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Draco and the Beast	By : NihilEtNemo Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3959 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters in this story, and make no money from it.

Chapter List
- 1-The Beast
- 1
Athor's Note: There is a solo journaling game you can find on drivethrurpg called The Beast. It's almost impossible to find playthroughs of it, because the directions include disposing of the evidence at the end. Well, I am playing that game, using Draco Malfoy and this monster I created, inspired after playing Hogwarts Legacy. I am actually drawing the cards and answering the prompts, turning the prompts into the basis of chapters, between 1 and 3 prompts per chapter. In deference to the game's instructions, however, I will not be sharing the prompts; just know that they exist in the background. All the prompts were randomly drawn and have not been edited or reordered for this writing.

Draco and The Beast
Draco entered the Beast's room, an abandoned room in the dungeons that could not have seen use in decades, and might have been completely forgotten. He had to walk behind a statue of a kelpie that wasn't set back against the wall, then use a revealing charm on an almost featureless expanse of bricks to get in.

He didn't know who had disguised the room, but he could guess why.

It. The Beast.

There was a whispering, slithering, creaking noise in the darkness that made his heart beat a little faster. He whispered Lumos and lit the tip of his wand; the noises stopped in time with the soft white light's appearance. Thin, dark tendrils were visible on the edge of the light, even this close to the door; the Beast was spreading out again.

He picked his way among the quiescent tendrils to his potion setup against the side wall, breathing deeply without meaning to. The room had a musty, almost-sweet mouldering plant smell, which wasn't exactly pleasant, but went straight to his groin.

There was a whisper of tendrils behind him as he checked on his brew, testing the consistency and then adding three drops of tears and giving it exactly thirteen clockwise stirs. He steadfastly ignored it. Work first, then…

He referenced one of his books and checked through his ingredient cabinet to make sure everything would be ready for his next visit. Some of the erumpent horn need to be powdered and he focused on his mortar and pestle, intently putting the slitherings out of his mind. He had found the room for a safe place to set up longer-brewing potions for his advanced classes and his personal projects; he assumed all the N.E.W.T.-level students had one, because you couldn't skate by just doing work in class, and you couldn't leave a cauldron bubbling in the corner of the common room. And the Beast was proof he wasn't the first one to use the room for that purpose.

There was a heavy click on the floor behind him, and he finally gave in. He cleaned up the station, put the jars and books away, and adjusted the flame on the simmering cauldron, all with extremely deliberate calm and a fluttering sense of anticipation. At last, he took up his wand and turned toward the back of the room.

The tendrils on the floor lay quiescent, but further back in the room were larger, thicker vines, a tangled mess of them piled on themselves, and the beginning of canopy of thick, ragged leaves. There was a low rumble above him, and then a great head the size of an elephant's loomed into the feeble circle of his wand's light. A pair of sleek horns swept back into the darkness; a pair of close, manlike eyes perched over the tentacles that dangled, writhing and coiling, where a mouth should be.

He shivered and lifted the wand higher. The Beast's head regarded him without coming closer. The Beast was some sort of chimera, brilliantly and doubtless illegally spliced together from beasts and plants. He couldn't say who had made it, but he could say why. Every part of it provided a rare and dangerous potion ingredient, all in one creature and with less than the risk of collecting it naturally. The head of a Graphorn, from which to collect the horns, without the powerful body that could destroy a team of wizards. The claw of a dragon, without the fire breath. The leaves of a Venomous Tentacula, without the biting heads.

But not without danger, still. It was potted, but a dragon's talon still had claws, and its vines could stretch across the room. It still had its venom, its strength, and its appetite.

The graphorn head stretched out on its stalk and huffed at him, forceful, demanding. He closed his eyes and endured the blast of hot, meaty breath. The Beast, he thought, subsisted mostly on rats and stray toads who wandered away from their students. The sweet smell of the vines was overwhelmed by the rotten breath of a carnivore. It blew his hair back from his face, but he didn't flinch. His stomach was tight.

