[Fandom] HP Fic - Punishment
Title: Punishment
Word Count: 567
Rating: R, since nothing graphic is described.
Characters: Draco, Lucius.
Warnings: Deathly Hallows spoilers, suggested non-con. Angst.
Author's Notes: This is one of a few teenyfics I have ideas for after reading DH, but this is the only one I wrote. I had it posted on LJ, and I'm finally reposting it here. It's part of my new obsession with all things Draco.
Notice: Whoever you are, whatever site you want to repost this on, you do NOT have permission to do so without asking me first. If I find out you have, I WILL take action.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been back. No more than a few days, that much time can’t have been lost in this dungeon. There is always the chance it’s his mind he’s lost, and if that’s true then the days don’t matter.
His wrists hurt from the manacles, but they aren’t the only part of him saturated with pain. No, McNair and his buddies made sure of that; Draco can’t stand to think of the indignities done to his body, but the Dark Lord certainly hasn’t allowed him a book or even an old copy of the Daily Prophet to occupy his mind. All he can think about is McNair, Mulciber, and the others who came to him laughing. Not just once, but many times. That’s how Draco knows the Dark Lord allowed it, for otherwise they would only have managed it once or twice.
No, this was his punishment for failure.
He shakes, wrists aching more for brushing up against the iron. At least, he thinks, Potter will suffer worse when caught. Assuming the Dark Lord will catch him. Though Draco will never admit it, he is beginning to have doubts.
The door creaks open. Draco hisses, and curses McNair before the man can begin taunting him. Beaten, chained, punished, he has no other dignity anymore than to fight in any way he can. Cowardice means nothing; no amount of begging will stop them. So he curses, and he struggles, and he begins to understand a little what Potter must feel like.
“Draco.”
He freezes. That isn’t McNair’s voice.
“F-Father?”
There is the clink of keys and for the first time in who knows how long, Draco can move himself freely. For some reason, this ability crashes through him with the weight of all that’s happened since he returned, and he starts to cry. The tears are hot on his cheeks, and he can’t be bothered to wipe them away because he’s too busy rubbing the bruises on his wrists. He doesn’t look up.
“Draco, listen to me.” His father’s voice is broken, hoarse. “The Dark Lord told me to have you cleaned and dressed in half an hour. There’s going to be a meeting. He wants you there.”
Hands come down on his shoulders. Draco jerks away with a growl before he can stop himself, but he doesn’t want to be touched by anyone, not even his father. He mumbles an apology he doesn’t mean, and watches his father’s hands clench.
“You have to get yourself under control.” Lucius Malfoy speaks to his son with a tight voice, as tight as the knuckles turning white in his lap. “Your mother is not aware of… everything… you have been through. She expects you to be thin, hungry, perhaps bruised, but willing to accept her comfort.”
Draco doesn’t answer. When his father reaches for him again, he doesn’t flinch. Slowly, discovering pain in places he wasn’t aware existed, Draco allows his father to help him stand. Lucius sighs as Draco limps to the open cell door.
“This will all be worth it when Potter is dead.”
Draco chuckles, not because his father is ridiculous, not even because he finds it inherently terrible and laughable that a man might consider his son’s suffering paid in full with the death of another boy.
He laughs because in Lucius’ voice he hears the same doubt settled in his own heart.
Word Count: 567
Rating: R, since nothing graphic is described.
Characters: Draco, Lucius.
Warnings: Deathly Hallows spoilers, suggested non-con. Angst.
Author's Notes: This is one of a few teenyfics I have ideas for after reading DH, but this is the only one I wrote. I had it posted on LJ, and I'm finally reposting it here. It's part of my new obsession with all things Draco.
Notice: Whoever you are, whatever site you want to repost this on, you do NOT have permission to do so without asking me first. If I find out you have, I WILL take action.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been back. No more than a few days, that much time can’t have been lost in this dungeon. There is always the chance it’s his mind he’s lost, and if that’s true then the days don’t matter.
His wrists hurt from the manacles, but they aren’t the only part of him saturated with pain. No, McNair and his buddies made sure of that; Draco can’t stand to think of the indignities done to his body, but the Dark Lord certainly hasn’t allowed him a book or even an old copy of the Daily Prophet to occupy his mind. All he can think about is McNair, Mulciber, and the others who came to him laughing. Not just once, but many times. That’s how Draco knows the Dark Lord allowed it, for otherwise they would only have managed it once or twice.
No, this was his punishment for failure.
He shakes, wrists aching more for brushing up against the iron. At least, he thinks, Potter will suffer worse when caught. Assuming the Dark Lord will catch him. Though Draco will never admit it, he is beginning to have doubts.
The door creaks open. Draco hisses, and curses McNair before the man can begin taunting him. Beaten, chained, punished, he has no other dignity anymore than to fight in any way he can. Cowardice means nothing; no amount of begging will stop them. So he curses, and he struggles, and he begins to understand a little what Potter must feel like.
“Draco.”
He freezes. That isn’t McNair’s voice.
“F-Father?”
There is the clink of keys and for the first time in who knows how long, Draco can move himself freely. For some reason, this ability crashes through him with the weight of all that’s happened since he returned, and he starts to cry. The tears are hot on his cheeks, and he can’t be bothered to wipe them away because he’s too busy rubbing the bruises on his wrists. He doesn’t look up.
“Draco, listen to me.” His father’s voice is broken, hoarse. “The Dark Lord told me to have you cleaned and dressed in half an hour. There’s going to be a meeting. He wants you there.”
Hands come down on his shoulders. Draco jerks away with a growl before he can stop himself, but he doesn’t want to be touched by anyone, not even his father. He mumbles an apology he doesn’t mean, and watches his father’s hands clench.
“You have to get yourself under control.” Lucius Malfoy speaks to his son with a tight voice, as tight as the knuckles turning white in his lap. “Your mother is not aware of… everything… you have been through. She expects you to be thin, hungry, perhaps bruised, but willing to accept her comfort.”
Draco doesn’t answer. When his father reaches for him again, he doesn’t flinch. Slowly, discovering pain in places he wasn’t aware existed, Draco allows his father to help him stand. Lucius sighs as Draco limps to the open cell door.
“This will all be worth it when Potter is dead.”
Draco chuckles, not because his father is ridiculous, not even because he finds it inherently terrible and laughable that a man might consider his son’s suffering paid in full with the death of another boy.
He laughs because in Lucius’ voice he hears the same doubt settled in his own heart.