Work Text:
It's Like You Never Had Wings
"Hello luv," Harry said as he entered the bedchamber. He walked through the opposite door into the bathroom and returned nearly an hour later. Draco looked up at him from the bed. A brief look that Harry couldn't place crossed his face, but was gone instantaneously and he wasn't sure if it was ever there at all. It couldn't have looked as Harry thought it had; Harry thought he'd seen concern.
"Something wrong my darling?" Harry asked as he slid his lean body onto the bed beside Draco's."
"No," Draco answered, in a meek, timid, un-Draco voice. His eyes were wide as he looked at the blood-splattered sleeve of Harry's robe.
"Good," said Harry, in what was almost a purr. The hairs on Draco's neck and arm rose, from fear rather than anticipation. "I wouldn't want you to be unhappy." He moved closer to Draco seemingly without moving at all, as if he were gliding on air, while Draco stifled a sardonic laugh from the ludicrous nature of Harry's pseudo-concern filled statement.
Harry moved closer still to Draco, and straddled his waist. For a moment, he just sat there and stared. The dark blue of the satin sheets brought out the blue-grey of Draco's eyes, and the tears that shone in them reflected the dim lighting like diamonds, resulting in a tiny kaleidoscope of color on each drop until it overflowed and streaked Draco's face, soon to be followed by one just as beautiful.
The satin also contrasted with his pale skin, as if it were white on black. The dark backdrop caused the art that was Draco's smooth, nude body to become 10 times as gorgeous, with no merging color to distract from Draco's almost white pallor. The wan candlelight gleamed on the sliver of the handcuffs, and the white glare it cast off was very close to the shade of Draco's hair.
Harry couldn't resist any longer. He bowed his head and licked his way across Draco's chest, stopping to suck on Draco's right nipple. It was slow to harden, as if it were trying to defy him. Harry considered cutting it off, thought better of it, and merely decided he'd pierce it later. It was a long, slow tongue bath, and when he finished, he left the left nipple neglected.
Harry reached up and cupped Draco's face. He moved along Draco's body until they were lying parallel, then pulled Draco's head toward him and kissed him. This was slow as well and Harry reveled in the pliancy of Draco's soft lips. Draco knew Harry wouldn't go easy on him if he pretended to be enjoying it, just as he knew resisting would bring him nothing but pain. He was utterly resigned, and this acceptance of his fate had been Harry's primary goal in training Draco. He wanted Draco to know it was hopeless. He wanted Draco to know that no matter how he chose to act, he would ultimately give in. Harry wanted to make Draco feel how he himself felt when Voldemort came back into his full power.
There had been no other choice really. It was 'Join or be killed.' and if he was killed then he wouldn't be able to fight another day. He'd thought he'd be able to resist his baser feelings that the Dark Mark amplified by one hundred. He thought he wouldn't be suspect to Voldemort's control. Harry thought he'd be able to be strong, like Severus was, like *Draco* was, but he wasn't. He found that he didn't care though. He told himself he enjoyed the things he did. He *had* to enjoy doing them, otherwise he would stop. He reveled in his ownership of Draco, so he had to be as evil as any Death Eater out there.
A strangled sob tore Harry from his thoughts. It had been a while since Draco made any noise when Harry used him. It bothered Harry; forced him to see that Draco *did* have feelings. He much preferred it when Draco stared blankly at the ceiling.
"What's wrong lover?" Harry asked, that fake concern in his voice again. Draco could smell alcohol on his breath. Draco looked away from his jailer. "Malfoy!" Harry shook him by the shoulders. The handcuffs rattled against the bars of the headboard. "What's wrong? You can answer me truthfully. You don't have to worry about any additional punishment. I just hate seeing you like this and want to know how to make you stop." The way Harry did like seeing Draco was as a vapid human like doll, with no feelings at all.
Draco spoke, and his voice was hoarse from not being used. "I was just wondering..." He paused, looking for the correct words. When he spoke again he didn't seem satisfied with his words, but they were the only ones even somewhat suitable. "I was wondering, why me?"
Harry's brow furrowed. "What do you mean 'why you'?
"Well why did you choose me. Of all the more attractive people, of all the more willing people, why did *I* have to be the one you decided to... share your bed with?"
"Because you hate me."
"Harry, you're a Death Eater, almost everybody who's not hates you."
"No, Malfoy, that's not what I mean. All those people who hate me because of that, well, they hate me because of that. They hate me for things I've done, not for who I am. Everybody who has ever openly hated me, aside from Snape, stared hating me after I became a Death Eater."
Draco was a little perplexed. "But why do you want somebody who hates you?" he asked.
"It's not the hate, Ron and Hermione hate me and I don't want to hurt them. It's because if everybody who's hated me afterward hated me because of the things I've done, then everybody who's liked me before liked me because of what I'd done, when I was a baby, and then later on. You're the only person who doesn't look at my accomplishments or my sins when judging me. You look past all of that and you look at me. You see me and you still hate me, and I want to make you suffer for it."
