FIC: Moonrise [Harry/Draco, NC-17]
Jun. 23rd, 2006 12:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kennahijjaNow that the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hpde_smutathon Masterlist has been posted, I can post this to LJ. And acknowledge and squeeze the lovely moltensulfur once again for writing The Thrill of Torture which totally blew me away :). A rec post for the Smutathon should hopefully turn up sometime tonight…
Title: Moonrise
Author: Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dub-con/non-con, a bit of violence
Length: 10589 words
Summary: When Dung Fletcher turns up dead in the woods around Hogsmeade, Harry goes to investigate... and finds a lot more than he's bargained for.
Note: Written forsioniann as part of the hpde_smutathon. Thanks to fee_absinthe and Rabastan43 and hummelchen for beta, advice and hand-holding!
Multi-coloured leaves crackled under Harry's feet as he strolled through the outskirts of Hogsmeade, the hood of his cloak pulled up to shield his face and scar from the curiosity of passers-by. There weren't many; not this late in the afternoon, not in these times.
A fat raindrop spilled from a branch overhead and splashed right onto his nose. Harry flinched and wiped it off. The afternoon drizzle had stopped, but it was still wet, smelling of damp earth and approaching dark.
Mournfully, Harry looked into the direction where Hogwarts lay behind the hills. The castle's presence exerted an almost physical pull. For the umpteenth time, he cursed Scrimgeour for forcing Professor McGonagall to close the school. No, Hogwarts wasn't the safe haven it had been when Headmaster Dumbledore had been alive – Snape and Malfoy had exploded that illusion. But seeing terrified wizards and witches hastening in groups through Diagon Alley, the empty lanes of Hogsmeade, the children cooped up at home by frightened parents... Re-opening Hogwarts would have been a signal of hope. That the Ministry refused it felt like a surrender to Voldemort. Harry just knew it had to please the evil bastard.
He set out on the muddy footpath that led towards the woods behind the last houses of the village, reflexively checking the contents of his cloak's ample pockets. His eyes searched the sky. It was still light despite the rain; the moon wouldn't be out for hours yet.
Remus would kill him if he found out. But the last time Harry had seen Remus he'd been tucked under a blanket on a musty couch at Grimmauld Place, plied with honeyed tea by Tonks and having a lie-down after the ravages of a night under the full moon.
Harry had known he had to go from the moment he'd heard that Mundungus Fletcher's corpse had turned up in the fields right outside Hogsmeade, ripped to shreds by wolf teeth and with the tattered remains of his suitcase still clutched in his bloodstained hand. Empty.
It had cleared the streets of Hogsmeade faster than an outbreak of Dragon Pox in spite of Auror patrols and a nightly curfew.
Kingsley and Moody had insisted that it was too late, that Dung had fallen to the random attack of a renegade werewolf who would be long gone. Remus, too, had warned Harry off Hogsmeade in no uncertain terms, stressing that some werewolves – in particular those who gloried in their existence as Voldemort's followers – could force transformation on themselves during the nights that followed the full moon proper.
But Kingsley, Moody and Remus didn't know about the locket. Harry did. He also knew about the fake locket in the cave by the sea, about the initials written on the note inside.
He'd figured things out just a week ago, crouched before the Black family tapestry between Ron and Hermione, and trying not to look at the burn mark that had been trying to obliterate Sirius's presence long before the veil had achieved it for real. Instead, he had concentrated on the name next to it, whose gold-threaded stitches seemed to flicker restlessly in the candle light.
"Regulus A. Black," he'd read aloud. "I wonder what A. stands for."
"Arcturus," a gravelly voice announced from the wall, one Harry had last heard breaking in pain as it had protested the pronouncement of Sirius's death. Phineas Nigellus had slipped soundlessly back into his frame, returning, Harry assumed, from the darkened corridors of Hogwarts and the empty study of its Headmaster.
"R.A.B.!" Hermione gasped. "Sirius's younger brother? But how? He was only a boy when he died, no older than-"
"Than us," Harry finished. He recalled the cave, the potion, Dumbledore's pleading and helpless tears, the lake full of Inferi... There was no way one young man could have stolen the locket and replaced it with a double – not without help. But then who said that he'd had none?
"It's our best bet so far," he'd told them resolutely. Grimmauld Place had been Regulus Black's home. They had seen the antique locket that might have been Voldemort's Horcrux while cleaning up the house two years back. Only to have it vanish, Kreacher pleading squeakily that he'd returned it to its accustomed place, not taken it to the Malfoys. And Harry had caught Mundungus Fletcher with trinkets stolen from Grimmauld Place at the Hog's Head last year.
And now Dung was messily dead, and it was just too much of a coincidence – a vanished Horcrux, a werewolf...
The name 'Fenrir Greyback' had been bandied about by the few hardened punters who had dared to brave the atmosphere of gloom blanketing Hogsmeade to venture into the Three Broomsticks when Harry had slipped in for a butterbeer and a bit of warmth before starting into the woods. Their suspicious looks had nearly burned the skin off his neck, bundled up though he was in his concealing cloak.
Harry had heard Remus's story about Voldemort organising the werewolves, and had seen Greyback taunting Dumbledore on the tower as if he had nothing at all to fear from the man Voldemort himself was scared of. The last thing Harry wanted was going wand to claw with a monster like Greyback. Truth be told, the thought of werewolves had terrified him ever since that night Professor Lupin had come after them in the woods.
At least, Harry assured himself as he tried not to slip on the rain-soaked footpath winding its way along under the trees, he'd come prepared. Ron had slipped him a wicked-looking silver knife that had been part of Bill's Curse-Breaking Kit. Weighing down his other pocket was a large flask with concentrated Essence of Aconite that Hermione had pressed into his hand at the last moment. It wouldn't kill a werewolf, of course, but perhaps send it running, she'd announced, flustered and surrounded by a cloud of potions fumes. Not that Harry planned to stick around to find out!
Yes, Tonks and Kingsley had gone through the hut in the woods that Dung had used to stack stolen cauldrons and whatnot. But they hadn't known what to look for. Harry knew he could not rest until he'd searched the place and seen with his own eyes that the Horcrux wasn't there.
He'd insisted on going alone over the protests of Ron and Hermione. If Harry vanished for a 'night out in Muggle London', who could object? He was of age, and independent. But if all three of them were gone, Mrs Weasley would raise the roof when she came in to cook dinner in the evening.
Nervously, Harry checked his watch. It wasn't even five yet, moonrise was way off. He'd have enough time to find and search the hut, then Apparate out before it got dark.
When Harry finally laid eyes on the hut, almost a mile outside Hogsmeade in the middle of a small clearing, it looked less ramshackle than he'd expected a hideout of Dung's to be. It was built from solid wooden logs fused together by magic into elaborate swirls at the joints. Small, but Harry reminded himself that size on the outside meant nothing for a wizarding dwelling. The clearing was shrouded in silence. There was no sign of life – the single window was barricaded and the door bolted. Tonks and Kingsley must have locked up again when they left. Harry drew his wand.
A sweeping revealing charm showed no sign of a wizard or witch about the place. The hut felt as empty as it looked, emitting only the faint hum of power that surrounded every magically constructed dwelling. No protective spells around it either.
A carpet of dead leaves over gravelly ground replaced the sluicing mud of the path, and rustled under the soles of Harry's boots as he left his cover behind a tree and made his way towards the hut.
The oaken door and bolted windows seemed to cold-shoulder him as he stood there, peering nervously behind him a few times. He raised his hand and knocked, for all that the place screamed 'unwelcome' and that its owner was dead.
When he tried to pull the door handle, a sharp crack sounded behind him.
Harry dove out of the way with reflexes honed in hours of DA training, and then for real in the empty ballroom of Grimmauld Place with Tonks, Shacklebolt and Moody. A curse, hot and sickly yellow, whistled past his face and impacted on the shingles next to the door. Splinters and boards exploded in a cloud of dust. Harry rolled to the side and braced himself against the wall in a half-sprawl, wand raised at the black-clad figure that stood at the opposite end of the clearing. Before his assailant could cast another curse, Harry had regained his breath and flicked his wand.
"Expelliarmus!"
The Death Eater – and it was a Death Eater, Harry saw now, with a white oval mask obscuring his face, and a flowing black robe and hood covering everything else – deflected the spell with a mere wriggle of his wand. Harry's mouth went dry. It wasn't Greyback – the slender silhouette wouldn't have disguised the werewolf's bulk. The shape would fit Bellatrix Lestrange, but she'd have started to mock him by now.
"Stupefy!" Harry tried again, followed by a quick, "Reducto!" that snapped at the man's heels as he dived out of the way of the first spell. The Reductor Curse hit home, blasting its target several feet across the clearing. With a surge of triumph Harry dove after him, intent on finishing his enemy with another stunning spell. If he could bring in this Death Eater, Veritaserum might just give them a lead on Mundungus's death, and the Horcrux!
When something under the leaves caused him to stumble a few feet away from the dazed Death Eater, Harry shrugged it off as a loose pebble without looking down. Then another something snagged his foot, and a sharp stab of pain went through his ankle. He almost fell, and stared down. A root, brown and gnarled, was winding itself around his smarting ankle. Another was scraping eagerly along the side of his other boot. And underneath the seemingly innocent leaves, more roots came to life by the second.
Harry cursed and spat "Incendio!" at the creeping carpet. The roots blackened under the blast, but only gripped him with sickening force as the heat burned his own feet. Another tug sent him crashing to his knees, and the roots greedily snatched his wand hand as he tried to balance himself on the ground. He searched fitfully for the silver knife in his pocket with his other hand even as the Death Eater rose before him in a cloud of dark robes. Harry tried to throw himself out of the way, but the roots held fast.
"Crucio!"
Harry screamed as the curse sliced through him, splitting his head and his chest and every cell of his body. He writhed in the loveless embrace of the roots, trying feebly to escape. When the curse was lifted after a few seconds, he remained unmoving and facedown. The aftershocks were still trembling through his nerves, but as far as Cruciatus went, he'd had worse. Still, he didn't stir as the Death Eater took a few careful steps towards him.
Yes, I'm broken and helpless, he projected viciously. Just come a little closer, you bastard!
The man obliged, stepping into reach and bending down to examine Harry's prone form. Harry's hand shot out. He grabbed the man's ankle and pulled.
The robed figure gave a satisfyingly high scream and fell in a whorl of inky cloth, Harry still clinging obstinately to his foot. With his free hand, Harry scrabbled for his wand in a snake-like tangle of roots. His enemy struggled back onto his feet just as Harry managed to tear the wand free.
"Sectums-" he gasped, trying to aim when the Death Eater's boot came down with sickening force on the fingers of his wand hand. Harry bit his lip to stifle a whimper. His fingerbones threatened to crack under the pressure. Tears shot into his eyes, and the wand slipped from his numbing fingers. A non-verbal summoning charm sent it up into the man's gloved fist. The boot came down again, this time aiming straight for Harry's face and bruising his cheek with unexpected force. Harry saw stars and slumped backwards. His last thought before the second kick impacted right on his temple was that the Death Eater was inhumanly strong for such a slight figure.
Then darkness claimed him.
***
Each and every one of his senses was protesting against returning to life as Harry swam out of unconsciousness. His head pounded so badly that breathing alone almost made his stomach turn. A white-hot needle seemed to be stabbing through his temple. His left hand was one big bruise, and when he tried to move it, he realised that he couldn't. He tensed, but to no avail – his limbs were as heavy as if they had been transfigured into lead. He thought he might be able to lift his eyelids, but the effort would probably make his head explode.
Reality asserted itself, slow and threatening. He'd been kicked in the head by a Death Eater. He couldn't move. He hurt all over, and his wand was gone. And most of all, he felt watched.
It was this niggling feeling that gave him the courage to open his eyes at last. Which was exactly as painful as he'd been dreading. His dilated pupils caught the light, little though there was, and it pierced his brain like a second needle in his forehead. He was too weak to groan but twisted his face into a pained grimace. His lips were cracked and stung when he touched them with his tongue.
He recognised the inside of Dung Fletcher's hut by the characteristic swirls of the fusing magic on the wooden roof. A single lamp hung from the ceiling, spreading even light. He was lying on a bed that took up the far end of the room; a naked mattress, covered by a blanket that was rough under his paralysed fingers. His cloak and boots were gone, leaving him in jeans and shirt.
There was a table in the middle of the hut, right below the lamp, and against it lounged a familiar black-robed figure. Harry licked his dry lips and tried to suck in flat breaths to keep the pain in his head from flaring. He was fucked. The Death Eater would drag him off to Voldemort, and that would be the end of him.
Harry struggled to keep his face blank – his enemy had the upper hand; he didn't need to see Harry panic on top of it. They stared at each other in silence, Harry trying in vain to see beyond the shadows created by mask and hood. The man's provocative posture vexed him.
Under Harry's dogged stare, the Death Eater dislodged his hip from the table at last, and removed his mask. His head was slightly bowed as he put the mask onto the table, and for a moment he looked as if he was removing his entire face and there was nothing but darkness beneath. Then the head came up in a familiar, arrogant tilt, the hood fell back, and blond strands tumbled out. Somehow, Harry wasn't surprised at all.
And yet, for an instant he almost thought he was seeing the older Malfoy in place of the younger, despite the ferret's slighter build. There was real rather than forced self-possession in Malfoy's posture, a more subtle smirk on his face, and an air of confidence that hadn't been there before. Certainly not during the past year. As if Draco Malfoy had finally remade himself in his father's image rather than feebly trying to imitate him.
