Whoever Keeps Me (Fic, H/D, Snaco, NC-17) 1 of 3
And here I am, kicking off the fic portion of the fest! My fic sprawled, so I am going to post it in three parts, the two future posts to fill in the two blank days we had in the schedule. Enjoy!
Title: Whoever Keeps Me (Part 1 of 3)
Author: Ravenna C. Tan
Type: Fiction
Length: 21,000 words total; This post: 5200
Main character or Pairing: Snape/Draco, Harry/Draco, Draco/Death Eaters
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Non-commercial fanfic, done for the love, not any money.
Warnings: Voldemort-won AU. Canon-compliant thru HBP. Heavy dub-con. Torture, gang-banging, sexual slavery, angst.
Summary: Voldemort gives a disgraced Draco Malfoy as a slave to Severus Snape. Draco is resigned to his fate, until Snape collars Harry Potter as well.
Cards Drawn: Death (reversed), Wheel of Fortune (reversed), Eight of Cups.
Card Interpretation: Death reversed is "holding onto something you know is over," such as a relationship you stayed in too long. The Wheel of Fortune reversed is taking control of your destiny. And the eight of cups is "Possibility of change in a stable situation. Flashes of excitement, movement." I also interpreted "death, reversed" as orgasm denial, the wheel of fortune as suspension bondage, and the eight of cups to be potions, so you will find all three of those elements in the story as well.
Author Notes: Beta-read by the glorious clauclauclaudia. Thanks to Gateway Girl for helping me wrestle a very recalcitrant Draco to the ground. Metaphorically speaking. Title comes from a Shakespeare sonnet. This story also matches up to my 7spells table for Snape/Draco/Harry.
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
--from Sonnet 133, William Shakespeare
He stops me just as a I reach the door, his voice sharp as the crack of a whip. These days I would hardly flinch from that, either.
"Draco!" I can hear the unspoken words that should follow. Aren't you forgetting something? or maybe On your knees. He no longer says very much to me any more, which is half the reason I go out. There is only so much brooding silence and potions preparation I can stand. He used to chide, or scold, or at least express his anger.
I am not even worth that most days, it seems. My name serves as command enough and I stop where I am, knowing full well that I have "forgotten" something.
He comes to me then, his robes wafting an oddly sweet, almost incense-like smell into my nostrils, as he reaches up and snaps the slim golden collar around my neck. He locks it with a tiny golden key, which he wears on a chain so fine it is nearly invisible. The glint of gold disappears into the folds of his robes again.
I want him to kiss me, as he used to, in the early days when he felt remorse over having to fetter me this way. I look up, though, and he is already turning away, his eyes hidden by the lank darkness of his hair.
So be it. The collar ensures my safety, my obedience, and my torment all at once. Other than that, I am free.
* * *
I am wearing nearly nothing, just a light grey robe, open at the front, and silky grey breeches. So long as I am wearing the collar I will not feel cold; I am impervious to wind and draughts. I am protected from most hexes, too, which is very useful when one's social circle consists entirely of Death Eaters and their more recent minions, the Red Hand. I am not allowed to carry a wand. I would be easy prey for anyone who does, if it were not for two things, the collar's protective spells, and the meaning it projects, naming me as the property of Severus Snape and any who harm me as answerable to him. And make no mistake, Snape is feared among the Death Eaters who knew him during the war.
I am in an awful mood tonight, not that this is all that different from most nights. I will likely regret the excesses I am seeking. But I seek them anyway. There is always, always, always some Death Eater out there who wants a bedwarmer. The Dark Mark on my arm gives me access to the places they congregate.
Our tower is in a distant keep, but what is distance when we have the Floo? In a flash of green flame I am at what was once the Leaky Cauldron. Now they call it the Black Rose. Appropriate, as it is always full of pricks. London is the Dark Lord's own fief, still the seat of his Ministry, and the inn is often full of those travelling here to curry his favour.
I enter the main room and feel the eyes on me. My twentieth birthday is coming soon, but I do not look all that different from the boy who disarmed Albus Dumbledore atop the Astronomy Tower. Potions, of course.
I do not make it across to the bar before a pair of strong arms grab me from behind, and a boozy, rough voice says in my ear, "So there y'are, Malfoy. Ha'n't seen ye for a few."
MacInnis. One of the upper ranks in the Red Hand; he might make Death Eater soon. He's got a large cock and little staying power. Sometimes that's a good thing.
"Glad yer 'ere. I need a piece."
He means a piece of tail. I am opening my mouth to inquire if he has a room upstairs, as I am more than willing to go for a tumble, when he slams me forward over a table so hard it knocks the breath out of me, making speech impossible. The breeches are gone; Vanished, Banished, or torn away, I cannot tell. And then there are more pairs of rough hands holding me, immobilizing my arms, spreading my legs. So, that's the kind of night it is to be.
MacInnis is rubbing his cock between my legs and humming to himself. "Circe's tits, yer a lov'ly hole."
Someone's hands-I cannot tell if they are his-stretch my arsecheeks apart. Why it is that and not the rest of it that finally brings a blush to my face, I do not know. Perhaps until that moment I have told myself that this is all a game, and that any moment he'll laugh off the others and take me upstairs. No, he truly intends to just take me in front of everyone.
He hits me with the lubrication charm, hard and sudden, so cold that my insides cramp. Then he pushes the blunt head of his cock into place, rubbing it up and down over my slimy entrance, and I know this is all the preparation I will be getting.
