ve been fighting him this whole time. We’ve struck blows, although he hasn’t realized yet. We don’t have much further to go,” he said, trying to make himself believe it because he needed Draco to, as well. If Draco believed him...

“We can beat him,” Harry said. “We can beat him, and we almost have, we just need enough time to finish what we’ve started.”

“Beat him!” Draco cried shrilly, “are you mad!” He spread his hands wide, his gestures frantic, and the ragged despair on his face made him look frighteningly unstable. “He’s won, Potter! He has everything! The Ministry—Hogwarts—the whole bloody country—!”

“He doesn’t have everything,” said Harry, gambling that Malfoy was around the Manor often enough these days to know that Voldemort wasn’t. “He’s off looking for something right now, because he thinks it’s the only way to beat me.”

Draco stopped, his arms going still, falling to his side. “How—?” he gasped.

“He’s looking for a wand,” said Harry, hardly daring to hope. “He’s looking for the greatest wand ever made, because he knows that he can’t defeat me with anything else—but he can’t defeat me even with that,” Harry lied firmly, trying not to think of the broken phoenix wand in the pouch hidden around his neck, “because I’m killing him a different way, a secret way that he thinks no one but he knows about. But I know his secret, I know how he came back, and I know how to kill him for good.”

Harry looked at Draco, holding the frightened grey eyes with his own bright green ones, trying to project a certainty and confidence that he had never felt. “I can beat him,” he said, “I am the Chosen One. That’s what that Prophecy said, the one your dad tried so hard to take—I heard what it said, before it broke, and I’m the one who can defeat the Dark Lord.

“The only one.” His gaze never faltered. Draco fidgeted, like he wanted to look away, but couldn’t. “I can beat him,” Harry repeated quietly. “All I need is the chance to do so.”

Draco wavered. He was trembling with the effort of decision. Harry held his breath...

“No,” Draco breathed, “no, there are no more chances now.” A heavy door came down behind those grey eyes, cutting off the flickering spark of hope that Harry had kindled, and dark, endless despair took them all instead.

Harry’s hopes died, too, extinguished by the ice in Malfoy’s eyes.

“Do it, then,” he hissed, “or are you still all talk?” Harry’s face twisted in a bitter sneer. “Or do you think Snape will show up and save you again, coddle the teacher’s pet so that you never have to get your own hands dirty? There’s no Crabbe and Goyle here now, Malfoy, you’ll have to do more than just talk. Or do you plan to just tell your uncles you did as promised, and squirm out of action again?”

Draco flinched before Harry’s words. “I—I don’t—” he stammered. Something that might have been tears lent a thin shine to the empty hollows of his eyes, but in the wake of shattered hopes Harry had no more pity in his heart for Draco Malfoy.

“Get out of here, then,” Harry snapped. “Go run to daddy and tell him you changed your mind, tell him you’re just a sniveling little coward,” Harry laughed, “although I’m sure he already knows. You must be such a fucking disappointment...some Death Eater...”

“Shut-up!” Draco cried, “just shut-up!” Those were definitely tears swimming in his eyes. “Of course father knows,” he spat disgustedly, “of course he does! You think the Dark Lord hasn’t made sure to demonstrate how easy I am to frighten—you think my aunt hasn’t?” He was shaking all over now, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was from anger or something else. “But what am I supposed to do? I suppose the Great Harry Potter wouldn’t scream if someone crucio’d him, but the rest of us are only human!”

“Of course I scream!” Harry shouted back, “of course I’m afraid! But I fight anyway, because it’s either that or let him win!”

“He has won!” Draco shrieked. “He has won, and we—and we don’t have any more choices!”

“There’s always a choice,” Harry said.

Draco shook his head. “There really isn’t,” he said hollowly, and Harry realized that the last chance Malfoy had had to make a different choice had been up on the Astronomy Tower, and it had died with Albus Dumbledore.

