Fic! 'Body Marks', H/D, H/G, D/G, NC17 (1/4)
Believe it or not, I have some more Harry Potter stories up my sleeve. I'm working on a cracky Draco/Hermione fic, I'm still planning to finish my Death Eater!Draco epic (started before it was canon! heh) sometime before I die and/or when I get inspired by the next movie, and I'm posting the Harry/Draco & Harry/Ginny longfic I finished this winter.
I honestly dunno if anyone reads this lj, or rather, friended me with any expectation of fic; I'm mostly posting this for my own benefit. It's just like the early days when I had an lj but wasn't in fandom, posting messed up H/D into the void. I don't even know where to go anymore to publicize my fic if I wanted to. I dunno if want to. It's one twisted little thing. Some bits you may recognize (reworked) from previous fics, more than half is new.
It's my attempt at really dealing with H/G in an H/D context seriously. It's an AU. It's one seriously crazy, messed up relationship, but hey. Here we go again.
Author's Note:
This story is an AU starting sometime around sixth year.
Warning: This work contains graphic scenes of m/m and m/f sexuality and borderline emotional abuse. It may constitute offensive or triggering material. It is also heavy drama/angst. Please exercise all due caution.
Acknowledgments:
Thanks to Dan Savage and Mika Sadahiro-sensei for inspiration (little though may she know me), and angsty sexually confused young homos everywhere. In life as in fiction, it gets better.
I'd also like to acknowledge the ideas of Antonin Artaud, the music of Ani DiFranco, and the helpful feedback of my classmates.
And one last time, I'll dedicate this to my old posse: Ste, Aja and Amalin. Because it just is, even when I write things that they wouldn't want and will never even read. Without you, for better or for worse, I would never have written this.
1. Bone
this is my skeleton
this is the skin it's in
that is according to light
and gravity
i'll take off my disguise
the mask you met me in
~ Ani DiFranco
It's dark, but there's a spotlight on him: only on him. It was always like that, Draco thought.
That's the Golden Boy.
That's his cock.
Oh, but to start at the beginning: this was a post-graduation reunion party, and Draco Malfoy, persona non grata, had been invited. He could see the shark-like glints of smiles from the shadowed faces sitting in a circle around him, assessing his current worth and finding it lacking. Those were his enemies, once; then his 'friends', once everyone he knew deserted him after his father's trial. 'Friends' was an iffy term at Hogwarts to start with. They were British; they were well-bred. Having mates and grabbing a pint on Sundays and laughing heartily at off-color jokes by bints in cakey make-up… or whatever it was they did, these Headmaster's pets. Draco had better ways to spend his time, as he did now. Showing up this time was really inexplicable, and a big fucking mistake besides.
The invitation was probably driven by something worse than pity; honestly, he didn't want to know. The return address was to Ron Weasley, Potter's best mate from their first year. Draco could only assume his goody-goody wife was behind this. As for Draco having leaned towards accepting, there was no possible sane reason, though maybe the reason didn't matter. Maybe it was those couple of times he remembered the old days in the shower, and had to give it a miserable pull just so he could calm down. Maybe it was the dreams he still had sometimes. Maybe Draco needed to get out of the flat more. He had to remind himself that Potter was the same insufferable git he'd always been. Reality had always done a better than average job being the cold shower Draco needed.
::
It was autumn of sixth year, and Draco was bored. Potter was there and therefore convenient. That's all it was. "Hey Potter, which Mudblood are you shagging this week?" Draco sneered.
A long-suffering sigh. "I told you. Just. Leave me alone."
"Can't take the heat, is that it? Scared of my Prefect's stick, Potter?"
Potter turned, glaring. "Are you heading somewhere with this? I really don't feel like a stupid fight, have homework to do, so...."
Oh, he's too good for me, is he? "You can't walk away from me, Potter! I'm the Prefect!"
"Watch me."
"What's gotten into you? Can't sleep at night? Have to pester me in my hour of solitude?"
"Nothing, Malfoy." Potter kicked a stone at the lake, frowning at the water. "I wasn't planning on talking to you, actually."
"You're invading my space and you spew that rubbish?" Draco laughed incredulously. "Shove right off and you're set! Or do you want me to shut your mouth for you?"
Potter leaned back, staring at the sky. Draco looked up automatically, and watched the half-full moon for a second, before he snapped back to earth. And Potter.
"Don't you ever get tired, Malfoy?"
"Tired? What the hell?"
"Yeah. Tired." Potter sighed. "I guess not, huh. You probably wouldn't admit being human if I asked, would you." He laughed softly, and Draco's chest twisted, which only made him angry.
"Are you finally gone wrong in the head, Potty? Should I call your ickle mates to rescue you from yourself?"
"Don't bother. It's fine. Do what you want. I'm sorry I asked." He started to walk away again.
"Stuff it, Potter! You think you've got any right to--"
"Fine." Another sigh; Potter got up slowly, kicking up a few rocks. "See you 'round, then."
"Hey!"
It was a month later, but Potter's been avoiding him, and the day at the lake felt like yesterday. "Your mother was a filthy Mudblood whore!" He barely noticed his own panting. "Say something!"
Potter stared, his eyes burning. "You make me sick--" he said. And walked away.
Draco was yelling, face flushed. "What the fuck do you want from me, Potter? Who do you think you are, anyway? Answer me!"
"I'm no one special, Malfoy. Relax. Go fishing or something. It'll be good for you."
"Don't lay that crap on me! You're trying to trick me, aren't you? I've always seen through that Golden Boy act of yours!"
"It's sort of reassuring, you know."
"What is?" He'd graduated to yelling by this point.
"The way you don't give up."
"You fucker! Come back!"
Potter coughed, but he didn't blink when Draco's wand was pressed up tight against his throat. Still trying to be the hero, Draco thought, and sneered.
"What do you want, Malfoy?"
"I want you to fight me, Golden Boy! I want you to pay, and I want all your stupid friends to pay and I want-- I want my father back, arsehole!"
"I'm sorry," Potter said quietly. "I know it's too late for your dad."
It was the sincere tone that infuriated Draco the most. "Are you fucking with me? Didn't you hear me?"
"I heard you. Like I said, it's too late. No one can do anything about it now. Maybe it's time for you to deal with that."