It does not matter. I did not come here seeking pleasure, did I? I do not even remember what that word means to others. I will feel every inch of MacInnis' cock, as he pushes into me, and it will satisfy the restlessness that drove me to leave the silent confines of our tower in the first place.
Or so I tell myself in the moments before he enters me. When he does, though, I am not able to think anything at all. The sensation of him forcing his way into my body is all-consuming.
Some would call it pain. I'm not sure I know what that word means any more, either. It consumes my senses so completely that I do not even hear the words the others are speaking, goading him on. I do not even hear the sound coming out of my own throat.
At some point they opt for Incarcerous, cords binding my limbs to the table, though hands still touch me here and there. I am lucky to be face down on the wood where my cock and nipples are protected from their whims. As it is, my back is an inviting expanse...
But it is my arsehole MacInnis wants and he seems to have convinced the crowd that it is the one dish on the menu they ought all try. I swallow hard as my destined use for the evening seems inevitable.
Perhaps it is redundant to say he fucks without mercy. Mercy is another one of those words I don't know the meaning of any more. An abstract concept out of a philosophy book.
The bitch of it all is how long I stay hard and straining. The fourth--or is it the fifth?--one is taking me before my erection finally starts to flag.
This is one of the simpler reasons I go out. I discovered very early after being collared that I could perform all manner of sexual acts, both giving and receiving, but that I could not come while wearing it. It took some time and quite a lot of soreness before I believed it.
Enough abuse, though, and my cock eventually begins to believe that it is done. It isn't the same thing as release, it's nothing like having an actual orgasm, but my body reaches a state of exhaustion and lassitude that is the closest thing to satisfaction I can have.
And, no, masturbation in the privacy of my room is not the same. And, no, I will not beg Snape for relief.
Enough of them fuck me that MacInnis regains his erection and decides, finally, that he wants me for himself. He Disapparates us to a room upstairs, where I am bade to kneel and lick the crusted spunk from his cock before he puts it in me again.
This time we are face to face and I find myself unable to muster any kind of a mask. I must look tired and beaten down, given the way he gloats over me. I've heard this all before-how much he hated my father, how he doesn't believe Snape can be much of a man if I'm as tight as I am every time he sees me--"must not be fooking ye, the daft bastard"--how when he works his way up to Death Eater rank he's going to ask the Dark Lord to take me from Snape and give me to him.
That's the one fear I still hold. That's the one thing that could be worse than the way things are now. Because at least being Snape's I am safe. At least with him I have this tiny measure of freedom, too, even if it is only the freedom to take ten cocks up the arse in one evening. At least it was my idea to go out.
This is the way things are. When MacInnis is done he spends his load with a bellow, then falls into a deep sleep. I slip away to his bath, luxuriating in the hot water and soap for as long as the built-in charms will keep the water hot. That is as close to freedom as I get.
I return to the tower some hours later, clean, but limping slightly. I should go to him to get the collar removed, but sudden tears sting my eyes. Why? All he will do is look at me with bitterness and scorn, and force me to take a healing potion... and I am so very tired now.
I climb the stairs to my bedroom and fall into the sheets with no grace at all. I am far from satisfied. But I am spent in every other meaning of the word.
* * *
I wake a few hours later, as the flickering behind my eyelids that has made my dreams so vivid resolves into the leaping of flames in the grate. It is late spring, still cold and damp in the tower. I blink and the shadow in front of me resolves into his form, seated, frowning. He is always frowning.
Years ago, at this point I might have said I was sorry. Or he might have chastised me and acted as if he were worried for me. I might have lashed out and blamed him if the night had been rough. He might have struck me in anger, and then in remorse have kissed me, held me.
That was long ago. Now he merely says, "I will remove the collar."
I drag myself to my knees on the bed, eyes half-lidded and sullen. The tiny key disappears from my view under my neck, and then "click" and the collar comes free into his hand, looking too delicate for how strong it is. He thrusts a vial at me and I drink it without question. It is the potion that will heal whatever wrongs I have inflicted on my body, restoring me to a pristine state. Or, as pristine as when I was first collared, anyway. Dittany never did quite remove all the scars.
He stares at me for a long moment, as if maybe this time he will say something. I glance up, as if daring him to.
Amazingly, he says something new. "The next time you are out, try to find out who has Potter now."
My shock must register on my face. "Why?"
"No foolish questions, Draco!" he snaps. "I could order you to go out now and start."
He could. I'd probably just find some other Death Eater's bed to sleep in for the rest of the night. I am so tired, and I'd probably only have to suck some cock to get it. But I would rather stay here in my own bed. Or the bed he gave me. Whatever. Gratitude isn't something I feel any more.
"All right," I say, lying back down as if dismissing him. "I could run errands tomorrow..."
He shakes his head. "You know you won't learn much that way."
"All right," I say again, in defeat. Potter. He wants to know who owns Potter now. Not something he could ask himself without revealing some motive to a rival, of course. And it isn't as if Snape socializes. His fief is a remote section of Wales; he rules mostly rocks and trees and a forest good for hunting potions ingredients. Perhaps once a month he holds audiences with the few wizarding subjects living in the territory. Unlike many of the Death Eaters, who have turned their areas truly feudal, Snape demands little from anyone.
Including me. So, he wants to know where Potter is now. Last I remember the Lestrange brothers were sharing him. A few months ago, they were bragging that they had trained him to take two cocks at once. I had thought they meant one in each end, but no, later boasts made it clear they meant both their cocks in Potter's arse. For a moment I was shocked, both to picture it and to think that there was a form of depravity I had not yet experienced. And then I felt almost... envious.