They stared at each other silently for a long moment and then Draco shuddered all over, and swallowed hard, as if steeling himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Fuck you,” Harry snarled.

“No,” said Draco quietly, “no, it’ll be the other way around, I’m afraid.”

His pointed face trembled with disgust and the loathing in his eyes stabbed at Harry like a knife, but Harry knew that every ounce of that feeling was directed inwards, at Draco himself with, perhaps, a few scraps left over for the Dark Lord who had made his world like this, and maybe even at the father who had led him into this life and then left him to its mercies.

Then Draco Malfoy stepped forward, the hand that held his wand shaking, and raised the slim sliver of wood to point at Harry.

Harry Potter stared back, and was suddenly unafraid.

Draco, by contrast, was nearly smothered with all of his fear. He held the wand on Harry as he advanced, as if afraid that the helpless, trussed-up boy might somehow attack him. He shook so hard that he could barely undo the buttons on Harry’s jacket, and the sharp hitch of his breathing sounded like he was fighting back tears.

His voice was too choked, when he spoke, to let Harry make out the words of the spell that enabled Draco to pull Harry’s clothes through the enchanted binding that held him upright. Draco took his time, folding everything neatly; it was probably the first time in his life that Draco Malfoy had ever folded clothes, and he did it now only to delay what had to come after.

Harry hung naked in his bonds, impatient now; he wasn’t looking forward to the next part, either, but he just wanted it over with. The dragging anticipation as Draco slowly disrobed, his back turned out of pointless modesty, and folded his own clothes into an equally neat pile, rose up in Harry’s throat as bitter annoyance.

He wasn’t sure exactly how this sort of thing worked, but he knew the basic gist; had heard enough muttered whispers and joking taunts at school, where everything was harmless. Harry knew a little more than most, even, thanks to some of the stories that Charlie had told before the wedding, when his mother wasn’t around, about the sort of things that the Dragon Keepers got up to when they were bored in the wilds of Romania, and there was nothing to do but each other, and it hadn’t mattered whether that was girls or blokes. Harry had thought, at the time, that it hadn’t sounded too bad, at least not the way Charlie had described it.

But this wasn’t casual sex with companions; this was Draco Malfoy.

This was a Death Eater—however reluctant, however recalcitrant—about to take him by force.

Harry shuddered and heard, behind him, Draco’s breath catch in his throat, like he was swallowing a sob. Harry’s trepidation turned to irritation. How dare Draco be afraid? This was his doing, even if he had only stepped up to spare Harry the horrors of Fenrir Greyback; it was still his choice, not Harry’s.

He had no right to hate this. He could walk away.

Unless, of course, he couldn’t; Harry could not really bring himself to believe the other boy’s words about retribution for them both, if Draco failed to carry out his sick mission. He could not believe that the Lestranges would allow a werewolf to befoul their own nephew; could not believe that the Death Eaters would let a fate like Greyback befall one of their own, however useless a comrade he might be.

He could not believe that Draco’s parents, no matter how helpless Draco claimed they were, could ever fall so far from power as to be unable to protect their precious, spoiled son from that sort of horror. Harry had been on the other end of Lucius Malfoy’s wand, after all, and had seen the icy, arrogant power of the man—although he had been on the other end of Malfoy’s wand more recently, too, and knew that Malfoy no longer had it. But still...surely his aunt, at least, could keep him safe from Greyback. The werewolf had kowtowed to her quickly enough before, when she was screaming about the sword; Harry could not believe that she would let him hurt her nephew.

But Draco seemed to believe it.

Maybe that was the point, though; maybe his family wanted him to start proving himself a proper Death Eater, and figured that the only way they were going to force him into the role he’d reluctantly accepted was to scare him into it.

If so, they had succeeded, because Harry felt trembling fingers brush his shoulder. He flinched away instinctively, and sensed Draco recoil halfway across the room. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Just do it,” Harry said, “I don’t care.” And, it occurred to him, he didn’t. It didn’t matter what Malfoy did to his body; Draco would be the one hurt, not him. He was the prisoner, the one tied up, but it was Draco who was trapped, Draco who would be tortured by the act.