"Who the bloody hell do you think you are, Potter, my shrink?"
"Think about it." Potter pushed the wand back carefully and straightened. "But you don't need to tell me when you do."
He'd come to the boy's loo on the third floor on the month's second Tuesday sometimes in the past. Usually it was when he'd been frustrated and didn't feel like playing the minor social games that involved getting off with people one actually talked to on a daily basis. This was easy.
Draco's eyes widened as the hands ripped at his trouser buttons. It was around midnight, so the light coming through the high windows was minimal, but a dark suspicion grew at the back of his mind. Is that--? No, of course not. Draco refused to even think the bastard's name at a time like that.
His panting grew louder, and he gasped as a mouth fastened around his cock and sucked. His hips bucked and he yelled, staring into nothing as his fists clenched in soft, messy hair.
Draco regretted his restraint the moment the moon came out from behind a cloud, and round glasses glinted up at him, taunting.
For a few seconds, Draco's brain stalled, as he refused to process this new reality.
Potter didn't wait for his sensibilities, and got up in a fluid motion, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well?" he said. His eyes were slightly red, hair disheveled. The Golden Boy.
Draco smiled slightly. "You could do that again."
There was a beat when the world seemed to tilt crazily sideways, and then it righted. Potter smirked back, then raised his eyebrows. "Hands only from now on," he said. "That was nasty."
A week later, Draco had gotten sick of the ensuing cat-and-mouse game, and waiting for Tuesday next month, so he'd taken the expedient of passing Potter a one-word note in class when Mr. Siegfried had stepped out. It contained one word, one mindful of interception. Talk.
Over lunch break, Potter pushed him up against a wall, Draco's wrists trapped in his surprisingly strong fist. "So. Talk."
"F-freak." Draco's teeth were bared. "Always have to have it your way, don't you--"
Potter's hips swiveled harshly, but Draco refused to make noise. "Have you got something to say to me, Malfoy?"
Draco's breath hitched even as he glared. "You can't even take your own bloody advice, Potter." He sneered, though the effect was lost as his mouth rounded in a silent O. Draco bit his lip. "Maybe you should face up to the fact that you agreed to have a mutual wank, nice and regular. Be a man about it."
Potter's hips pushed harder, till they both hissed. "No, I guess I can't. How 'bout you?" Panting. Potter's grip tightened further, and Draco couldn't hold back a wince, though he'd be damned if he asked Potter to go gentle on him. Not when Potter looked like this: not when he was flushing.
"That's it, yeah," Draco whispered, rubbing up against Potter's clothed erection. "I can't." What were they even talking about? Draco, for one, had no clue.
Did it matter?
Potter's spectacles slipped wetly as he tugged Draco's wrist towards his mouth. "You will." And he licked it where it hurt, watching Draco twitch helplessly, trapped against the wall.
In retrospect, Draco had stayed like that for a while. Those fantasies in the shower? He'd stand, pressed against the tile, eyes screwed shut. Four years later, he remembered the feel of Potter's fingers on his wrists as if the bruises were still fresh.
::
That morning, Draco sat with his tea and had toast and grapefruit, and calmly considered whether to accept Weasley's invite. He was wearing boxers and socks: Potter would be shocked. Once, it had been strictly silk and tight. No one to impress here, though. There was no one to care what Draco looked like, or what he thought about when he wanked, or even what dark thoughts ran through his mind now. Living right by the shore of the Thames, where he could hear the clamor of people and cars outside, Draco felt more isolated than back in the Scottish wilds. It was funny how that worked. All in all, Draco thought he'd changed for the better since he'd decided to take a break from living in dear old dad's mansion, what with his ancestors staring disapprovingly at everyone he'd ever brought home. Draco's kitchen was spare but sunny, and in the mornings, he felt like he could take on the world. Plus, he'd learned to make coffee.
The months passed easily into years, and it's been awhile since Draco had to ignore the rush of heat in his belly or the way his thighs clenched and belly twisted at the thought of him. All he had to do was remember he'd been Potter's charity case; he hadn't been himself. In the bright light of day, his old self was so easy to dismiss, he could barely recollect why he did most of the crazy stuff they'd all done back in the old days. He was starting to think seriously about coming home in a few years, restoring the family estate, making his father proud after all. Why not? It wasn't that easy to get a job these days.
The insanity was so far behind him, it may have been a dream. Here was proof, though: an innocent-looking-- if thickly expensive-- folded card. It was all quite proper, laid neatly by Draco's breakfast in the middle of his mail pile.
What could it hurt. More, Draco thought without acknowledging.
::
Draco liked to believe he was no longer surprised by much of anything, but it startled him: there was Longbottom looking slim, relaxed and happy. In Draco's mind he'd always be the pudgy, awkward boy he'd been at thirteen in the mess hall, wincing as Draco looked at him a beat too long before glaring defiantly. He'd been rather entertaining back then. And there was those unfortunate breeders: Weasley and Granger, apparently shacking up together in downtown London, little gingers doubtlessly close behind. Probably not that far from his flat, but Draco preferred not to think about that too long. Draco couldn't stop some vague memory from surfacing, having once read that they'd both found jobs on the same floor of their government office. Well, good for them, Draco thought, snorting silently. Why not? The world must need more gap-toothed freckled nerds. Someone had to go there, why not Weasley?
At the moment, they were both laughing in unison, a phenomenon that was once enough to make Draco break out in a cold sweat. Best to ignore, ignore, ignore.
He thought that pale girl-- Lovegood?-- was a flashy kind of bird. What's with that all that jewelry? And was that sparkly underwear on top of her shirt? Why hadn't he noticed before?
Draco relaxed into his corner chair, listening to the loud thumps of the stereo, nearly obscene in somehow. Punk in this crowd? A guitar screamed out and a small, best unnoticed part of Draco screamed along with it. At that moment? Yes, he was a little tipsy, but life was all right. Yes, he really shouldn't have come, but it wasn't that bad. It was all right. He wasn't even looking in certain directions, and the more buzzed he got, the more okay he was with certain unfortunate circumstances. Like Potter's presence, for instance, or the drink he was nursing.