* * *
Potter, as it turns out, is easy to find. The Lestranges are off on some mission for the Dark Lord and they have left him at Hogwarts. The castle has become the centre of training for the Dark Lord's army. The old Slytherin dormitories have become the barracks for the Red Hand's recruits, and there is nothing like a little reward for those who have been loyal, eh? I make my way down there easily. I still know the castle better than most of them and the Dark Mark on my arm allows me to pass through the spells they have set to keep others out.
I reach the common room to find two wizards who can't be any older than sixteen standing over a black-haired figure chained in the centre of the room. The recruits are debating something while standing there naked from the waist down, gesturing and arguing in low voices. Perhaps trying to figure out exactly how this "two cocks" thing is supposed to work.
My guess is it is necessary for the victim to be awake and/or cooperating to some degree, and Potter looks to be unconscious between them. I stay well back in the shadows. The last thing I want is for them to decide to try their inept fumblings on me. They eventually dress and move off, bored and in search of other diversions.
I watch Potter for a long time. His hair has grown down past his shoulders and looks dull and matted in the back. In the firelight I can make out the criss-cross of scars on his back. No one has been making him take the same potions I do, apparently.
I'd warrant there's not a Death Eater alive who hasn't spent a night with him. Hm, well, except for Snape. I think I'd have known about it if he had. Snape has largely dodged the debauchery as unseemly. Mostly.
There was once, right after I was given to him, that he took me in front of the Dark Lord and a few of the inner circle. It was a dinner, and I sat at his feet while they ate and strategised, and then while dessert was being served he bade me suck him under the table. It was for show, to make it seem as if he wanted and appreciated the gift he had been given--me--and once or twice he even let out an obvious moan, but only I knew that he remained mostly flaccid in my mouth. He faked his orgasm and I faked swallowing.
My own erection was real, though. He lay me back upon the table, between empty wineglasses and the remains of their decadence, and stroked me with his hand and spoke low, coaxing words in my ear until I came, red-faced, all over my own stomach. He drew his finger through my come and tasted it as if it were a fine vintage of wine, then bundled me back to our tower.
I've never told him, of course, that I assumed he had a performance problem in front of others. I never told him I expected that when we returned to the tower that I expected him to make l-- to fuck me. Instead he removed the collar and sent me to my room. If he heard me crying, he never said, and I certainly never enlightened him to why.
Potter does not move a muscle for twenty minutes, and no other Red Hand comes to see him. I do not know their schedule-perhaps it is time for evening duelling practice? I don't know.
I move out of the shadows, then kneel by him. My heart hammers suddenly as I realise the carpet smells exactly as it did when I was a student here, as memories of a life lost to me surface unbidden.
"Potter," I say, pushing the bile down in my throat. He does not move.
I roll him onto his back, moving one limb at a time. His face is ashen and the collar around his neck is thick and iron. An equally robust chain connects it to a ring set in the stone nearby. I stare at him and sigh.
There is a large bruise on one cheek, and his nose looks as if it has been broken more than once and not re-set with magic. The scar on his forehead stands out, angry red, stretched tight and satiny-looking like the skin of an erect cock. I find myself with the urge to lick it.
And why not? Potter is probably one of the few non-Squibs in the world I can reasonably claim is lower in rank than me. I find at the moment, though, that any desire I might have to do unto him as others do to me is burning very dimly. Mostly I feel sorry for the poor fuck. The Death Eaters broke his spirit in the first year after the Dark Lord's victory. Then they got bored with him. For quite a while the Dark Lord had him to himself, keeping him as the entertainment at parties for his inner circle and the like. Then he would lend him for extended periods to this or that favourite. It took the better part of that first year to make the rounds. Eventually he stopped going back to the Dark Lord's keeping and just passed from one Death Eater to another according to their whims.
I'm amazed none of them killed him, even accidentally. But now he's not even worth the individual attention any more. Now he's a barrack toy for Red Hand trainees.
"Potter," I say again. But he is out cold, or pretending to be. I make a disgusted sound. Well, at least I can tell Snape my mission has been accomplished. I'll get no thanks and no reward.
* * *
Three weeks later I pay the price for my obedience. A Thestral-drawn carriage arrives at the tower one evening, just after sunset. From my window I watch as what is clearly a body is carried in, slung over the shoulder of some large wizard I do not recognise at the distance. By the time I get downstairs to satisfy my curiosity, the wizard and carriage are gone, and Snape has bespelled the corpse up onto a table and has unwrapped the rags swaddling it.
It's not a corpse. It's Potter. Snape lays a hand gently on his chest, which is rising and falling slowly.
I cough so Snape will know I'm there in the doorway. He does not look up at me, all his attention on Potter. He raises his wand and I recognise the sorts of motions I've seen healers do.
Then without looking he points his wand at me--no, at something beyond me, Summoning something. A lacquered box flies into the room; I only barely get out of its way in time to prevent being struck in the skull with it.
And then I am staring incredulously, as he lifts a silver collar, the twin of my own, and affixes it around Potter's neck. A tiny silver key joins the golden one on the twisted chain.
Outrage is so thick in my throat that for a few moments I cannot breathe. And then I flee. Back to my room. I shut the door for the illusion of privacy. I am trembling. Shaking. My world has just been shattered and I cannot even explain why or how. What do I care what Snape does with Potter? Why should I?
I would go now, this instant, to the Black Rose, or even back to Hogwarts, where they must be in need of diversion now, except I know full well I cannot leave without my own collar, and I cannot abide the thought of going to him for it. Instead I go to the cabinet where I know there is a potion for dreamless sleep. I take it and let oblivion rule me for the night.