The only shame in this, for Harry, was in knowing that if he hadn’t slipped up and said the name, broken the Taboo, he and his friends would still be free; the only shame in this for Harry was the knowledge that he was responsible for their capture and now, inevitably, for their defeat.

He wished, now, that he’d told Ginny about the Horcuxes, told someone; how had he thought it clever, to keep the secret to just the three of them? Why hadn’t he thought about contingencies, about a back-up, in case the three of them failed? Now he would die, and Voldemort would live, because no one else knew how to kill him.

“Malfoy,” he said, then stopped; what was he thinking, getting ready to tell Draco Malfoy about Voldemort’s Horcruxes? Draco Malfoy, who was about to rape him on his uncles’ orders; Draco Malfoy, marked for nearly two years now as one of Voldemort’s own? Harry had gone mad. The stress of captivity, the fear for his friends and himself, the absurdity of what was about to happen now—it had cracked him, that was all there was to it; cracked his mind and left him blibbering.

He shook his head. “Would you just get it over with?” he snapped to Draco. “Before your uncles come in to see what the hold-up is, and get mad at us both?”

Harry thought he heard something that sounded almost like a whimper, but then realized that it must have been a spell, because the cords around his arms slackened—not where they bound him, not the parts wrapped around his wrists, but the rest of the cord, the bit that stretched up to the ceiling. It went lax, suddenly, and Harry stumbled forward, dropping to his knees at the sudden absence of tension.

He gasped as blood shot through his numb limbs, prickling all over like a thousand white-hot needles. His shoulders burned. He bent his head against the cool stone floor, panting, relishing the feeling of freedom, despite the bindings that still held his wrists against one another.

Harry watched as the cord pooled into a coil in front of him, and thought distantly about running, for a moment—but he was wandless and naked, and the door was locked. He would not have gotten far. Then the cord shriveled and coiled in on itself, latching magically to the floor as securely as it had been to the ceiling.

Draco wasn’t going to risk Harry running away, and leaving him to take the blame.

He still left Harry with several lengths of loose rope, enough that he could have stood if he’d wanted to, and not have his hands pulled tight by their binding. It was, comparatively, almost a measure of freedom, and certainly it was more comfortable than having his wrists tugged to the ceiling overhead.

“Thanks,” said Harry, without really thinking about it. He gritted his teeth against the sting of nerves waking back up, and enjoyed the discomfort for the relief that he knew would soon follow it.

When only a heavy, shaky silence followed the casual word, Harry looked up.

Draco was standing there staring at him. He was naked now, too, and Harry could see all of him, pale and thin. Draco seemed too shocked to think of modesty now and, anyway, they both played Quidditch, or used to at least, so Draco should have gotten over the idea of shrinking modestly at being naked in front of another bloke; certainly Harry had, years ago, between the school dormitory and the team changing rooms and Ron’s plethora of brothers.

But Draco didn’t look much like the blokes on Harry’s Quidditch team, tanned and wiry; or like a Weasley, solid and freckled everywhere. He was pale, almost glowing in this dim prison of a room, and he was astonishingly skinny. He looked like he hadn’t eaten for weeks, or slept properly in months. Harry couldn’t help but feel sorry for the scrawny, pallid waif that used to be Draco Malfoy; he seemed like a sliver, a shadow, of his former self. His hair hung limply in his eyes, a thin curl ash-blond that looked absolutely colorless in the darkness; there was no color at all to Draco, not even his eyes, gray and cold and very wide.

Even his scars—and Harry knew how he’d got those scars, he realized with a surprising pang of guilt; those thin, sharp lines across his chest—even his scars were colorless, white slashes that nearly disappeared against the paleness of his smooth chest. He was practically hairless, too; just a light dusting across arms and legs and crotch, and what he had was as pale and fine as that on his head, dangling in his eyes.