"I don't think you know what you're talking about Harry."
"What do you mean?"
"You're saying that before you joined the dark side, nobody saw you for who you were because everybody treated you like a hero and you felt you didn't deserve it?" Draco paused and Harry nodded. "So, because I didn't treat you as a hero, because I was the exception, you automatically assumed it was because I saw something different in you. That I didn't judge you for your actions, because if I did, I would have judged you as a hero as well."
"That's exactly what I'm saying. You see something in me that nobody else sees. You look past the surface. When you heard the title 'The Boy Who Lived' it didn't cause you to drop to your knees in homage. You could see though all that hyperbolic bullshit and see me for who I am."
"That's where you don't know what you're talking about. The fact that somebody isn't part of the majority doesn't make them different. Everybody looked at the same facts, and everybody used those same facts to justify their view of you."
"What do you mean?"
"The morally right saw you as a savior. It was almost as if you were their own personal Jesus Christ. You saved their mudblood friends. You lifted a cloud of oppression off those who had friendly wizard-Muggle pollicies. You made the world safe for their children. Of course they held you in the highest esteem.
"On the other hand, looking at the same fact, the fact that you took down Voldemort, you ruined lives. Have you ever tried to even just consider the possibility of fucking *life* in Azkaban? Sure, Black was a fighter, and he could stand it, but there were those who couldn't. Decent people who just happened to make a bad decision or two.
When I went to Hogwarts for the 1st time, I didn't understand why there weren't people screaming in their sleep. I'd never gone more than a week without being woken up by one of my Mother having one of her nightmares. I never realized that I should have used a silencing charm to block out her screams because I thought it was normal. Do you know what kind of physical and emotional," here Draco paused, looking for the correct word to use. "Rape. Torture. Do you know what kind of physical and emotional torture you have to inflict upon a person for them to have trauma that lasts like that? Mother was there for days, for 3 fucking months and it continues to haunt her. What did she do to deserve it? She wasn't even a Death Eater. She just happened to fall in love with the wrong man.
"Father built his whole livelihood on the dark arts. Do you know what it's like to feel as though you can protect your family, feel as though everything in your life has been worked out, to feel as thought you're god damn invincible, and then, suddenly, one little piece of shit half blood who isn't even worth the air he breathes has the audacity to take that away from you. Have you ever seen a fully trained Auror pissed off? Do you know what they'll do to you on one of their random searches if they think you're hiding something from them? They don't give a shit for the law. The only difference between Death Eater and Aurors is the Aurors are authorized by the ministry. I know what they'll do to a law abiding citizen. We'd fucking repented! Father wasn't dealing with Voldemort anymore." Draco stopped to catch his breath. His eyes were red, but there were not tears. After panting for a few moments, he continued. "They didn't have to hurt her like that. She didn't do anything, they were just trying to prove a point, and it was worse than the most gruesome atrocities I'd seen working as a spy against the Death Eaters."
A part of Harry was curious as to what happened to Narcissa, but for the most part, he was concerned with the fact that Draco was talking about it. Harry saw this as a good thing. He thought it might be a sign that Draco was starting to trust him. 'Or,' said a voice in the back of his head, 'maybe it's a sign that he feels he has nothing left to loose.' Harry was shaken from his revere by Draco's shouting voice. "She didn't fucking deserve it! And if she did, I was too young to see it. How the fuck did you expect me to react when I went to school the next year and saw you. You were the reason it happened. For the longest time after that, I thought we would have been better off under Voldemort. We don't have rights either way, but at least Voldemort doesn't try to lull us into a false sense of security."
Suddenly, it seemed as thought Draco realized just how much he'd spoken. "I'm sorry," he said, much more composed. "I seem to have gotten away from the topic. The point was that you saw me as something refreshing and new, I was the only one who didn't love you for what you'd done, ergo, I was the only one who didn't judge you for what you'd done. You were wrong though. I saw you not as an individual person, but as an impersonal 'somebody' who'd done something, and as they loved you for your actions, I hated you for them. It really does make sense, seeing how, behind your actions, there really was nobody to love or hate. It may have been your bad Muggle parenting, or your bad Half Blood genes, but behind all your actions, you're nothing. If you were worth anything as a person, you wouldn't have switched sides. Nobody faults you for it, it's just a fact that can't be changed. Dumbledore was using you to fight for his side. Every kind word he every gave you, all the father figure that he seemed to be, it was just an act. He didn't care for you, that's for sure. There's no reason to care for you.