He'd overheard the cocktail was mixed by Potter's little girlfriend-- pardon, fiancé. That would be the redhead sprawled on Potter's lap, Weasley's little sister. The one Draco hadn't bothered looking at. Of course, he did hear Potter laughing, but so what? It wasn't even that familiar; Potter didn't really do that so much around Draco, anyway. It was pathetic how she was so snug on Potter's lap in public, but Draco supposed those sorts of couples were like that.
A few minutes passed, and Draco became aware the giggling wasn't all that sincere, if it ever was. That does grate on one's ears, he thought. How did Potter stand it? And he could feel her eyes on him.
Did he tell? It was hard to tell; Potter was the honest and earnest type, but he was also tight-lipped and elusive as an eel, as Draco had cause to know.
Draco couldn't help the painfully obvious rising flush, the sudden cold burst of hatred threatening to choke him even as his cock went half-hard. Potter remembers, a little voice whispered in his head.
He'd long ago learned to seethe in silence; no more broadcasting each childhood resentment. He'd learned to wait, to heed his chances as they come. He'd finally learned not to get carried away where Potter was concerned. Seventh year had taught Draco that. Seventh year also taught him everything else he'd needed to know, though it had been Potter's face after he'd had his prick in his hand that first brought the lesson home.
It's always been Potter.
Even now, Potter could crush Draco's nuts anytime he wanted. He might have told her simply because he knew she'd blame him for everything. She'd never believe that it had been Potter shoving him in closets, holding his mouth shut, taking what he wanted when he felt like it when that mood hit him.
Still, Potter never gave any clue that knew the first thing about Draco's feelings-- neither about himself nor about anything else. The man was as dense as a loaf of bread. It once gave Draco some leverage and wiggle room for emotional blackmail, but that really wasn't Draco's style, so it got old. He'd used to almost wish Potter would buy a clue at some point. But no, there had been too much satisfaction, too much control in knowing Potter better than he did himself.
No, the Weasley bint was too precious to sully with Potter's fears and needs and kinks. What they had back then could best be broken down into one simple rule: Hands Only. No snogging, no fucking, and no looking. Draco suspected there was a corollary: no coming on Potter's face, nipples, or cock. He wasn't sure. Certainly, Potter took the liberty of spraying some portion of Draco's anatomy every chance he got, marking his territory. He couldn't ask. They wouldn't speak about it, they wouldn't do it in the daylight, and most importantly, they wouldn't admit to it.
Of course, Draco had been a card-carrying teenage male; there was no need to be nice. The only problem lay in the fantasies, the ones where he got greedy. God, but he'd wanted to see it. He'd needed to finally see Potter's prick, at least, but that would have never been enough. Nothing would be enough for his runaway wish-list: seeing Potter blow his load solo, or wanting to see his eyes half-lidded and soft after a proper buggering. He'd look at Draco like he wanted to eat him alive, lick by lick, soft and vulnerable, belly up.
This wasn't helping. Draco started to the realization that the music had changed, his drink had gone flat and weirdly grey colored in the dim lighting. The pathetic state of his trousers wasn't going to be a huge secret for much longer. Worse, they'd started playing card games. The only bright spot of this unfortunate evening was going to be beating Weasley at cards, but he couldn't very well shuffle over with his dick waving hello.
Draco jerked his head no when one of the gang politely invited him. It wasn't as if they wanted him there. They wouldn't know what to say to him. In a way, they'd never known what to say, except back in school, one could cover it up with taunts and punches instead of strained small-talk. At the moment, Draco wasn't sure which was preferable.
If he came over, he'd have to play his part: sneer, make eyes at Weasley's wife and maybe Potter's future Mrs., though he could barely look at her. It was part of the dance, and Draco would hate to disappoint. Draco would say something suitably snotty and deluded, and they'd laugh. Draco had always been a riot, and they want to see him crack. Isn't that why he was invited?
Tough luck, Weasley, Draco thought bitterly. It was too bloody late for that.
::
"Let's get naked," Potter said, and exhaled hash smoke. It was an image that had a special kind of obscenity on Harry H. Potter, Mr. Squeaky Clean-freak. He looked straight at Draco, unblinking.
Everyone laughed, though it was down to the five of them now. Potter and his wife-to-be, the Weasleys, and Draco; Longbottom must have been blushing like a virgin, but he'd said nothing and simply left. Draco himself felt trapped. He couldn't leave without showing his hand. He was uncomfortable. They'd gotten him. Childish, but he still couldn't give them that.
They're all drunk or stoned off their arses by now, and Potter's only just rolled up his piece of newspaper. Draco thought the smell was something awful, but it was also starting to feel close in the room, with everyone's body scents mixing. He fancied he could smell Ginny's shampoo.
He stayed silent. Draco felt a headache coming, and wondered just how good an excuse that made.
Everyone else-- certainly Weasley, but even Granger, who Draco would have thought wouldn't sink to such things-- grinned in the semi-dark at Potter's inane dare. If that's what it was. Apparently that Lovegood bird disagreed, since she'd left the room with an inarticulate murmur about getting more beer.
A small part of Draco shriveled quietly, and he fought a shiver at the notion that this is a prank Potter aimed at him. Draco Malfoy: he's so desperate he'd wank his guts out at the first sight of Potter arse. The problem was, he couldn't figure Potter's angle: surely he didn't think Draco would fall for it?
Draco sat up a little straighter in his lumpy armchair, determined to win this round, mind-fuckery or not. His fists clenched at his side, but he smirked and leaned back, raising his eyebrows.
"Go crazy," he said dryly, "I'll watch."
"Uh-uh," Potter said, chuckling. "Ginny wouldn't be very happy if I showed off the merchandise to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Would you, sweetheart?"
"Mmm. Nope," Ginny giggled. She sounded fake-pouty and high. "Turn the lights off. All off."
"See? I know how her mind works, don't I? Well, it's ok. It's better in the dark anyway. Wouldn't you say so, Draco?"
Draco bristled at the use of his first name, but his throat was too tight to reply. In the ensuing silence, Potter got up to blow out the candles and click off all the mood lighting in the dim room. The only light came from distant streetlights and the kitchen's lamplight seen through the cracks in the door.
Somehow, it's not a surprise that Potter went ahead and did it: Potter always had to be first. Doing the impossible? No, but doing the inadvisable was surely his specialty, especially when Draco was there to provide the stakes.