He looked like an old-fashioned poet, like he should be lounging indolently beside a stream, or in a garden, or some airy balcony; composing languid, flowery poems while slowly dying of consumption. He looked strangely graceful, even standing awkward and naked in the middle of a dusty storage room. The only thing that marred the impression of romantic elegance was the dark, twisting brand on his left arm. Harry’s eyes flickered to the entwined snake and skull, and then back up to Draco’s face.

His expression was utterly unfathomable.

Harry scowled. “Would you just get it over with already?” he snapped, his voice harsher even than he meant it to be.

Draco moved forward with a shaky jerk, staggering and falling to the floor next to Harry. He looked pained, deeply pained, as if his ribs were broken and jabbed him every time he moved.

Harry hissed in irritation. “Would you stop fucking stalling?” he snapped. “I don’t like this idea any more than you do—I bet I like it less—but fiddling around delaying it isn’t going to get it over with any faster, and the sooner it’s done, the sooner I can try to forget it ever happened. I’d think you’d feel the same,” he spat.

Draco swallowed hard, and nodded. “Y-yes,” he whispered, “yes, all right.” He made no move to come any closer.

Harry rolled his eyes and actually growled with impatience. “You don’t look much like you’re ready to rape anyone,” he pointed out scornfully, glancing pointedly at Draco’s crotch.

The other boy looked down, and then up, and winced. His eyes flashed angrily, and his lip curled into its customary sneer. “Well I hate to break it to you Potter,” he drawled, “but you’re just not that attractive.”

Harry almost laughed. Contempt and scorn and an off-hand, scathing comment—that was Draco Malfoy, that was the boy he had known and loathed for seven years; not this shaking, tremulous waif-thing. It was strangely comforting, somehow, to know that Malfoy was still in there somewhere, under all the fear and guilt.

And Draco was was right, of course; Harry had caught enough of a glimpse of himself, earlier, to know that he had rarely looked worse in his life. He was haggard, and shaggy, and unkempt, with stubble on his chin and knots in the black hair that hung to his shoulders. He was clean, at least, or mostly clean; a bit muddied and scuffed from his struggles with the Snatchers, but he knew that there were times during the long trek through the wilderness that he had been decidedly filthier. There had been a stream the day before, and they had gotten the chance to bathe better than was usual, in their cramped tent. He wasn’t leaving mud on the floor, at any rate.

The disgust in Draco’s face when he reached hesitantly towards Harry was not caused by his hygiene; wouldn’t have been, even if Harry had been covered in mud and buzzing with flies. It was disgust at what he had to do, and to whom, and why.

His fingers barely brushed Harry’s shoulder before they pulled back as if burned.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake!” Harry snapped.

He wasn’t going to just sit here all night, wondering when it was going to happen; he certainly wasn’t going to sit here until the Lestranges or Greyback got tired of waiting for Draco, and did the deed themselves. Bad enough that this should happen to him at all, but Harry had to admit that he was glad that Draco had had a fit of conscience and thrown himself in instead of them; the horrors of those alternative possibilities were enough to mute that of the current one, and make it seem almost pleasant in comparison.

But only in comparison.

Harry snarled in disgust and reached out with his bound hands, grasping Draco’s flaccid length between them. The other boy yelped and started backwards, but with Harry holding his cock, there was no where for him to go. Harry, looking fixedly at the other side of the room, tugged his hands up and down, trying desperately not to think of what he was doing. But Draco wasn’t going to be fucking anyone if he didn’t stiffen up, and if Draco didn’t—

Greyback would.

Harry shuddered, and moved his hands faster. It seemed to take forever, but Draco at last began to stir under his hands. He was breathing very hard, and trembling even worse than Harry was. Harry risked a glance sideways and saw that Draco’s eyes were very tightly closed. The expression on his face was stricken, but his pale cheeks had darkened, just slightly, with arousal.

Harry kept working.