Which wasn't to say that it made Malfoy's smirk any less aggravating. Obviously he hadn't done badly out of his flight to Voldemort. In retrospect, Harry regretted the frisson of pity he'd occasionally felt for the little bastard over the past months.
"Malfoy," he ground out when the silence became too much. At least his voice worked, if none of his limbs did. He was proud of his contemptuous tone.
"Harry," the bastard acknowledged with a slight dip of the head, as if they'd always been on first-name terms.
Malfoy strolled towards the bed, graceful in a sleek way that made Harry's nose prickle in painful recollection. No, Malfoy wouldn't hesitate to kick an enemy who was down – he'd proved it before.
"What's this, then?" Harry pressed on, intent on getting the little shite to talk. He might learn something, and Malfoy was full of himself. As long as he prattled, he wouldn't curse or hit Harry. "You're going to wait for reinforcements before you drag me off to your master?"
Malfoy smiled thinly. "Oh, no, Harry. You see, the Dark Lord has lost his personal interest in you." He sauntered closer, wand held loosely between black-gloved fingers. "His Death Eaters are merely under orders to kill you wherever they find you."
It shouldn't surprise him, Harry knew, not after the Department of Mysteries, but it still carried a sting – being Voldemort's personal target had given him a twisted kind of protection. But to meet death at Draco Malfoy's hands was... well, beyond unimaginable.
"You're going to kill me? You couldn't even murder Dumbledore on the tower."
"Couldn't I?" Malfoy inquired.
"I was there, under an Invisibility Cloak." Harry shrugged, or rather gave the woefully feeble twitch that the spell allowed his neck muscles. The memory of who had killed that night ate at his stomach, a pain as acute as his injured head.
"Well, yes," Malfoy conceded and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I didn't hate Dumbledore." He smiled, very slowly, crouching there like a predatory cat. "I do hate you, Harry."
It was a mutual sentiment, of course, and yet something tightened in Harry's chest. They'd been school enemies, eager enough to strike out viciously, but on killing terms? Harry recalled the few agonising moments he'd knelt beside Malfoy's trembling body in the sixth-floor bathroom, trying to staunch Malfoy's blood and pleading soundlessly for something to catapult him out of that utter nightmare. And Malfoy could have cast the Killing Curse instead of breaking Harry's face on the train, without anyone to stop him. No, Harry refused to believe it. Malfoy was a right evil bastard, but not a killer.
Or hadn't been, a few weeks ago. There was something different about him now. Maybe that was what happened if you had the Dark Mark and Voldemort could reach inside your soul.
And as much as he wanted to object, Harry wasn't Dumbledore. From his mouth, helpless and paralysed as he was, telling Malfoy he didn't think him a murderer would sound like pleading. And whatever happened, Harry Potter would not plead with a low-life git like Draco Malfoy!
"So you're going to kill me," he said coolly. "Well, what are you waiting for? Are you going to gloat till I die of boredom?"
Again, Malfoy smiled that vague, amused smile that made Harry's neck prickle. He shifted and his hip touched Harry's limp arm. Harry's skin crawled as Malfoy's hand brushed aside a few strands of hair plastered to his forehead.
"No," Malfoy said. "Only till moonrise."
Harry's stomach clenched. If Malfoy was working with the werewolf that had killed Dung... if he left him here, unable to move a finger, left the door open with a monster waiting outside...
"Scared, Potter?" Malfoy whispered.
'You wish' died on Harry's lips, because he was. This wasn't a childish taunt – this was the stuff of nightmares. The thought of the moon shining into the hut's interior through the open door, the rectangle of light obscured by a crouching, monstrous shape, something like Fenrir Greyback...
"Even you wouldn't do that."
There it was, pleading in spirit if not in words. Because Malfoy was right, he was scared, and Malfoy was the sort of coward who might hesitate to dirty his own hands, but perhaps not to turn his back and leave Harry to his fate. Sirius's cousin. It was ironic, Harry realised, the blot on the Black tapestry looming large in his mind. Both willing to feed their enemies to the wolves.
The hated smile had not waned on Malfoy's face. "You know nothing of what I would or would not do."
Malfoy's hands went up to the front of his robe, unhooking the heavy cloth. The silver hook fastenings parted over Malfoy's chest like the jaws of a predator. Malfoy shrugged out of the robe, tossing it carelessly over the foot of the bed. It left him clad in a grey tunic, black trousers and boots. Harry stared, uncomprehending. Why would the git want to make himself comfortable, if he was about to run out and leave the dirty job to one of Greyback's creatures?
He stared even more as Malfoy began to unbutton his tunic as well. The skin revealed was a translucent white, the chest criss-crossed by silver lines. Harry swallowed. He'd seen those cuts before when they were raw and gushing blood after his hapless Sectumsempra. Surely Malfoy couldn't think that leaving Harry to be ripped apart by the claws of a monster would be fair retribution?
The shirt slipped lower and revealed more scars, jagged and still red against the pale flesh of Malfoy's stomach – marks left by an animal, not mauling with intent to kill, but to mark, to disfigure. They were too deep to have been gauged by nails alone, no matter how sharp.
"Oh God, it was you," Harry gasped.
Malfoy's eyes remained mild, but the smile on his lips vanished. "You see now, Harry? You know nothing about what I'm capable of."
Slowly, the smile reappeared, but sharper, a lot sharper.
"Do you want to know how, Harry? You were so smug pointing out that I didn't kill Dumbledore – did you think I earned the Dark Lord's praise that way, ignoring my orders in front of a group of Death Eaters?" Malfoy's lips drew back in an animalistic twist that exposed the tip of his canines. "He was furious. He wanted to punish my father. So he thought that giving me to Greyback would be a nice touch."
The tight rage trembling in Malfoy's voice was unsettling. It scared Harry as much as the claw marks on the young man's side and stomach, which still seemed to pulse with blood underneath that had been running free once, and longed to spill out again. If Harry had been able to move, he might have given in to his sick impulse to touch them.
"Granted," Malfoy continued, "I was a bit older than Greyback's usual prey of choice, but well, he decided that there were other... interesting things he could do to get his kicks."
Harry had a moment's mental flash of Greyback, shaggy grey hair, yellow teeth, with blood caking his nails, slavering over the body of Draco Malfoy sprawled naked and bound on a bed. He saw hairy skin sprouting into an equally shaggy pelt, sharp nails into claws, and squeezed his eyes shut until they hurt, biting his tongue to chase the image away. It was only his imagination, not a memory picked from Malfoy's brain – Malfoy, too, had been trained in Occlumency!
"I'm sorry," Harry blurted out. His lips were cold, and the taste of metallic bile fouled his mouth. He felt the urge to touch the boy, comfort him - which would probably be a spectacularly bad idea. He was almost relieved that the paralysis precluded any temptation.
"I was weak there on the tower," Malfoy said. "I won't be weak ever again."
"You killed Mundungus Fletcher," Harry whispered. Malfoy nodded, peering at him from underneath half-lowered lids.
"Oh yes. He was slow and stupid and weighed down by that suitcase of his. And he had something I wanted."
The locket. A dry sting pricked Harry's eyes. Poor Dung – he'd had no idea that the trinkets he'd stolen would be bought with his life.
Malfoy's eyes gleamed. "My mother always knew what cousin Regulus had brought home with him before the Dark Lord had him killed as a traitor. And Snape sent me here to get it, and to make an example of whoever was guarding it. He said you'd come." Rage stained Harry's cheeks at the mention of the traitor. "The same thing as my father's diary. Which you destroyed, Harry. Again, all our misery traces back to you."
Malfoy raised his hand to Harry's face, who would have flinched away if he could. But the fingers just brushed the hair back from his forehead before running, feather-soft, over his scar. Harry shivered. No one ever touched him there, as if the scar would still hurt, or radiate dark magic. The mark of legend.
"I always wanted to do that," Malfoy said conversationally. "I did wonder how it would feel."
Harry's mouth went dry. There was something unsettling about Malfoy's expression. His fingers left Harry's scar, leaving his hair sticking up. Harry wished he could move his arm to flatten it down again. He felt hot under his collar as Malfoy's fingers brushed over his face until the tips rested at the corner of his mouth. A careful nail slid along the curve of Harry's lower lip.
"And I always wanted to have you," Malfoy continued, in an eerie voice that reminded Harry of Bellatrix Lestrange. "I told you that two years back, didn't I? Oh, not at the beginning. At first I just wanted you as a friend, famous Harry Potter, to pry all the secrets and powers out of the Boy Who Lived..." The chilly little smirk reappeared on his lips. "But then you shunned me, and made every school year utter hell until finally I only wanted you beneath me, beaten and helpless and begging..." Malfoy's hand closed around Harry's throat, leaving him hyper-aware of how his pulse hammered above his collarbone and against the clasp of Malfoy's fingers. "Just like this."
"I'm not begging." Harry heard the catch in his voice, and felt his vocal cords vibrating against Malfoy's hand.
"But you want to, don't you?" the bastard murmured. "Snape told us about that night you and the Mudblood and the Weasel were almost eaten by Lupin. Were you scared, Harry?"
The memory returned to Harry's mind on the path of countless nightmares; the jaws of the monster, the glowing amber eyes, the massive bulk of bristling grey fur... Snuffles's pained whine as the creature flung him away into the undergrowth... He'd been scared out of his mind!
"Of course I was!" he snapped, noticing how unnaturally warm Malfoy's hand felt against his clammy skin. As if he was burning up with fever.
Hilarity crinkled the corners of Malfoy's eyes. They had been plain grey before, but now they were almost silver; like Remus's, Harry suddenly realised, ordinary honey brown but sometimes acquiring an amber shade when the full moon approached. Malfoy tightened his hand, and Harry's breath rattled in his lungs.
"In the nights of the full moon we have the strength of the wolf, even in human form." Malfoy paused, licking his lower lip purposefully. "In the nights of the full moon we have all the instincts and urges of the wolf."
The harsh grip around Harry's neck loosened, and Malfoy's index finger took to stroking the underside of Harry's chin in a way that made his ears burn.
"Don't touch me!" he snarled from between clenched teeth.
Malfoy leaned down until his face was right above Harry's and slipped his fingers into the collar of Harry's shirt. Purposefully, he started ripping off the buttons one after the other, without the slightest effort. His eyes never once left Harry's own. Harry marshalled all his strength and struggled against the paralysing charm. His fingers managed to twitch, a little.
"I can't see you stopping me," Malfoy sneered. He flicked the flaps of Harry's shirt aside, and ran a hand over Harry's stomach. It burned under Malfoy's palm, and goose pimples broke out all over Harry's skin.
Malfoy grabbed his hair, twisting wild strands around his hand and pressed Harry's head down against the pillow. Then he lowered his face until it filled Harry's entire vision, pointed chin, pale lips, those alien silver eyes, and tendrils of bright hair – it had grown longer over the last months, and hadn't been properly maintained. There were tangles and snares up close, adding to the image of a wild thing in search of prey.
Malfoy interrupted Harry's reverie and bit down at his mouth, sharp nips that called blood to the surface and chased the thoughts right out of Harry's brain like a pouncing cat scattering a flock of sparrows. Malfoy's lips tasted surprisingly bitter.
"Let me go!" Harry shrieked as soon as his mouth was free again, a bitter taste clinging to his lips.
"You can't escape," Malfoy murmured, still too close to Harry's face. He licked what had to be Harry's blood from his lips.
Just let me see you stop me! Harry thought mutinously. The... he refused to think of it as a kiss, but it scared him. "Let go!" he insisted again, and to his surprise Malfoy drew back and summoned his wand from the table.
"If that's what you want," he smirked. He tapped the wooden tip against Harry's collarbone and ran it down his chest. "Finite Incantatem!"
Along the line the wand had drawn, Harry's skin began to prickle. An overwhelming rush of pins and needles spread over his entire body and forced tears to his eyes. His limbs woke up to life reluctantly, and he bit his lip against a groan. Then he thought better of it and let out a second, louder whimper, curling onto his side like a caterpillar and gulping in a few deep breaths against the musky bedclothes. Let Malfoy think him weaker than he was. He would only have seconds to strike anyway.
When he was halfway confident that his legs would not give out and send him collapsing into a heap as soon as he tried to stand, he pounced. He tackled Malfoy, stifling a scream as his muscles protested the sudden movement. He grabbed desperately for Malfoy's wand, but the bastard just slipped off the bed in a fluid move. Harry scrabbled forward to follow when something bit down around his right ankle, sending him onto his belly in a graceless sprawl.
He craned his neck, only to see a thin silver shackle encircling his foot and chaining it safely to the metallic grid at the foot of the bed. Harry screamed with fury and disappointment and threw himself forward, shackle notwithstanding. It cut into his ankle like an axe, but he ignored the pain. His nails cut skin and his fingertips touched wood for one fleeting instant before Malfoy managed to yank his wand away, deep gauges marring his wrist. An ugly grimace reshaped his features when he saw his blood.
Then he swung, a single blow connecting with Harry's face and knocking him down onto the mattress. The back of his head hit the headboard, and a sickening black wave crested over his brain. He tasted thick blood at the back of his throat, and his jaw felt as if it had been shattered with a hammer. For an endless moment he struggled for consciousness, and when he opened his eyes, he looked right at the tip of Malfoy's wand.