Potter unbuttoned his shirt with his own eyebrows raised, just before he leaned forward to blow the last candle out. His nipples had stood out as small dark spots, spot-lit. The image was so vivid, Draco would have given his nonexistent firstborn to simply bite. He'd tear and grind and pull till Potter admitted what a huge sodding hypocrite he was.
Potter smirked like he could read Draco's dirty mind, and the room went dark.
Draco could still see hints of motion. He could half-see, half-sense when Potter burrowed his nose into Ginny's shoulder, going so far as to cup her tit. When had this become some sort of twisted game of chicken? Wasn't Weasley awake anymore? Was Ginny really that stoned? Did any of that matter?
Draco swallowed.
It was a game of chicken: he saw the glint of Potter's smile when Longbottom babbled something even more inarticulate than Lovegood had, fumbling his way out the door with the dark shape of his bag clutched in front of him like some defensive chipmunk.
Potter didn't pause, but made a smooth move to slip Ginny's blouse off her shoulder. She moved to nuzzle into his shoulder. At this point, the torture took on a whole new flavor. If Draco stayed further, he wouldn't respect himself in the morning: that much was clear. Draco saw a pale quarter moon of flesh, and wished he could burn his eyes out. Draco sneered, but mostly he tried to ignore the fantasies where he yanked her off Potter by the hair and stepped on her face.
The sheer unreality… no, the insanity of this scene was staggering.
Draco took deep breaths. He hung his head, pinching his nose. This was ridiculous: was his arse glued to the chair? He needed to leave.
He looked up, full of resolve at last. That's when Draco glimpsed the clichéd little thong that did little to cover her bottom that Potter's woman was currently wearing, more undressed than dressed by this point. And she wasn't alone.
Draco couldn't see much more even if he looked, but he could hear them. The future Mrs. Potter moaned a little, as if they were two lovebirds all alone in their dark corner across the room. When he looked, he unmistakably felt Potter's eyes on him.
Easy as that, none of it mattered anymore. The thick spicy smoke went to Draco's head all of a sudden, and he felt woozy. He could barely see, of course, but he half-glimpsed, half-remembered the tiny path of skin low on Potter's rippling stomach. There was nothing but Potter in the whole universe.
Potter knew it.
Oh, he knew. And Potter knew Draco knew, and he knew Draco watched hopelessly as Potter reached between the bitch's legs, listening as she gasped and arched. Draco also knew he heard the door shut with a quiet thunk when the first article of clothing had hit the floor. Potter knew Draco watched as he pushed his girlfriend back to straddle the edge of Potter's knees. Draco heard the tiny zipper noise when Potter pulled his prick out.
The lit roll of hash on the corner table burned a little red alarm right next to the exposed skin. Potter made a few strokes for effect, eyes glittering predator-bright.
Honestly, Draco never thought Potter was such a performer; neither did he realize Potter was this cruel. It's not an altogether congenial realization. Sure, he was hard as a rock, but this was pretty obviously wrong. He thought the Golden Boy was picky about shit like that. This wasn't a man Draco recognized.
He heard the pathetic little squeaking noises Ginny kept making, reminding him this wasn't some kinky game between two consenting adults in a night club or something. What Draco actually wanted wasn't for Potter to stop, though, but for Ginny to shut the hell up. This was between him and Potter, after all: that much must be clear. Trying to distract himself from his throbbing crotch, Draco wondered what Potter was trying to accomplish here, on the grand philosophical scheme of things. If he had a grand design, so to speak, what would it be?
Then it hit him: he wanted Draco to see it. All those months, all those frantic fumblings in the dark, he'd never seen it, really. Maybe Potter was having some sort of twisted bachelor party type last-minute dotting of his missed i's. Something of that sort, anyway. The only iffy part was Ginny, but maybe that could be explained away in that grand scheme; after all, without Ginny, this would all be a little too queer.
Potter made it look casual, almost natural, like he wasn't trying to make Draco start crying or come in his pants. Just showing poor Malfoy what he'd been missing, right? No harm done.
So yeah, he knew it, whether or not Potter did himself: Harry bloody Potter wanted Draco Malfoy to see his cock. He wanted to make ever so sure of that, so Draco played his game the way he always did: "Have it your way, Potter," he said, and stripped.
He couldn't feel Potter's gaze on him anymore. Now that Draco had caved, now that he sat in the padded chair with his legs spread and his fist working, of course Potter wouldn't be looking now.
Draco could hear Potter sucking at the bitch's pale freckly skin. He mumbled some endearments while he was at it, romantic as you please. Potter's hadn't gone all the way yet; Draco knew this because he couldn't hear the inevitable smacking noises, and he was listening for those. By this point, Draco was mostly feeling relieved about the darkness, seeing he was crying like a grade-A idiot, thankfully silent. Still thinking about what might possibly be going through Potter's mind, but wishing he wasn't.
He wondered about this as his palm slid slow and steady along his cock, gripping painfully tight. Draco wondered if Potter thought he was doing him a favor, curing Draco of any remaining sentiment, but that was doubtful. Potter wouldn't recognize a genuine feeling of Draco's if it brained him. Maybe Potter was testing him though, trying to see when Draco would finally snap and tear the ginger bitch off. Or maybe Potter just didn't have anything better to do with his life than bait him because Weasley was such a lousy shag. That last thought did cheer him up a little.
No matter what, it didn't add up. Potter was supposed to be Mr. Nice Guy, honest and true and so on. He was an arsehole to Draco, sure, but hadn't Draco deserved it? Wasn't he a twat back in school? He'd admit to that, no problem. So why beat around the bush? If Potter did have something to say, he'd say it. Maybe he was too good to actually say it, though: "I don't want you, I just want you to remain my bitch: get it through your skull, Malfoy."
Draco bit his lip bloody as his prick pulsed hard in his clenched fist. He cursed himself viciously for still being there; for not looking away for a single second. Draco had shut his eyes minutes ago, for all the use that was: he could hear it. He thought he smelled Ginny's cunt even at that distance.
Then Draco's eyes snapped open. He'd felt-- he saw-- Potter look right at him once again. He'd lit up the weed again, blowing smoke as he held it loosely between two fingers, an elbow on his lap. He was intent on Draco. Watching him. He watched him alone. The girl was gone.