* * *
It is two days before Potter wakes. Snape speaks to me once in that time, about preparing the next batch of the potion that restores me. About doubling the amount. The prep work is mine to do. I do not do it. Yet.
In fact, I cannot quite bring myself to go out. Especially not after Snape brings Potter to his own bed for the remainder of his recuperation. His Imperturbable charms leave an irksome buzzing in my ears when I try to listen at the cracks in the door. What the fuck are they doing in there?
Snape's disinterest in me has always hurt, but now his disregard engenders envy. Has he been waiting for Potter all along? Waiting for the right moment when he could get him from the Dark Lord without having to spend any of his political currency?
I imagine the scene behind the door. Mr Potter, he would say-I cannot imagine him calling him Harry-at last the time has come for the sweet repayment of all the trouble you've caused me. I know you are far from virgin, but that dims my ardour for your sweet arse not at all...
Hm, or maybe, Severus! At last... my secret love, it's been years...!
Not bloody likely, but the fantasy amuses me.
The more I think on it though, the more sense it starts to make. They must have some prior history I don't know about. Maybe in Sixth Year, when I was so involved with the cabinet, their antagonism was for show, to hide the attraction that had grown between them? I have a sudden memory of mocking Potter for "Remedial Potions" lessons, which never rang true... Dear God.
No wonder I've been nothing to him.
A deep stab of cold fear goes through me. Am I to be sent packing? Even if Snape does still want to protect me, can he reasonably maintain the front that he deserves us both? Will he be forced to give me to someone else? Does he want to?
The panic seizes my lungs, and I find myself running, gasping, into the parlour where my own collar is kept. I practically knock the box to the floor, my hands are shaking so badly. But I manage to remove the circle of gold from the case. It is hinged; it lies in my upturned palms like a childish letter "w."
I force myself to walk more calmly back to his door. I won't be pushed aside. I won't.
I drop to my knees, then fold my feet under me, settling back to wait, my hands and the collar on my thighs, my grey robes pooling around me.
Hm. I stand and remove my clothes, then settle into the posture again. I bow my head.
I fall into a doze, now that the panic is passed. I do not know how long I am sitting there when the door in front of me opens. I glance up only a moment, only to be sure it is him, and not Potter.
My hands are shaking as I hold the collar up toward him.
"Draco," he says, voice flat but soft, as if he has only just now recognised me on a train platform or at the theatre.
"Please," I say.
Some of the usual steel comes into his voice. "Going somewhere?"
I shake my head. Then shake it again. "Please." Willing him to understand.
Whether he does or not, he takes the collar from my fingers and snaps it delicately into place. Locks it with the key so small it seems almost comical in his fingers. A dormouse's key.
My hands are gripping the lapels of his robes before he can rise fully and retreat from me again. But what can I say? I don't even understand what I want, and being truthful has never been a strong point for me. I cannot very well tell him that I am afraid he is trying to get rid of me; after all, if he is, then he will be one step closer to doing it and he will hide his efforts even better.
"I'm lonely," I say.
He clucks his tongue. "And it is my company you crave?"
Please, please tell me that this is what you've been waiting for all along, for my utter surrender, that this is what will make me the slave you want, that I've been wrong all this time and now at last I'll be forgiven everything and you'll never let me go, never, never. I find I am looking up at him as these thoughts crowd my head, but I cannot say these things. So much for utter surrender. "Let me please you," I try instead.
He shakes his head. "Draco, that's not necessary."
"But I want to."
He shakes his head again. "You don't. But you surely want something from me. Something you cannot find out there...?" He raises a sceptical eyebrow. "You've no dearth of willing partners beyond this tower, am I right?"
I draw back as if burned. He knows full well there is no satisfaction to be had for me except at his hand--or my own if I were not wearing the collar. As such, his comment stings. "What do you want from me!" I blurt.
His eyes flare. "I want you to stay safe and out of trouble, but that is clearly too much to ask! Now truly, Draco, nothing would please me more than if you would refrain from your usual outings. I understand not much excitement is to be found here..."
I make a disgusted noise. "Because you won't touch me!"
His gaze sharpens and I know I've surprised him, which makes no sense, but I've learned to read his looks as no one else has. "Are you pretending now to attraction and interest?"
He wants to brush me aside again. My vision is red. "At least... at least..." I can barely speak. "At least help me to come," I finally say, the only thing I can think of to demand.
His shoulders slump as if defeated. "Is that truly what you want?"
"Yes."
"So be it." He takes a seat on a padded settle against one stone wall and beckons me to come to him. He pulls me into his lap then, his robes scratchy against my bare skin. "You were always an incorrigible child."
He strokes me then, and before long I am clinging to his neck and shoulders like a child, even though we are of a height. I am gibbering and spouting profane things and then I am begging his permission to come, begging with every ounce of my being, until his bemused voice tells me to, and I come so hard that I see stars.
I come so hard I am shaking after it is over.
I come so hard that the words that fall from my lips come entirely uncensored. "Thank you, oh God, thank you."
Much to my amazement, he presses a soft kiss against my hair and then shifts under me, until he has slid out from under and I am leaning alone against the back of the settle. He cleans me, and his hand, and his robes with his wand, then tucks it back into his sleeve, examining me with glittering black eyes.
He seems to come to a decision. "If I do that for you once a day, will you stay out of trouble?"
I nod. This suits my plans, after all, to find out what is going on between him and Potter. I realise I am more like a pet than ever. I will not stray if my owner feeds me regularly. He does not move to take back the collar. I press a hand to it and decide we must be in agreement on that point, then. He has domesticated me at last.
