Fix
Title: Fix
Word Count: ~1400
Featured Character(s)/Pairing(s): Draco/Bella
Rating: NC-17
Summary: How do you fix magic?
Warnings: Incest, mild violence, cross-gen shenanigans, panty-abuse, a sprinkle of disturbing imagery, and despicable language.
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter does not belong to me, and I am making no money whatsoever by using it to my own depraved ends.
Author's Notes: This was my hp_cestfest pinch-hit for karli_malfoy. I can't refuse these two. Ever. Thank you to my betas, snarkyscorp, seraphimerising, and prongsxwormtail for swooping in to save me at the very last minute. I love you. Seriously. Like whoah.
i.
How do you fix magic?
Draco ponders this. He ponders it hard. He ponders it until sweat drips down to his collarbone, slicking him hot and making him loosen his tie and shove his shirtsleeves up to his elbows; until the Room of Lost Things becomes so humid that he can hear his thoughts crackle like lightning; until his forehead is in gullies and he has a backache and the skin around his eyes looks muddy.
He can do magic. He is magic, born magic, bleeds magic, comes magic. His magic works. It just is.
When he was born, he howled with rage at the cold, and purple light pulsed around his tiny body in time with his small and furious heart, and everybody in the room saw it and stepped back with wide eyes. Everybody but his mother, who reached for him and called him by a name she had always known, and said, so his father could not hear, Black. He’s a Black.
(Bella was born like this, too. Her magic was silver. It circled her head like a warning before her feet came free, and her mother’s breast was no comfort. She screamed for thirteen hours straight. She told him this.)
But how do you fix magic?
He did not know it could break. Go awry, yes. Misfire, yes. Bubble up into your throat, spew noxious fumes into your brain, make your eyes water and your chest ache, make you vomit insects, give you nightmares, turn you into a stringed marionette, turn you into a pillar of flame and make you burn yourself to ash. All of this, yes.
But how do you fix magic?
How does it break?
Draco gives up on books and presses his body against the Cabinet; holds it desperately; leans into it like it will slide its answers between the cracks opening wide in his skull, notes under a door; thinks I need, and there is so much that he needs.
It feels sturdy. The outside was easy to mend.
The soul is what is broken. The secret is what swings precariously on its hinges. The mystery persists, but so does Draco. Its magic is ancient -- but so is Draco's blood.
One day, his robes puddled on the floor, his shirt untucked, the backs of his knees sticky, he realizes it is not a battle. He runs his wand over the grooves in the wood, muttering in frustration, and they start to talk back.
They speak in Bella’s voice.
(When he says it is not a battle, that is not precisely what he means. It is a battle. But it is one that will end with him cross-eyed and panting with satisfaction.)
They speak in Bella’s voice, and he listens.
He learns how to fix magic. The process is shifty and imprecise. It takes time. It is more about him than about the Cabinet. It is more about intent than about technique. The tremble in his hands actually seems to help.
ii.
One evening, he pulls it open, and there it is.
Parchment.
The hand is spidery and thin. Hello, Draco, it says. You're doing well, lovely thing.
Lovely, she calls him. Lovely. He would know the words, if nothing else; lovely. He can feel her fingers, thin as her l's, sliding over him like a curse. They are cold, but they heat him like a kettle and make his head whistle and scream.
Bella is not lovely; she is regal. She is regal in its truest sense: mad from birth; her blood sullied by its own backwash, but with a power that spins the world.
Draco closes his eyes and feels it; feels her. Everything she touches grows heavy. Everything she touches has a pulse until she stops it, her pretty laugh echoing through the things she has hollowed out.
He has done it.
He has done it, and she knows it.
(Bella believes in the things she creates, and she has created Draco. She can catalogue his bones with her palms; type his blood with her tongue; choose his scent from a thousand others. He has allowed her to forge him in flame and fury; strike against him like flint and make him burn until he is as sharp and glinting as a blade. This was the only way, she told him. This was the only way.)
It worked.
He writes back.
Send something else.
iii.
She indulges him worse than his own mother.
She sends him chocolate.
Draco smiles, dry and thin as the paper that surrounds it: a neat little heart with marks in the side from her teeth. Her teeth, small and vampiric and white as a snow-sky. He licks over the impressions of them and swears he can taste her there.
At home, she would feed him from her plate like a puppy. Her body burns rage, desire, control; it fuels itself. She eats little. The rest, she scraped before him, her knife clinking against the porcelain as his mother looked on in disgust.
Narcissa has grown to hate her sister; perhaps more than she loves her son.
Bella eats what she likes, and she gives Draco the rest. Whatever it is, it is never quite enough to fill him. His belly turns over on itself and pulls tight like a fist with its hunger, but sometimes he cannot swallow past the lump in his throat.