Potter wasn't touching his prick, but Draco could see it glisten at the tip by the tiny light-- he could nearly taste it.
"Harry!" he gasped, and unraveled right there in front of him. Potter had made sure of that.
part 2
I honestly dunno if anyone reads this lj, or rather, friended me with any expectation of fic; I'm mostly posting this for my own benefit. It's just like the early days when I had an lj but wasn't in fandom, posting messed up H/D into the void. I don't even know where to go anymore to publicize my fic if I wanted to. I dunno if want to. It's one twisted little thing. Some bits you may recognize (reworked) from previous fics, more than half is new.
It's my attempt at really dealing with H/G in an H/D context seriously. It's an AU. It's one seriously crazy, messed up relationship, but hey. Here we go again.
Author's Note:
This story is an AU starting sometime around sixth year.
Warning: This work contains graphic scenes of m/m and m/f sexuality and borderline emotional abuse. It may constitute offensive or triggering material. It is also heavy drama/angst. Please exercise all due caution.
Acknowledgments:
Thanks to Dan Savage and Mika Sadahiro-sensei for inspiration (little though may she know me), and angsty sexually confused young homos everywhere. In life as in fiction, it gets better.
I'd also like to acknowledge the ideas of Antonin Artaud, the music of Ani DiFranco, and the helpful feedback of my classmates.
And one last time, I'll dedicate this to my old posse: Ste, Aja and Amalin. Because it just is, even when I write things that they wouldn't want and will never even read. Without you, for better or for worse, I would never have written this.
1. Bone
this is my skeleton
this is the skin it's in
that is according to light
and gravity
i'll take off my disguise
the mask you met me in
~ Ani DiFranco
It's dark, but there's a spotlight on him: only on him. It was always like that, Draco thought.
That's the Golden Boy.
That's his cock.
Oh, but to start at the beginning: this was a post-graduation reunion party, and Draco Malfoy, persona non grata, had been invited. He could see the shark-like glints of smiles from the shadowed faces sitting in a circle around him, assessing his current worth and finding it lacking. Those were his enemies, once; then his 'friends', once everyone he knew deserted him after his father's trial. 'Friends' was an iffy term at Hogwarts to start with. They were British; they were well-bred. Having mates and grabbing a pint on Sundays and laughing heartily at off-color jokes by bints in cakey make-up… or whatever it was they did, these Headmaster's pets. Draco had better ways to spend his time, as he did now. Showing up this time was really inexplicable, and a big fucking mistake besides.
The invitation was probably driven by something worse than pity; honestly, he didn't want to know. The return address was to Ron Weasley, Potter's best mate from their first year. Draco could only assume his goody-goody wife was behind this. As for Draco having leaned towards accepting, there was no possible sane reason, though maybe the reason didn't matter. Maybe it was those couple of times he remembered the old days in the shower, and had to give it a miserable pull just so he could calm down. Maybe it was the dreams he still had sometimes. Maybe Draco needed to get out of the flat more. He had to remind himself that Potter was the same insufferable git he'd always been. Reality had always done a better than average job being the cold shower Draco needed.
::
It was autumn of sixth year, and Draco was bored. Potter was there and therefore convenient. That's all it was. "Hey Potter, which Mudblood are you shagging this week?" Draco sneered.
A long-suffering sigh. "I told you. Just. Leave me alone."
"Can't take the heat, is that it? Scared of my Prefect's stick, Potter?"
Potter turned, glaring. "Are you heading somewhere with this? I really don't feel like a stupid fight, have homework to do, so...."
Oh, he's too good for me, is he? "You can't walk away from me, Potter! I'm the Prefect!"
"Watch me."
"What's gotten into you? Can't sleep at night? Have to pester me in my hour of solitude?"
"Nothing, Malfoy." Potter kicked a stone at the lake, frowning at the water. "I wasn't planning on talking to you, actually."
"You're invading my space and you spew that rubbish?" Draco laughed incredulously. "Shove right off and you're set! Or do you want me to shut your mouth for you?"
Potter leaned back, staring at the sky. Draco looked up automatically, and watched the half-full moon for a second, before he snapped back to earth. And Potter.
"Don't you ever get tired, Malfoy?"
"Tired? What the hell?"
"Yeah. Tired." Potter sighed. "I guess not, huh. You probably wouldn't admit being human if I asked, would you." He laughed softly, and Draco's chest twisted, which only made him angry.
"Are you finally gone wrong in the head, Potty? Should I call your ickle mates to rescue you from yourself?"
"Don't bother. It's fine. Do what you want. I'm sorry I asked." He started to walk away again.
"Stuff it, Potter! You think you've got any right to--"
"Fine." Another sigh; Potter got up slowly, kicking up a few rocks. "See you 'round, then."
"Hey!"
It was a month later, but Potter's been avoiding him, and the day at the lake felt like yesterday. "Your mother was a filthy Mudblood whore!" He barely noticed his own panting. "Say something!"
Potter stared, his eyes burning. "You make me sick--" he said. And walked away.
Draco was yelling, face flushed. "What the fuck do you want from me, Potter? Who do you think you are, anyway? Answer me!"
"I'm no one special, Malfoy. Relax. Go fishing or something. It'll be good for you."
"Don't lay that crap on me! You're trying to trick me, aren't you? I've always seen through that Golden Boy act of yours!"
"It's sort of reassuring, you know."
"What is?" He'd graduated to yelling by this point.
"The way you don't give up."
"You fucker! Come back!"
Potter coughed, but he didn't blink when Draco's wand was pressed up tight against his throat. Still trying to be the hero, Draco thought, and sneered.
"What do you want, Malfoy?"
"I want you to fight me, Golden Boy! I want you to pay, and I want all your stupid friends to pay and I want-- I want my father back, arsehole!"
"I'm sorry," Potter said quietly. "I know it's too late for your dad."
It was the sincere tone that infuriated Draco the most. "Are you fucking with me? Didn't you hear me?"
"I heard you. Like I said, it's too late. No one can do anything about it now. Maybe it's time for you to deal with that."
"Who the bloody hell do you think you are, Potter, my shrink?"
"Think about it." Potter pushed the wand back carefully and straightened. "But you don't need to tell me when you do."