(end part one - part two is now here)
Title: Whoever Keeps Me (Part 1 of 3)
Author: Ravenna C. Tan
Type: Fiction
Length: 21,000 words total; This post: 5200
Main character or Pairing: Snape/Draco, Harry/Draco, Draco/Death Eaters
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Non-commercial fanfic, done for the love, not any money.
Warnings: Voldemort-won AU. Canon-compliant thru HBP. Heavy dub-con. Torture, gang-banging, sexual slavery, angst.
Summary: Voldemort gives a disgraced Draco Malfoy as a slave to Severus Snape. Draco is resigned to his fate, until Snape collars Harry Potter as well.
Cards Drawn: Death (reversed), Wheel of Fortune (reversed), Eight of Cups.
Card Interpretation: Death reversed is "holding onto something you know is over," such as a relationship you stayed in too long. The Wheel of Fortune reversed is taking control of your destiny. And the eight of cups is "Possibility of change in a stable situation. Flashes of excitement, movement." I also interpreted "death, reversed" as orgasm denial, the wheel of fortune as suspension bondage, and the eight of cups to be potions, so you will find all three of those elements in the story as well.
Author Notes: Beta-read by the glorious clauclauclaudia. Thanks to Gateway Girl for helping me wrestle a very recalcitrant Draco to the ground. Metaphorically speaking. Title comes from a Shakespeare sonnet. This story also matches up to my 7spells table for Snape/Draco/Harry.
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol:
And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
--from Sonnet 133, William Shakespeare
He stops me just as a I reach the door, his voice sharp as the crack of a whip. These days I would hardly flinch from that, either.
"Draco!" I can hear the unspoken words that should follow. Aren't you forgetting something? or maybe On your knees. He no longer says very much to me any more, which is half the reason I go out. There is only so much brooding silence and potions preparation I can stand. He used to chide, or scold, or at least express his anger.
I am not even worth that most days, it seems. My name serves as command enough and I stop where I am, knowing full well that I have "forgotten" something.
He comes to me then, his robes wafting an oddly sweet, almost incense-like smell into my nostrils, as he reaches up and snaps the slim golden collar around my neck. He locks it with a tiny golden key, which he wears on a chain so fine it is nearly invisible. The glint of gold disappears into the folds of his robes again.
I want him to kiss me, as he used to, in the early days when he felt remorse over having to fetter me this way. I look up, though, and he is already turning away, his eyes hidden by the lank darkness of his hair.
So be it. The collar ensures my safety, my obedience, and my torment all at once. Other than that, I am free.
* * *
I am wearing nearly nothing, just a light grey robe, open at the front, and silky grey breeches. So long as I am wearing the collar I will not feel cold; I am impervious to wind and draughts. I am protected from most hexes, too, which is very useful when one's social circle consists entirely of Death Eaters and their more recent minions, the Red Hand. I am not allowed to carry a wand. I would be easy prey for anyone who does, if it were not for two things, the collar's protective spells, and the meaning it projects, naming me as the property of Severus Snape and any who harm me as answerable to him. And make no mistake, Snape is feared among the Death Eaters who knew him during the war.
I am in an awful mood tonight, not that this is all that different from most nights. I will likely regret the excesses I am seeking. But I seek them anyway. There is always, always, always some Death Eater out there who wants a bedwarmer. The Dark Mark on my arm gives me access to the places they congregate.
Our tower is in a distant keep, but what is distance when we have the Floo? In a flash of green flame I am at what was once the Leaky Cauldron. Now they call it the Black Rose. Appropriate, as it is always full of pricks. London is the Dark Lord's own fief, still the seat of his Ministry, and the inn is often full of those travelling here to curry his favour.
I enter the main room and feel the eyes on me. My twentieth birthday is coming soon, but I do not look all that different from the boy who disarmed Albus Dumbledore atop the Astronomy Tower. Potions, of course.
I do not make it across to the bar before a pair of strong arms grab me from behind, and a boozy, rough voice says in my ear, "So there y'are, Malfoy. Ha'n't seen ye for a few."
MacInnis. One of the upper ranks in the Red Hand; he might make Death Eater soon. He's got a large cock and little staying power. Sometimes that's a good thing.
"Glad yer 'ere. I need a piece."
He means a piece of tail. I am opening my mouth to inquire if he has a room upstairs, as I am more than willing to go for a tumble, when he slams me forward over a table so hard it knocks the breath out of me, making speech impossible. The breeches are gone; Vanished, Banished, or torn away, I cannot tell. And then there are more pairs of rough hands holding me, immobilizing my arms, spreading my legs. So, that's the kind of night it is to be.
MacInnis is rubbing his cock between my legs and humming to himself. "Circe's tits, yer a lov'ly hole."
Someone's hands-I cannot tell if they are his-stretch my arsecheeks apart. Why it is that and not the rest of it that finally brings a blush to my face, I do not know. Perhaps until that moment I have told myself that this is all a game, and that any moment he'll laugh off the others and take me upstairs. No, he truly intends to just take me in front of everyone.
He hits me with the lubrication charm, hard and sudden, so cold that my insides cramp. Then he pushes the blunt head of his cock into place, rubbing it up and down over my slimy entrance, and I know this is all the preparation I will be getting.
It does not matter. I did not come here seeking pleasure, did I? I do not even remember what that word means to others. I will feel every inch of MacInnis' cock, as he pushes into me, and it will satisfy the restlessness that drove me to leave the silent confines of our tower in the first place.
