Whoever Keeps Me (Fic, H/D, Snaco, NC-17) 2 of 3
Thanks to a schedule swap... I am presenting part 2 of my fic today instead of Friday. Enjoy!
Title: Whoever Keeps Me (Part 2 of 3)
Author: Ravenna C. Tan
Type: Fiction
Length: 21,000 words total; This post: 8121
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 wonderful clauclauclaudia (*mwah*) 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.
--Sonnet 133, William Shakespeare
Part One if You Missed it
I wake the next morning feeling calm and strangely whole. I lie in bed with my eyes closed, then open them to look around the room.
It is not a bad room, really. The tower is round, so one wall is curved, and hung with old but well-kept tapestries. The bed is sturdy and wide, four posted with dark blue curtains. I have a matching chest and wardrobe hung with clothes. There is a tiny, private water closet. The fireplace is grand, though upon the mantel where I ought to have photographs of my family, there is nothing.
I have nothing. This bothers me less than one might think. What use are possessions in a world like this, where possessions are nothing compared to power? Besides, I am a possession.
Or maybe I am a pet, I think, as I remember last night. Pet makes more sense than slave. He requires me to assist in various potions preparations, but the rest of the time I do relatively little. I do not particularly serve him in any fashion and he gives me the run of the place otherwise, only collaring me if I am going to go out.
I cannot believe it has taken me this long to realise this is how he must have thought of me all along. No wonder his regard is so fleeting. No wonder he hardly says two words to me. I doubt that Snape ever had a cat. I touch the collar with my fingertips and it is as warm as my skin.
If I am a pet, though, what is Potter? Is he a pet, too? The matching collar would seem to indicate so. I wonder how long Snape has had that collar. How long has he been planning to acquire him? I am suddenly full of questions. Who made these collars, anyway? Did Snape make them himself? It seems unlikely they are of wizard-make at all. What other charms are on them besides the ones that protect me from hexes and cold? Is Potter's the same?
I rise at last, burning with the need to know, but with no intention of asking outright.
I hear the sound of the kettle being filled in the kitchen as I approach, but I am shocked to see it is Potter standing there filling it as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be doing. I think for a moment that the claims of his spirit being broken must have been exaggerations. But when I step through the doorway, he startles and drops the kettle, splashing water out of the sink. He shuts off the tap and leans on the edge of the sink, looking at the kettle and not at me. As if he doesn't dare raise his eyes. I wonder if I put a hand on his back if I will feel a tremble.
"Good morning," I say, without inflection. His hair has been brushed out and gleams in the light through the window. He is wearing a plain T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. His feet are bare. When he doesn't move, I pluck the kettle out of the sink and put it on the stove to heat and then sit down at the table.
He finally turns, cautiously, to look at me. I'm wearing nothing but the collar, which seemed like a good idea a few minutes ago but now is making me blush furiously as he examines me.
"Malfoy," he finally says, the slightest dip of his head making the word a greeting.
"Potter." I wish the tea were made already, so I would have something to do with my hands. "Good thing I found you when I did, or by now the Red Hand might have turned you into target practice."
He gives a small shrug, unwilling to agree or cede anything to me, but not wanting to provoke me, either. This, I think, is how he has survived being passed through the hands of so many Death Eaters.
It makes me want to provoke him. "Snape's been waiting for you," I say.
He gives me a slight nod. Was Potter expecting Snape to claim him? Interesting.
He finds the cups on the shelf, the tin of tea, spoons. I find myself just watching him. The next thing I know he has made a pot for both of us, and poured, and set the cup down in front of me. He sits down with his own.
I retrieve the cream and sugar, and treat my own. "There's bread for toast," I say, as I sip at the passable brew. He drinks his plain. "If you want any."
He seems to be trying to figure out where the trick is in what I said. I get up again, annoyed. I would like to be making the kind of statements to him that would require him to tiptoe around me, that would have consequences for being misunderstood. Instead, I can only muster bland platitudes.
I suppose more than needling him, I want breakfast. I make toast and return to the table with enough for both of us and currant jam. I spread it liberally over a slice, then cut it in half and hand it to him. "There, so you know it's not poisoned."
He looks at me with surprise and puzzlement, then takes it and bites into it. It's clear he's ravenous.
Between the two of us we finish the rest of the loaf without speaking. "How long have you been here?" he finally asks.
"With Snape?" I assume that is what he means. "The Dark Lord gave me to him right after he sent my parents to Hong Kong. About a month after Hogwarts fell."
"Ah."
"We've been living here about two years."
"Oh."
The only word with more than a single syllable he's uttered was my name. But I find it such a... relief to be having a relatively normal conversation... to be having a conversation with someone who does not seem to actively loathe me, that I find I want it to continue. How odd a thought is that--that Potter does not loathe me. And I do not seem to loathe him, not right at the moment, anyway.
"Want me to show you around?"
"Sure."
It dawns on me that if I play my cards right, I could gain an ally in Potter. But I must find out what he means to Snape first. "It's not much of a tower, but being a hermit suits him," I say, as I get up from the table, leaving the dishes where they are. A house elf comes to clean but has been ordered to stay out of our sight. It comes at night-once in a while when I have been unable to sleep, I have seen a diminutive cloaked figure hurrying away from the tower in the wee hours. "Let's start at the bottom and work our way up."
The tower has an entrance room at the bottom, with an audience area for meeting with people who are not allowed upstairs. The next room up is a much nicer parlour, for entertaining guests, if we ever had any guests. Above that is the kitchen, above that is my room. Above that is Severus' room. And at the top, the laboratory. We finish by going up onto the roof and I find myself wondering how much longer Potter will be sharing Severus' room. Will we convert the unused parlour into a place for him? Or will he move in with me? Or will we magically expand the tower? I cannot picture a conversation about the subject with Snape. He will do as he pleases with his own logic, I suppose.
I cannot help but wish that it were me in his bed, though. Now that Potter is here, I want it fiercely.
I always did. I had made myself forget. The bitterness of my disappointment when he did not bed me years ago floods back. I do not understand why he hates me more now than he did. I do not understand what he wants.
I wonder if Potter does.
* * *
Snape comes to me in the late evening, almost midnight. He has been out all day, which is unusual. He steps quickly into my room and shuts the door behind him, coming briskly to my bedside. I set aside the book I have been reading and then wonder how this is going to work. Should I push down the bedcovers to expose myself?
He has already shed his travelling cloak and changed into his home robes, but the scent of outside still clings to him as he leans over me and slides his hand down my torso. His fingers brush over the erection they encounter and I feel my cheeks go hot.
He pushes back the covers then, though his gaze remains on my face. He does not even glance down at my cock as he grips it loosely, pulling the foreskin down to the base. "You are a confusing creature," he says, voice rich with bemusement. "That you can blush like a virgin bride in front of me, when you are so wanton with the others."
I hear the prickle in what he says, too. The distrust. He thinks I am being coy to seduce him? This thought makes my entire face red. "Don't..." But I get no further in my sentence as his swift tugs on my cock are sending me into a state of gibbering ecstasy all too quickly.
I cry out when I come, hot and slippery into his hand, and he continues to stroke me with increasing gentleness until I am softened. All resistance to anything is gone, of course, once I am reduced to that state.
"You were saying?" he prods, not entirely kindly.
The answer that emerges is a plainer truth than it would have been, had I uttered the same words five minutes ago. "Don't make me go back... to them."
He draws back, shocked or angry, or both. "Are you under the impression that I wanted you to whore yourself...?"
No, no that's not it at all, but I cannot see how to untangle the knot. "Thank you," I whisper instead.
That brings a calmer look to his face, though the puzzlement still shades his eyes. "I promised I would," he says. "Sleep now."
Ah, right, I think as I am closing my eyes. He thinks I've promised not to go out so long as he helps me to come once a day. So my begging to stay here makes no sense to him. I'll never get him to see that it was his neglect that drove me to seek out the abuse I received at the hands of others.
Wasn't it?
* * *
I'm trying to listen at Snape's bespelled door when they have a fight. It's odd, truly. The enchantment obscures what they say, but there is no mistaking the crash of a heavy piece of furniture to the ground. And the enchantment itself seems to go spiky and aggressive, as if it can barely contain the anger therein.
Snape storms out shortly, mere moments after I withdrew from the door because of the headache the privacy spells were giving me. He heads down, not up, so I know he is leaving the tower.
I loiter in the open door to the room I have not dared to enter.
Potter is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking a bit as if he's been hexed to vomit slugs, but doing his best to hold them in. His expression is mild when he looks up at me, though. He blinks, and I wonder how long it's been since he wore glasses. Or held a wand.
I very nearly ask if he's all right, but I know already the reflexive answer will be of course, I'm fine. Instead I probe with a blunt question, figuring if it misses the mark by a mile, well, that might be telling, too. "Did he hurt you very badly?" I pull my robe tighter around myself as if shielding myself from invisible eyes.
His head snaps up. "What?"
"He's not as... bluntly sadistic as the Lestrange brothers, but I know he..." I break off and allow my shamed red cheeks and bitten lip to speak more eloquently than words.