He'd come to the boy's loo on the third floor on the month's second Tuesday sometimes in the past. Usually it was when he'd been frustrated and didn't feel like playing the minor social games that involved getting off with people one actually talked to on a daily basis. This was easy.
Draco's eyes widened as the hands ripped at his trouser buttons. It was around midnight, so the light coming through the high windows was minimal, but a dark suspicion grew at the back of his mind. Is that--? No, of course not. Draco refused to even think the bastard's name at a time like that.
His panting grew louder, and he gasped as a mouth fastened around his cock and sucked. His hips bucked and he yelled, staring into nothing as his fists clenched in soft, messy hair.
Draco regretted his restraint the moment the moon came out from behind a cloud, and round glasses glinted up at him, taunting.
For a few seconds, Draco's brain stalled, as he refused to process this new reality.
Potter didn't wait for his sensibilities, and got up in a fluid motion, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Well?" he said. His eyes were slightly red, hair disheveled. The Golden Boy.
Draco smiled slightly. "You could do that again."
There was a beat when the world seemed to tilt crazily sideways, and then it righted. Potter smirked back, then raised his eyebrows. "Hands only from now on," he said. "That was nasty."
A week later, Draco had gotten sick of the ensuing cat-and-mouse game, and waiting for Tuesday next month, so he'd taken the expedient of passing Potter a one-word note in class when Mr. Siegfried had stepped out. It contained one word, one mindful of interception. Talk.
Over lunch break, Potter pushed him up against a wall, Draco's wrists trapped in his surprisingly strong fist. "So. Talk."
"F-freak." Draco's teeth were bared. "Always have to have it your way, don't you--"
Potter's hips swiveled harshly, but Draco refused to make noise. "Have you got something to say to me, Malfoy?"
Draco's breath hitched even as he glared. "You can't even take your own bloody advice, Potter." He sneered, though the effect was lost as his mouth rounded in a silent O. Draco bit his lip. "Maybe you should face up to the fact that you agreed to have a mutual wank, nice and regular. Be a man about it."
Potter's hips pushed harder, till they both hissed. "No, I guess I can't. How 'bout you?" Panting. Potter's grip tightened further, and Draco couldn't hold back a wince, though he'd be damned if he asked Potter to go gentle on him. Not when Potter looked like this: not when he was flushing.
"That's it, yeah," Draco whispered, rubbing up against Potter's clothed erection. "I can't." What were they even talking about? Draco, for one, had no clue.
Did it matter?
Potter's spectacles slipped wetly as he tugged Draco's wrist towards his mouth. "You will." And he licked it where it hurt, watching Draco twitch helplessly, trapped against the wall.
In retrospect, Draco had stayed like that for a while. Those fantasies in the shower? He'd stand, pressed against the tile, eyes screwed shut. Four years later, he remembered the feel of Potter's fingers on his wrists as if the bruises were still fresh.
::
That morning, Draco sat with his tea and had toast and grapefruit, and calmly considered whether to accept Weasley's invite. He was wearing boxers and socks: Potter would be shocked. Once, it had been strictly silk and tight. No one to impress here, though. There was no one to care what Draco looked like, or what he thought about when he wanked, or even what dark thoughts ran through his mind now. Living right by the shore of the Thames, where he could hear the clamor of people and cars outside, Draco felt more isolated than back in the Scottish wilds. It was funny how that worked. All in all, Draco thought he'd changed for the better since he'd decided to take a break from living in dear old dad's mansion, what with his ancestors staring disapprovingly at everyone he'd ever brought home. Draco's kitchen was spare but sunny, and in the mornings, he felt like he could take on the world. Plus, he'd learned to make coffee.
The months passed easily into years, and it's been awhile since Draco had to ignore the rush of heat in his belly or the way his thighs clenched and belly twisted at the thought of him. All he had to do was remember he'd been Potter's charity case; he hadn't been himself. In the bright light of day, his old self was so easy to dismiss, he could barely recollect why he did most of the crazy stuff they'd all done back in the old days. He was starting to think seriously about coming home in a few years, restoring the family estate, making his father proud after all. Why not? It wasn't that easy to get a job these days.
The insanity was so far behind him, it may have been a dream. Here was proof, though: an innocent-looking-- if thickly expensive-- folded card. It was all quite proper, laid neatly by Draco's breakfast in the middle of his mail pile.
What could it hurt. More, Draco thought without acknowledging.
::
Draco liked to believe he was no longer surprised by much of anything, but it startled him: there was Longbottom looking slim, relaxed and happy. In Draco's mind he'd always be the pudgy, awkward boy he'd been at thirteen in the mess hall, wincing as Draco looked at him a beat too long before glaring defiantly. He'd been rather entertaining back then. And there was those unfortunate breeders: Weasley and Granger, apparently shacking up together in downtown London, little gingers doubtlessly close behind. Probably not that far from his flat, but Draco preferred not to think about that too long. Draco couldn't stop some vague memory from surfacing, having once read that they'd both found jobs on the same floor of their government office. Well, good for them, Draco thought, snorting silently. Why not? The world must need more gap-toothed freckled nerds. Someone had to go there, why not Weasley?
At the moment, they were both laughing in unison, a phenomenon that was once enough to make Draco break out in a cold sweat. Best to ignore, ignore, ignore.
He thought that pale girl-- Lovegood?-- was a flashy kind of bird. What's with that all that jewelry? And was that sparkly underwear on top of her shirt? Why hadn't he noticed before?
Draco relaxed into his corner chair, listening to the loud thumps of the stereo, nearly obscene in somehow. Punk in this crowd? A guitar screamed out and a small, best unnoticed part of Draco screamed along with it. At that moment? Yes, he was a little tipsy, but life was all right. Yes, he really shouldn't have come, but it wasn't that bad. It was all right. He wasn't even looking in certain directions, and the more buzzed he got, the more okay he was with certain unfortunate circumstances. Like Potter's presence, for instance, or the drink he was nursing.
He'd overheard the cocktail was mixed by Potter's little girlfriend-- pardon, fiancé. That would be the redhead sprawled on Potter's lap, Weasley's little sister. The one Draco hadn't bothered looking at. Of course, he did hear Potter laughing, but so what? It wasn't even that familiar; Potter didn't really do that so much around Draco, anyway. It was pathetic how she was so snug on Potter's lap in public, but Draco supposed those sorts of couples were like that.