"Crucio!"
Harry's wail rang painfully loud in his ears as the curse clawed at him, tearing holes into his skin and pouring acid into the gashes. Blood dripped from his mouth as he twisted on the bed. Then the agony was gone again in a breath of Malfoy's voice. For a blissful moment Harry drifted on a cloud of nothing before the multiple aches in his head and hand and ankle managed to reassert themselves.
Malfoy leaned over Harry's pain-wracked body. His mouth touched the corner of Harry's, and then a warm tongue lapped at the blood that coated Harry's chin. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, too weak to tremble.
"You see, Harry," Malfoy murmured when the side of Harry's face was clean, and wet. "You won't win this time."
He slid his hand down Harry's torso, and Harry could feel its warmth and a scrape of nail where Malfoy's thumb ran over his nipple. It tightened into a terrified little nub, and Harry bit his tongue to swallow his protest. It wasn't so bad, really, compared to the Cruciatus Curse. Only when Malfoy slipped below his navel and began to toy with the button of Harry's old jeans – the ones Dudley had grown out of at twelve – he squirmed. Malfoy grinned wolfishly and caught Harry's wrists, pinning them above his head with one hand. Harry could feel the inhuman strength of his grip, the way his bones shifted under those long fingers, and knew Malfoy could probably snap both his wrists with a little more pressure.
"Don't touch me!" he insisted once more, but relaxed. There would be no hope of escape with one or two broken hands. Perhaps the animal in Malfoy would respond to submissive body language. And indeed, the death grip loosened a little. Malfoy's free hand had wandered down to cup Harry's groin in a way that sent stabs of mortification through him.
"But I want to," Malfoy pouted. "You mean your domesticated Lupin never let you see his true face when the full moon came round?"
Harry blinked. He'd always read Remus's tension before the full moon as dread of his impending transformation. Remus had been pointedly mild-mannered at those times – talking kindly to Snape when he'd brought him the Wolfsbane, putting up good-naturedly with Tonks's fussing.
"I guess he was fucking cousin Sirius to get rid of the tension," Malfoy insinuated viciously. "I'm surprised that he didn't try you after the mutt died." He brushed his thumb over the outline of Harry's prick underneath the denim, and Harry squeaked in protest. "Fenrir Greyback tells us that the instincts of the wolf are all that matters. Everyone who's not pack is food – or entertainment beforehand." His mouth twitched. "That's the law among monsters."
Trying hard to ignore the thumb that stroked his length until an unwelcome stiffening betrayed him, Harry sought to catch Malfoy's eyes.
"You're not a monster for having those instincts," he said softly, even though he wasn't really sure – you had to be pretty twisted to molest an enemy like this. But Dumbledore had died to confirm his faith in Malfoy. "You'll only become a monster if you behave like one."
The sharp bark of Malfoy's laughter startled Harry. "You know nothing, you stupid, Muggle-raised halfblood! The Dark Lord may elevate us because we're useful to him, but to the wizarding world – to the purebloods families – we're nothing but animals. If my father were free he'd put me down like a rabid dog."
A strange, absent-minded glint stole into Malfoy's gaze. "I've seen it when I was small – they rode out at dusk, on winged horses with Crups around their hooves, with silver weapons, my father and his friends. And they came back with blood on their hands, and Macnair complaining that he couldn't preserve the pelt when the creature transformed back. Father will expect me to bare my throat to the blade just so I'll stop polluting a respectable wizarding line. I'm not even human to him any more, far less a son."
Harry could see it in a flash of vision – the elder Malfoy, resplendent in brocade robes, one hand tangled in the sleek mess of Draco's hair, pulling his head back just a little to expose Draco's throat; the silver knife in his other hand looming close, reflected in the translucent shine of Draco's skin. He saw Draco's face, eyelids fluttering but unresisting, with that tiny, bitter smile on his lips, serene like a young animal selected for sacrifice. Saw the flash of silver, and snapped, "No!"
"No?" Malfoy inquired, eyes piercing as if he'd been poking into Harry's mind with Legilimency. "You'd want to save me from that? Despite what I'm going to do with you?"
Harry exhaled very softly. He didn't want Malfoy to die, not when he seemed more alive than ever before. But he didn't want to die himself, either. He'd been chosen to defeat Voldemort – he could not end here, prey to Draco Malfoy. Dumbledore, Sirius, his parents - they would all have died in vain.
"Let go of my hands," he ordered, his voice firm but low. Malfoy cocked his head like a pigeon eyeing a savoury crumb, and obeyed. Resisting the urge to rub his aching wrists, Harry reached up and slid one hand around Malfoy's neck, again marvelling at the heat of his skin. He propped himself up on his other elbow, tugged Malfoy's face down a little, and put his lips very firmly against Malfoy's. Touching Malfoy's pointy chin was alien compared to Ginny's dimples and soft, berry-scented lips. And yet he wondered, for a split second, what it would be like to open his mouth and kiss Malfoy for real. Instead, he drew back, without taking his hand from Malfoy's neck.
"You're no monster," he repeated.
Malfoy's lips twitched again, and then a smile lit up his face. He buried his own hand in Harry's hair, pushing their mouths close again. Harry could feel the puff of Malfoy's breath against his lips.
"You can meet your fate believing that," Malfoy said and closed the distance between their mouths altogether. He pried Harry's lips apart, which were still slack in shock, and proceeded to take the kiss that Harry had contemplated. The hairs stood up on his neck when Malfoy's tongue touched his. How could Malfoy kiss him like that, yet plan to murder him?
Then Malfoy broke away and Harry was thrown back onto the mattress, where he bounced with a muffled thud. Malfoy snatched his wrists again and pulled Harry's belt from its loops; it slithered around his hips with a hissing sound. Malfoy wound it around his wrists, and pulled tight. It stung when it slid into its clasp, and left Harry's hands tied securely above his head.
Malfoy smirked. With a quick "Diffindo!" Harry's trousers vanished, only to reappear in a crumbled heap on the floor next to the bed. Harry yelped and tried to curl into a protective ball, but froze when Malfoy's wand tapped against his Adam's apple.
"I don't need your consent, Harry, but it's nice that you gave it anyway."
Harry felt Malfoy's touch on his hip, his thumb nail toying with the seam of Harry's briefs, far too close to very private parts.
"I didn't-" he protested, and the wand at his throat gave a painful little buzz, as if transmitting its owner's displeasure.
"Be quiet," Malfoy ordered, slipping his hand in further until it touched Harry's sweaty prick. "You've wasted too much time already. We have hardly more than half an hour left until moonrise."
Something inside Harry shrivelled at the words, and at the firm touch that made his... bits tingle and harden against his will. He'd dreamed of Ginny handling him like this during his nightly wanks in the few weeks they'd had together, even at Grimmauld Place when he'd had no right to think of her any more. But Malfoy's touch scared him to death. As did the look on his face – a curious, detached fascination, mouth slightly open as if he, too, had trouble breathing.
Harry's prick hardened with every squeeze of that warm hand around him, the heat in his groin chasing back the multiple aches of his body. Pleasure bubbled to the centre of his consciousness, and the urge to close his eyes and moan softly against Malfoy's skin grew stronger.
He more felt than saw Malfoy shucking his own trousers, only noticing the slide of naked skin along his legs as Malfoy crouched over his lower body. He was still pale and thin, and Harry nearly pulled his eyes away from the lurid scars on his belly and thigh.
Malfoy's cock was a dark pink, heavy and curving arrogantly upwards. A colourless drop of fluid trickled from the fully emerged head. Malfoy caught it with a salacious smirk and rubbed it over the slit. His head dipped back a little, eyes half-closed in pleasure, unmindful of Harry's eyes on him. Somehow, Harry couldn't bring himself to look away even as his cheeks blazed.
Malfoy balanced his hands above Harry's shoulders before lowering his groin over Harry's prick, which hadn't flagged since Malfoy had taken his hand away. Harry mangled a moan deep in his throat as Malfoy's cock pressed against his, hot and hard and sticky with precome. The sensation fizzed right up his spine, where it seemed to burn a hole into his brain. He found his body pressing up to seek more of that delicious friction. Malfoy chuckled and wound his fingers into Harry's hair before laying sharp teeth against his exposed throat. Harry shuddered deeply, his pelvis freezing at the implications.
"Don't panic," Malfoy sneered, moist breath shivering over the sting of the bite. "It's not time yet."
As if to punish Harry for his fear, he lifted his prick off Harry's groin and crawled forward, sliding his chest over Harry's mouth without letting go of his hair. A tight nipple pressed persistently against his lips and Harry reluctantly swiped a lick over it. Malfoy drew in a loud breath.
"Yes – keep at it!"
Bastard, Harry thought grumpily, but gave it a few more licks just the same before suckling it experimentally. Malfoy's skin didn't taste unpleasant – salty, and very warm. Harry could feel the nub tightening further under his tongue. He bit down sharply for vengeance's sake, and heard Malfoy's gasp. The boy arched his back like a big cat.
"Nice, Harry," he smirked and shifted his upper body to give Harry access to his other nipple. His hand trailed down, fingers curling around Harry's prick in a tight ring even as he flicked the tip with his thumb. Harry muffled his moan against Malfoy's nipple, aware that the bastard could probably feel the vibration on his skin. He was hot all over, sweat beading on his forehead. It would be so easy to give in to the amazing sensation of his prick and balls tightening... To forget who was doing this to him, and that the moon was fat and round beyond the barred window, and that Harry had only a short time before its pull would reach into the boy above him and turn him inside out.
As if Malfoy could read his thoughts, he swung one leg off Harry's torso and sat down next to him. He put smiling lips to Harry's cheek, stroking his finger along the twitching length of Harry's erection one last time. When he let go, it felt surprisingly cold. Then he urged Harry's prone, sluggish body to the side, spooning himself against Harry's back like an electric blanket. A hard electric blanket, Harry realised as Malfoy's prick poked against his bottom. He froze even more, his own erection wilting as his insides clenched. The deliberate mauling he'd had so far he could put up with, but the thought of Malfoy forcing himself inside him... He struggled against the belt that bound his hands.
A sharp slap and the resulting sting in his bottom sent him flopping forward. He tried to breathe evenly. "Don't-" he started, only to feel a painful pinch on the very spot Malfoy had just hit.
"Shut up, Harry. It won't be as bad as you think."
Harry could think pretty excruciatingly bad, but shut his mouth and pressed the side of his face into the mattress before he could spill something unfortunate, like a plea. There was nothing he could do to stop the Death Eater, but he would not beg.
Malfoy pushed him fully onto his stomach and pulled his legs apart, stroking down the long muscles at the back of Harry's thighs with both hands, then up again to fleetingly cup his balls. Harry trembled, because although the warm clutch was pleasant, he was also terribly vulnerable. If Malfoy misjudged his own strength... But he just rolled the wrinkled sac in his palm for a moment, then went to knead Harry's arse cheeks until Harry's muscles relaxed.
Finally, Malfoy leaned forward for a nip at Harry's tailbone before settling between Harry's legs, spreading them even further in the process. Harry couldn't help but struggle against the belt that bound him. If he could only get his hands free! But no, as much as he hated lying there with his legs spread like a dead frog while Malfoy exposed his arse hole, the bastard would probably just hit him over the head if he fought. Harry's neck crawled and burned as if there were ants burrowing under his skin.
Again, Malfoy summoned his wand from the floor. His low "Scourgify!" rushed in a prickly wave through Harry's insides and over his skin. The sweat vanished from his back and face only to break out anew in a rush of panicked heat when Malfoy touched a thumb to the nasty spot between Harry's buttocks. Every muscle in his body, from his toes to the tendons in his neck, stiffened in raw panic.
Malfoy laughed callously and pressed the very tip of his thumb against Harry's clenched opening. An "Accio!" later, something cool and round wobbled into existence on Harry's back. Harry bucked, but Malfoy had already snatched it to safety.
Harry heard a lid being unscrewed, and then Malfoy's fingers returned to his hole, coated with something slippery. The initial cold vanished as the substance warmed on Malfoy's fingers. Harry bit down on his lower lip until he tasted blood and buried his face into the mattress as Malfoy pushed a slick finger into him. It burned, though not as much as Harry had been expecting. The shame was much worse, with the picture he had to be making for Malfoy looming luridly in front of his inner eye.
Malfoy's explorations went deeper than Harry would have thought possible, and though having something stuck into an opening that wasn't made for such exertions was uncomfortable, the oily stuff made the intrusion easy and dulled both the stretch and the bite of Malfoy's nails.
"Essence of Murtlap," the Slytherin pointed out loftily as he pulled out his finger, only to shove it back in, newly slicked, along with another.
This time, the sheer pressure knocked the breath out of Harry's lungs. And yet, there was something shameful about how quickly his channel adapted to Malfoy's fingers. His muscles trembled and complained as Malfoy rotated and crooked them deep inside Harry, but they loosened quickly under the soothing effect of the Murtlap.
Then Malfoy fumbled his fingers out so quickly that Harry gasped in pain, and fumbled again, impatiently, to position the prick he'd just stroked so shamelessly against Harry's opening. It was bigger than Malfoy's fingers had been, hard and impatient and hot like a firebrand, and this time it hurt. Raw agony shot though Harry's arse as he was stretched without much care. He dug nails into his palms and forbade himself any sound of pain. He would not show Malfoy such weakness.