He waited until Draco was gasping, almost panting, and twitching in time to Harry’s hands. Then he let go and moved back, just a little bit. Draco trembled and opened his eyes; they were very dark, like black ice in the dead of winter.

“Do it,” Harry rasped. “Just do it.”

Draco swallowed hard and nodded; hesitated.

“DO IT!” Harry snarled.

Draco lurched forward, his eyes tightly closed, and kissed Harry. It took him completely by surprise, and he found his lips parting involuntarily. Draco’s tongue swiped inside, tangled with his own; something like fire thrummed through Harry’s veins, followed by heady confusion.

It wasn’t just that Draco Malfoy was kissing him—was snogging him, actually—that had thrown him so off-balance, although that was bad enough; it was that it was warm.

Draco was so pale, so chill, so icy and reserved, that Harry had expected him to feel cold, somehow. He would have thought that kissing Draco Malfoy would have been like kissing ice, but it wasn’t—or if it was, it was a kind of ice that burned.

He sat back, slowly, his eyes still closed, his face twisted in some unfathomable emotion—disgust, or shame, or maybe simply determination—and Harry, bewilderingly, actually missed the touch.

It was nothing like kissing Ginny, who was all soft warmth and spring flowers; like the taste of summer and strawberries and happiness; like bright fireworks going off in Harry’s heart; like the heady, intoxicating, unfamiliar taste of home. This was nothing like that, but it wasn’t horrifying, either; Harry would have expected it to be, would have placed bets on it, if the repulsive thought had ever crossed his mind before.

But it had been...nice, almost. Given the circumstances.

It was nice enough, at least, to make Harry’s breath quicken and his pulse race. He comforted himself with the thought that he was seventeen, and had been away from his girlfriend for nearly eight months; it shouldn’t take much, given all that, to make his breath quicken.

But the fact that “not much” was, in this case, Draco Malfoy, was more than a little disquieting.

Harry swallowed. “I don’t think that counts,” he said hoarsely. “I mean...I’m pretty sure they’re going to want more.” A wry smile twisted at his lips.

Draco stared at him, horrified, and then his own lips curled and he gave a short, brittle bark of laughter. “I think you’re right,” he replied, grimacing.

“Then let’s get on with it,” Harry said. He spread his legs, wishing that he’d paid more attention to Charlie’s stories; wishing that he’d asked for details. But he hadn’t thought that he would ever, ever need to know the specifics of how this sort of thing was done; hadn’t thought that he would ever even want to, really.

Draco wavered, hesitating, and it occurred to Harry that maybe all the rumors about Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini had always been just that—rumors—and that Draco had never done this sort of thing before, either, and was likewise not entirely sure of how to go about it.

There was a sudden, sharp noise from the other side of the door. Harry tensed, eyes darting towards the solid, heavy wooden panel; he wished desperately that he had his wand, or had seen where Draco placed his when he disrobed, but Malfoy was clever enough to make sure that Harry’s bonds weren’t long enough to reach wherever that was, Harry was sure of it.

Draco reacted even more fearfully to the noise than Harry had. He scrambled forward, shoved Harry backwards to the ground with surprising strength and, wide eyes flickering frantically between Harry and the door, pressed his cock against the other boy’s backside.

Harry gasped, recoiling from the touch, but there was no where for him to go; he was pressed face-first against the cold stone ground, his bound hands helpless before him, and Draco’s fingers were searching down his ass. They found Harry’s hole and, though Harry could not see what was going on behind him, he could feel Draco guiding his stiff cock to Harry’s entrance.

“No—wait—” Harry gasped, suddenly apprehensive, “I’ve changed my mind, don’t—”

“You can’t,” said Draco, through gritted teeth. “You don’t have a choice, neither of us do,” he said, and Harry felt tears on the back of his neck.

Then he yelled, because something hard and broad was pressing its way slowly forward, shoving inside him, somewhere too small and too tight for it to fit properly and still it was pushing forward, stretching Harry wide, spearing him, and the pain shuddered all the way up Harry’s spine.