A few minutes passed, and Draco became aware the giggling wasn't all that sincere, if it ever was. That does grate on one's ears, he thought. How did Potter stand it? And he could feel her eyes on him.
Did he tell? It was hard to tell; Potter was the honest and earnest type, but he was also tight-lipped and elusive as an eel, as Draco had cause to know.
Draco couldn't help the painfully obvious rising flush, the sudden cold burst of hatred threatening to choke him even as his cock went half-hard. Potter remembers, a little voice whispered in his head.
He'd long ago learned to seethe in silence; no more broadcasting each childhood resentment. He'd learned to wait, to heed his chances as they come. He'd finally learned not to get carried away where Potter was concerned. Seventh year had taught Draco that. Seventh year also taught him everything else he'd needed to know, though it had been Potter's face after he'd had his prick in his hand that first brought the lesson home.
It's always been Potter.
Even now, Potter could crush Draco's nuts anytime he wanted. He might have told her simply because he knew she'd blame him for everything. She'd never believe that it had been Potter shoving him in closets, holding his mouth shut, taking what he wanted when he felt like it when that mood hit him.
Still, Potter never gave any clue that knew the first thing about Draco's feelings-- neither about himself nor about anything else. The man was as dense as a loaf of bread. It once gave Draco some leverage and wiggle room for emotional blackmail, but that really wasn't Draco's style, so it got old. He'd used to almost wish Potter would buy a clue at some point. But no, there had been too much satisfaction, too much control in knowing Potter better than he did himself.
No, the Weasley bint was too precious to sully with Potter's fears and needs and kinks. What they had back then could best be broken down into one simple rule: Hands Only. No snogging, no fucking, and no looking. Draco suspected there was a corollary: no coming on Potter's face, nipples, or cock. He wasn't sure. Certainly, Potter took the liberty of spraying some portion of Draco's anatomy every chance he got, marking his territory. He couldn't ask. They wouldn't speak about it, they wouldn't do it in the daylight, and most importantly, they wouldn't admit to it.
Of course, Draco had been a card-carrying teenage male; there was no need to be nice. The only problem lay in the fantasies, the ones where he got greedy. God, but he'd wanted to see it. He'd needed to finally see Potter's prick, at least, but that would have never been enough. Nothing would be enough for his runaway wish-list: seeing Potter blow his load solo, or wanting to see his eyes half-lidded and soft after a proper buggering. He'd look at Draco like he wanted to eat him alive, lick by lick, soft and vulnerable, belly up.
This wasn't helping. Draco started to the realization that the music had changed, his drink had gone flat and weirdly grey colored in the dim lighting. The pathetic state of his trousers wasn't going to be a huge secret for much longer. Worse, they'd started playing card games. The only bright spot of this unfortunate evening was going to be beating Weasley at cards, but he couldn't very well shuffle over with his dick waving hello.
Draco jerked his head no when one of the gang politely invited him. It wasn't as if they wanted him there. They wouldn't know what to say to him. In a way, they'd never known what to say, except back in school, one could cover it up with taunts and punches instead of strained small-talk. At the moment, Draco wasn't sure which was preferable.
If he came over, he'd have to play his part: sneer, make eyes at Weasley's wife and maybe Potter's future Mrs., though he could barely look at her. It was part of the dance, and Draco would hate to disappoint. Draco would say something suitably snotty and deluded, and they'd laugh. Draco had always been a riot, and they want to see him crack. Isn't that why he was invited?
Tough luck, Weasley, Draco thought bitterly. It was too bloody late for that.
::
"Let's get naked," Potter said, and exhaled hash smoke. It was an image that had a special kind of obscenity on Harry H. Potter, Mr. Squeaky Clean-freak. He looked straight at Draco, unblinking.
Everyone laughed, though it was down to the five of them now. Potter and his wife-to-be, the Weasleys, and Draco; Longbottom must have been blushing like a virgin, but he'd said nothing and simply left. Draco himself felt trapped. He couldn't leave without showing his hand. He was uncomfortable. They'd gotten him. Childish, but he still couldn't give them that.
They're all drunk or stoned off their arses by now, and Potter's only just rolled up his piece of newspaper. Draco thought the smell was something awful, but it was also starting to feel close in the room, with everyone's body scents mixing. He fancied he could smell Ginny's shampoo.
He stayed silent. Draco felt a headache coming, and wondered just how good an excuse that made.
Everyone else-- certainly Weasley, but even Granger, who Draco would have thought wouldn't sink to such things-- grinned in the semi-dark at Potter's inane dare. If that's what it was. Apparently that Lovegood bird disagreed, since she'd left the room with an inarticulate murmur about getting more beer.
A small part of Draco shriveled quietly, and he fought a shiver at the notion that this is a prank Potter aimed at him. Draco Malfoy: he's so desperate he'd wank his guts out at the first sight of Potter arse. The problem was, he couldn't figure Potter's angle: surely he didn't think Draco would fall for it?
Draco sat up a little straighter in his lumpy armchair, determined to win this round, mind-fuckery or not. His fists clenched at his side, but he smirked and leaned back, raising his eyebrows.
"Go crazy," he said dryly, "I'll watch."
"Uh-uh," Potter said, chuckling. "Ginny wouldn't be very happy if I showed off the merchandise to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Would you, sweetheart?"
"Mmm. Nope," Ginny giggled. She sounded fake-pouty and high. "Turn the lights off. All off."
"See? I know how her mind works, don't I? Well, it's ok. It's better in the dark anyway. Wouldn't you say so, Draco?"
Draco bristled at the use of his first name, but his throat was too tight to reply. In the ensuing silence, Potter got up to blow out the candles and click off all the mood lighting in the dim room. The only light came from distant streetlights and the kitchen's lamplight seen through the cracks in the door.
Somehow, it's not a surprise that Potter went ahead and did it: Potter always had to be first. Doing the impossible? No, but doing the inadvisable was surely his specialty, especially when Draco was there to provide the stakes.
Potter unbuttoned his shirt with his own eyebrows raised, just before he leaned forward to blow the last candle out. His nipples had stood out as small dark spots, spot-lit. The image was so vivid, Draco would have given his nonexistent firstborn to simply bite. He'd tear and grind and pull till Potter admitted what a huge sodding hypocrite he was.