His body is like hers: made of angles and planes, something geometric and precise. There is a formula for what happens when you put them together, but there is no one brave enough to write it down. When you solve it, it explodes.
He takes a bite and sends it back.
They share.
iv.
Her knickers come through next. They have been worn.
Draco pockets them and fingers them in Potions; he wonders what might happen if he dropped them into his cauldron. He wonders what colour she is; how hot. He wonders if it would turn into lava and take this whole fucking place down in a river of fire. Can she kill with her cunt? He thinks she probably can.
My cunt, she says.
Kiss it, she says.
He does. With his tongue; with his teeth; with his angry, wet heart. He knows six different ways to make her come; six different patterns; six different rhythms.
Bella likes it hard. He tries to hurt her sometimes, but it never works. She can take his whole hand, and she knows six different languages in which to scream for more.
One of them is Parseltongue. This makes him harder than it should; this sibilant, hysterical hissing. Venom and death and glory, glory, glory.
He leans against the Cabinet and feels the magic - its magic; his magic; hers - rise off of it in waves. When he closes his eyes, he feels a snake twining around his spine, making a nest in his muscle. He undoes the placard of his trousers, takes his dick out, and comes for her.
The knickers are black. They're a mess when he sends them back.
v.
Draco's body is a vibrato the night he calls them forth.
He does not want her to see him shake, but he thinks she is the only one who can stop it. She has mastered his body; she can ride it into submission. He asks for her first, his printing close and neat.
Send Bella.
She comes twisting through the doors like a funnel cloud and does not speak, only grins, half-cocked and turned all the way up and all the way on.
She drips onto his fingers before he touches her. There is nothing underneath her robes. She is dressed for the work at hand: mayhem and chaos and destruction.
He fucks her against the wall, and she comes three times and laughs her way through it: Oh, you lovely fucking thing; you're mine; you're mine; you're mine; you're mine; you're mine.
Draco does not laugh, and he cannot come.
They fuck, and they fuck, and they fuck, and she finally triggers him with a slap across the face.
(After he fails, she refuses to touch him. Instead, she makes him watch. This is how you do it, she gasps, one hand between her legs, the other firing Avadas at the chair where he sits. Her aim is always perfect. He can feel the air move around him, cold and prickling and barbed. It is better than fucking her.)
Word Count: ~1400
Featured Character(s)/Pairing(s): Draco/Bella
Rating: NC-17
Summary: How do you fix magic?
Warnings: Incest, mild violence, cross-gen shenanigans, panty-abuse, a sprinkle of disturbing imagery, and despicable language.
Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter does not belong to me, and I am making no money whatsoever by using it to my own depraved ends.
Author's Notes: This was my hp_cestfest pinch-hit for karli_malfoy. I can't refuse these two. Ever. Thank you to my betas, snarkyscorp, seraphimerising, and prongsxwormtail for swooping in to save me at the very last minute. I love you. Seriously. Like whoah.
i.
How do you fix magic?
Draco ponders this. He ponders it hard. He ponders it until sweat drips down to his collarbone, slicking him hot and making him loosen his tie and shove his shirtsleeves up to his elbows; until the Room of Lost Things becomes so humid that he can hear his thoughts crackle like lightning; until his forehead is in gullies and he has a backache and the skin around his eyes looks muddy.
He can do magic. He is magic, born magic, bleeds magic, comes magic. His magic works. It just is.
When he was born, he howled with rage at the cold, and purple light pulsed around his tiny body in time with his small and furious heart, and everybody in the room saw it and stepped back with wide eyes. Everybody but his mother, who reached for him and called him by a name she had always known, and said, so his father could not hear, Black. He’s a Black.
(Bella was born like this, too. Her magic was silver. It circled her head like a warning before her feet came free, and her mother’s breast was no comfort. She screamed for thirteen hours straight. She told him this.)
But how do you fix magic?
He did not know it could break. Go awry, yes. Misfire, yes. Bubble up into your throat, spew noxious fumes into your brain, make your eyes water and your chest ache, make you vomit insects, give you nightmares, turn you into a stringed marionette, turn you into a pillar of flame and make you burn yourself to ash. All of this, yes.
But how do you fix magic?
How does it break?
Draco gives up on books and presses his body against the Cabinet; holds it desperately; leans into it like it will slide its answers between the cracks opening wide in his skull, notes under a door; thinks I need, and there is so much that he needs.
It feels sturdy. The outside was easy to mend.
The soul is what is broken. The secret is what swings precariously on its hinges. The mystery persists, but so does Draco. Its magic is ancient -- but so is Draco's blood.