He scrabbled helplessly at the smooth floor with his bound hands and bucked backwards against Draco, trying to throw him off, but that only made things worse because as Harry jerked backwards he shoved himself deeper onto Draco’s cock with a sudden lurch that tore gasps from both boys, and a shriek from Harry.

Draco thrust again, burrowing himself deeper within Harry’s straining innards, and he was weeping while he fucked him, but the tears did not make him pause. A distant part of Harry that had removed itself from the pain wondered what was going through the other boy’s mind, whether he was thinking of what he was doing, and to whom, or whether he had tried to cloud his actions from himself with some pleasant daydream, some pretty face.

Harry’s mind scrabbled for other, friendlier images, but they all flickered aside at the force of Draco Malfoy’s penetration. What friendly image could he conjure, anyway? Anyone he thought of would only be tainted, in his mind, by the connection to this foul act. He couldn’t even bring himself to think Ginny’s name, not in such a place as this.

Pain stabbed through him again, and surely Draco had to be all the way inside now, surely; it felt like a broomstick was being shoved up Harry’s arse, hard and long and endless, and Harry writhed with the pain, twisting and thrashing beneath the slighter, skinnier boy; he should have been able to squirm free, to throw him off, but the pain was too distracting, too overwhelming, and with his hands bound on top of that he could do little but writhe and gasp and whimper.

Draco shoved in deeper, still deeper, and he was sobbing aloud, now; his chill dignity, his icy reserve, all broken with the shame and horror of what he was being forced to do to Harry. Harry would have enjoyed the thought of Draco Malfoy powerless and weeping over him, if it had not been so horrifying a circumstance that had brought the arrogant boy to this state—if it had not been Harry, himself, who lay gasping and bleeding to make it happen.

It took some time for Harry to realize, though the pain, that there was more than that going on. He yelped at the feel of cold, rough stone dragged across his sensitive erection, only then realizing that he had one. He went pale around the heat of arousal, shocked and horrified with himself; it was one thing to flutter a bit at Draco Malfoy’s kiss, that was just basic hormones, Harry couldn’t help that—but this, this was something else entirely.

This was getting hard off the feel of Draco Malfoy’s cock up his ass, and Harry nearly threw up at the thought. He did gag—gagged like he had someone else’s cock down his throat, although that wasn’t a feeling that Harry had ever experienced—and closed his eyes tight, trying to will the erection away.

But Draco kept thrusting away, digging deep and hard inside Harry, his hands warm on Harry’s hips, the long fingers curled in tight, and Harry moaned at how good it felt, somewhere, underneath all the pain. It hurt like very few things had hurt before, deep inside and ragged, but beneath all of that, half-hidden by the raw, scraping pain of a stiff cock in a dry, too-tight hole, it felt good, too.

Draco’s cock stroked something that made Harry gasp with pleasure, and little hot stars danced in front of his eyes, and he hated himself. There was something wrong with him, something dark and twisted, some bit of Voldemort, maybe, left deep inside with the Parseltongue and the scar—that was why he was getting hard off of being raped, why he was enjoying so much the feel of another man’s cock forced up his ass, sharp and painful and against both their wills.

Harry was glad that his hands were bound, that they were trapped in front of him by the magical cord that tied him to the floor. It meant that he couldn’t reach down and grab his own stiff cock, couldn’t give in to the urge to stroke himself in time to Draco’s thrusts; couldn’t quite sink that low.

Draco panted through his sobs and Harry could feel him shaking with his efforts, could feel him speed up (and oh, god, it felt so good, it hurt so much, having Draco moving faster and faster within him), and knew that he was nearly spent. Harry bit his lip to stop himself speaking, stop himself from pleading, from begging Draco to—he didn’t know. Go slower, make it last, bring Harry off at the same time he came? Or maybe to speed up, to go even faster, to push them both over that edge together...

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, and tasted blood.