One of the tentacles crawled through his hair, fleshy and soft, grasping. Another brushed over his cheek and coiled around his jaw, others crawled over his face, explored his ear. There were so many. He tried to hold his breath. A tentacle slid over his lips, soft and dry, and then curled back and pushed, the end probing and squirming until it fought its way into his mouth. It curled twisting over his tongue and crawled down into his throat, pushing, sliding back, turning over itself. He moaned thickly around it and shuddered, sagging into its grip, and twitched his wand to douse the light.

Instantly the slithering whispers resumed, louder now, loud enough to hear over the movements of the tentacles gripping his face. The Devil's Snare vines, either a defense mechanism or a method of controlling the Beast, were crawling. Advancing on him. He felt them at his feet, tugging, and then crawling up the inside of his pants. Silky, smooth, hot on his skin.

The tentacles gripped his head and shoulders and shoved him down, forced him to his knees with jarring strength that sent spikes of pain up his legs. Tendrils immediately swarmed over his legs and began climbing up his body. He grabbed for the tentacles to try to loosen their grip on him; instead, one seized his hand in a tight coil, and the one in his mouth suddenly plunged down his throat, so that he choked and gagged. His throat was full, stretched, painful; his chest gagged and body convulsed like he could throw it up, but it burrowed in deeper, pulsating and twitching back to slide ever further down his throat. Trying to push it away and pull his face back made the tentacles wrap more tightly around his head and hold him closer, almost fully within the Graphorn's gaping mouth.

The plant tendrils wormed their way inside his clothes and then made room for themselves. Cloth ripped, letting cold dungeon air and hot flesh against his skin. They wrapped around his thighs, pulling his legs apart; they coiled around his stomach and squeezed until it ached, deep down. They found their way between his legs and squirmed around his ass; he was tense with anticipation, twitching when it touched him, dying to move but bound in place by the tentacles and tendrils that were wrapped around him. His heart pounded. He let out a choked moaning whimper around the tentacle fucking his throat when they finally found their way where he wanted.

He wasn't able to relax, but the tendrils didn't care. The thin feeler that found its way inside him and made him moan surged forward as soon as it realized it could, driving its rapidly-expanding girth into him in one shot. He jerked hard in his bonds and cried out in a pain that didn't exactly feel bad, and the tentacle seized the opportunity to surge deeper down his throat. They were out of sync, the minute thrusts of the tentacle twisting down his throat and the surges of the tendril pulling back and trying to bore deeper, both of them straining like they wanted to meet in the middle. He almost wanted them to… He could only rock with them and moan, fighting to sip the meaty air through his nose.

With a final thrust, the tentacles gripped his head and shoulders in a crushing grasp, so hard he blindly tried to pull away because he felt like his head would be cracked, but it was impossible to get free and his face was helplessly buried in the graphorn's tentacled mouth. The tentacle in him stiffened; he could feel a bulge pushing his teeth apart and then forcing its way down his throat, again and again, and his stomach grew heavy and heat spread out from it.

And then the tentacles released him, the terrific grip falling away to nothing. They caressed his face and hair as they withdrew. They released his hand and his shoulders and he sagged, barely held up by the tentacle still slowly withdrawing from his throat. The feel of it passing through his throat made him gag, and he spasmed, trying to throw it up, but it was still blocked. It felt like it took forever, like it was ten feet of tentacle slowly pulling out of his throat, like it would never end. He fell onto his hands, doubled over the hard coils of the tendrils wrapped around his stomach so that he felt them squeezing him, rocked forward by the tendril driving itself up his ass, wracked by the gagging spasms. When the last inch of the tentacle finally slipped out of him he retched helplessly, burning his gaping raw throat, convulsing against the tendrils holding him, and expelled something semisolid and fleshy in a weak stream of acid.

He didn't know what it was, and in the pitch darkness he couldn't see, and he couldn't gather the brainpower to even care. The thrusting tendril tried to shove him forward into it and it was all he could do to pull himself in another direction on his hands, gasping in lungfuls of the cold, sweet air. Tendrils from the floor crawled over his hands and started winding up his arms, and that was fine. He could only give erratic moans every time the tendril drove into him. It hurt… It was so big, so deep, like an arm crawling forward but moving in ways an arm never could. He could feel it pushing against the coils wrapped around his stomach, from the inside. He needed more…

A thick vine curled around his chest, under his arm, tangling in his clothes, and around his neck. His breath came in short, shallow gasps as the fucking vine found a new angle and buried itself deeper into him, deeper than ever. Its thrusting grew violent and threw him against the tendrils binding him. He gasped and whimpered in pain, rocking into the tendrils gripping him in place.