One day, his robes puddled on the floor, his shirt untucked, the backs of his knees sticky, he realizes it is not a battle. He runs his wand over the grooves in the wood, muttering in frustration, and they start to talk back.
They speak in Bella’s voice.
(When he says it is not a battle, that is not precisely what he means. It is a battle. But it is one that will end with him cross-eyed and panting with satisfaction.)
They speak in Bella’s voice, and he listens.
He learns how to fix magic. The process is shifty and imprecise. It takes time. It is more about him than about the Cabinet. It is more about intent than about technique. The tremble in his hands actually seems to help.
ii.
One evening, he pulls it open, and there it is.
Parchment.
The hand is spidery and thin. Hello, Draco, it says. You're doing well, lovely thing.
Lovely, she calls him. Lovely. He would know the words, if nothing else; lovely. He can feel her fingers, thin as her l's, sliding over him like a curse. They are cold, but they heat him like a kettle and make his head whistle and scream.
Bella is not lovely; she is regal. She is regal in its truest sense: mad from birth; her blood sullied by its own backwash, but with a power that spins the world.
Draco closes his eyes and feels it; feels her. Everything she touches grows heavy. Everything she touches has a pulse until she stops it, her pretty laugh echoing through the things she has hollowed out.
He has done it.
He has done it, and she knows it.
(Bella believes in the things she creates, and she has created Draco. She can catalogue his bones with her palms; type his blood with her tongue; choose his scent from a thousand others. He has allowed her to forge him in flame and fury; strike against him like flint and make him burn until he is as sharp and glinting as a blade. This was the only way, she told him. This was the only way.)
It worked.
He writes back.
Send something else.
iii.
She indulges him worse than his own mother.
She sends him chocolate.
Draco smiles, dry and thin as the paper that surrounds it: a neat little heart with marks in the side from her teeth. Her teeth, small and vampiric and white as a snow-sky. He licks over the impressions of them and swears he can taste her there.
At home, she would feed him from her plate like a puppy. Her body burns rage, desire, control; it fuels itself. She eats little. The rest, she scraped before him, her knife clinking against the porcelain as his mother looked on in disgust.
Narcissa has grown to hate her sister; perhaps more than she loves her son.
Bella eats what she likes, and she gives Draco the rest. Whatever it is, it is never quite enough to fill him. His belly turns over on itself and pulls tight like a fist with its hunger, but sometimes he cannot swallow past the lump in his throat.
His body is like hers: made of angles and planes, something geometric and precise. There is a formula for what happens when you put them together, but there is no one brave enough to write it down. When you solve it, it explodes.
He takes a bite and sends it back.
They share.
iv.
Her knickers come through next. They have been worn.
Draco pockets them and fingers them in Potions; he wonders what might happen if he dropped them into his cauldron. He wonders what colour she is; how hot. He wonders if it would turn into lava and take this whole fucking place down in a river of fire. Can she kill with her cunt? He thinks she probably can.
My cunt, she says.
Kiss it, she says.
He does. With his tongue; with his teeth; with his angry, wet heart. He knows six different ways to make her come; six different patterns; six different rhythms.
Bella likes it hard. He tries to hurt her sometimes, but it never works. She can take his whole hand, and she knows six different languages in which to scream for more.
One of them is Parseltongue. This makes him harder than it should; this sibilant, hysterical hissing. Venom and death and glory, glory, glory.
He leans against the Cabinet and feels the magic - its magic; his magic; hers - rise off of it in waves. When he closes his eyes, he feels a snake twining around his spine, making a nest in his muscle. He undoes the placard of his trousers, takes his dick out, and comes for her.
The knickers are black. They're a mess when he sends them back.
v.
Draco's body is a vibrato the night he calls them forth.
He does not want her to see him shake, but he thinks she is the only one who can stop it. She has mastered his body; she can ride it into submission. He asks for her first, his printing close and neat.
Send Bella.
She comes twisting through the doors like a funnel cloud and does not speak, only grins, half-cocked and turned all the way up and all the way on.
She drips onto his fingers before he touches her. There is nothing underneath her robes. She is dressed for the work at hand: mayhem and chaos and destruction.
He fucks her against the wall, and she comes three times and laughs her way through it: Oh, you lovely fucking thing; you're mine; you're mine; you're mine; you're mine; you're mine.
Draco does not laugh, and he cannot come.
They fuck, and they fuck, and they fuck, and she finally triggers him with a slap across the face.
(After he fails, she refuses to touch him. Instead, she makes him watch. This is how you do it, she gasps, one hand between her legs, the other firing Avadas at the chair where he sits. Her aim is always perfect. He can feel the air move around him, cold and prickling and barbed. It is better than fucking her.)