Potter smirked like he could read Draco's dirty mind, and the room went dark.
Draco could still see hints of motion. He could half-see, half-sense when Potter burrowed his nose into Ginny's shoulder, going so far as to cup her tit. When had this become some sort of twisted game of chicken? Wasn't Weasley awake anymore? Was Ginny really that stoned? Did any of that matter?
Draco swallowed.
It was a game of chicken: he saw the glint of Potter's smile when Longbottom babbled something even more inarticulate than Lovegood had, fumbling his way out the door with the dark shape of his bag clutched in front of him like some defensive chipmunk.
Potter didn't pause, but made a smooth move to slip Ginny's blouse off her shoulder. She moved to nuzzle into his shoulder. At this point, the torture took on a whole new flavor. If Draco stayed further, he wouldn't respect himself in the morning: that much was clear. Draco saw a pale quarter moon of flesh, and wished he could burn his eyes out. Draco sneered, but mostly he tried to ignore the fantasies where he yanked her off Potter by the hair and stepped on her face.
The sheer unreality… no, the insanity of this scene was staggering.
Draco took deep breaths. He hung his head, pinching his nose. This was ridiculous: was his arse glued to the chair? He needed to leave.
He looked up, full of resolve at last. That's when Draco glimpsed the clichéd little thong that did little to cover her bottom that Potter's woman was currently wearing, more undressed than dressed by this point. And she wasn't alone.
Draco couldn't see much more even if he looked, but he could hear them. The future Mrs. Potter moaned a little, as if they were two lovebirds all alone in their dark corner across the room. When he looked, he unmistakably felt Potter's eyes on him.
Easy as that, none of it mattered anymore. The thick spicy smoke went to Draco's head all of a sudden, and he felt woozy. He could barely see, of course, but he half-glimpsed, half-remembered the tiny path of skin low on Potter's rippling stomach. There was nothing but Potter in the whole universe.
Potter knew it.
Oh, he knew. And Potter knew Draco knew, and he knew Draco watched hopelessly as Potter reached between the bitch's legs, listening as she gasped and arched. Draco also knew he heard the door shut with a quiet thunk when the first article of clothing had hit the floor. Potter knew Draco watched as he pushed his girlfriend back to straddle the edge of Potter's knees. Draco heard the tiny zipper noise when Potter pulled his prick out.
The lit roll of hash on the corner table burned a little red alarm right next to the exposed skin. Potter made a few strokes for effect, eyes glittering predator-bright.
Honestly, Draco never thought Potter was such a performer; neither did he realize Potter was this cruel. It's not an altogether congenial realization. Sure, he was hard as a rock, but this was pretty obviously wrong. He thought the Golden Boy was picky about shit like that. This wasn't a man Draco recognized.
He heard the pathetic little squeaking noises Ginny kept making, reminding him this wasn't some kinky game between two consenting adults in a night club or something. What Draco actually wanted wasn't for Potter to stop, though, but for Ginny to shut the hell up. This was between him and Potter, after all: that much must be clear. Trying to distract himself from his throbbing crotch, Draco wondered what Potter was trying to accomplish here, on the grand philosophical scheme of things. If he had a grand design, so to speak, what would it be?
Then it hit him: he wanted Draco to see it. All those months, all those frantic fumblings in the dark, he'd never seen it, really. Maybe Potter was having some sort of twisted bachelor party type last-minute dotting of his missed i's. Something of that sort, anyway. The only iffy part was Ginny, but maybe that could be explained away in that grand scheme; after all, without Ginny, this would all be a little too queer.
Potter made it look casual, almost natural, like he wasn't trying to make Draco start crying or come in his pants. Just showing poor Malfoy what he'd been missing, right? No harm done.
So yeah, he knew it, whether or not Potter did himself: Harry bloody Potter wanted Draco Malfoy to see his cock. He wanted to make ever so sure of that, so Draco played his game the way he always did: "Have it your way, Potter," he said, and stripped.
He couldn't feel Potter's gaze on him anymore. Now that Draco had caved, now that he sat in the padded chair with his legs spread and his fist working, of course Potter wouldn't be looking now.
Draco could hear Potter sucking at the bitch's pale freckly skin. He mumbled some endearments while he was at it, romantic as you please. Potter's hadn't gone all the way yet; Draco knew this because he couldn't hear the inevitable smacking noises, and he was listening for those. By this point, Draco was mostly feeling relieved about the darkness, seeing he was crying like a grade-A idiot, thankfully silent. Still thinking about what might possibly be going through Potter's mind, but wishing he wasn't.
He wondered about this as his palm slid slow and steady along his cock, gripping painfully tight. Draco wondered if Potter thought he was doing him a favor, curing Draco of any remaining sentiment, but that was doubtful. Potter wouldn't recognize a genuine feeling of Draco's if it brained him. Maybe Potter was testing him though, trying to see when Draco would finally snap and tear the ginger bitch off. Or maybe Potter just didn't have anything better to do with his life than bait him because Weasley was such a lousy shag. That last thought did cheer him up a little.
No matter what, it didn't add up. Potter was supposed to be Mr. Nice Guy, honest and true and so on. He was an arsehole to Draco, sure, but hadn't Draco deserved it? Wasn't he a twat back in school? He'd admit to that, no problem. So why beat around the bush? If Potter did have something to say, he'd say it. Maybe he was too good to actually say it, though: "I don't want you, I just want you to remain my bitch: get it through your skull, Malfoy."
Draco bit his lip bloody as his prick pulsed hard in his clenched fist. He cursed himself viciously for still being there; for not looking away for a single second. Draco had shut his eyes minutes ago, for all the use that was: he could hear it. He thought he smelled Ginny's cunt even at that distance.
Then Draco's eyes snapped open. He'd felt-- he saw-- Potter look right at him once again. He'd lit up the weed again, blowing smoke as he held it loosely between two fingers, an elbow on his lap. He was intent on Draco. Watching him. He watched him alone. The girl was gone.
Potter wasn't touching his prick, but Draco could see it glisten at the tip by the tiny light-- he could nearly taste it.
"Harry!" he gasped, and unraveled right there in front of him. Potter had made sure of that.
part 2