It was too much, and too full, but it reached deep, and when Malfoy moved out a bit, and thrust in again at a slightly different angle, it brushed against something inside Harry that sent sparks of lust through his entire frame. His surprised squeak drowned in Malfoy's chuckle.
"Slut," the bastard whispered into Harry's ear, and repeated the movement, just there. Harry whimpered and met the next stroke with his hips to guarantee the full effect of Malfoy's thrusts.
He tried not to thrash underneath Malfoy, but the hot burn of the cock being driven into him, and the spine-melting pleasure when he hit that right spot, drove him to despair. He twisted his hips to rub his aching prick off against the blanket, almost, almost there-
Then Malfoy dug fingers into Harry's hips and pulled them up against his own in a vicious thrust, and wound a cruel hand around the base of Harry's prick, clamping down and pinching orgasm right out of Harry's mind.
"You'll come looking at me or not at all!" he growled, and Harry shivered as the low rumble trickled down his neck. As if to illustrate his point, Malfoy pounded into Harry without ever relaxing the vice-like squeeze on Harry's erection.
Harry let the force of the thrusts wash over him, turning his head to the side so he could breathe without having his mouth stuffed full of blanket, and tried feebly not to respond too enthusiastically. The tight pressure in his balls increased, but Malfoy's grip around his cock prevented his climb towards orgasm. He squeezed his eyes shut, and felt tears of frustration burn in their corners.
Then he screamed out loud as Malfoy bit down on his shoulder with teeth so sharp that Harry wondered whether he was already in the throes of transformation. He gave a final, brutal thrust into Harry and came, nails raking down Harry's side as he twisted in his own release, drawing blood without making a sound. Harry felt Malfoy's harsh, wet breaths as the Death Eater slumped heavily against his back for a moment, before drawing back and pulling Harry onto his back along with him.
Harry's engorged prick dragged roughly over the blanket, but although Malfoy had released his grip, the need to see Malfoy's face – his human face – contained Harry's need for the moment.
His face crunched up as he landed on his abused arse, and Malfoy was above him an instant later. A pinkish glow suffused his skin, tangled pale hair snarling around his face. In a flash, Malfoy had his hand wrapped around Harry's prick again, coaxing it back to full arousal. Harry found it hard to breathe – Malfoy had a light build, but Harry had to bear his full body weight on top of him. His eyes, which studied Harry's face intently, were very bright.
"What do you want?" he hissed, and Harry, whose first unconscious impulse was 'to come', followed by the rational 'freedom', rejected both. He wouldn't beg for the one, nor give Malfoy the chance to reject the other.
"Cast the Killing Curse instead," he ground out, his voice constrained by exertion and fear.
Malfoy smiled almost wistfully, his hand gentling its pressure around Harry's prick to a light, sensuous slide. He laid his free hand against Harry's cheek and stroked it just as gently.
"No, Harry. The Dark Lord had me turned into a monster for a reason; he would not want the easy way out for you."
Rage boiled hot and bitter inside Harry's chest. He bared his teeth, wanting nothing so much as to dig them into Malfoy's pale throat before the bastard could do worse to him, to drown that mock-gentleness in blood.
"Yes, fight me," Malfoy hissed, bowing low over Harry's ear. "I want to feel your defeat."
Harry tried to twist his bound wrists up to hit him, bucking ineffectively to dislodge the bastard, but Malfoy snatched his arms and pressed them back down. He trapped them with a bony elbow and fisted his hand into Harry's hair, aligning their bodies until their mouths were only an inch apart. Malfoy threw him a wild, toothy grin, and licked a long wet stripe up Harry's throat.
"Fight, Harry," he challenged.
Torn between need and terror, Harry screamed and fought, attacking Malfoy with knees and shoulders, half smothered by Malfoy's body. His cock was driving into Malfoy's fist with every move, tight and rough and spiralling towards ecstasy. His balls tightened, and he wanted his hands free to fight for his life, and to hold Draco as he came against him, but most of all he didn't want to die in the jaws of a monster, and it all spilled together in a scream of sheer despair and then he spilled into Malfoy's hand with a wail that was as inhuman as the one who'd torn it from him.
Harry trembled under the aftershocks, lids screwed shut. His skin was so sensitised that he could feel every detail of Malfoy wiping his hand on his sweaty thigh. He was starting to get cold. He did not want to open his eyes ever again, but in the end, he had to. They ached, a hot burn that would not allow for tears.
Malfoy was looking back at him, a raw, almost vulnerable expression on his face. His mouth twisted into a pained grimace, as if more teeth than could be accommodated were taking shape behind the tightly shut lips. He let go of Harry's shoulder. Even as he drew back, Harry saw that the pale skin of his arm was now covered with whitish fuzz. His fingers curved, gnarled as if they were being broken and then put together again with extra joints. At the tips, his nails tapered into points.
Harry wanted to scream, but fear filled his lungs and his throat. His eyes were painfully wide. The warped hand raced towards his face as if in suspended animation, nails and fingerbones lengthening even as Malfoy swung. Curved white claws gleamed before Harry's eyes, then the werewolf twisted his paw around and his knuckles caught Harry's temple right over the bruise where Malfoy's boot had come down earlier.
Fire flared before Harry's eyelids, and even the flash of knowledge that if he lost consciousness now he'd be – literally – dead meat in a heartbeat could not keep the world from turning dark, and deadly silent.
***
Harry woke with a head that seemed twice its normal size, the taste of blood in his mouth, and a profound feeling of disorientation. His eyes were glued shut. He patted the surface on which he lay – a mattress with a lumpy, crumpled blanket. With faint surprise, he realised that he could move, and fought nausea as he sat up. He rubbed at his eyelids and scraped off flakes of dried blood before finally managing to pry them open.
His eyes fell on his own gangly, bare legs with bruises marring the inside of his thighs. He was naked, and with that awareness came the cold, biting his flesh. The door of the hut stood slightly ajar. As if someone had left, and pulled it shut again without much care. Or as if something smaller than human had squeezed its way out...
Malfoy! The wolf! That claw, coming at his face!
Harry stumbled off the bed with a frantic whimper. He probed at the gash on his forehead, managing only to make it hurt worse before he saw the dirty mirror magicked to the side of the single cupboard. Naked, he stumbled over to it and pressed his face close to the stained glass, examining the gash. It did not look like a cut from a claw, more like a nasty bruise. It fit in with the slight turn of Malfoy's arm when he'd swung, curling his fingers into a tight fist rather than spreading those newly-gained claws. Hard enough to make him bleed, though.
Of course there were scrapes and scratches all over his body, but if Malfoy had intended to infect him, he could have – would have, Harry thought – left obvious marks like those he wore himself, not disguised his handiwork with an invisible nick somewhere. The thought left him breathing a little easier.
He limped back to the bed and shuddered in disgust as he took in the soiled mattress. The blanket was bunched up, and still warm under Harry's hand. A patch of fine, silver-white fur stuck to the rough fabric. The blanket smelled burnt and fresh at the same time – like animal.
Harry recalled the bitter taste of Malfoy's mouth when he'd first kissed him. Malfoy must have taken Wolfsbane, although Harry refused to think about where he'd got it from. And then Malfoy had rolled up on the bed next to Harry's unconscious form, watching him sleep, breathe... His limp prick, groin and belly were sticky with a coat of dried saliva. Harry tried not to think about what part of the wolf's anatomy had been responsible.
His eyes searched for his clothes and found them, neatly folded on one of the chairs. He dragged himself over, leaning heavily on the headrest. The mere thought of putting clothes on his soiled body sent a shudder of revulsion through him. He wanted nothing more than to submerge himself in a shower, or a bath, until he drowned or until hot water had scalded away Malfoy's traces from his body, and the memory of pleasure from his mind. But there was no water in Dung's hut; even the chipped washbasin on the chest of drawers was collecting dust at the bottom. And, Harry reminded himself as he reluctantly pulled his trousers over his bruised hips – he could not bring himself to touch his ripped underpants – Voldemort's cohorts might be ringing the place, waiting to drag him off to his death as soon as he set foot outside. He couldn't be found naked.
His shirt stuck unpleasantly to his back, and the effort of forcing his swollen ankle into its boot squeezed tears from his eyes.
Harry's cloak hung from one of the wooden pegs by the door – Malfoy must have been busy tidying up before he left. Harry slouched over to fetch it, stooped as if his desire to curl up and cry in a dark corner reached right into his muscles. He took down the cloak and pulled it around his shoulders. It felt a precious little bit like hiding.
Something bumped against his thigh inside the coat, and Harry's hand flew to the pocket. He felt the familiar buzz before his fingers even touched the smooth wood, and stared at his wand in disbelief. Suddenly, the fear that there might be Death Eaters outside seemed absurd. Malfoy wouldn't arm him for a showdown; even Voldemort had learned that lesson in the Riddle graveyard. The knife and the Aconite Essence had disappeared, though, not that it surprised him at all.
Gripping the wand in his undamaged hand, determined not to be parted with it except by death, Harry peered around the half-open door. The drizzle had set in again sometime during the night, and the morning was bleak. Grey skies shed their water, and the little clearing looked deserted with leaves clustered around now-lifeless roots. Draco Malfoy – wolf or man – was gone.
Harry kept his wand doggedly aimed at the roots, although no movement stirred on the ground. He tried not to walk with too obvious a limp even though his left ankle was bruised and his arse screamed with every step. Harry reached the trees without interruption, although his neck prickled with paranoia. He jumped every time a raindrop landed on his face or hands. Gaining the muddy remains of the footpath towards Hogsmeade, he swung around one last time as if to trap a potential hunter with his eyes.
Nothing stirred. The hut stood unchanged, the door still ajar to admit the humid air, its unlovely facade mellowed by a grey veil of rain.
But as the hem of his cloak whipped around his booted legs, something gently brushed his thigh again, far more softly than his wand had earlier. Very carefully, Harry slipped his hand into the depths of his pocket once more.
At the very bottom, hardly noticeable against the heavy seam, he touched a small bundle of cloth. Gingerly, he pulled it out. It lay on his palm, a piece of metal swaddled in silk. When Harry loosened the knots, it unfolded itself into a handkerchief, embroidered at one corner with an elaborate 'M'. Inside gleamed a heavy, old-fashioned silver locket.
It took a long moment before Harry could remember that he had to breathe. He slumped against the tree behind him, the hand that held the locket trembling visibly. He touched the age-dulled metal with one finger, and felt the power contained inside before he'd fully taken in the stylised 'S' that decorated the lid. Unlike the fake locket they'd found in the cave, this thrummed with a presence that spoke right to the residual traces Voldemort had left inside him when he'd tried to kill Harry as a baby. A sinister power that pricked through the silk. Harry swallowed, remembering Dumbledore's mutilated hand, and wrapped the locket back into Malfoy's handkerchief before returning it into his cloak pocket. And then he pressed his hand over the little bulge to reassure himself that it was real.
He leaned against the wet bark of the tree, oblivious to the dirt smearing his cheek, and laughed until his sobs convulsed him. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the raindrops until he could hardly distinguish what dripped into his mouth.
Malfoy's face danced, sharply outlined, at the insides of his eyelids, so vivid that Harry could smell the rain-scent of his skin, feel the burn of his cock deep inside him, the silken tug of fingers at his groin.
Malfoy, who had sworn to kill him, and yet had let him walk out into the morning rain alive.
Malfoy, who had known what he had in the Horcrux, who had slaughtered Dung Fletcher to get it. And who had slipped it to Harry instead of carrying it, in triumph, to Voldemort. Taking, in exchange, nothing more than a tumble with Harry's body on a mouldy bed in a fence's hut.
And yet Malfoy had raped him for all that he'd made Harry's body a partway accomplice in the crime. Just as Greyback had done to him. Harry's stomach heaved at the thought of Greyback's fangs drooling over Draco's white body. Malfoy had not broken, not on the surface. But then he'd had the wolf to shield behind, just as Sirius had had Padfoot in Azkaban. Harry thought of the sleek, sharp creature that Malfoy had become, as if he'd shed weakness and trembling vulnerability along with his humanity when he'd embraced the monster.
Had it been a challenge to see if Harry would be as strong, or just revenge, long-festering hatred enacted at last? Or could Malfoy really want Harry like this?
He worried his lower lip, tasting the caked remnants of the blood Malfoy had drawn, and resolutely wiped his hand over his nose and face. He gave the little bump in his hip pocket a reassuring squeeze.
He had the Horcrux, and would dump it onto the table for Professor McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt to destroy. No more secrets, thank you very much! Well, except for what had happened with Malfoy in the hut. That was their own personal business.
Hell, Harry wanted to see Malfoy again! Wanted so badly to talk to him, to curse him till he writhed on the ground, choking on his own screams. To throw him to the ground and pummel his face into a bloody pulp. To shove him up against the wall and kiss him speechless, perhaps.
He'd have to think about that.
~ finis ~
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to J K Rowling. I'm just entertaining them a bit. No harm intended, no money made!
hpde_smutathon Masterlist has been posted, I can post this to LJ. And acknowledge and squeeze the lovely moltensulfur once again for writing The Thrill of Torture which totally blew me away :). A rec post for the Smutathon should hopefully turn up sometime tonight…Title: Moonrise
Author: Hijja (kennahijja@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: dub-con/non-con, a bit of violence
Length: 10589 words
Summary: When Dung Fletcher turns up dead in the woods around Hogsmeade, Harry goes to investigate... and finds a lot more than he's bargained for.