He is on his feet. "No! Are you saying...?"
But I am backing away, wide-eyed. "I've... I've gotten used to it. I thought... I thought maybe you would... Since you've been here, I've had a bit of a respite."
He looks stricken. "I... I had no idea. He's been... er, nursing me back to health."
It is a patent lie Potter tells, so bad he nearly winces at it himself. I pretend to believe him. "Oh, no doubt. He wants you in top condition. That is, if... well, he makes me take a restorative any time I end up at all scarred."
The best lies, of course, are the truths.
He has caught me, around the wrist. "Don't run from me," he pleads. "I'm... I'm not your enemy any more."
I leave my wrist limp in his grip. "A-all right. Can I make you some tea?"
He shakes his head. "I'll make it for both of us."
We go to the kitchen in silence, and sit sipping from our mugs companionably. I know he is thinking over everything I've said, and not said.
We both hear the door slam downstairs. I get quickly to my feet. "You mustn't tell him I told you anything."
"Wha...?"
"Promise me. Promise me you won't say anything to him about what I said."
He looks startled, but he agrees. "I promise."
"We'll talk more later." I hurry to my room as if to pretend I've been there all along. A short while later, Snape comes in.
I sit up in bed immediately. "I finished the double batch of restorative."
He sits on the bed. "Good." His voice is softer than I expect and I wonder what emotions he is hiding from me now.
"Are you..." I pause, trying to pick my words carefully. "Here to feed me?"
His eyes take on an indulgent look at that. "Are you the cat, begging for milk?"
More like to be milked, but... "Yes," I say, though I ask suddenly, "Is that what I am? A pet?"
He strokes my hair and I find myself leaning into the touch. It seems to take a long time for him to find his voice. "You are my pet if you want to be."
I swallow hard, the ring of metal around my neck shifting against my skin. "What do you mean?"
"Draco..." His hand continues to move against my head. "Do you like this?"
"Being petted? Yes." Yes, it's quite pleasant, and I've already been conditioned to arousal at his touch over the short week or so we've been doing this regularly, so the gentle strokes are bringing my cock to life, too.
He lets his hand trail down my skin, then. "You were never suited to be a slave," he whispers, almost as if to himself and not to me. "But a pet, yes. If you want it, the role is yours."
I am confused again by his implication that it be my idea, my desire, but I accept it. His fingers brush my erection now and I draw in a sharp breath.
"Pets should be trained to obedience, though," he says as he strokes me maddeningly with just one fingertip. "And be rewarded for good behaviour."
I fall back against the pillow, my hips bucking, and an animal-like noise coming from my throat.
He takes me in hand then, stroking firmly, using my foreskin to slide up and down the shaft. As I get closer and closer, though, he lightens his touch more and more, until I am straining and moaning and pushing my hips upward wantonly.
"Have you been a good pet?" he asks.
"Yes, yes, I've been very good!" At least, I haven't gone stray or catted about with other Death Eaters lately...
And he redoubles his efforts, quick, firm tugs bringing me inevitably over the edge. The intensity brought on by his teasing rebounds with a deep lassitude upon release, my eyes closing heavily. To my surprise he kisses my forehead, something he has not done in a long time.
"The collar..." he says, and again it sounds like he is talking to himself, not me, until he adds, "Good night, Draco."
* * *
Things are quiet then for a week or so. I do not bait Potter with any more comments, and things between Snape and me seem to be going very very well. When we are behind closed doors, he seems much less angry with me and much more caring. Rarely are all three of us together. It's clear Potter is in need of recovery from something, as the amount of restorative in the bottle decreases steadily, though I never see him take it. I hear them fight once more, but act none the wiser. What is going on in that room?
I am determined to find out, or at least to disrupt it. I have made up my mind that when Snape comes to feed me tonight, I will ask him if, as his pet, I may sleep at the foot of his bed.
But it is only just sunset and we are putting away some things in the lab when an owl arrives. The great, yellow-eyed bird pecks Snape once as he undoes the letter then flies off without waiting for a reply. Snape reads the parchment, then crushes it in his hand with a muttered curse.
His eyes fall on me. "We are invited to a formal affair. All three of us."
Oh. I just stare back at him. Then stammer, "Tonight?"
He shakes his head and I relax a fraction. "Soon. You know what is going to be expected."
I blurt out what I think before I can consider dissembling. "That the two of us, Potter and I, put on a show that makes it worthwhile to leave us both in your care."
"Just so." He regards me now with a critical eye. "They are no doubt wondering why you've been absent from their revelry of late."
I sputter but can make no defence against that accusation.
"Calm yourself, Draco. This is not your fault." He tosses the parchment into the fire in the hearth. "You've always hated him, I know."
For a moment I think he means the Dark Lord, then I realise, no, Potter. "We can surely cooperate long enough that we may all three escape intact."
He considers. "I doubt that cooperation is what they hope to see from you both. I've kept you separated to reduce antagonism as much as possible."
I frown at that. "I've done my best to ignore him," I lie.
"I must think on this further." He leaves the room and I ensure the ingredients are safely stowed before following, but he appears to have left.
I am dragging myself dejectedly back up the stairs when Potter stops me. "Are you all right?" he asks, an edge of outrage in his voice. Interesting. It seems he believes my hints that Snape abuses me.
"Nothing," I say, as if I have some horror to hide.
He reaches out, touches my shoulder gently. "You've been kind to me. I don't want to see you mistreated."
I shrug. "He's not as bad as some," I say, and Potter knows better than anyone it's the truth. "At least this protects me." I touch the collar with my fingers. "Even if it won't let me come except by his touch."
Potter's eyes widen. I've clearly surprised him with this news, which makes me wonder if it is only now that he actually believes me. "Are you serious?"
I nod. "I expect yours is the same. Have you not tried it?"
He blinks, dumbfounded, then blushes, and my suspicion that I am not the only pet being fed daily around here seems confirmed.
I decide to tell him the rest. "If we want to stay with Snape, though, well..." I wait until he is thoroughly curious about what I am going to say. "An owl came today."
"An owl?" Now I definitely have his full attention.
"It's not usual for a single Death Eater to have two slaves, especially two like us," I say. "Snape will need to prove he's worthy to keep us. We'll be expected to... perform for the inner circle."
Harry looks mutinous. "What sort of performance?"
I roll my eyes. "Don't play dumb with me, Potter. I've heard tell of what the Lestranges put you through. And Macnair. And Yaxley. And Alecto Carrow..."
He grabs me roughly and I squeak helplessly in protest. That is all it takes for him to realise that it isn't me he's angry with.
So virtuous. "I'm sorry," he says, but does not let go.
"Don't be," I say. "I'm just glad to see that the rumours about your spirit being broken were not among those that were true."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"Nor I you. But we may have to act like we do." I do not know what the owl actually said, but I have no reason to doubt Snape's instincts. "He thinks they will pit us against each other."
He pulls me close and I find it irresistible to return the embrace. "They enjoy making the 'hero' do depraved things. But I won't... I won't take you against your will."
I shake my head slowly. "There's only one solution for that."
He draws back suddenly, searching my eyes. "What's that?"
"Consent. I consent to whatever you have to do to me. You could do the same, in case they reverse our positions...?"
"Yes!" He hugs me more tightly. "Yes, whatever you have to do, Draco. I agree."
I feel vertigo at the power he has just handed me. And the fact that I have handed him the same.
* * *
It begins to concern me just how much Snape is away. He's never left the tower this much before. I remark as much to Potter while we're sitting down to breakfast one morning and it's obvious that Snape has already gone.
"What does he do?" Potter asks, blinking curiously at me. "I mean, it's obvious you and he make various potions for the Death Eaters, but..."
I lick honey from my fingers. "But he doesn't need to leave here for that, I know. And it isn't as if there's much work to be done being lord of this fief. I'd suspect politics, that he is... improving his-and our-position somehow before this audience we're to have, but he started leaving more frequently before that owl came..." But even as I say it I realise what his more frequent departures do coincide with. Harry's arrival.
Maybe it is politics then. Maybe a misstep is what prompted the invitation to dine with the Dark Lord in the first place?
Or maybe he finds it more tenable to remove himself from here, now that I no longer do? No, that doesn't ring true. Over the years we have perfected the art of living in the same building while avoiding each other if we wish.
Perhaps it is Potter he wishes to be apart from. Hm, but why? Cannot keep his hands off him? Or has the quarrelling I heard reached such a level that it must be limited to certain hours per day, lest it escalate to worse violence?
Potter is watching me as I think. "I don't know where he goes," I say then, my annoyance at his absence showing through a bit more than I'd like. I backpedal quickly, trying to remember exactly what lies I've told Potter in my effort to gain his sympathy. "But at least when he's gone, we are free of his demands."
If Potter has noticed my slip, he does not show it. "I worry..." he says, trailing off and staring into his tea. He tries again. "I worry that this has been just... the calm before the storm."