"Remember when Ginny Weasley decided to become a Death Eater? Remember how your other half, well, your other two-thirds tried so hard to win her back? Remember how she left and joined their side again? Didn't you even wonder why they conveniently forgot about you? They didn't want you back. You'd saved them yes, but now you were damning them. It had all evened out, so their feelings toward you were neutral. They didn't have any real personal interest in you, it was more a question of 'How can I use The Boy who Lived's impeccable magical skills today?' or 'How will eating with The Boy who Lived during breakfast today help improve my social status?'. Weasley was a loser, you spent time with him, Granger was a bossy mudblood, you associated with her. Anybody could have been in your place and they wouldn't have cared as long as it was somebody.
"Are a lot of the Death Eaters you work with your friends Harry? Are they who you were out drinking with earlier?" When Draco was a child his mother had bought him a book called 'Live, Learn, and Pass it On.' It was filled with life tips and written by a muggle. He'd clearly forgotten tip #845: Never taunt an easy to anger man while tied down to his bed with him sitting over you drunk.
"I have friends," Harry said defensively.
"Well they're using you too."
"No they're not!. People like me. Just because you're a huge asshole and nobody prefers to be in your presence doesn't mean you have to press your depressing social life over onto me!"
"Maybe there would be more people in my presence if you let me out of your suite once in a while. And you're not one to talk, you have to physically confine me to get me to stay with you."
"Fuck you," said Harry.
"Oh, real mature," said Draco in his trademark drawl. "You can't even come up with an original insult."
"You're the one who use to taunt me about my dead parents."
"I was 12! You're 26."
"True." Then as if a light bulb went on he said, "You've just mentioned how immature I am, so I think I have the right to throw unimaginative insults like a 12 year old, so here goes. Whatever the Aurors did to you mother? Well, she deserved it."
Harry didn't even see the foot coming, one second he was being an ass, the next his nose was broken and there was blood flowing down his face across Draco's pretty pale skin. He noticed it had the same value as the sheets, and it also contrasted beautifully. Then he noticed the pain."
"Ow, you fucker!" he shouted, He then started waling on Draco. Between punches to the stomach and face, Draco managed to point out that is was fair with him tied down. Harry obligingly unlocked the handcuffs and Draco threw on some pants before he began circling around Harry.
They fought for a few minuets, each getting in as many solid blows as they blocked, when it happened. Draco dived toward Harry, who stepped back and used his momentum to throw him further. Harry turned toward Draco in time to see him crash down headfirst on the hearth.
Harry was sort of dazed by the amount of blood that poured from Draco's skull. He didn't have his wand, he never kept it where Draco could get a hold of it, and either way, his forte wasn't healing, it was destruction. Harry cautiously crossed the room to where Draco lay. His eyes had a sort of glassy look, as though he were trying not to cry.
Harry could feel his own eyes become wet as the sight before him. There was an ache in his stomach and in the back of his throat, and he'd never felt anything of the sort before. Red blood flooded the hearth where Draco's head lay. The deep red of the blood looked sticky and ugly against the darker red of the brick. Some spilt down, it dripped over the edge of the brick to slide down the molding and puddle on the hardwood floor. It was ugly there as well. The wood could be seen though the translucent fluid, and it looked *so* unnatural, so unright. Draco with his pretty hair gathering in sticky clumps, his pale skin becoming gray and sallow with blood loss, was just so disgusting. It was wrong.
Harry wasn't allowed to torture Muggles, nor was he allowed to do any of the other fun things the Death Eaters were feared for. He'd never smelt blood up close. He'd read that it smelled metallic, like pennies, but that wasn't how it smell to him. He couldn't place it, but the smell made him want to vomit. Draco wasn't moving. Harry moved forward and touched him. He almost recoiled. Draco didn't feel like Draco. He wasn't breathing. The blood had stopped flowing. Harry's mind wasn't functioning, but he knew that Draco normally breathed, and he bled when cut. He couldn't understand why Draco wasn't now. Sure, he'd cracked his skull open and leaked half his brain matter on the floor, but Draco was the type that bounced back.
Harry sat on the floor and waited, he wanted to be there when Draco regained consciousness, even though he knew he wouldn't. He didn't realize he was crying until he stopped, and he wondered at that. He wondered why he was crying, over Draco of all people. Finally though, his tears stopped.
He went back into the bathroom, left the body for later. He shrugged his way out of one sleeve of his robe, and picked up his razor blade. Right there. on the paler flesh of the inside of his arm, between the side and the upper arm, was a big black scar. Around it, in normal scar color were hundreds of thin scars, they looked as though somebody had sliced across it. Harry pressed the blade against his skin. The black Skull and Serpent mark never bled, but the surrounding skin did. He'd tried to cut it off but it must have gone all the way though. His arm became turned red with blood. It wasn't an ugly red like Draco's had been. This red was repentance. If he moved the razor a little lower, down near that big juicy vein in his wrist, he could show just how sorry he was. He moved the blade so it was parallel to his arm, and he pressed down, swiped up. He wondered what this particular action said about him.
.end
Gah, that's the suckiest ending i ever wrot.