Note: Written for
sioniann as part of the hpde_smutathon. Thanks to fee_absinthe and Rabastan43 and hummelchen for beta, advice and hand-holding! Multi-coloured leaves crackled under Harry's feet as he strolled through the outskirts of Hogsmeade, the hood of his cloak pulled up to shield his face and scar from the curiosity of passers-by. There weren't many; not this late in the afternoon, not in these times.
A fat raindrop spilled from a branch overhead and splashed right onto his nose. Harry flinched and wiped it off. The afternoon drizzle had stopped, but it was still wet, smelling of damp earth and approaching dark.
Mournfully, Harry looked into the direction where Hogwarts lay behind the hills. The castle's presence exerted an almost physical pull. For the umpteenth time, he cursed Scrimgeour for forcing Professor McGonagall to close the school. No, Hogwarts wasn't the safe haven it had been when Headmaster Dumbledore had been alive – Snape and Malfoy had exploded that illusion. But seeing terrified wizards and witches hastening in groups through Diagon Alley, the empty lanes of Hogsmeade, the children cooped up at home by frightened parents... Re-opening Hogwarts would have been a signal of hope. That the Ministry refused it felt like a surrender to Voldemort. Harry just knew it had to please the evil bastard.
He set out on the muddy footpath that led towards the woods behind the last houses of the village, reflexively checking the contents of his cloak's ample pockets. His eyes searched the sky. It was still light despite the rain; the moon wouldn't be out for hours yet.
Remus would kill him if he found out. But the last time Harry had seen Remus he'd been tucked under a blanket on a musty couch at Grimmauld Place, plied with honeyed tea by Tonks and having a lie-down after the ravages of a night under the full moon.
Harry had known he had to go from the moment he'd heard that Mundungus Fletcher's corpse had turned up in the fields right outside Hogsmeade, ripped to shreds by wolf teeth and with the tattered remains of his suitcase still clutched in his bloodstained hand. Empty.
It had cleared the streets of Hogsmeade faster than an outbreak of Dragon Pox in spite of Auror patrols and a nightly curfew.
Kingsley and Moody had insisted that it was too late, that Dung had fallen to the random attack of a renegade werewolf who would be long gone. Remus, too, had warned Harry off Hogsmeade in no uncertain terms, stressing that some werewolves – in particular those who gloried in their existence as Voldemort's followers – could force transformation on themselves during the nights that followed the full moon proper.
But Kingsley, Moody and Remus didn't know about the locket. Harry did. He also knew about the fake locket in the cave by the sea, about the initials written on the note inside.
He'd figured things out just a week ago, crouched before the Black family tapestry between Ron and Hermione, and trying not to look at the burn mark that had been trying to obliterate Sirius's presence long before the veil had achieved it for real. Instead, he had concentrated on the name next to it, whose gold-threaded stitches seemed to flicker restlessly in the candle light.
"Regulus A. Black," he'd read aloud. "I wonder what A. stands for."
"Arcturus," a gravelly voice announced from the wall, one Harry had last heard breaking in pain as it had protested the pronouncement of Sirius's death. Phineas Nigellus had slipped soundlessly back into his frame, returning, Harry assumed, from the darkened corridors of Hogwarts and the empty study of its Headmaster.
"R.A.B.!" Hermione gasped. "Sirius's younger brother? But how? He was only a boy when he died, no older than-"
"Than us," Harry finished. He recalled the cave, the potion, Dumbledore's pleading and helpless tears, the lake full of Inferi... There was no way one young man could have stolen the locket and replaced it with a double – not without help. But then who said that he'd had none?
"It's our best bet so far," he'd told them resolutely. Grimmauld Place had been Regulus Black's home. They had seen the antique locket that might have been Voldemort's Horcrux while cleaning up the house two years back. Only to have it vanish, Kreacher pleading squeakily that he'd returned it to its accustomed place, not taken it to the Malfoys. And Harry had caught Mundungus Fletcher with trinkets stolen from Grimmauld Place at the Hog's Head last year.
And now Dung was messily dead, and it was just too much of a coincidence – a vanished Horcrux, a werewolf...
The name 'Fenrir Greyback' had been bandied about by the few hardened punters who had dared to brave the atmosphere of gloom blanketing Hogsmeade to venture into the Three Broomsticks when Harry had slipped in for a butterbeer and a bit of warmth before starting into the woods. Their suspicious looks had nearly burned the skin off his neck, bundled up though he was in his concealing cloak.
Harry had heard Remus's story about Voldemort organising the werewolves, and had seen Greyback taunting Dumbledore on the tower as if he had nothing at all to fear from the man Voldemort himself was scared of. The last thing Harry wanted was going wand to claw with a monster like Greyback. Truth be told, the thought of werewolves had terrified him ever since that night Professor Lupin had come after them in the woods.
At least, Harry assured himself as he tried not to slip on the rain-soaked footpath winding its way along under the trees, he'd come prepared. Ron had slipped him a wicked-looking silver knife that had been part of Bill's Curse-Breaking Kit. Weighing down his other pocket was a large flask with concentrated Essence of Aconite that Hermione had pressed into his hand at the last moment. It wouldn't kill a werewolf, of course, but perhaps send it running, she'd announced, flustered and surrounded by a cloud of potions fumes. Not that Harry planned to stick around to find out!
Yes, Tonks and Kingsley had gone through the hut in the woods that Dung had used to stack stolen cauldrons and whatnot. But they hadn't known what to look for. Harry knew he could not rest until he'd searched the place and seen with his own eyes that the Horcrux wasn't there.
He'd insisted on going alone over the protests of Ron and Hermione. If Harry vanished for a 'night out in Muggle London', who could object? He was of age, and independent. But if all three of them were gone, Mrs Weasley would raise the roof when she came in to cook dinner in the evening.
Nervously, Harry checked his watch. It wasn't even five yet, moonrise was way off. He'd have enough time to find and search the hut, then Apparate out before it got dark.
When Harry finally laid eyes on the hut, almost a mile outside Hogsmeade in the middle of a small clearing, it looked less ramshackle than he'd expected a hideout of Dung's to be. It was built from solid wooden logs fused together by magic into elaborate swirls at the joints. Small, but Harry reminded himself that size on the outside meant nothing for a wizarding dwelling. The clearing was shrouded in silence. There was no sign of life – the single window was barricaded and the door bolted. Tonks and Kingsley must have locked up again when they left. Harry drew his wand.
A sweeping revealing charm showed no sign of a wizard or witch about the place. The hut felt as empty as it looked, emitting only the faint hum of power that surrounded every magically constructed dwelling. No protective spells around it either.
A carpet of dead leaves over gravelly ground replaced the sluicing mud of the path, and rustled under the soles of Harry's boots as he left his cover behind a tree and made his way towards the hut.
The oaken door and bolted windows seemed to cold-shoulder him as he stood there, peering nervously behind him a few times. He raised his hand and knocked, for all that the place screamed 'unwelcome' and that its owner was dead.
When he tried to pull the door handle, a sharp crack sounded behind him.
Harry dove out of the way with reflexes honed in hours of DA training, and then for real in the empty ballroom of Grimmauld Place with Tonks, Shacklebolt and Moody. A curse, hot and sickly yellow, whistled past his face and impacted on the shingles next to the door. Splinters and boards exploded in a cloud of dust. Harry rolled to the side and braced himself against the wall in a half-sprawl, wand raised at the black-clad figure that stood at the opposite end of the clearing. Before his assailant could cast another curse, Harry had regained his breath and flicked his wand.
"Expelliarmus!"
The Death Eater – and it was a Death Eater, Harry saw now, with a white oval mask obscuring his face, and a flowing black robe and hood covering everything else – deflected the spell with a mere wriggle of his wand. Harry's mouth went dry. It wasn't Greyback – the slender silhouette wouldn't have disguised the werewolf's bulk. The shape would fit Bellatrix Lestrange, but she'd have started to mock him by now.
"Stupefy!" Harry tried again, followed by a quick, "Reducto!" that snapped at the man's heels as he dived out of the way of the first spell. The Reductor Curse hit home, blasting its target several feet across the clearing. With a surge of triumph Harry dove after him, intent on finishing his enemy with another stunning spell. If he could bring in this Death Eater, Veritaserum might just give them a lead on Mundungus's death, and the Horcrux!
When something under the leaves caused him to stumble a few feet away from the dazed Death Eater, Harry shrugged it off as a loose pebble without looking down. Then another something snagged his foot, and a sharp stab of pain went through his ankle. He almost fell, and stared down. A root, brown and gnarled, was winding itself around his smarting ankle. Another was scraping eagerly along the side of his other boot. And underneath the seemingly innocent leaves, more roots came to life by the second.
Harry cursed and spat "Incendio!" at the creeping carpet. The roots blackened under the blast, but only gripped him with sickening force as the heat burned his own feet. Another tug sent him crashing to his knees, and the roots greedily snatched his wand hand as he tried to balance himself on the ground. He searched fitfully for the silver knife in his pocket with his other hand even as the Death Eater rose before him in a cloud of dark robes. Harry tried to throw himself out of the way, but the roots held fast.
"Crucio!"
Harry screamed as the curse sliced through him, splitting his head and his chest and every cell of his body. He writhed in the loveless embrace of the roots, trying feebly to escape. When the curse was lifted after a few seconds, he remained unmoving and facedown. The aftershocks were still trembling through his nerves, but as far as Cruciatus went, he'd had worse. Still, he didn't stir as the Death Eater took a few careful steps towards him.
Yes, I'm broken and helpless, he projected viciously. Just come a little closer, you bastard!
The man obliged, stepping into reach and bending down to examine Harry's prone form. Harry's hand shot out. He grabbed the man's ankle and pulled.
The robed figure gave a satisfyingly high scream and fell in a whorl of inky cloth, Harry still clinging obstinately to his foot. With his free hand, Harry scrabbled for his wand in a snake-like tangle of roots. His enemy struggled back onto his feet just as Harry managed to tear the wand free.
"Sectums-" he gasped, trying to aim when the Death Eater's boot came down with sickening force on the fingers of his wand hand. Harry bit his lip to stifle a whimper. His fingerbones threatened to crack under the pressure. Tears shot into his eyes, and the wand slipped from his numbing fingers. A non-verbal summoning charm sent it up into the man's gloved fist. The boot came down again, this time aiming straight for Harry's face and bruising his cheek with unexpected force. Harry saw stars and slumped backwards. His last thought before the second kick impacted right on his temple was that the Death Eater was inhumanly strong for such a slight figure.
Then darkness claimed him.
Each and every one of his senses was protesting against returning to life as Harry swam out of unconsciousness. His head pounded so badly that breathing alone almost made his stomach turn. A white-hot needle seemed to be stabbing through his temple. His left hand was one big bruise, and when he tried to move it, he realised that he couldn't. He tensed, but to no avail – his limbs were as heavy as if they had been transfigured into lead. He thought he might be able to lift his eyelids, but the effort would probably make his head explode.
Reality asserted itself, slow and threatening. He'd been kicked in the head by a Death Eater. He couldn't move. He hurt all over, and his wand was gone. And most of all, he felt watched.
It was this niggling feeling that gave him the courage to open his eyes at last. Which was exactly as painful as he'd been dreading. His dilated pupils caught the light, little though there was, and it pierced his brain like a second needle in his forehead. He was too weak to groan but twisted his face into a pained grimace. His lips were cracked and stung when he touched them with his tongue.
He recognised the inside of Dung Fletcher's hut by the characteristic swirls of the fusing magic on the wooden roof. A single lamp hung from the ceiling, spreading even light. He was lying on a bed that took up the far end of the room; a naked mattress, covered by a blanket that was rough under his paralysed fingers. His cloak and boots were gone, leaving him in jeans and shirt.
There was a table in the middle of the hut, right below the lamp, and against it lounged a familiar black-robed figure. Harry licked his dry lips and tried to suck in flat breaths to keep the pain in his head from flaring. He was fucked. The Death Eater would drag him off to Voldemort, and that would be the end of him.
Harry struggled to keep his face blank – his enemy had the upper hand; he didn't need to see Harry panic on top of it. They stared at each other in silence, Harry trying in vain to see beyond the shadows created by mask and hood. The man's provocative posture vexed him.
Under Harry's dogged stare, the Death Eater dislodged his hip from the table at last, and removed his mask. His head was slightly bowed as he put the mask onto the table, and for a moment he looked as if he was removing his entire face and there was nothing but darkness beneath. Then the head came up in a familiar, arrogant tilt, the hood fell back, and blond strands tumbled out. Somehow, Harry wasn't surprised at all.
And yet, for an instant he almost thought he was seeing the older Malfoy in place of the younger, despite the ferret's slighter build. There was real rather than forced self-possession in Malfoy's posture, a more subtle smirk on his face, and an air of confidence that hadn't been there before. Certainly not during the past year. As if Draco Malfoy had finally remade himself in his father's image rather than feebly trying to imitate him.
Which wasn't to say that it made Malfoy's smirk any less aggravating. Obviously he hadn't done badly out of his flight to Voldemort. In retrospect, Harry regretted the frisson of pity he'd occasionally felt for the little bastard over the past months.
"Malfoy," he ground out when the silence became too much. At least his voice worked, if none of his limbs did. He was proud of his contemptuous tone.
"Harry," the bastard acknowledged with a slight dip of the head, as if they'd always been on first-name terms.