He looks much healthier than he did when he first arrived, corpselike in the night. His hair is glossy like a horse's mane, his skin clear-whatever fights he and Snape have had, the restorative has been doing its work. And whatever faults Snape may have, I am quite certain that he has been kinder to Potter than any other Death Eater was.
The suspicion that they are lovers, or were, and maybe are again, flits through my head, never far from the forefront of my thoughts these days. What other explanation is there?
"What do you mean?" I say when he falls silent.
"I mean, I've just spent several weeks doing nothing but..." He glances away from me and I wonder what he's hiding. "But eat, and sleep, and recover. And that makes me think that something large and... and horrible is about to happen."
I snort. "The owl we received is what makes me think that. But, truly, it need not be so large or so horrible if we are ready for it. The worst may yet not come to pass. We may have to suffer through a bloody night, but if we do well, we'll end up right back here."
He frowns at me, as if stifling some response to me, then he decides to say it anyway. "I thought he mistreated you," he says, as if catching me out.
"And what of it?" I say lightly. "He still treats me better than most. He's one of the few who doesn't bear a grudge against my family name, and he's kept me alive this long. We're... we're safe with him, do you see what I'm saying?"
He nods. "Yeah, okay. And you're loyal to him, that much I can see."
I am not sure whether to be pleased by what he says or not. "And you? Are you loyal to him, too?"
He sets down his teacup. "I suppose I am. I'm grateful, anyway, not to be gang-banged by the Red Hand night after night. And he really has put a lot into healing me."
I sip my tea calmly, even though part of me is thinking: you had bloody well better be loyal to him, to us, you bastard. This at the same time another part of me is still wondering if there is some way I can get rid of Potter. That part has been quieter of late, though. Perhaps because Snape has been so... considerate of me lately. And I still have no proof that he is fucking Potter, or that he ever did. Bah. And what if they were lovers? So what? How should I feel about that?
I find myself staring at him again. His lower lip is full and red, his eyes such a green as one rarely sees.
"What's the bloodiest night you've been through?" he asks then, voice soft.
I don't see any reason to stop staring at him as I speak. "I've seen worse than I've experienced," I say. "After all, I've always come home alive, and with all my limbs." It helps, no doubt, that I'm a pureblood, and that Snape at least has some of them believing he'd eat their balls without a second thought if they disrespected him enough to actually maim his property. "Usually all they want from me is a good suck or to fuck me." It makes me wonder, again, how it is that Potter didn't end up dead. "Worst I ever saw was a boy fucked in the eye socket. He screamed through the whole thing, but Yaxley wouldn't stop until he came. As it turned out, the boy was dead by the time he did."
Potter looks outraged.
"Of course, the boy wasn't anyone's property. Might have been a Muggle-I'm not sure. I really didn't dare ask."
"Of course not." Potter half-snarls with disgust, then calms himself. "But you, I asked about the worst you had."
I shrug. "Why, what's the worst you've had?"
He stares at the tabletop while he thinks about the answer, giving me more time to examine him in detail, including the silver collar, which is almost delicate around his neck.
"Bellatrix and her husband," he finally says. "That was the closest to having my cock and balls removed I've come."
I admit that widens my eyes. "She tried to?"
He shrugs. "She rather likes knives. And she's not at all careful. When she got bored of me and her brother-in-law got in on things instead, I actually felt safer."
I have to know. "Is it true? What they say about... both their cocks?"
His face twitches, but his eyes remain on the tabletop. "Unfortunately, yes."
"Didn't that make you too stretched out for just one...?"
He sounds like an echo of himself. "Unfortunately, yes. So it was both of them every day for... a while. But, just like with all the others, they got bored eventually." Then he looks up. "And you?" he presses.
It is the third time he has asked, and either I answer or I must outright refuse to. I consider a moment. "I only... went with Yaxley once. There was some kind of one-upmanship going on between him and another Death Eater. The other Death Eater fucked some slave 'doggie style' and actually transfigured his own penis to work like a dog's penis, ballooning up inside."
I try to sound casual about it, which perhaps makes it all the more horrible to picture. "Well, the slave howled like a dog anyway. Yaxley decided to outdo this and transfigured his cock to be like a lion's. And his hands to have claws."
Potter looks puzzled. "A lion's?"
Damn it all, I can feel my cheeks reddening. I'm supposed to be so jaded by now talking about it shouldn't matter. Aren't I? "Cats have barbed penises," I say, barely audibly, the memory of being torn inside, of every thrust being utter agony, surfaces from where I had buried it. I had never been as desperate for the restorative as I was that night.
Potter swears just as quietly. "And Snape let him do that to you?"
Now my face is redder than ever. "I... er... I consented to it." I cannot bring myself to confess that I went out looking for trouble with only the collar for protection.
He blinks.
"Well, insofar as one can say that I consent to anything." I shrug. "I might not have gone along with it if I knew exactly what he were going to do, but in general principle... I knew he was going to hurt me." I shrug again, as if, having survived, it is of no consequence now. "This is why I'm not overly concerned about the Dark Lord's invitation. If they want a show... I'll give it to them."
Potter sighs. "All right. Then... what's the best night you've had?"
Now it is my turn to blink like an idiot. "What do you mean?"
"It hasn't all been pain, has it?" He sits up in his chair. "Has it?"
I am dangerously close to telling him the truth, which is that if Snape would have only deigned to acknowledge me, maybe there could have been something...
I shake my head. "I've never... had sex that wasn't violent. Or related to domination. Sometimes it's just dull. There's not always blood..."
He looks at me incredulously. "That's... even I had owners who would... sometimes have a soft spot for me. Maybe just for an hour or a day, before they came to their senses... I'd think you'd be a master at that."
I slump in my chair. "I've only had the one owner. When I go with someone else, it's usually just for an hour, or a night, and coddling me is never what they have in mind."
"And Snape never...?"
I stand up so quickly my chair nearly falls over. "Never without a price."
He looks troubled, but is silent.
I relent just a little. "He... he does... help me to come. Sometimes. If I'm... good. That's...." This is the unalloyed truth. "That's the best I've ever had."
He is looking at me like he pities me. I hate that look. I turn away, and the next thing I know, his hands are snaking softly around my belly, his nose in my hair. "Would you? Let me love you without violence?"
I'm trembling in his arms as if he has just spoken the most vile threat. "And if I say no?"
"I'll stop," he says, his lips brushing my ear. And then as if to emphasise the point, he lets go and takes a step back.
"I don't want your pity."
"What about my friendship?"
"Bah. You think something terrible is about to happen."
"All the more reason to spend what time's left wisely."
I turn so I can look at his eyes. Can a man who has known almost nothing for the past two years but non-stop rape actually be interested in consensual sex? With me? "You've been better company that I expected."
"Thanks."
"You'll stop if I say I want to stop? Even if we're... fairly far along?"
He folds his arms across his chest. "Anywhere along. If all you want is to be kissed, that's fine with me."
My heart is suddenly racing, and not with fear. "I've... I've never just been kissed. Unless you count snogging with Pansy Parkinson."
"I don't," he says and reaches out for me, drawing me into the warmth of his embrace.
* * *
We go to my bed for this, and I shut the door, as if we're in need of the privacy. In reality we ought to leave it open so we can hear if Snape comes home, but I close it on principle.
He encourages me to lie back on the coverlet, as he brushes my hair from my eyes and examines my face like a precious thing. One thumb traces the curve of my bottom lip, and I find myself just staring dumbly up at him. No one has ever regarded me with such a look. He then brushes his mouth over mine, just a brush, his eyes wide open as he watches my reaction.
Slow and deliberate, lips and then tongue, gentle and insistent, the buildup of my arousal so gradual I do not notice it until it becomes almost painful. At that point the soft sounds that have been coming from my throat turn to whimpers.
The next thing I know, I am urging him to stroke my cock by pushing his hand with my own toward the stiff, hot flesh. He strokes firmly, three, four, five times, and then suddenly swears and apologises. "I forgot! God, I'm sorry, I forgot you can't come without him..."
I arch my back and hiss softly. "It's all right, Harry. I... I didn't forget. I'm used to it."
He doesn't ask me what I mean by that. He strokes me more softly. "What should I do?"
I wriggle under him. "You could fuck me. Being well fucked gives me... a totally different sense of completion. And feeling you come helps, too."
He frowns. "But it sounds so unfair..."
"I know. But there's nothing you can do about that. And... and I'd like to see what it feels like."
He cocks his head. "What what feels like?"
"Being fucked by someone who just wants me to feel pleasure from it. Who isn't trying to... get revenge, teach me a lesson, practice a new engorgement charm, put me in my place, hurt me..."
"Okay, yeah, I get the idea." He sighs. "What have you got for lube?"
Oh. The simplest things can be the most elusive when one's mind is in a tangle. "Um..." Think, Draco, think! "Stay here, I'll get it."
That gives me time to think as I go up to the lab. Yes, we've got any number of bases for topical creams. Palm oil is a bit solid but it melts against one's fingers.... yes, perfect.
I return with a small jar of it as quickly as I can, my heart racing with anticipation.