Or so I tell myself in the moments before he enters me. When he does, though, I am not able to think anything at all. The sensation of him forcing his way into my body is all-consuming.
Some would call it pain. I'm not sure I know what that word means any more, either. It consumes my senses so completely that I do not even hear the words the others are speaking, goading him on. I do not even hear the sound coming out of my own throat.
At some point they opt for Incarcerous, cords binding my limbs to the table, though hands still touch me here and there. I am lucky to be face down on the wood where my cock and nipples are protected from their whims. As it is, my back is an inviting expanse...
But it is my arsehole MacInnis wants and he seems to have convinced the crowd that it is the one dish on the menu they ought all try. I swallow hard as my destined use for the evening seems inevitable.
Perhaps it is redundant to say he fucks without mercy. Mercy is another one of those words I don't know the meaning of any more. An abstract concept out of a philosophy book.
The bitch of it all is how long I stay hard and straining. The fourth--or is it the fifth?--one is taking me before my erection finally starts to flag.
This is one of the simpler reasons I go out. I discovered very early after being collared that I could perform all manner of sexual acts, both giving and receiving, but that I could not come while wearing it. It took some time and quite a lot of soreness before I believed it.
Enough abuse, though, and my cock eventually begins to believe that it is done. It isn't the same thing as release, it's nothing like having an actual orgasm, but my body reaches a state of exhaustion and lassitude that is the closest thing to satisfaction I can have.
And, no, masturbation in the privacy of my room is not the same. And, no, I will not beg Snape for relief.
Enough of them fuck me that MacInnis regains his erection and decides, finally, that he wants me for himself. He Disapparates us to a room upstairs, where I am bade to kneel and lick the crusted spunk from his cock before he puts it in me again.
This time we are face to face and I find myself unable to muster any kind of a mask. I must look tired and beaten down, given the way he gloats over me. I've heard this all before-how much he hated my father, how he doesn't believe Snape can be much of a man if I'm as tight as I am every time he sees me--"must not be fooking ye, the daft bastard"--how when he works his way up to Death Eater rank he's going to ask the Dark Lord to take me from Snape and give me to him.
That's the one fear I still hold. That's the one thing that could be worse than the way things are now. Because at least being Snape's I am safe. At least with him I have this tiny measure of freedom, too, even if it is only the freedom to take ten cocks up the arse in one evening. At least it was my idea to go out.
This is the way things are. When MacInnis is done he spends his load with a bellow, then falls into a deep sleep. I slip away to his bath, luxuriating in the hot water and soap for as long as the built-in charms will keep the water hot. That is as close to freedom as I get.
I return to the tower some hours later, clean, but limping slightly. I should go to him to get the collar removed, but sudden tears sting my eyes. Why? All he will do is look at me with bitterness and scorn, and force me to take a healing potion... and I am so very tired now.
I climb the stairs to my bedroom and fall into the sheets with no grace at all. I am far from satisfied. But I am spent in every other meaning of the word.
* * *
I wake a few hours later, as the flickering behind my eyelids that has made my dreams so vivid resolves into the leaping of flames in the grate. It is late spring, still cold and damp in the tower. I blink and the shadow in front of me resolves into his form, seated, frowning. He is always frowning.
Years ago, at this point I might have said I was sorry. Or he might have chastised me and acted as if he were worried for me. I might have lashed out and blamed him if the night had been rough. He might have struck me in anger, and then in remorse have kissed me, held me.
That was long ago. Now he merely says, "I will remove the collar."
I drag myself to my knees on the bed, eyes half-lidded and sullen. The tiny key disappears from my view under my neck, and then "click" and the collar comes free into his hand, looking too delicate for how strong it is. He thrusts a vial at me and I drink it without question. It is the potion that will heal whatever wrongs I have inflicted on my body, restoring me to a pristine state. Or, as pristine as when I was first collared, anyway. Dittany never did quite remove all the scars.
He stares at me for a long moment, as if maybe this time he will say something. I glance up, as if daring him to.
Amazingly, he says something new. "The next time you are out, try to find out who has Potter now."
My shock must register on my face. "Why?"
"No foolish questions, Draco!" he snaps. "I could order you to go out now and start."
He could. I'd probably just find some other Death Eater's bed to sleep in for the rest of the night. I am so tired, and I'd probably only have to suck some cock to get it. But I would rather stay here in my own bed. Or the bed he gave me. Whatever. Gratitude isn't something I feel any more.
"All right," I say, lying back down as if dismissing him. "I could run errands tomorrow..."
He shakes his head. "You know you won't learn much that way."
"All right," I say again, in defeat. Potter. He wants to know who owns Potter now. Not something he could ask himself without revealing some motive to a rival, of course. And it isn't as if Snape socializes. His fief is a remote section of Wales; he rules mostly rocks and trees and a forest good for hunting potions ingredients. Perhaps once a month he holds audiences with the few wizarding subjects living in the territory. Unlike many of the Death Eaters, who have turned their areas truly feudal, Snape demands little from anyone.
Including me. So, he wants to know where Potter is now. Last I remember the Lestrange brothers were sharing him. A few months ago, they were bragging that they had trained him to take two cocks at once. I had thought they meant one in each end, but no, later boasts made it clear they meant both their cocks in Potter's arse. For a moment I was shocked, both to picture it and to think that there was a form of depravity I had not yet experienced. And then I felt almost... envious.