Malfoy strolled towards the bed, graceful in a sleek way that made Harry's nose prickle in painful recollection. No, Malfoy wouldn't hesitate to kick an enemy who was down – he'd proved it before.
"What's this, then?" Harry pressed on, intent on getting the little shite to talk. He might learn something, and Malfoy was full of himself. As long as he prattled, he wouldn't curse or hit Harry. "You're going to wait for reinforcements before you drag me off to your master?"
Malfoy smiled thinly. "Oh, no, Harry. You see, the Dark Lord has lost his personal interest in you." He sauntered closer, wand held loosely between black-gloved fingers. "His Death Eaters are merely under orders to kill you wherever they find you."
It shouldn't surprise him, Harry knew, not after the Department of Mysteries, but it still carried a sting – being Voldemort's personal target had given him a twisted kind of protection. But to meet death at Draco Malfoy's hands was... well, beyond unimaginable.
"You're going to kill me? You couldn't even murder Dumbledore on the tower."
"Couldn't I?" Malfoy inquired.
"I was there, under an Invisibility Cloak." Harry shrugged, or rather gave the woefully feeble twitch that the spell allowed his neck muscles. The memory of who had killed that night ate at his stomach, a pain as acute as his injured head.
"Well, yes," Malfoy conceded and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I didn't hate Dumbledore." He smiled, very slowly, crouching there like a predatory cat. "I do hate you, Harry."
It was a mutual sentiment, of course, and yet something tightened in Harry's chest. They'd been school enemies, eager enough to strike out viciously, but on killing terms? Harry recalled the few agonising moments he'd knelt beside Malfoy's trembling body in the sixth-floor bathroom, trying to staunch Malfoy's blood and pleading soundlessly for something to catapult him out of that utter nightmare. And Malfoy could have cast the Killing Curse instead of breaking Harry's face on the train, without anyone to stop him. No, Harry refused to believe it. Malfoy was a right evil bastard, but not a killer.
Or hadn't been, a few weeks ago. There was something different about him now. Maybe that was what happened if you had the Dark Mark and Voldemort could reach inside your soul.
And as much as he wanted to object, Harry wasn't Dumbledore. From his mouth, helpless and paralysed as he was, telling Malfoy he didn't think him a murderer would sound like pleading. And whatever happened, Harry Potter would not plead with a low-life git like Draco Malfoy!
"So you're going to kill me," he said coolly. "Well, what are you waiting for? Are you going to gloat till I die of boredom?"
Again, Malfoy smiled that vague, amused smile that made Harry's neck prickle. He shifted and his hip touched Harry's limp arm. Harry's skin crawled as Malfoy's hand brushed aside a few strands of hair plastered to his forehead.
"No," Malfoy said. "Only till moonrise."
Harry's stomach clenched. If Malfoy was working with the werewolf that had killed Dung... if he left him here, unable to move a finger, left the door open with a monster waiting outside...
"Scared, Potter?" Malfoy whispered.
'You wish' died on Harry's lips, because he was. This wasn't a childish taunt – this was the stuff of nightmares. The thought of the moon shining into the hut's interior through the open door, the rectangle of light obscured by a crouching, monstrous shape, something like Fenrir Greyback...
"Even you wouldn't do that."
There it was, pleading in spirit if not in words. Because Malfoy was right, he was scared, and Malfoy was the sort of coward who might hesitate to dirty his own hands, but perhaps not to turn his back and leave Harry to his fate. Sirius's cousin. It was ironic, Harry realised, the blot on the Black tapestry looming large in his mind. Both willing to feed their enemies to the wolves.
The hated smile had not waned on Malfoy's face. "You know nothing of what I would or would not do."
Malfoy's hands went up to the front of his robe, unhooking the heavy cloth. The silver hook fastenings parted over Malfoy's chest like the jaws of a predator. Malfoy shrugged out of the robe, tossing it carelessly over the foot of the bed. It left him clad in a grey tunic, black trousers and boots. Harry stared, uncomprehending. Why would the git want to make himself comfortable, if he was about to run out and leave the dirty job to one of Greyback's creatures?
He stared even more as Malfoy began to unbutton his tunic as well. The skin revealed was a translucent white, the chest criss-crossed by silver lines. Harry swallowed. He'd seen those cuts before when they were raw and gushing blood after his hapless Sectumsempra. Surely Malfoy couldn't think that leaving Harry to be ripped apart by the claws of a monster would be fair retribution?
The shirt slipped lower and revealed more scars, jagged and still red against the pale flesh of Malfoy's stomach – marks left by an animal, not mauling with intent to kill, but to mark, to disfigure. They were too deep to have been gauged by nails alone, no matter how sharp.
"Oh God, it was you," Harry gasped.
Malfoy's eyes remained mild, but the smile on his lips vanished. "You see now, Harry? You know nothing about what I'm capable of."
Slowly, the smile reappeared, but sharper, a lot sharper.
"Do you want to know how, Harry? You were so smug pointing out that I didn't kill Dumbledore – did you think I earned the Dark Lord's praise that way, ignoring my orders in front of a group of Death Eaters?" Malfoy's lips drew back in an animalistic twist that exposed the tip of his canines. "He was furious. He wanted to punish my father. So he thought that giving me to Greyback would be a nice touch."
The tight rage trembling in Malfoy's voice was unsettling. It scared Harry as much as the claw marks on the young man's side and stomach, which still seemed to pulse with blood underneath that had been running free once, and longed to spill out again. If Harry had been able to move, he might have given in to his sick impulse to touch them.
"Granted," Malfoy continued, "I was a bit older than Greyback's usual prey of choice, but well, he decided that there were other... interesting things he could do to get his kicks."
Harry had a moment's mental flash of Greyback, shaggy grey hair, yellow teeth, with blood caking his nails, slavering over the body of Draco Malfoy sprawled naked and bound on a bed. He saw hairy skin sprouting into an equally shaggy pelt, sharp nails into claws, and squeezed his eyes shut until they hurt, biting his tongue to chase the image away. It was only his imagination, not a memory picked from Malfoy's brain – Malfoy, too, had been trained in Occlumency!
"I'm sorry," Harry blurted out. His lips were cold, and the taste of metallic bile fouled his mouth. He felt the urge to touch the boy, comfort him - which would probably be a spectacularly bad idea. He was almost relieved that the paralysis precluded any temptation.
"I was weak there on the tower," Malfoy said. "I won't be weak ever again."
"You killed Mundungus Fletcher," Harry whispered. Malfoy nodded, peering at him from underneath half-lowered lids.
"Oh yes. He was slow and stupid and weighed down by that suitcase of his. And he had something I wanted."
The locket. A dry sting pricked Harry's eyes. Poor Dung – he'd had no idea that the trinkets he'd stolen would be bought with his life.
Malfoy's eyes gleamed. "My mother always knew what cousin Regulus had brought home with him before the Dark Lord had him killed as a traitor. And Snape sent me here to get it, and to make an example of whoever was guarding it. He said you'd come." Rage stained Harry's cheeks at the mention of the traitor. "The same thing as my father's diary. Which you destroyed, Harry. Again, all our misery traces back to you."
Malfoy raised his hand to Harry's face, who would have flinched away if he could. But the fingers just brushed the hair back from his forehead before running, feather-soft, over his scar. Harry shivered. No one ever touched him there, as if the scar would still hurt, or radiate dark magic. The mark of legend.
"I always wanted to do that," Malfoy said conversationally. "I did wonder how it would feel."
Harry's mouth went dry. There was something unsettling about Malfoy's expression. His fingers left Harry's scar, leaving his hair sticking up. Harry wished he could move his arm to flatten it down again. He felt hot under his collar as Malfoy's fingers brushed over his face until the tips rested at the corner of his mouth. A careful nail slid along the curve of Harry's lower lip.
"And I always wanted to have you," Malfoy continued, in an eerie voice that reminded Harry of Bellatrix Lestrange. "I told you that two years back, didn't I? Oh, not at the beginning. At first I just wanted you as a friend, famous Harry Potter, to pry all the secrets and powers out of the Boy Who Lived..." The chilly little smirk reappeared on his lips. "But then you shunned me, and made every school year utter hell until finally I only wanted you beneath me, beaten and helpless and begging..." Malfoy's hand closed around Harry's throat, leaving him hyper-aware of how his pulse hammered above his collarbone and against the clasp of Malfoy's fingers. "Just like this."
"I'm not begging." Harry heard the catch in his voice, and felt his vocal cords vibrating against Malfoy's hand.
"But you want to, don't you?" the bastard murmured. "Snape told us about that night you and the Mudblood and the Weasel were almost eaten by Lupin. Were you scared, Harry?"
The memory returned to Harry's mind on the path of countless nightmares; the jaws of the monster, the glowing amber eyes, the massive bulk of bristling grey fur... Snuffles's pained whine as the creature flung him away into the undergrowth... He'd been scared out of his mind!
"Of course I was!" he snapped, noticing how unnaturally warm Malfoy's hand felt against his clammy skin. As if he was burning up with fever.
Hilarity crinkled the corners of Malfoy's eyes. They had been plain grey before, but now they were almost silver; like Remus's, Harry suddenly realised, ordinary honey brown but sometimes acquiring an amber shade when the full moon approached. Malfoy tightened his hand, and Harry's breath rattled in his lungs.
"In the nights of the full moon we have the strength of the wolf, even in human form." Malfoy paused, licking his lower lip purposefully. "In the nights of the full moon we have all the instincts and urges of the wolf."
The harsh grip around Harry's neck loosened, and Malfoy's index finger took to stroking the underside of Harry's chin in a way that made his ears burn.
"Don't touch me!" he snarled from between clenched teeth.
Malfoy leaned down until his face was right above Harry's and slipped his fingers into the collar of Harry's shirt. Purposefully, he started ripping off the buttons one after the other, without the slightest effort. His eyes never once left Harry's own. Harry marshalled all his strength and struggled against the paralysing charm. His fingers managed to twitch, a little.
"I can't see you stopping me," Malfoy sneered. He flicked the flaps of Harry's shirt aside, and ran a hand over Harry's stomach. It burned under Malfoy's palm, and goose pimples broke out all over Harry's skin.
Malfoy grabbed his hair, twisting wild strands around his hand and pressed Harry's head down against the pillow. Then he lowered his face until it filled Harry's entire vision, pointed chin, pale lips, those alien silver eyes, and tendrils of bright hair – it had grown longer over the last months, and hadn't been properly maintained. There were tangles and snares up close, adding to the image of a wild thing in search of prey.
Malfoy interrupted Harry's reverie and bit down at his mouth, sharp nips that called blood to the surface and chased the thoughts right out of Harry's brain like a pouncing cat scattering a flock of sparrows. Malfoy's lips tasted surprisingly bitter.
"Let me go!" Harry shrieked as soon as his mouth was free again, a bitter taste clinging to his lips.
"You can't escape," Malfoy murmured, still too close to Harry's face. He licked what had to be Harry's blood from his lips.
Just let me see you stop me! Harry thought mutinously. The... he refused to think of it as a kiss, but it scared him. "Let go!" he insisted again, and to his surprise Malfoy drew back and summoned his wand from the table.
"If that's what you want," he smirked. He tapped the wooden tip against Harry's collarbone and ran it down his chest. "Finite Incantatem!"
Along the line the wand had drawn, Harry's skin began to prickle. An overwhelming rush of pins and needles spread over his entire body and forced tears to his eyes. His limbs woke up to life reluctantly, and he bit his lip against a groan. Then he thought better of it and let out a second, louder whimper, curling onto his side like a caterpillar and gulping in a few deep breaths against the musky bedclothes. Let Malfoy think him weaker than he was. He would only have seconds to strike anyway.
When he was halfway confident that his legs would not give out and send him collapsing into a heap as soon as he tried to stand, he pounced. He tackled Malfoy, stifling a scream as his muscles protested the sudden movement. He grabbed desperately for Malfoy's wand, but the bastard just slipped off the bed in a fluid move. Harry scrabbled forward to follow when something bit down around his right ankle, sending him onto his belly in a graceless sprawl.
He craned his neck, only to see a thin silver shackle encircling his foot and chaining it safely to the metallic grid at the foot of the bed. Harry screamed with fury and disappointment and threw himself forward, shackle notwithstanding. It cut into his ankle like an axe, but he ignored the pain. His nails cut skin and his fingertips touched wood for one fleeting instant before Malfoy managed to yank his wand away, deep gauges marring his wrist. An ugly grimace reshaped his features when he saw his blood.
Then he swung, a single blow connecting with Harry's face and knocking him down onto the mattress. The back of his head hit the headboard, and a sickening black wave crested over his brain. He tasted thick blood at the back of his throat, and his jaw felt as if it had been shattered with a hammer. For an endless moment he struggled for consciousness, and when he opened his eyes, he looked right at the tip of Malfoy's wand.
"Crucio!"
Harry's wail rang painfully loud in his ears as the curse clawed at him, tearing holes into his skin and pouring acid into the gashes. Blood dripped from his mouth as he twisted on the bed. Then the agony was gone again in a breath of Malfoy's voice. For a blissful moment Harry drifted on a cloud of nothing before the multiple aches in his head and hand and ankle managed to reassert themselves.
Malfoy leaned over Harry's pain-wracked body. His mouth touched the corner of Harry's, and then a warm tongue lapped at the blood that coated Harry's chin. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, too weak to tremble.
"You see, Harry," Malfoy murmured when the side of Harry's face was clean, and wet. "You won't win this time."