Potter sniffs it and nods approvingly. "I bet this would feel nice rubbed into your skin."
I'm not sure what I should say to that, but yes, it would.
He urges me with gentle hands to roll onto my stomach, as if determined not to rush. He warms some of the stuff between his hands, then plants them on my shoulder blades. I think it's me melting under his warm touch. As he works his way down my spine I think, Is that why it's called PALM oil? I wonder where he learned to do this-did some Death Eater demand it? Or is he making it up as he goes along?
Then he begins to massage the globes of my arse, his hands never ceasing to move, until he is oiling the cleft itself, and then massaging my hole in slow circles.
His finger slips inside and I push back against it, surprised at how good it feels.
Oil. His finger. Moaning. These things define my world for a time. His voice in my ear, clear and sweet. "Does that feel good?"
"Yes, God yes."
He works in a second finger, stretching me gradually, shaping my body like clay. I chuckle as I think, is that why they call him POTTER?
I am clearly delirious with desire. His lips now are on the back of my shoulder, sending ripples of pleasure down my spine. He suckles at my neck and I arch wantonly for him. His cock slides, well oiled and engorged, between my arsecheeks. "Don't tease," I gasp, breathless. "Don't m--"
"Shh, I won't," he says, and presses in. I suck in a breath as he breaches me, nearly knocking my head into him. He tucks his mouth against my neck again, holding me fast as he begins to fuck, deep and sensuous.
I'm trembling, that's how good it feels, how good it is. I've never... only in my dreams... .
I don't realise I've spoken out loud until I hear his answer, hushing me, and telling me he knows, he understands...
I have no idea how long it goes on. Long enough for me to lose track of time. Long enough for me to forget he will come. Nothing exists but the pendulum swing of his legs between mine, a frozen clock, ticking but not counting forward.
I stiffen as the realisation hits me with a flash. "But you're collared, too."
He groans. "Do you think that means I won't be able to come?"
"I... I don't know." I had assumed so. And what would it mean if mine were charmed to deny me orgasm, but his were not?
"I... I'm close enough to find out."
"All right." I press back against him, raising my arse and giving him more freedom to move.
He comes, with a sharp shout, his hands clinging to my hips, slamming me hard and then milking himself in me with slow thrusts, until he is too soft to stay in me any longer and slips free.
He presses soft, thankful kisses against my shoulders, but I am shaking too hard with envy to appreciate them. "That bastard," I finally say, my voice weak.
He strokes my hair, making calming noises. Maybe they are words. I cannot tell with the buzzing in my ears, anger and resentment and a hundred other things vying for my attention, making my veins burn with acid.
When he enfolds me in his arms, and kisses me on the forehead, I realise he has moved to my other side. "It'll be all right, Draco," he is saying. "Everything will be all right."
Platitudes that mean nothing. But I want to believe him.
"Why?" I finally ask, meaning it rhetorically. I don't expect him to have an answer. "Why me and not you? Why is my collar different from yours?"
He strokes my hair and tries to answer, though. "Maybe your... orgasm means more to him than mine."
"Shut your mouth," I hiss, just angry. "You don't know what you're talking about." Angry because that's exactly what I wish, a wish I buried so long ago that uncovering it now stings like hell. And it isn't true. He's practically ignored me until recently...
Until recently. Do I dare to hope?
I don't. I cry hopelessly against Potter's bare chest, and he doesn't protest. Just holds me until I fall asleep.
* * *
I wake with a hand over my mouth, someone gripping me from behind, the other hand circling my cock. I thrash instinctively, while my brain wakes up, thinking first Potter? Then, abduction? Then the scent of his robes penetrates my consciousness and I press back into him with a muffled hum. Snape.
He takes me all the way to the brink of orgasm before he lets my mouth free, and then it is so I may answer a question. "Do you want to come, Draco?" he asks in my ear.
"Yes, yes pl--"
But he clamps his hand over my mouth again, pinching my nose with his thumb also, just at the moment I reach my peak. The room is pitch black, but I see stars as I come, as my body jerks in his embrace, fighting for air even as spasms of my pleasure pour over his fingers.
He lets me breathe quickly after that, and I lie panting and limp in his arms. He shifts and I feel the rustle of his robes, then something soft, his hair? It brushes my neck and then there is a gentle, brief pressure on my hair.
Did he just kiss me? I do not have much time to consider the question as the sudden release has left me sinking back into sleep as quickly as I had awoken.
In the morning, I would wonder if it were a dream, but the crusted evidence of my issue on the sheets is there, incontrovertible.
As are the marks on my neck where Potter suckled, which Snape could not see in the dark. It suddenly matters to me that he does not see them, and I sneak a dose of the restorative before he can.
That afternoon he goes out, leaving Potter and I looking at one another across the kitchen, both asking the same question with our eyes. Are we...? We probably oughtn't but... Are we going to...?
He has me spread on the table, fucking me with the butter, before either of us can consider the question again. I am on my back, and I watch the play of emotions across his face as he penetrates me, then settles into a rhythm. He kisses me on the mouth, bruising my lips as he loses control for a moment, then pulls back.
"It's not fair," he pants, shaking his head.
"What isn't, that you can come and I can't?"
He shakes his head again. "No. That he gets to make you come and I don't."
Oh. I pull him down into another kiss to hide my surprise. I'd not thought of it that way before. But then, until recently, he had not seemed to care if I ever came at all, so of course I'd never thought of it that way.
But now Harry is taking me apart with his cock, with each tender thrust, and it almost doesn't matter that I won't come-this is sublime and sweet and not like any sex I've had before... unless you count yesterday.
He is growing close when a sudden panic grips me. "We can't... we can't..."
"What?" He slows, but does not stop, running fingers through my damp hair.
"You can't fuck me like this in front of the Dark Lord. I'll... I'll fall apart. And he'll separate us forever, out of spite. I know it. He'll take one of us, or both of us, away..." With each word I say the panic grows larger, the future more certain, more inescapable.
He hushes me again, kisses me until I can breathe again, and says "Don't worry. Whatever happens, won't be like this. I promise."
Right. I forgot he promised to hurt me if he had to. "J-just... think about that time I ... b-broke your nose on the train."
He laughs. The son of a basilisk actually laughs. "Right. God, that seems like a million years ago."
It may as well be. That whole world is gone.
He comes soon after that, his whole face a mask of effort and then moments later, peace.
We wash together, and that's pleasant, even him washing my cock and balls, which makes them oh-so-eager for more, but it could be hours and hours before Snape returns. I dry myself, willing my bits to be flaccid and calm.
"What do you think would happen..." he says, words slow and cautious, as he gets dressed, "if he came home and found us cuddling together?"
I swallow suddenly, wondering why he is asking me such a leading question. I pull my robes around me and sit on the lid of the commode."I think..." My words come just as cautiously. "I think that might depend on how he feels about you."
"Ah." He falls maddeningly silent then, not illuminating what he knows or supposes about how Snape feels about him.
The silence stretches out for a few long seconds, and then he looks up as if just realising I am staring at him. "I... I don't really know how he feels about me," he says then, as if he can read my question in my face. "I didn't really think it would matter."
"He used to hate you," I say without much inflection.
"So did you," he answers, something vulnerable but fleeting in his eyes. He leans against the sink, crossing his arms. "And I used to hate both of you."
But, as he brought up, that was in a world that doesn't exist any more. I find myself probing in a way I didn't plan. "I think he hates me now."
He frowns at that, but does not contradict me. "What makes you think that?"
"He acts like his life would be better if I didn't exist. He does little to hide his resentment."
He looks at me, squinting slightly to try to see me more clearly. "He seems to... resent everything," he finally says.
I suppose that could be true. I stand. "I've never been cuddled," I say. And it's true, if I don't count cuddling as a child. "I... I want to see what he'll say. My bet is... he won't say anything."
Harry snorts. "I won't take that bet. But I will cuddle you."
"Good."
We go back to my room, and we climb onto the bed fully clothed. He pulls one loose blanket over us and I find it surprisingly comforting to be snuggling with all this cloth. His shirt smells good, uniquely Harry, and I find myself drifting to sleep again.
* * *
I wake to voices. I am curled alone under a blanket but their voices are close by. I am groggy, unable to wake completely, and I wonder if I have been given a sleeping draught.
"Won't you at least tell me what to expect?"
"It is of no consequence. I would prefer you kept your mind on our mission."
"No consequence? You do realise he's desperately in love with you, don't you?"
"Desperate may be accurate."
Are we moving? I have a vague sense of rhythmic jostling. A carriage?
"Don't you even care how he feels? He thinks you hate him."
"How I feel, and how he feels, are of no consequence when compared with what we need to accomplish. Wouldn't you agree?"
"No, no I don't."
"You always were a stubborn, argumentative..."
"And we don't have time for this. We're nearly there."
"So we are."
And then a sharp tingle as a spell shocks me awake. Snape's eyes, dark and intense, are the only thing I see. "We have been summoned, Draco."
I nod. "I understand."