* * *
Potter, as it turns out, is easy to find. The Lestranges are off on some mission for the Dark Lord and they have left him at Hogwarts. The castle has become the centre of training for the Dark Lord's army. The old Slytherin dormitories have become the barracks for the Red Hand's recruits, and there is nothing like a little reward for those who have been loyal, eh? I make my way down there easily. I still know the castle better than most of them and the Dark Mark on my arm allows me to pass through the spells they have set to keep others out.
I reach the common room to find two wizards who can't be any older than sixteen standing over a black-haired figure chained in the centre of the room. The recruits are debating something while standing there naked from the waist down, gesturing and arguing in low voices. Perhaps trying to figure out exactly how this "two cocks" thing is supposed to work.
My guess is it is necessary for the victim to be awake and/or cooperating to some degree, and Potter looks to be unconscious between them. I stay well back in the shadows. The last thing I want is for them to decide to try their inept fumblings on me. They eventually dress and move off, bored and in search of other diversions.
I watch Potter for a long time. His hair has grown down past his shoulders and looks dull and matted in the back. In the firelight I can make out the criss-cross of scars on his back. No one has been making him take the same potions I do, apparently.
I'd warrant there's not a Death Eater alive who hasn't spent a night with him. Hm, well, except for Snape. I think I'd have known about it if he had. Snape has largely dodged the debauchery as unseemly. Mostly.
There was once, right after I was given to him, that he took me in front of the Dark Lord and a few of the inner circle. It was a dinner, and I sat at his feet while they ate and strategised, and then while dessert was being served he bade me suck him under the table. It was for show, to make it seem as if he wanted and appreciated the gift he had been given--me--and once or twice he even let out an obvious moan, but only I knew that he remained mostly flaccid in my mouth. He faked his orgasm and I faked swallowing.
My own erection was real, though. He lay me back upon the table, between empty wineglasses and the remains of their decadence, and stroked me with his hand and spoke low, coaxing words in my ear until I came, red-faced, all over my own stomach. He drew his finger through my come and tasted it as if it were a fine vintage of wine, then bundled me back to our tower.
I've never told him, of course, that I assumed he had a performance problem in front of others. I never told him I expected that when we returned to the tower that I expected him to make l-- to fuck me. Instead he removed the collar and sent me to my room. If he heard me crying, he never said, and I certainly never enlightened him to why.
Potter does not move a muscle for twenty minutes, and no other Red Hand comes to see him. I do not know their schedule-perhaps it is time for evening duelling practice? I don't know.
I move out of the shadows, then kneel by him. My heart hammers suddenly as I realise the carpet smells exactly as it did when I was a student here, as memories of a life lost to me surface unbidden.
"Potter," I say, pushing the bile down in my throat. He does not move.
I roll him onto his back, moving one limb at a time. His face is ashen and the collar around his neck is thick and iron. An equally robust chain connects it to a ring set in the stone nearby. I stare at him and sigh.
There is a large bruise on one cheek, and his nose looks as if it has been broken more than once and not re-set with magic. The scar on his forehead stands out, angry red, stretched tight and satiny-looking like the skin of an erect cock. I find myself with the urge to lick it.
And why not? Potter is probably one of the few non-Squibs in the world I can reasonably claim is lower in rank than me. I find at the moment, though, that any desire I might have to do unto him as others do to me is burning very dimly. Mostly I feel sorry for the poor fuck. The Death Eaters broke his spirit in the first year after the Dark Lord's victory. Then they got bored with him. For quite a while the Dark Lord had him to himself, keeping him as the entertainment at parties for his inner circle and the like. Then he would lend him for extended periods to this or that favourite. It took the better part of that first year to make the rounds. Eventually he stopped going back to the Dark Lord's keeping and just passed from one Death Eater to another according to their whims.
I'm amazed none of them killed him, even accidentally. But now he's not even worth the individual attention any more. Now he's a barrack toy for Red Hand trainees.
"Potter," I say again. But he is out cold, or pretending to be. I make a disgusted sound. Well, at least I can tell Snape my mission has been accomplished. I'll get no thanks and no reward.
* * *
Three weeks later I pay the price for my obedience. A Thestral-drawn carriage arrives at the tower one evening, just after sunset. From my window I watch as what is clearly a body is carried in, slung over the shoulder of some large wizard I do not recognise at the distance. By the time I get downstairs to satisfy my curiosity, the wizard and carriage are gone, and Snape has bespelled the corpse up onto a table and has unwrapped the rags swaddling it.
It's not a corpse. It's Potter. Snape lays a hand gently on his chest, which is rising and falling slowly.
I cough so Snape will know I'm there in the doorway. He does not look up at me, all his attention on Potter. He raises his wand and I recognise the sorts of motions I've seen healers do.
Then without looking he points his wand at me--no, at something beyond me, Summoning something. A lacquered box flies into the room; I only barely get out of its way in time to prevent being struck in the skull with it.
And then I am staring incredulously, as he lifts a silver collar, the twin of my own, and affixes it around Potter's neck. A tiny silver key joins the golden one on the twisted chain.
Outrage is so thick in my throat that for a few moments I cannot breathe. And then I flee. Back to my room. I shut the door for the illusion of privacy. I am trembling. Shaking. My world has just been shattered and I cannot even explain why or how. What do I care what Snape does with Potter? Why should I?
I would go now, this instant, to the Black Rose, or even back to Hogwarts, where they must be in need of diversion now, except I know full well I cannot leave without my own collar, and I cannot abide the thought of going to him for it. Instead I go to the cabinet where I know there is a potion for dreamless sleep. I take it and let oblivion rule me for the night.