He slid his hand down Harry's torso, and Harry could feel its warmth and a scrape of nail where Malfoy's thumb ran over his nipple. It tightened into a terrified little nub, and Harry bit his tongue to swallow his protest. It wasn't so bad, really, compared to the Cruciatus Curse. Only when Malfoy slipped below his navel and began to toy with the button of Harry's old jeans – the ones Dudley had grown out of at twelve – he squirmed. Malfoy grinned wolfishly and caught Harry's wrists, pinning them above his head with one hand. Harry could feel the inhuman strength of his grip, the way his bones shifted under those long fingers, and knew Malfoy could probably snap both his wrists with a little more pressure.
"Don't touch me!" he insisted once more, but relaxed. There would be no hope of escape with one or two broken hands. Perhaps the animal in Malfoy would respond to submissive body language. And indeed, the death grip loosened a little. Malfoy's free hand had wandered down to cup Harry's groin in a way that sent stabs of mortification through him.
"But I want to," Malfoy pouted. "You mean your domesticated Lupin never let you see his true face when the full moon came round?"
Harry blinked. He'd always read Remus's tension before the full moon as dread of his impending transformation. Remus had been pointedly mild-mannered at those times – talking kindly to Snape when he'd brought him the Wolfsbane, putting up good-naturedly with Tonks's fussing.
"I guess he was fucking cousin Sirius to get rid of the tension," Malfoy insinuated viciously. "I'm surprised that he didn't try you after the mutt died." He brushed his thumb over the outline of Harry's prick underneath the denim, and Harry squeaked in protest. "Fenrir Greyback tells us that the instincts of the wolf are all that matters. Everyone who's not pack is food – or entertainment beforehand." His mouth twitched. "That's the law among monsters."
Trying hard to ignore the thumb that stroked his length until an unwelcome stiffening betrayed him, Harry sought to catch Malfoy's eyes.
"You're not a monster for having those instincts," he said softly, even though he wasn't really sure – you had to be pretty twisted to molest an enemy like this. But Dumbledore had died to confirm his faith in Malfoy. "You'll only become a monster if you behave like one."
The sharp bark of Malfoy's laughter startled Harry. "You know nothing, you stupid, Muggle-raised halfblood! The Dark Lord may elevate us because we're useful to him, but to the wizarding world – to the purebloods families – we're nothing but animals. If my father were free he'd put me down like a rabid dog."
A strange, absent-minded glint stole into Malfoy's gaze. "I've seen it when I was small – they rode out at dusk, on winged horses with Crups around their hooves, with silver weapons, my father and his friends. And they came back with blood on their hands, and Macnair complaining that he couldn't preserve the pelt when the creature transformed back. Father will expect me to bare my throat to the blade just so I'll stop polluting a respectable wizarding line. I'm not even human to him any more, far less a son."
Harry could see it in a flash of vision – the elder Malfoy, resplendent in brocade robes, one hand tangled in the sleek mess of Draco's hair, pulling his head back just a little to expose Draco's throat; the silver knife in his other hand looming close, reflected in the translucent shine of Draco's skin. He saw Draco's face, eyelids fluttering but unresisting, with that tiny, bitter smile on his lips, serene like a young animal selected for sacrifice. Saw the flash of silver, and snapped, "No!"
"No?" Malfoy inquired, eyes piercing as if he'd been poking into Harry's mind with Legilimency. "You'd want to save me from that? Despite what I'm going to do with you?"
Harry exhaled very softly. He didn't want Malfoy to die, not when he seemed more alive than ever before. But he didn't want to die himself, either. He'd been chosen to defeat Voldemort – he could not end here, prey to Draco Malfoy. Dumbledore, Sirius, his parents - they would all have died in vain.
"Let go of my hands," he ordered, his voice firm but low. Malfoy cocked his head like a pigeon eyeing a savoury crumb, and obeyed. Resisting the urge to rub his aching wrists, Harry reached up and slid one hand around Malfoy's neck, again marvelling at the heat of his skin. He propped himself up on his other elbow, tugged Malfoy's face down a little, and put his lips very firmly against Malfoy's. Touching Malfoy's pointy chin was alien compared to Ginny's dimples and soft, berry-scented lips. And yet he wondered, for a split second, what it would be like to open his mouth and kiss Malfoy for real. Instead, he drew back, without taking his hand from Malfoy's neck.
"You're no monster," he repeated.
Malfoy's lips twitched again, and then a smile lit up his face. He buried his own hand in Harry's hair, pushing their mouths close again. Harry could feel the puff of Malfoy's breath against his lips.
"You can meet your fate believing that," Malfoy said and closed the distance between their mouths altogether. He pried Harry's lips apart, which were still slack in shock, and proceeded to take the kiss that Harry had contemplated. The hairs stood up on his neck when Malfoy's tongue touched his. How could Malfoy kiss him like that, yet plan to murder him?
Then Malfoy broke away and Harry was thrown back onto the mattress, where he bounced with a muffled thud. Malfoy snatched his wrists again and pulled Harry's belt from its loops; it slithered around his hips with a hissing sound. Malfoy wound it around his wrists, and pulled tight. It stung when it slid into its clasp, and left Harry's hands tied securely above his head.
Malfoy smirked. With a quick "Diffindo!" Harry's trousers vanished, only to reappear in a crumbled heap on the floor next to the bed. Harry yelped and tried to curl into a protective ball, but froze when Malfoy's wand tapped against his Adam's apple.
"I don't need your consent, Harry, but it's nice that you gave it anyway."
Harry felt Malfoy's touch on his hip, his thumb nail toying with the seam of Harry's briefs, far too close to very private parts.
"I didn't-" he protested, and the wand at his throat gave a painful little buzz, as if transmitting its owner's displeasure.
"Be quiet," Malfoy ordered, slipping his hand in further until it touched Harry's sweaty prick. "You've wasted too much time already. We have hardly more than half an hour left until moonrise."
Something inside Harry shrivelled at the words, and at the firm touch that made his... bits tingle and harden against his will. He'd dreamed of Ginny handling him like this during his nightly wanks in the few weeks they'd had together, even at Grimmauld Place when he'd had no right to think of her any more. But Malfoy's touch scared him to death. As did the look on his face – a curious, detached fascination, mouth slightly open as if he, too, had trouble breathing.
Harry's prick hardened with every squeeze of that warm hand around him, the heat in his groin chasing back the multiple aches of his body. Pleasure bubbled to the centre of his consciousness, and the urge to close his eyes and moan softly against Malfoy's skin grew stronger.
He more felt than saw Malfoy shucking his own trousers, only noticing the slide of naked skin along his legs as Malfoy crouched over his lower body. He was still pale and thin, and Harry nearly pulled his eyes away from the lurid scars on his belly and thigh.
Malfoy's cock was a dark pink, heavy and curving arrogantly upwards. A colourless drop of fluid trickled from the fully emerged head. Malfoy caught it with a salacious smirk and rubbed it over the slit. His head dipped back a little, eyes half-closed in pleasure, unmindful of Harry's eyes on him. Somehow, Harry couldn't bring himself to look away even as his cheeks blazed.
Malfoy balanced his hands above Harry's shoulders before lowering his groin over Harry's prick, which hadn't flagged since Malfoy had taken his hand away. Harry mangled a moan deep in his throat as Malfoy's cock pressed against his, hot and hard and sticky with precome. The sensation fizzed right up his spine, where it seemed to burn a hole into his brain. He found his body pressing up to seek more of that delicious friction. Malfoy chuckled and wound his fingers into Harry's hair before laying sharp teeth against his exposed throat. Harry shuddered deeply, his pelvis freezing at the implications.
"Don't panic," Malfoy sneered, moist breath shivering over the sting of the bite. "It's not time yet."
As if to punish Harry for his fear, he lifted his prick off Harry's groin and crawled forward, sliding his chest over Harry's mouth without letting go of his hair. A tight nipple pressed persistently against his lips and Harry reluctantly swiped a lick over it. Malfoy drew in a loud breath.
"Yes – keep at it!"
Bastard, Harry thought grumpily, but gave it a few more licks just the same before suckling it experimentally. Malfoy's skin didn't taste unpleasant – salty, and very warm. Harry could feel the nub tightening further under his tongue. He bit down sharply for vengeance's sake, and heard Malfoy's gasp. The boy arched his back like a big cat.
"Nice, Harry," he smirked and shifted his upper body to give Harry access to his other nipple. His hand trailed down, fingers curling around Harry's prick in a tight ring even as he flicked the tip with his thumb. Harry muffled his moan against Malfoy's nipple, aware that the bastard could probably feel the vibration on his skin. He was hot all over, sweat beading on his forehead. It would be so easy to give in to the amazing sensation of his prick and balls tightening... To forget who was doing this to him, and that the moon was fat and round beyond the barred window, and that Harry had only a short time before its pull would reach into the boy above him and turn him inside out.
As if Malfoy could read his thoughts, he swung one leg off Harry's torso and sat down next to him. He put smiling lips to Harry's cheek, stroking his finger along the twitching length of Harry's erection one last time. When he let go, it felt surprisingly cold. Then he urged Harry's prone, sluggish body to the side, spooning himself against Harry's back like an electric blanket. A hard electric blanket, Harry realised as Malfoy's prick poked against his bottom. He froze even more, his own erection wilting as his insides clenched. The deliberate mauling he'd had so far he could put up with, but the thought of Malfoy forcing himself inside him... He struggled against the belt that bound his hands.
A sharp slap and the resulting sting in his bottom sent him flopping forward. He tried to breathe evenly. "Don't-" he started, only to feel a painful pinch on the very spot Malfoy had just hit.
"Shut up, Harry. It won't be as bad as you think."
Harry could think pretty excruciatingly bad, but shut his mouth and pressed the side of his face into the mattress before he could spill something unfortunate, like a plea. There was nothing he could do to stop the Death Eater, but he would not beg.
Malfoy pushed him fully onto his stomach and pulled his legs apart, stroking down the long muscles at the back of Harry's thighs with both hands, then up again to fleetingly cup his balls. Harry trembled, because although the warm clutch was pleasant, he was also terribly vulnerable. If Malfoy misjudged his own strength... But he just rolled the wrinkled sac in his palm for a moment, then went to knead Harry's arse cheeks until Harry's muscles relaxed.
Finally, Malfoy leaned forward for a nip at Harry's tailbone before settling between Harry's legs, spreading them even further in the process. Harry couldn't help but struggle against the belt that bound him. If he could only get his hands free! But no, as much as he hated lying there with his legs spread like a dead frog while Malfoy exposed his arse hole, the bastard would probably just hit him over the head if he fought. Harry's neck crawled and burned as if there were ants burrowing under his skin.
Again, Malfoy summoned his wand from the floor. His low "Scourgify!" rushed in a prickly wave through Harry's insides and over his skin. The sweat vanished from his back and face only to break out anew in a rush of panicked heat when Malfoy touched a thumb to the nasty spot between Harry's buttocks. Every muscle in his body, from his toes to the tendons in his neck, stiffened in raw panic.
Malfoy laughed callously and pressed the very tip of his thumb against Harry's clenched opening. An "Accio!" later, something cool and round wobbled into existence on Harry's back. Harry bucked, but Malfoy had already snatched it to safety.
Harry heard a lid being unscrewed, and then Malfoy's fingers returned to his hole, coated with something slippery. The initial cold vanished as the substance warmed on Malfoy's fingers. Harry bit down on his lower lip until he tasted blood and buried his face into the mattress as Malfoy pushed a slick finger into him. It burned, though not as much as Harry had been expecting. The shame was much worse, with the picture he had to be making for Malfoy looming luridly in front of his inner eye.
Malfoy's explorations went deeper than Harry would have thought possible, and though having something stuck into an opening that wasn't made for such exertions was uncomfortable, the oily stuff made the intrusion easy and dulled both the stretch and the bite of Malfoy's nails.
"Essence of Murtlap," the Slytherin pointed out loftily as he pulled out his finger, only to shove it back in, newly slicked, along with another.
This time, the sheer pressure knocked the breath out of Harry's lungs. And yet, there was something shameful about how quickly his channel adapted to Malfoy's fingers. His muscles trembled and complained as Malfoy rotated and crooked them deep inside Harry, but they loosened quickly under the soothing effect of the Murtlap.
Then Malfoy fumbled his fingers out so quickly that Harry gasped in pain, and fumbled again, impatiently, to position the prick he'd just stroked so shamelessly against Harry's opening. It was bigger than Malfoy's fingers had been, hard and impatient and hot like a firebrand, and this time it hurt. Raw agony shot though Harry's arse as he was stretched without much care. He dug nails into his palms and forbade himself any sound of pain. He would not show Malfoy such weakness.
It was too much, and too full, but it reached deep, and when Malfoy moved out a bit, and thrust in again at a slightly different angle, it brushed against something inside Harry that sent sparks of lust through his entire frame. His surprised squeak drowned in Malfoy's chuckle.
"Slut," the bastard whispered into Harry's ear, and repeated the movement, just there. Harry whimpered and met the next stroke with his hips to guarantee the full effect of Malfoy's thrusts.
He tried not to thrash underneath Malfoy, but the hot burn of the cock being driven into him, and the spine-melting pleasure when he hit that right spot, drove him to despair. He twisted his hips to rub his aching prick off against the blanket, almost, almost there-
Then Malfoy dug fingers into Harry's hips and pulled them up against his own in a vicious thrust, and wound a cruel hand around the base of Harry's prick, clamping down and pinching orgasm right out of Harry's mind.