"Good boy," he says, and I think I hear a warmth in his voice. Perhaps I imagine it.
(continue to the third and final part here!)
Title: Whoever Keeps Me (Part 2 of 3)
Author: Ravenna C. Tan
Type: Fiction
Length: 21,000 words total; This post: 8121
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 wonderful clauclauclaudia (*mwah*) 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.
--Sonnet 133, William Shakespeare
Part One if You Missed it
I wake the next morning feeling calm and strangely whole. I lie in bed with my eyes closed, then open them to look around the room.
It is not a bad room, really. The tower is round, so one wall is curved, and hung with old but well-kept tapestries. The bed is sturdy and wide, four posted with dark blue curtains. I have a matching chest and wardrobe hung with clothes. There is a tiny, private water closet. The fireplace is grand, though upon the mantel where I ought to have photographs of my family, there is nothing.
I have nothing. This bothers me less than one might think. What use are possessions in a world like this, where possessions are nothing compared to power? Besides, I am a possession.
Or maybe I am a pet, I think, as I remember last night. Pet makes more sense than slave. He requires me to assist in various potions preparations, but the rest of the time I do relatively little. I do not particularly serve him in any fashion and he gives me the run of the place otherwise, only collaring me if I am going to go out.
I cannot believe it has taken me this long to realise this is how he must have thought of me all along. No wonder his regard is so fleeting. No wonder he hardly says two words to me. I doubt that Snape ever had a cat. I touch the collar with my fingertips and it is as warm as my skin.
If I am a pet, though, what is Potter? Is he a pet, too? The matching collar would seem to indicate so. I wonder how long Snape has had that collar. How long has he been planning to acquire him? I am suddenly full of questions. Who made these collars, anyway? Did Snape make them himself? It seems unlikely they are of wizard-make at all. What other charms are on them besides the ones that protect me from hexes and cold? Is Potter's the same?
I rise at last, burning with the need to know, but with no intention of asking outright.
I hear the sound of the kettle being filled in the kitchen as I approach, but I am shocked to see it is Potter standing there filling it as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be doing. I think for a moment that the claims of his spirit being broken must have been exaggerations. But when I step through the doorway, he startles and drops the kettle, splashing water out of the sink. He shuts off the tap and leans on the edge of the sink, looking at the kettle and not at me. As if he doesn't dare raise his eyes. I wonder if I put a hand on his back if I will feel a tremble.
"Good morning," I say, without inflection. His hair has been brushed out and gleams in the light through the window. He is wearing a plain T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. His feet are bare. When he doesn't move, I pluck the kettle out of the sink and put it on the stove to heat and then sit down at the table.
He finally turns, cautiously, to look at me. I'm wearing nothing but the collar, which seemed like a good idea a few minutes ago but now is making me blush furiously as he examines me.
"Malfoy," he finally says, the slightest dip of his head making the word a greeting.
"Potter." I wish the tea were made already, so I would have something to do with my hands. "Good thing I found you when I did, or by now the Red Hand might have turned you into target practice."
He gives a small shrug, unwilling to agree or cede anything to me, but not wanting to provoke me, either. This, I think, is how he has survived being passed through the hands of so many Death Eaters.
It makes me want to provoke him. "Snape's been waiting for you," I say.
He gives me a slight nod. Was Potter expecting Snape to claim him? Interesting.
He finds the cups on the shelf, the tin of tea, spoons. I find myself just watching him. The next thing I know he has made a pot for both of us, and poured, and set the cup down in front of me. He sits down with his own.
I retrieve the cream and sugar, and treat my own. "There's bread for toast," I say, as I sip at the passable brew. He drinks his plain. "If you want any."
He seems to be trying to figure out where the trick is in what I said. I get up again, annoyed. I would like to be making the kind of statements to him that would require him to tiptoe around me, that would have consequences for being misunderstood. Instead, I can only muster bland platitudes.
I suppose more than needling him, I want breakfast. I make toast and return to the table with enough for both of us and currant jam. I spread it liberally over a slice, then cut it in half and hand it to him. "There, so you know it's not poisoned."
He looks at me with surprise and puzzlement, then takes it and bites into it. It's clear he's ravenous.
Between the two of us we finish the rest of the loaf without speaking. "How long have you been here?" he finally asks.
"With Snape?" I assume that is what he means. "The Dark Lord gave me to him right after he sent my parents to Hong Kong. About a month after Hogwarts fell."
"Ah."
"We've been living here about two years."
"Oh."
The only word with more than a single syllable he's uttered was my name. But I find it such a... relief to be having a relatively normal conversation... to be having a conversation with someone who does not seem to actively loathe me, that I find I want it to continue. How odd a thought is that--that Potter does not loathe me. And I do not seem to loathe him, not right at the moment, anyway.
"Want me to show you around?"
"Sure."
It dawns on me that if I play my cards right, I could gain an ally in Potter. But I must find out what he means to Snape first. "It's not much of a tower, but being a hermit suits him," I say, as I get up from the table, leaving the dishes where they are. A house elf comes to clean but has been ordered to stay out of our sight. It comes at night-once in a while when I have been unable to sleep, I have seen a diminutive cloaked figure hurrying away from the tower in the wee hours. "Let's start at the bottom and work our way up."
The tower has an entrance room at the bottom, with an audience area for meeting with people who are not allowed upstairs. The next room up is a much nicer parlour, for entertaining guests, if we ever had any guests. Above that is the kitchen, above that is my room. Above that is Severus' room. And at the top, the laboratory. We finish by going up onto the roof and I find myself wondering how much longer Potter will be sharing Severus' room. Will we convert the unused parlour into a place for him? Or will he move in with me? Or will we magically expand the tower? I cannot picture a conversation about the subject with Snape. He will do as he pleases with his own logic, I suppose.
I cannot help but wish that it were me in his bed, though. Now that Potter is here, I want it fiercely.
I always did. I had made myself forget. The bitterness of my disappointment when he did not bed me years ago floods back. I do not understand why he hates me more now than he did. I do not understand what he wants.
I wonder if Potter does.
* * *
Snape comes to me in the late evening, almost midnight. He has been out all day, which is unusual. He steps quickly into my room and shuts the door behind him, coming briskly to my bedside. I set aside the book I have been reading and then wonder how this is going to work. Should I push down the bedcovers to expose myself?
He has already shed his travelling cloak and changed into his home robes, but the scent of outside still clings to him as he leans over me and slides his hand down my torso. His fingers brush over the erection they encounter and I feel my cheeks go hot.
He pushes back the covers then, though his gaze remains on my face. He does not even glance down at my cock as he grips it loosely, pulling the foreskin down to the base. "You are a confusing creature," he says, voice rich with bemusement. "That you can blush like a virgin bride in front of me, when you are so wanton with the others."
I hear the prickle in what he says, too. The distrust. He thinks I am being coy to seduce him? This thought makes my entire face red. "Don't..." But I get no further in my sentence as his swift tugs on my cock are sending me into a state of gibbering ecstasy all too quickly.
I cry out when I come, hot and slippery into his hand, and he continues to stroke me with increasing gentleness until I am softened. All resistance to anything is gone, of course, once I am reduced to that state.
"You were saying?" he prods, not entirely kindly.
The answer that emerges is a plainer truth than it would have been, had I uttered the same words five minutes ago. "Don't make me go back... to them."
He draws back, shocked or angry, or both. "Are you under the impression that I wanted you to whore yourself...?"
No, no that's not it at all, but I cannot see how to untangle the knot. "Thank you," I whisper instead.
That brings a calmer look to his face, though the puzzlement still shades his eyes. "I promised I would," he says. "Sleep now."
Ah, right, I think as I am closing my eyes. He thinks I've promised not to go out so long as he helps me to come once a day. So my begging to stay here makes no sense to him. I'll never get him to see that it was his neglect that drove me to seek out the abuse I received at the hands of others.
Wasn't it?
* * *
I'm trying to listen at Snape's bespelled door when they have a fight. It's odd, truly. The enchantment obscures what they say, but there is no mistaking the crash of a heavy piece of furniture to the ground. And the enchantment itself seems to go spiky and aggressive, as if it can barely contain the anger therein.
Snape storms out shortly, mere moments after I withdrew from the door because of the headache the privacy spells were giving me. He heads down, not up, so I know he is leaving the tower.
I loiter in the open door to the room I have not dared to enter.
Potter is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking a bit as if he's been hexed to vomit slugs, but doing his best to hold them in. His expression is mild when he looks up at me, though. He blinks, and I wonder how long it's been since he wore glasses. Or held a wand.
I very nearly ask if he's all right, but I know already the reflexive answer will be of course, I'm fine. Instead I probe with a blunt question, figuring if it misses the mark by a mile, well, that might be telling, too. "Did he hurt you very badly?" I pull my robe tighter around myself as if shielding myself from invisible eyes.
His head snaps up. "What?"
"He's not as... bluntly sadistic as the Lestrange brothers, but I know he..." I break off and allow my shamed red cheeks and bitten lip to speak more eloquently than words.