Draco screamed as he came, a raw, aching sound, hollow and haunted and full of self-hate. Harry moaned at the long, lingering explosion as Draco rode his orgasm out through Harry’s arse, stroking deep and slow and shuddering. They collapsed together, Harry’s cock still traitorously hard beneath him, Draco trembling bonelessly against his back.

Harry’s neck was wet with tears, although his face was dry.

Malfoy seemed unable to move, and wept quietly against Harry. He was shaking all over, his limp cock still burning in Harry’s savaged ass.

Harry wanted to roll over, to free himself from that slight weight, that seductive warmth, and comfort the crying boy, but he did not move. He would not dare move until Draco had left. He could not let him see...could not let anyone know, ever, that he had grown hard under Draco Malfoy’s cock.

With a gasping, shuddering sob, Draco levered himself to his feet, pulling free of Harry. He bit down hard on his bloody lip to stop a moan of pleasure at the pain of Malfoy’s egress as the long, soft, slick cock slipped free.

Harry kept his eyes shut, tried to slow his hungry breathing, ignore his twitching erection.

He heard the sound of staggering footsteps, a rustle of clothing; there was a half-sobbed, muttered word, and the chill coolness of cleaning charms spread across Harry’s body. He almost resented it, as if part of him had wanted to keep the sticky, drying warmth of Draco’s cum on his legs, spilling slowly from his arse—had wanted that feeling to linger, like the pain that, Harry was sure, would not depart any time soon.

“I—I’m sorry,” Draco gasped. He sounded every bit as tearful as he had that day in the bathroom last year when Harry had so badly cursed him.

“I’m sorry, I can’t...they won’t...they wouldn’t like it if...I can’t h-heal you...”

He sobbed wretchedly, and Harry had to fight every instinct he had to turn over and go hug the weeping boy. He reminded himself that this was Draco Malfoy; that unwilling participant or not, he had just raped him, and that furthermore the last time he had come face-to-face with a tear-stricken Draco it had not ended well for either of them.

He reminded himself of what would be revealed, if he rolled over.

“It’s okay,” he heard his own voice say, and it was hoarse and raspy. “I understand, it’s okay.”

Draco sniffled. Harry could hear the sound of cloth move as Draco shrugged back into his robes, and fought the strange, horrifying whisper in his head that told him to turn around for one last look before the pale, skinny boy was clothed again; before dark robes hid his skin beneath their enfolding length.

Harry swore at himself, and tried to dispel his unwelcome erection, but even thoughts of Dolores Umbridge—the go-to hard-on softener of every boy at Hogwarts—did nothing; the pale, sneering face of Draco Malfoy kept swimming up in front of his closed eyes instead, smirking and thrusting and...

Harry opened his eyes, because the blank stone floor was safe, and so he stared at that instead.

“If...if you...I’ve got your c-clothes,” Draco stammered, and Harry heard tentative footsteps creep towards him across the room. “If you’ll...I’m sorry...if you’ll let me...”

Harry had never heard Draco so forlorn, so lost; it shook him, hearing that hesitant whisper replace the arrogant drawl he had grown to loathe so familiarly over the last seven years.

“It’s fine,” said Harry quickly, “don’t worry about it.”

“Well you can’t dress yourself,” Draco snapped waspishly, “you’re still tied up. And if you, if you th-think that...that you can somehow t-trick me into freeing you...” His voice trailed off into a harsh sniffle. He was trying, very hard, to sound like a fearsome Death Eater berating a prisoner, but to Harry he just sounded like a lost little boy.

Harry sat up, drawing his knees in, hoping that the dim light would hide what his legs could not. “Fine,” he said flatly, not daring to look at the other boy for fear of what Draco might discern in his eyes.

Another muttered spell and the clothes, like before, melted through Harry’s bonds like they weren’t there. Shaking, strangely gentle hands tugged Harry’s shirt over his head, did up the buttons; when Draco moved to help Harry into his pants and trousers, Harry jerked them away quickly, and did the deed himself, turning aside so that Draco could not see him, could not see the horrifyingly stiff evidence of Harry’s lingering arousal.