* * *
It is two days before Potter wakes. Snape speaks to me once in that time, about preparing the next batch of the potion that restores me. About doubling the amount. The prep work is mine to do. I do not do it. Yet.
In fact, I cannot quite bring myself to go out. Especially not after Snape brings Potter to his own bed for the remainder of his recuperation. His Imperturbable charms leave an irksome buzzing in my ears when I try to listen at the cracks in the door. What the fuck are they doing in there?
Snape's disinterest in me has always hurt, but now his disregard engenders envy. Has he been waiting for Potter all along? Waiting for the right moment when he could get him from the Dark Lord without having to spend any of his political currency?
I imagine the scene behind the door. Mr Potter, he would say-I cannot imagine him calling him Harry-at last the time has come for the sweet repayment of all the trouble you've caused me. I know you are far from virgin, but that dims my ardour for your sweet arse not at all...
Hm, or maybe, Severus! At last... my secret love, it's been years...!
Not bloody likely, but the fantasy amuses me.
The more I think on it though, the more sense it starts to make. They must have some prior history I don't know about. Maybe in Sixth Year, when I was so involved with the cabinet, their antagonism was for show, to hide the attraction that had grown between them? I have a sudden memory of mocking Potter for "Remedial Potions" lessons, which never rang true... Dear God.
No wonder I've been nothing to him.
A deep stab of cold fear goes through me. Am I to be sent packing? Even if Snape does still want to protect me, can he reasonably maintain the front that he deserves us both? Will he be forced to give me to someone else? Does he want to?
The panic seizes my lungs, and I find myself running, gasping, into the parlour where my own collar is kept. I practically knock the box to the floor, my hands are shaking so badly. But I manage to remove the circle of gold from the case. It is hinged; it lies in my upturned palms like a childish letter "w."
I force myself to walk more calmly back to his door. I won't be pushed aside. I won't.
I drop to my knees, then fold my feet under me, settling back to wait, my hands and the collar on my thighs, my grey robes pooling around me.
Hm. I stand and remove my clothes, then settle into the posture again. I bow my head.
I fall into a doze, now that the panic is passed. I do not know how long I am sitting there when the door in front of me opens. I glance up only a moment, only to be sure it is him, and not Potter.
My hands are shaking as I hold the collar up toward him.
"Draco," he says, voice flat but soft, as if he has only just now recognised me on a train platform or at the theatre.
"Please," I say.
Some of the usual steel comes into his voice. "Going somewhere?"
I shake my head. Then shake it again. "Please." Willing him to understand.
Whether he does or not, he takes the collar from my fingers and snaps it delicately into place. Locks it with the key so small it seems almost comical in his fingers. A dormouse's key.
My hands are gripping the lapels of his robes before he can rise fully and retreat from me again. But what can I say? I don't even understand what I want, and being truthful has never been a strong point for me. I cannot very well tell him that I am afraid he is trying to get rid of me; after all, if he is, then he will be one step closer to doing it and he will hide his efforts even better.
"I'm lonely," I say.
He clucks his tongue. "And it is my company you crave?"
Please, please tell me that this is what you've been waiting for all along, for my utter surrender, that this is what will make me the slave you want, that I've been wrong all this time and now at last I'll be forgiven everything and you'll never let me go, never, never. I find I am looking up at him as these thoughts crowd my head, but I cannot say these things. So much for utter surrender. "Let me please you," I try instead.
He shakes his head. "Draco, that's not necessary."
"But I want to."
He shakes his head again. "You don't. But you surely want something from me. Something you cannot find out there...?" He raises a sceptical eyebrow. "You've no dearth of willing partners beyond this tower, am I right?"
I draw back as if burned. He knows full well there is no satisfaction to be had for me except at his hand--or my own if I were not wearing the collar. As such, his comment stings. "What do you want from me!" I blurt.
His eyes flare. "I want you to stay safe and out of trouble, but that is clearly too much to ask! Now truly, Draco, nothing would please me more than if you would refrain from your usual outings. I understand not much excitement is to be found here..."
I make a disgusted noise. "Because you won't touch me!"
His gaze sharpens and I know I've surprised him, which makes no sense, but I've learned to read his looks as no one else has. "Are you pretending now to attraction and interest?"
He wants to brush me aside again. My vision is red. "At least... at least..." I can barely speak. "At least help me to come," I finally say, the only thing I can think of to demand.
His shoulders slump as if defeated. "Is that truly what you want?"
"Yes."
"So be it." He takes a seat on a padded settle against one stone wall and beckons me to come to him. He pulls me into his lap then, his robes scratchy against my bare skin. "You were always an incorrigible child."
He strokes me then, and before long I am clinging to his neck and shoulders like a child, even though we are of a height. I am gibbering and spouting profane things and then I am begging his permission to come, begging with every ounce of my being, until his bemused voice tells me to, and I come so hard that I see stars.
I come so hard I am shaking after it is over.
I come so hard that the words that fall from my lips come entirely uncensored. "Thank you, oh God, thank you."
Much to my amazement, he presses a soft kiss against my hair and then shifts under me, until he has slid out from under and I am leaning alone against the back of the settle. He cleans me, and his hand, and his robes with his wand, then tucks it back into his sleeve, examining me with glittering black eyes.
He seems to come to a decision. "If I do that for you once a day, will you stay out of trouble?"
I nod. This suits my plans, after all, to find out what is going on between him and Potter. I realise I am more like a pet than ever. I will not stray if my owner feeds me regularly. He does not move to take back the collar. I press a hand to it and decide we must be in agreement on that point, then. He has domesticated me at last.
(end part one - part two is now here)