He is on his feet. "No! Are you saying...?"
But I am backing away, wide-eyed. "I've... I've gotten used to it. I thought... I thought maybe you would... Since you've been here, I've had a bit of a respite."
He looks stricken. "I... I had no idea. He's been... er, nursing me back to health."
It is a patent lie Potter tells, so bad he nearly winces at it himself. I pretend to believe him. "Oh, no doubt. He wants you in top condition. That is, if... well, he makes me take a restorative any time I end up at all scarred."
The best lies, of course, are the truths.
He has caught me, around the wrist. "Don't run from me," he pleads. "I'm... I'm not your enemy any more."
I leave my wrist limp in his grip. "A-all right. Can I make you some tea?"
He shakes his head. "I'll make it for both of us."
We go to the kitchen in silence, and sit sipping from our mugs companionably. I know he is thinking over everything I've said, and not said.
We both hear the door slam downstairs. I get quickly to my feet. "You mustn't tell him I told you anything."
"Wha...?"
"Promise me. Promise me you won't say anything to him about what I said."
He looks startled, but he agrees. "I promise."
"We'll talk more later." I hurry to my room as if to pretend I've been there all along. A short while later, Snape comes in.
I sit up in bed immediately. "I finished the double batch of restorative."
He sits on the bed. "Good." His voice is softer than I expect and I wonder what emotions he is hiding from me now.
"Are you..." I pause, trying to pick my words carefully. "Here to feed me?"
His eyes take on an indulgent look at that. "Are you the cat, begging for milk?"
More like to be milked, but... "Yes," I say, though I ask suddenly, "Is that what I am? A pet?"
He strokes my hair and I find myself leaning into the touch. It seems to take a long time for him to find his voice. "You are my pet if you want to be."
I swallow hard, the ring of metal around my neck shifting against my skin. "What do you mean?"
"Draco..." His hand continues to move against my head. "Do you like this?"
"Being petted? Yes." Yes, it's quite pleasant, and I've already been conditioned to arousal at his touch over the short week or so we've been doing this regularly, so the gentle strokes are bringing my cock to life, too.
He lets his hand trail down my skin, then. "You were never suited to be a slave," he whispers, almost as if to himself and not to me. "But a pet, yes. If you want it, the role is yours."
I am confused again by his implication that it be my idea, my desire, but I accept it. His fingers brush my erection now and I draw in a sharp breath.
"Pets should be trained to obedience, though," he says as he strokes me maddeningly with just one fingertip. "And be rewarded for good behaviour."
I fall back against the pillow, my hips bucking, and an animal-like noise coming from my throat.
He takes me in hand then, stroking firmly, using my foreskin to slide up and down the shaft. As I get closer and closer, though, he lightens his touch more and more, until I am straining and moaning and pushing my hips upward wantonly.
"Have you been a good pet?" he asks.
"Yes, yes, I've been very good!" At least, I haven't gone stray or catted about with other Death Eaters lately...
And he redoubles his efforts, quick, firm tugs bringing me inevitably over the edge. The intensity brought on by his teasing rebounds with a deep lassitude upon release, my eyes closing heavily. To my surprise he kisses my forehead, something he has not done in a long time.
"The collar..." he says, and again it sounds like he is talking to himself, not me, until he adds, "Good night, Draco."
* * *
Things are quiet then for a week or so. I do not bait Potter with any more comments, and things between Snape and me seem to be going very very well. When we are behind closed doors, he seems much less angry with me and much more caring. Rarely are all three of us together. It's clear Potter is in need of recovery from something, as the amount of restorative in the bottle decreases steadily, though I never see him take it. I hear them fight once more, but act none the wiser. What is going on in that room?
I am determined to find out, or at least to disrupt it. I have made up my mind that when Snape comes to feed me tonight, I will ask him if, as his pet, I may sleep at the foot of his bed.
But it is only just sunset and we are putting away some things in the lab when an owl arrives. The great, yellow-eyed bird pecks Snape once as he undoes the letter then flies off without waiting for a reply. Snape reads the parchment, then crushes it in his hand with a muttered curse.
His eyes fall on me. "We are invited to a formal affair. All three of us."
Oh. I just stare back at him. Then stammer, "Tonight?"
He shakes his head and I relax a fraction. "Soon. You know what is going to be expected."
I blurt out what I think before I can consider dissembling. "That the two of us, Potter and I, put on a show that makes it worthwhile to leave us both in your care."
"Just so." He regards me now with a critical eye. "They are no doubt wondering why you've been absent from their revelry of late."
I sputter but can make no defence against that accusation.
"Calm yourself, Draco. This is not your fault." He tosses the parchment into the fire in the hearth. "You've always hated him, I know."
For a moment I think he means the Dark Lord, then I realise, no, Potter. "We can surely cooperate long enough that we may all three escape intact."
He considers. "I doubt that cooperation is what they hope to see from you both. I've kept you separated to reduce antagonism as much as possible."
I frown at that. "I've done my best to ignore him," I lie.
"I must think on this further." He leaves the room and I ensure the ingredients are safely stowed before following, but he appears to have left.
I am dragging myself dejectedly back up the stairs when Potter stops me. "Are you all right?" he asks, an edge of outrage in his voice. Interesting. It seems he believes my hints that Snape abuses me.
"Nothing," I say, as if I have some horror to hide.
He reaches out, touches my shoulder gently. "You've been kind to me. I don't want to see you mistreated."
I shrug. "He's not as bad as some," I say, and Potter knows better than anyone it's the truth. "At least this protects me." I touch the collar with my fingers. "Even if it won't let me come except by his touch."
Potter's eyes widen. I've clearly surprised him with this news, which makes me wonder if it is only now that he actually believes me. "Are you serious?"
I nod. "I expect yours is the same. Have you not tried it?"
He blinks, dumbfounded, then blushes, and my suspicion that I am not the only pet being fed daily around here seems confirmed.
I decide to tell him the rest. "If we want to stay with Snape, though, well..." I wait until he is thoroughly curious about what I am going to say. "An owl came today."
"An owl?" Now I definitely have his full attention.
"It's not usual for a single Death Eater to have two slaves, especially two like us," I say. "Snape will need to prove he's worthy to keep us. We'll be expected to... perform for the inner circle."
Harry looks mutinous. "What sort of performance?"
I roll my eyes. "Don't play dumb with me, Potter. I've heard tell of what the Lestranges put you through. And Macnair. And Yaxley. And Alecto Carrow..."
He grabs me roughly and I squeak helplessly in protest. That is all it takes for him to realise that it isn't me he's angry with.
So virtuous. "I'm sorry," he says, but does not let go.
"Don't be," I say. "I'm just glad to see that the rumours about your spirit being broken were not among those that were true."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"Nor I you. But we may have to act like we do." I do not know what the owl actually said, but I have no reason to doubt Snape's instincts. "He thinks they will pit us against each other."
He pulls me close and I find it irresistible to return the embrace. "They enjoy making the 'hero' do depraved things. But I won't... I won't take you against your will."
I shake my head slowly. "There's only one solution for that."
He draws back suddenly, searching my eyes. "What's that?"
"Consent. I consent to whatever you have to do to me. You could do the same, in case they reverse our positions...?"
"Yes!" He hugs me more tightly. "Yes, whatever you have to do, Draco. I agree."
I feel vertigo at the power he has just handed me. And the fact that I have handed him the same.
* * *
It begins to concern me just how much Snape is away. He's never left the tower this much before. I remark as much to Potter while we're sitting down to breakfast one morning and it's obvious that Snape has already gone.
"What does he do?" Potter asks, blinking curiously at me. "I mean, it's obvious you and he make various potions for the Death Eaters, but..."
I lick honey from my fingers. "But he doesn't need to leave here for that, I know. And it isn't as if there's much work to be done being lord of this fief. I'd suspect politics, that he is... improving his-and our-position somehow before this audience we're to have, but he started leaving more frequently before that owl came..." But even as I say it I realise what his more frequent departures do coincide with. Harry's arrival.
Maybe it is politics then. Maybe a misstep is what prompted the invitation to dine with the Dark Lord in the first place?
Or maybe he finds it more tenable to remove himself from here, now that I no longer do? No, that doesn't ring true. Over the years we have perfected the art of living in the same building while avoiding each other if we wish.
Perhaps it is Potter he wishes to be apart from. Hm, but why? Cannot keep his hands off him? Or has the quarrelling I heard reached such a level that it must be limited to certain hours per day, lest it escalate to worse violence?
Potter is watching me as I think. "I don't know where he goes," I say then, my annoyance at his absence showing through a bit more than I'd like. I backpedal quickly, trying to remember exactly what lies I've told Potter in my effort to gain his sympathy. "But at least when he's gone, we are free of his demands."
If Potter has noticed my slip, he does not show it. "I worry..." he says, trailing off and staring into his tea. He tries again. "I worry that this has been just... the calm before the storm."
He looks much healthier than he did when he first arrived, corpselike in the night. His hair is glossy like a horse's mane, his skin clear-whatever fights he and Snape have had, the restorative has been doing its work. And whatever faults Snape may have, I am quite certain that he has been kinder to Potter than any other Death Eater was.