The one around his throat slithered and squeezed, growing tighter with every movement. He barely noticed, focused on the burning, building feeling in his strangled guts, pressing from inside and out, being wrung out of him…

The vine fucked him right through his orgasm, didn't even notice. He gripped onto anything he could find, wrapping his fingers in binding tendrils. If he could breathe he would have yelled, but instead he only choked, head swimming euphorically.

It didn't let up, because it had no reason to, because it wasn't interested in his cumming. It didn't have any reason to listen to his whispered order to stop, to let him catch his breath. The vine around his aching throat was as tight as ever, and every thrust of the vine made him wince and he tried to pull away, but the tendrils held him tightly.

He was still gripping his wand, but he couldn't move it any; a nonverbal, all-but-wandless Lumos might have saved his life, because the vines around his neck stopped strangling him when the tip of his wand lit up. The Devil's Snare tendrils froze and relaxed in the light, and he was able to forcefully free his hands and the yank the vines from around his throat, gasping for air as soon as it was available. Of course, the tendril inside of him couldn't see the light, and it continued squirming and writhing unabated, making him shudder and moan and gasp as he freed himself from the others.

He couldn't fight it and twist enough to free his legs or pull it out of him. All he could do was crawl forward, pulling himself free of the light-dormant tendrils around his stomach and covering his legs. They eventually came loose, but the final one didn't want to come out of him. It dragged a long moan from him as he pulled himself along its length.

Finally, it slipped free, and he collapsed weakly on his side, panting and waiting for his muscles to stop twitching. The stone floor was so cold; it felt good.

Merlin he hurt… He felt bruised from the inside in a way that was sort of concerning but he didn't linger over. He could still feel the phantom pressure of the vines around him in the aches they left behind. His throat was raw and uncomfortable; his jaw was loose and sore.

And… He felt hollowed out, empty, gaping… like he was just a big hole that needed to be filled. He closed his eyes with a shiver and rolled onto his back, trying to get his heart and breath back under control. And put that out of his head.

The light of his wand kept the Beast quiescent and at bay for as long as he lay there. It took a while for him to get himself together and sit up, wincing from the pain of it. It took longer still to Reparo his clothing and get himself dressed again. It still hurt to move, and he admitted he should dip into his stores.

It wasn't luck or coincidence that his potion station included a stockpile of Wiggenweld potions in their small draughts and a vat of murtlap essence. He didn't like to have to use them, but sometimes it… got away from him. He knew he needed to be careful, because he didn't want to be the absolute idiot that died in a Devil's Snare. That was why he kept hold of his wand. Just, sometimes he forgot to care… That was more deadly than its dragon claw or tentacula venom or even its strangling tendrils - how easy it was to lose his head and drop his guard.

He tipped back a potion to try to stave off any infections or internal injuries, and then dabbed murtlap essence around his neck and wrists to prevent bruising that someone else could see and question. That was the last thing he needed.

Tending to the practicalities of hiding signs of the meeting and cleaning helped him resettle and refocus his mind on the real world, on being normal. Doing it right here in the Beast's lair, where he could smell the sweet musk and hear its slitherings and the huff of its hot breath, was a sort of penance, the price he made himself pay for indulgence, to prove he was still in control.

While he was making his final clean up pass, wand held up to keep the tendrils at bay, he stumbled upon his throw-up from earlier and only then remembered it happening. A hot embarrassed flush crawled up his cheeks, and he went to vanish the evidence, but he recognized what it was - Runespoor eggs. Another precious potion ingredient dangerous to acquire. It seemed that instead of adding a Runespoor head that would spawn eggs in its mouth, the mind behind the Beast had managed to splice that ability into the Graphorn head…

And it had laid them in him. His stomach clenched; he was only mostly convincing himself it was in disgust.

There was still a lot he didn't know about the Beast.
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Draco and the Beast