"You'll come looking at me or not at all!" he growled, and Harry shivered as the low rumble trickled down his neck. As if to illustrate his point, Malfoy pounded into Harry without ever relaxing the vice-like squeeze on Harry's erection.
Harry let the force of the thrusts wash over him, turning his head to the side so he could breathe without having his mouth stuffed full of blanket, and tried feebly not to respond too enthusiastically. The tight pressure in his balls increased, but Malfoy's grip around his cock prevented his climb towards orgasm. He squeezed his eyes shut, and felt tears of frustration burn in their corners.
Then he screamed out loud as Malfoy bit down on his shoulder with teeth so sharp that Harry wondered whether he was already in the throes of transformation. He gave a final, brutal thrust into Harry and came, nails raking down Harry's side as he twisted in his own release, drawing blood without making a sound. Harry felt Malfoy's harsh, wet breaths as the Death Eater slumped heavily against his back for a moment, before drawing back and pulling Harry onto his back along with him.
Harry's engorged prick dragged roughly over the blanket, but although Malfoy had released his grip, the need to see Malfoy's face – his human face – contained Harry's need for the moment.
His face crunched up as he landed on his abused arse, and Malfoy was above him an instant later. A pinkish glow suffused his skin, tangled pale hair snarling around his face. In a flash, Malfoy had his hand wrapped around Harry's prick again, coaxing it back to full arousal. Harry found it hard to breathe – Malfoy had a light build, but Harry had to bear his full body weight on top of him. His eyes, which studied Harry's face intently, were very bright.
"What do you want?" he hissed, and Harry, whose first unconscious impulse was 'to come', followed by the rational 'freedom', rejected both. He wouldn't beg for the one, nor give Malfoy the chance to reject the other.
"Cast the Killing Curse instead," he ground out, his voice constrained by exertion and fear.
Malfoy smiled almost wistfully, his hand gentling its pressure around Harry's prick to a light, sensuous slide. He laid his free hand against Harry's cheek and stroked it just as gently.
"No, Harry. The Dark Lord had me turned into a monster for a reason; he would not want the easy way out for you."
Rage boiled hot and bitter inside Harry's chest. He bared his teeth, wanting nothing so much as to dig them into Malfoy's pale throat before the bastard could do worse to him, to drown that mock-gentleness in blood.
"Yes, fight me," Malfoy hissed, bowing low over Harry's ear. "I want to feel your defeat."
Harry tried to twist his bound wrists up to hit him, bucking ineffectively to dislodge the bastard, but Malfoy snatched his arms and pressed them back down. He trapped them with a bony elbow and fisted his hand into Harry's hair, aligning their bodies until their mouths were only an inch apart. Malfoy threw him a wild, toothy grin, and licked a long wet stripe up Harry's throat.
"Fight, Harry," he challenged.
Torn between need and terror, Harry screamed and fought, attacking Malfoy with knees and shoulders, half smothered by Malfoy's body. His cock was driving into Malfoy's fist with every move, tight and rough and spiralling towards ecstasy. His balls tightened, and he wanted his hands free to fight for his life, and to hold Draco as he came against him, but most of all he didn't want to die in the jaws of a monster, and it all spilled together in a scream of sheer despair and then he spilled into Malfoy's hand with a wail that was as inhuman as the one who'd torn it from him.
Harry trembled under the aftershocks, lids screwed shut. His skin was so sensitised that he could feel every detail of Malfoy wiping his hand on his sweaty thigh. He was starting to get cold. He did not want to open his eyes ever again, but in the end, he had to. They ached, a hot burn that would not allow for tears.
Malfoy was looking back at him, a raw, almost vulnerable expression on his face. His mouth twisted into a pained grimace, as if more teeth than could be accommodated were taking shape behind the tightly shut lips. He let go of Harry's shoulder. Even as he drew back, Harry saw that the pale skin of his arm was now covered with whitish fuzz. His fingers curved, gnarled as if they were being broken and then put together again with extra joints. At the tips, his nails tapered into points.
Harry wanted to scream, but fear filled his lungs and his throat. His eyes were painfully wide. The warped hand raced towards his face as if in suspended animation, nails and fingerbones lengthening even as Malfoy swung. Curved white claws gleamed before Harry's eyes, then the werewolf twisted his paw around and his knuckles caught Harry's temple right over the bruise where Malfoy's boot had come down earlier.
Fire flared before Harry's eyelids, and even the flash of knowledge that if he lost consciousness now he'd be – literally – dead meat in a heartbeat could not keep the world from turning dark, and deadly silent.
Harry woke with a head that seemed twice its normal size, the taste of blood in his mouth, and a profound feeling of disorientation. His eyes were glued shut. He patted the surface on which he lay – a mattress with a lumpy, crumpled blanket. With faint surprise, he realised that he could move, and fought nausea as he sat up. He rubbed at his eyelids and scraped off flakes of dried blood before finally managing to pry them open.
His eyes fell on his own gangly, bare legs with bruises marring the inside of his thighs. He was naked, and with that awareness came the cold, biting his flesh. The door of the hut stood slightly ajar. As if someone had left, and pulled it shut again without much care. Or as if something smaller than human had squeezed its way out...
Malfoy! The wolf! That claw, coming at his face!
Harry stumbled off the bed with a frantic whimper. He probed at the gash on his forehead, managing only to make it hurt worse before he saw the dirty mirror magicked to the side of the single cupboard. Naked, he stumbled over to it and pressed his face close to the stained glass, examining the gash. It did not look like a cut from a claw, more like a nasty bruise. It fit in with the slight turn of Malfoy's arm when he'd swung, curling his fingers into a tight fist rather than spreading those newly-gained claws. Hard enough to make him bleed, though.
Of course there were scrapes and scratches all over his body, but if Malfoy had intended to infect him, he could have – would have, Harry thought – left obvious marks like those he wore himself, not disguised his handiwork with an invisible nick somewhere. The thought left him breathing a little easier.
He limped back to the bed and shuddered in disgust as he took in the soiled mattress. The blanket was bunched up, and still warm under Harry's hand. A patch of fine, silver-white fur stuck to the rough fabric. The blanket smelled burnt and fresh at the same time – like animal.
Harry recalled the bitter taste of Malfoy's mouth when he'd first kissed him. Malfoy must have taken Wolfsbane, although Harry refused to think about where he'd got it from. And then Malfoy had rolled up on the bed next to Harry's unconscious form, watching him sleep, breathe... His limp prick, groin and belly were sticky with a coat of dried saliva. Harry tried not to think about what part of the wolf's anatomy had been responsible.
His eyes searched for his clothes and found them, neatly folded on one of the chairs. He dragged himself over, leaning heavily on the headrest. The mere thought of putting clothes on his soiled body sent a shudder of revulsion through him. He wanted nothing more than to submerge himself in a shower, or a bath, until he drowned or until hot water had scalded away Malfoy's traces from his body, and the memory of pleasure from his mind. But there was no water in Dung's hut; even the chipped washbasin on the chest of drawers was collecting dust at the bottom. And, Harry reminded himself as he reluctantly pulled his trousers over his bruised hips – he could not bring himself to touch his ripped underpants – Voldemort's cohorts might be ringing the place, waiting to drag him off to his death as soon as he set foot outside. He couldn't be found naked.
His shirt stuck unpleasantly to his back, and the effort of forcing his swollen ankle into its boot squeezed tears from his eyes.
Harry's cloak hung from one of the wooden pegs by the door – Malfoy must have been busy tidying up before he left. Harry slouched over to fetch it, stooped as if his desire to curl up and cry in a dark corner reached right into his muscles. He took down the cloak and pulled it around his shoulders. It felt a precious little bit like hiding.
Something bumped against his thigh inside the coat, and Harry's hand flew to the pocket. He felt the familiar buzz before his fingers even touched the smooth wood, and stared at his wand in disbelief. Suddenly, the fear that there might be Death Eaters outside seemed absurd. Malfoy wouldn't arm him for a showdown; even Voldemort had learned that lesson in the Riddle graveyard. The knife and the Aconite Essence had disappeared, though, not that it surprised him at all.
Gripping the wand in his undamaged hand, determined not to be parted with it except by death, Harry peered around the half-open door. The drizzle had set in again sometime during the night, and the morning was bleak. Grey skies shed their water, and the little clearing looked deserted with leaves clustered around now-lifeless roots. Draco Malfoy – wolf or man – was gone.
Harry kept his wand doggedly aimed at the roots, although no movement stirred on the ground. He tried not to walk with too obvious a limp even though his left ankle was bruised and his arse screamed with every step. Harry reached the trees without interruption, although his neck prickled with paranoia. He jumped every time a raindrop landed on his face or hands. Gaining the muddy remains of the footpath towards Hogsmeade, he swung around one last time as if to trap a potential hunter with his eyes.
Nothing stirred. The hut stood unchanged, the door still ajar to admit the humid air, its unlovely facade mellowed by a grey veil of rain.
But as the hem of his cloak whipped around his booted legs, something gently brushed his thigh again, far more softly than his wand had earlier. Very carefully, Harry slipped his hand into the depths of his pocket once more.
At the very bottom, hardly noticeable against the heavy seam, he touched a small bundle of cloth. Gingerly, he pulled it out. It lay on his palm, a piece of metal swaddled in silk. When Harry loosened the knots, it unfolded itself into a handkerchief, embroidered at one corner with an elaborate 'M'. Inside gleamed a heavy, old-fashioned silver locket.
It took a long moment before Harry could remember that he had to breathe. He slumped against the tree behind him, the hand that held the locket trembling visibly. He touched the age-dulled metal with one finger, and felt the power contained inside before he'd fully taken in the stylised 'S' that decorated the lid. Unlike the fake locket they'd found in the cave, this thrummed with a presence that spoke right to the residual traces Voldemort had left inside him when he'd tried to kill Harry as a baby. A sinister power that pricked through the silk. Harry swallowed, remembering Dumbledore's mutilated hand, and wrapped the locket back into Malfoy's handkerchief before returning it into his cloak pocket. And then he pressed his hand over the little bulge to reassure himself that it was real.
He leaned against the wet bark of the tree, oblivious to the dirt smearing his cheek, and laughed until his sobs convulsed him. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the raindrops until he could hardly distinguish what dripped into his mouth.
Malfoy's face danced, sharply outlined, at the insides of his eyelids, so vivid that Harry could smell the rain-scent of his skin, feel the burn of his cock deep inside him, the silken tug of fingers at his groin.
Malfoy, who had sworn to kill him, and yet had let him walk out into the morning rain alive.
Malfoy, who had known what he had in the Horcrux, who had slaughtered Dung Fletcher to get it. And who had slipped it to Harry instead of carrying it, in triumph, to Voldemort. Taking, in exchange, nothing more than a tumble with Harry's body on a mouldy bed in a fence's hut.
And yet Malfoy had raped him for all that he'd made Harry's body a partway accomplice in the crime. Just as Greyback had done to him. Harry's stomach heaved at the thought of Greyback's fangs drooling over Draco's white body. Malfoy had not broken, not on the surface. But then he'd had the wolf to shield behind, just as Sirius had had Padfoot in Azkaban. Harry thought of the sleek, sharp creature that Malfoy had become, as if he'd shed weakness and trembling vulnerability along with his humanity when he'd embraced the monster.
Had it been a challenge to see if Harry would be as strong, or just revenge, long-festering hatred enacted at last? Or could Malfoy really want Harry like this?
He worried his lower lip, tasting the caked remnants of the blood Malfoy had drawn, and resolutely wiped his hand over his nose and face. He gave the little bump in his hip pocket a reassuring squeeze.
He had the Horcrux, and would dump it onto the table for Professor McGonagall and Kingsley Shacklebolt to destroy. No more secrets, thank you very much! Well, except for what had happened with Malfoy in the hut. That was their own personal business.
Hell, Harry wanted to see Malfoy again! Wanted so badly to talk to him, to curse him till he writhed on the ground, choking on his own screams. To throw him to the ground and pummel his face into a bloody pulp. To shove him up against the wall and kiss him speechless, perhaps.
He'd have to think about that.
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to J K Rowling. I'm just entertaining them a bit. No harm intended, no money made!
no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 11:59 am (UTC)Could you please have a closer look for the icons we spoke about (puppy eyes)
xxx
T.
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Date: 2006-06-23 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 04:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 08:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 06:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-23 08:20 pm (UTC)wow.
Date: 2006-06-23 06:40 pm (UTC)Re: wow.
Date: 2006-06-23 08:20 pm (UTC)Thank you, mousie :). Though no sequel - I'd have no idea which direction to take it :(.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-24 05:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-24 06:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-24 10:25 pm (UTC)Very Slytherin. Now Harry thinks more of him than he used to, and all it took was Malfoy to rape him, humiliate him, then leave him alive with a horcrux in his pocket. Who knew?
Great work, hon.
Cheers!
no subject
Date: 2006-06-25 08:01 pm (UTC)Late to the party, as usual
Date: 2007-08-08 07:10 am (UTC)I don't care, this HAS to have a sequel, please Kenna, please?
It's so sososo uh.. visceral? sensual? Argh, I mean I can actually FEEL what you wrote - the smells, the tastes, the sounds. I think I saw it all happen now, thanks to the impact of your words.
Now, as I was saying, the sequel...