He gasped in pain, surprised at how much it hurt to move his legs; it felt like daggers stabbing up his arse, twisting around deep inside; it felt like he had torn muscles that he did not even know he had.

Draco retreated across the room, his steps hurried and clumsy.

Harry risked a glance out of the corner of his eyes, but could not see much beyond the fact that Malfoy was pale and trembling, and had his arms wrapped in tight against his chest, as though he was cold. He did not look as though he’d seen.

Harry awkwardly did up his buttons and turned around, tugging his long shirt down to cover the slight bulge that still strained at his trousers. “Thanks,” he said, not meeting Draco’s eye.

Draco nodded and gulped loudly. “S-sorry...” he whispered, and fresh tears sparkled in his eyes.

Harry shrugged. “Not your fault,” he rasped. “Would have been worse, if it hadn’t been you,” he added, hoping that it was too dark for Malfoy to see the flush that he knew had risen in his cheeks as he spoke.

Bad enough that he’d grown hard under Malfoy; if the same horrifying side-effect had followed a fucking from Fenrir Greyback, or one of the Lestranges, Harry didn’t think that he’d even have been able to contemplate living with himself. He fought back his disgust, trying to shove that aside, out of the way; it wouldn’t help him now, to hate himself.

Draco nodded again, shakily. He took a deep breath and pulled his wand out again, as Harry was tugging his shoes back on. It was difficult with his hands tied together, but he wasn’t about to ask Draco to come over and help him; that kind of proximity, Harry was sure, would give away that desperate detail he was trying so hard to hide.

Harry stood up, fully clothed again, and grimaced as the cord slipped free of the ground to raise itself—and his arms—over Harry’s head once more. Draco’s wand guided it upward and it coiled back into the ceiling, holding Harry upright, although not as tightly as it had before. His arms would still go numb, soon; his shoulders would still burn; but at least the cord did not bite so tightly into his wrists, or pull him nearly onto his toes.

It still left Harry upright and exposed, and he wondered if Draco could make out, through the shadows, the bulge in his trousers. Draco’s eyes flickered, scanning Harry, making sure the bonds were secure; but was that all they had done, all they had seen? The other boy’s pale, tear-streaked face was inscrutable, and Harry could not tell.

But Draco said nothing, and he would have, Harry was sure of it; would have sneered and mocked, if he had seen. Harry relaxed, just slightly, in his bonds.

The wand flicked again and Draco performed a charm that Harry had never seen before, but one that wiped all evidence of tears—from the wetness itself to the blotchy red patches around his eyes—from his pointed face, leaving him looking calm and confident once more. It had been a very practiced swish of his wrist, that spell, and Harry wondered idly if that was how Draco Malfoy had survived his sixth year at school without anyone suspecting how much of it had been spent sobbing into sinks.

Draco met his eyes at last and Harry saw a deep, haunted apology in their grey depths—not just for this, but for everything: from first year pranks to third year scorn and fifth year arrogance. But words could not apologize for seven years of enmity any more than they could apologize for the horrific violation that they had just shared.

So Draco nodded, whispered, “Potter,” and darted to the door. He tossed his head and pulled on a smug sneer that Harry could only barely tell was artificial; he did not think that anyone who did not know Draco very well, who was unfamiliar with his sneers, who had not had them directed their way for seven years, would know that it was less than genuine. Surely it would fool his uncles, and Greyback, long enough for him to brag about his conquest of the Chosen One, and save them both from worse.

Harry watched mutely as the door opened at his incantation, and saw with some surprise that strong arms were waiting to enfold Draco in a hug. His father clutched the frail, trembling boy tightly to his chest, and Harry wondered if it was just the dim light, or if Lucius Malfoy’s cheeks really had been wet.

Then the door closed, and Harry was alone.
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Under the Manor