The suspicion that they are lovers, or were, and maybe are again, flits through my head, never far from the forefront of my thoughts these days. What other explanation is there?
"What do you mean?" I say when he falls silent.
"I mean, I've just spent several weeks doing nothing but..." He glances away from me and I wonder what he's hiding. "But eat, and sleep, and recover. And that makes me think that something large and... and horrible is about to happen."
I snort. "The owl we received is what makes me think that. But, truly, it need not be so large or so horrible if we are ready for it. The worst may yet not come to pass. We may have to suffer through a bloody night, but if we do well, we'll end up right back here."
He frowns at me, as if stifling some response to me, then he decides to say it anyway. "I thought he mistreated you," he says, as if catching me out.
"And what of it?" I say lightly. "He still treats me better than most. He's one of the few who doesn't bear a grudge against my family name, and he's kept me alive this long. We're... we're safe with him, do you see what I'm saying?"
He nods. "Yeah, okay. And you're loyal to him, that much I can see."
I am not sure whether to be pleased by what he says or not. "And you? Are you loyal to him, too?"
He sets down his teacup. "I suppose I am. I'm grateful, anyway, not to be gang-banged by the Red Hand night after night. And he really has put a lot into healing me."
I sip my tea calmly, even though part of me is thinking: you had bloody well better be loyal to him, to us, you bastard. This at the same time another part of me is still wondering if there is some way I can get rid of Potter. That part has been quieter of late, though. Perhaps because Snape has been so... considerate of me lately. And I still have no proof that he is fucking Potter, or that he ever did. Bah. And what if they were lovers? So what? How should I feel about that?
I find myself staring at him again. His lower lip is full and red, his eyes such a green as one rarely sees.
"What's the bloodiest night you've been through?" he asks then, voice soft.
I don't see any reason to stop staring at him as I speak. "I've seen worse than I've experienced," I say. "After all, I've always come home alive, and with all my limbs." It helps, no doubt, that I'm a pureblood, and that Snape at least has some of them believing he'd eat their balls without a second thought if they disrespected him enough to actually maim his property. "Usually all they want from me is a good suck or to fuck me." It makes me wonder, again, how it is that Potter didn't end up dead. "Worst I ever saw was a boy fucked in the eye socket. He screamed through the whole thing, but Yaxley wouldn't stop until he came. As it turned out, the boy was dead by the time he did."
Potter looks outraged.
"Of course, the boy wasn't anyone's property. Might have been a Muggle-I'm not sure. I really didn't dare ask."
"Of course not." Potter half-snarls with disgust, then calms himself. "But you, I asked about the worst you had."
I shrug. "Why, what's the worst you've had?"
He stares at the tabletop while he thinks about the answer, giving me more time to examine him in detail, including the silver collar, which is almost delicate around his neck.
"Bellatrix and her husband," he finally says. "That was the closest to having my cock and balls removed I've come."
I admit that widens my eyes. "She tried to?"
He shrugs. "She rather likes knives. And she's not at all careful. When she got bored of me and her brother-in-law got in on things instead, I actually felt safer."
I have to know. "Is it true? What they say about... both their cocks?"
His face twitches, but his eyes remain on the tabletop. "Unfortunately, yes."
"Didn't that make you too stretched out for just one...?"
He sounds like an echo of himself. "Unfortunately, yes. So it was both of them every day for... a while. But, just like with all the others, they got bored eventually." Then he looks up. "And you?" he presses.
It is the third time he has asked, and either I answer or I must outright refuse to. I consider a moment. "I only... went with Yaxley once. There was some kind of one-upmanship going on between him and another Death Eater. The other Death Eater fucked some slave 'doggie style' and actually transfigured his own penis to work like a dog's penis, ballooning up inside."
I try to sound casual about it, which perhaps makes it all the more horrible to picture. "Well, the slave howled like a dog anyway. Yaxley decided to outdo this and transfigured his cock to be like a lion's. And his hands to have claws."
Potter looks puzzled. "A lion's?"
Damn it all, I can feel my cheeks reddening. I'm supposed to be so jaded by now talking about it shouldn't matter. Aren't I? "Cats have barbed penises," I say, barely audibly, the memory of being torn inside, of every thrust being utter agony, surfaces from where I had buried it. I had never been as desperate for the restorative as I was that night.
Potter swears just as quietly. "And Snape let him do that to you?"
Now my face is redder than ever. "I... er... I consented to it." I cannot bring myself to confess that I went out looking for trouble with only the collar for protection.
He blinks.
"Well, insofar as one can say that I consent to anything." I shrug. "I might not have gone along with it if I knew exactly what he were going to do, but in general principle... I knew he was going to hurt me." I shrug again, as if, having survived, it is of no consequence now. "This is why I'm not overly concerned about the Dark Lord's invitation. If they want a show... I'll give it to them."
Potter sighs. "All right. Then... what's the best night you've had?"
Now it is my turn to blink like an idiot. "What do you mean?"
"It hasn't all been pain, has it?" He sits up in his chair. "Has it?"
I am dangerously close to telling him the truth, which is that if Snape would have only deigned to acknowledge me, maybe there could have been something...
I shake my head. "I've never... had sex that wasn't violent. Or related to domination. Sometimes it's just dull. There's not always blood..."
He looks at me incredulously. "That's... even I had owners who would... sometimes have a soft spot for me. Maybe just for an hour or a day, before they came to their senses... I'd think you'd be a master at that."
I slump in my chair. "I've only had the one owner. When I go with someone else, it's usually just for an hour, or a night, and coddling me is never what they have in mind."
"And Snape never...?"
I stand up so quickly my chair nearly falls over. "Never without a price."
He looks troubled, but is silent.
I relent just a little. "He... he does... help me to come. Sometimes. If I'm... good. That's...." This is the unalloyed truth. "That's the best I've ever had."
He is looking at me like he pities me. I hate that look. I turn away, and the next thing I know, his hands are snaking softly around my belly, his nose in my hair. "Would you? Let me love you without violence?"
I'm trembling in his arms as if he has just spoken the most vile threat. "And if I say no?"
"I'll stop," he says, his lips brushing my ear. And then as if to emphasise the point, he lets go and takes a step back.
"I don't want your pity."
"What about my friendship?"
"Bah. You think something terrible is about to happen."
"All the more reason to spend what time's left wisely."
I turn so I can look at his eyes. Can a man who has known almost nothing for the past two years but non-stop rape actually be interested in consensual sex? With me? "You've been better company that I expected."
"Thanks."
"You'll stop if I say I want to stop? Even if we're... fairly far along?"
He folds his arms across his chest. "Anywhere along. If all you want is to be kissed, that's fine with me."
My heart is suddenly racing, and not with fear. "I've... I've never just been kissed. Unless you count snogging with Pansy Parkinson."
"I don't," he says and reaches out for me, drawing me into the warmth of his embrace.
* * *
We go to my bed for this, and I shut the door, as if we're in need of the privacy. In reality we ought to leave it open so we can hear if Snape comes home, but I close it on principle.
He encourages me to lie back on the coverlet, as he brushes my hair from my eyes and examines my face like a precious thing. One thumb traces the curve of my bottom lip, and I find myself just staring dumbly up at him. No one has ever regarded me with such a look. He then brushes his mouth over mine, just a brush, his eyes wide open as he watches my reaction.
Slow and deliberate, lips and then tongue, gentle and insistent, the buildup of my arousal so gradual I do not notice it until it becomes almost painful. At that point the soft sounds that have been coming from my throat turn to whimpers.
The next thing I know, I am urging him to stroke my cock by pushing his hand with my own toward the stiff, hot flesh. He strokes firmly, three, four, five times, and then suddenly swears and apologises. "I forgot! God, I'm sorry, I forgot you can't come without him..."
I arch my back and hiss softly. "It's all right, Harry. I... I didn't forget. I'm used to it."
He doesn't ask me what I mean by that. He strokes me more softly. "What should I do?"
I wriggle under him. "You could fuck me. Being well fucked gives me... a totally different sense of completion. And feeling you come helps, too."
He frowns. "But it sounds so unfair..."
"I know. But there's nothing you can do about that. And... and I'd like to see what it feels like."
He cocks his head. "What what feels like?"
"Being fucked by someone who just wants me to feel pleasure from it. Who isn't trying to... get revenge, teach me a lesson, practice a new engorgement charm, put me in my place, hurt me..."
"Okay, yeah, I get the idea." He sighs. "What have you got for lube?"
Oh. The simplest things can be the most elusive when one's mind is in a tangle. "Um..." Think, Draco, think! "Stay here, I'll get it."
That gives me time to think as I go up to the lab. Yes, we've got any number of bases for topical creams. Palm oil is a bit solid but it melts against one's fingers.... yes, perfect.
I return with a small jar of it as quickly as I can, my heart racing with anticipation.
Potter sniffs it and nods approvingly. "I bet this would feel nice rubbed into your skin."
I'm not sure what I should say to that, but yes, it would.
He urges me with gentle hands to roll onto my stomach, as if determined not to rush. He warms some of the stuff between his hands, then plants them on my shoulder blades. I think it's me melting under his warm touch. As he works his way down my spine I think, Is that why it's called PALM oil? I wonder where he learned to do this-did some Death Eater demand it? Or is he making it up as he goes along?
Then he begins to massage the globes of my arse, his hands never ceasing to move, until he is oiling the cleft itself, and then massaging my hole in slow circles.
His finger slips inside and I push back against it, surprised at how good it feels.
Oil. His finger. Moaning. These things define my world for a time. His voice in my ear, clear and sweet. "Does that feel good?"
"Yes, God yes."
He works in a second finger, stretching me gradually, shaping my body like clay. I chuckle as I think, is that why they call him POTTER?
I am clearly delirious with desire. His lips now are on the back of my shoulder, sending ripples of pleasure down my spine. He suckles at my neck and I arch wantonly for him. His cock slides, well oiled and engorged, between my arsecheeks. "Don't tease," I gasp, breathless. "Don't m--"
"Shh, I won't," he says, and presses in. I suck in a breath as he breaches me, nearly knocking my head into him. He tucks his mouth against my neck again, holding me fast as he begins to fuck, deep and sensuous.
I'm trembling, that's how good it feels, how good it is. I've never... only in my dreams... .
I don't realise I've spoken out loud until I hear his answer, hushing me, and telling me he knows, he understands...
I have no idea how long it goes on. Long enough for me to lose track of time. Long enough for me to forget he will come. Nothing exists but the pendulum swing of his legs between mine, a frozen clock, ticking but not counting forward.
I stiffen as the realisation hits me with a flash. "But you're collared, too."
He groans. "Do you think that means I won't be able to come?"
"I... I don't know." I had assumed so. And what would it mean if mine were charmed to deny me orgasm, but his were not?
"I... I'm close enough to find out."
"All right." I press back against him, raising my arse and giving him more freedom to move.
He comes, with a sharp shout, his hands clinging to my hips, slamming me hard and then milking himself in me with slow thrusts, until he is too soft to stay in me any longer and slips free.
He presses soft, thankful kisses against my shoulders, but I am shaking too hard with envy to appreciate them. "That bastard," I finally say, my voice weak.
He strokes my hair, making calming noises. Maybe they are words. I cannot tell with the buzzing in my ears, anger and resentment and a hundred other things vying for my attention, making my veins burn with acid.
When he enfolds me in his arms, and kisses me on the forehead, I realise he has moved to my other side. "It'll be all right, Draco," he is saying. "Everything will be all right."
Platitudes that mean nothing. But I want to believe him.
"Why?" I finally ask, meaning it rhetorically. I don't expect him to have an answer. "Why me and not you? Why is my collar different from yours?"
He strokes my hair and tries to answer, though. "Maybe your... orgasm means more to him than mine."
"Shut your mouth," I hiss, just angry. "You don't know what you're talking about." Angry because that's exactly what I wish, a wish I buried so long ago that uncovering it now stings like hell. And it isn't true. He's practically ignored me until recently...
Until recently. Do I dare to hope?
I don't. I cry hopelessly against Potter's bare chest, and he doesn't protest. Just holds me until I fall asleep.
* * *
I wake with a hand over my mouth, someone gripping me from behind, the other hand circling my cock. I thrash instinctively, while my brain wakes up, thinking first Potter? Then, abduction? Then the scent of his robes penetrates my consciousness and I press back into him with a muffled hum. Snape.
He takes me all the way to the brink of orgasm before he lets my mouth free, and then it is so I may answer a question. "Do you want to come, Draco?" he asks in my ear.
"Yes, yes pl--"
But he clamps his hand over my mouth again, pinching my nose with his thumb also, just at the moment I reach my peak. The room is pitch black, but I see stars as I come, as my body jerks in his embrace, fighting for air even as spasms of my pleasure pour over his fingers.
He lets me breathe quickly after that, and I lie panting and limp in his arms. He shifts and I feel the rustle of his robes, then something soft, his hair? It brushes my neck and then there is a gentle, brief pressure on my hair.
Did he just kiss me? I do not have much time to consider the question as the sudden release has left me sinking back into sleep as quickly as I had awoken.
In the morning, I would wonder if it were a dream, but the crusted evidence of my issue on the sheets is there, incontrovertible.
As are the marks on my neck where Potter suckled, which Snape could not see in the dark. It suddenly matters to me that he does not see them, and I sneak a dose of the restorative before he can.
That afternoon he goes out, leaving Potter and I looking at one another across the kitchen, both asking the same question with our eyes. Are we...? We probably oughtn't but... Are we going to...?
He has me spread on the table, fucking me with the butter, before either of us can consider the question again. I am on my back, and I watch the play of emotions across his face as he penetrates me, then settles into a rhythm. He kisses me on the mouth, bruising my lips as he loses control for a moment, then pulls back.
"It's not fair," he pants, shaking his head.
"What isn't, that you can come and I can't?"
He shakes his head again. "No. That he gets to make you come and I don't."
Oh. I pull him down into another kiss to hide my surprise. I'd not thought of it that way before. But then, until recently, he had not seemed to care if I ever came at all, so of course I'd never thought of it that way.
But now Harry is taking me apart with his cock, with each tender thrust, and it almost doesn't matter that I won't come-this is sublime and sweet and not like any sex I've had before... unless you count yesterday.
He is growing close when a sudden panic grips me. "We can't... we can't..."
"What?" He slows, but does not stop, running fingers through my damp hair.
"You can't fuck me like this in front of the Dark Lord. I'll... I'll fall apart. And he'll separate us forever, out of spite. I know it. He'll take one of us, or both of us, away..." With each word I say the panic grows larger, the future more certain, more inescapable.
He hushes me again, kisses me until I can breathe again, and says "Don't worry. Whatever happens, won't be like this. I promise."
Right. I forgot he promised to hurt me if he had to. "J-just... think about that time I ... b-broke your nose on the train."
He laughs. The son of a basilisk actually laughs. "Right. God, that seems like a million years ago."
It may as well be. That whole world is gone.
He comes soon after that, his whole face a mask of effort and then moments later, peace.
We wash together, and that's pleasant, even him washing my cock and balls, which makes them oh-so-eager for more, but it could be hours and hours before Snape returns. I dry myself, willing my bits to be flaccid and calm.
"What do you think would happen..." he says, words slow and cautious, as he gets dressed, "if he came home and found us cuddling together?"
I swallow suddenly, wondering why he is asking me such a leading question. I pull my robes around me and sit on the lid of the commode."I think..." My words come just as cautiously. "I think that might depend on how he feels about you."
"Ah." He falls maddeningly silent then, not illuminating what he knows or supposes about how Snape feels about him.
The silence stretches out for a few long seconds, and then he looks up as if just realising I am staring at him. "I... I don't really know how he feels about me," he says then, as if he can read my question in my face. "I didn't really think it would matter."
"He used to hate you," I say without much inflection.
"So did you," he answers, something vulnerable but fleeting in his eyes. He leans against the sink, crossing his arms. "And I used to hate both of you."
But, as he brought up, that was in a world that doesn't exist any more. I find myself probing in a way I didn't plan. "I think he hates me now."
He frowns at that, but does not contradict me. "What makes you think that?"
"He acts like his life would be better if I didn't exist. He does little to hide his resentment."
He looks at me, squinting slightly to try to see me more clearly. "He seems to... resent everything," he finally says.
I suppose that could be true. I stand. "I've never been cuddled," I say. And it's true, if I don't count cuddling as a child. "I... I want to see what he'll say. My bet is... he won't say anything."
Harry snorts. "I won't take that bet. But I will cuddle you."
"Good."
We go back to my room, and we climb onto the bed fully clothed. He pulls one loose blanket over us and I find it surprisingly comforting to be snuggling with all this cloth. His shirt smells good, uniquely Harry, and I find myself drifting to sleep again.
* * *
I wake to voices. I am curled alone under a blanket but their voices are close by. I am groggy, unable to wake completely, and I wonder if I have been given a sleeping draught.
"Won't you at least tell me what to expect?"
"It is of no consequence. I would prefer you kept your mind on our mission."
"No consequence? You do realise he's desperately in love with you, don't you?"
"Desperate may be accurate."
Are we moving? I have a vague sense of rhythmic jostling. A carriage?
"Don't you even care how he feels? He thinks you hate him."
"How I feel, and how he feels, are of no consequence when compared with what we need to accomplish. Wouldn't you agree?"
"No, no I don't."
"You always were a stubborn, argumentative..."
"And we don't have time for this. We're nearly there."
"So we are."
And then a sharp tingle as a spell shocks me awake. Snape's eyes, dark and intense, are the only thing I see. "We have been summoned, Draco."
I nod. "I understand."
"Good boy," he says, and I think I hear a warmth in his voice. Perhaps I imagine it.
(continue to the third and final part here!)