“I really don’t think this is a good idea Harry,” Hermione said, as she did every year.
“I know Hermione. But I need it. I’ll be careful I promise,” replied Harry, just as he did every year.
It was a warm morning. Bright early sunlight streamed through high windows, illuminating the kitchen of Harry’s flat. He still owned Grimmauld place of course, but he preferred to avoid that place, haunted as it was by the unhappiness of so many generations.
Hermione stared hard at Harry, trying to assess him mental state just from his features. He carefully schooled them into his ‘calm and okay’ face. He just needed her to go. She was the only one who dared enter his flat on this day, and even she was not welcome. But on this day of all days, Harry remembered what he owed her, and he let her fuss. At least she understood.
“Wand,” she said, holding out her hand. Harry handed it over. He didn’t need it anymore of course, but old habits die hard. In exchange for this valuable hostage, this show of absolute trust, he received a muggle first aid kit. Hermione had already removed all the knives and scissors from the kitchen, but she of all people knew that Harry didn’t need anything as commonplace as weapons to injure himself. Sighing deeply, she stepped into the green flames of the floo and disappeared. Harry sighed too, but with relief not worry. He would not force her to go, would never do a thing to hurt her, but she was not welcome. Not on this day.
He rummaged in the cupboard and produced a chipped and dirty mug bearing the words “A present from Morecambe”. He shook out the spiders and produced one of the bottles of fire-whiskey he hoarded for this day from behind the bread bin. He filled the mug and wandered into the living room, where he collapsed onto the sofa, staring listlessly at the mess.
He was not normally untidy, but in the week leading up to the anniversary the depression built. He did not need time off work; it was a national holiday, which was a good thing because he was no good to anyone. To begin with he stopped washing up. Then tidying or cleaning. Then shaving. Then eating. His friends rarely saw him at this time, and those that did knew better than to say anything. Hermione is dealing with it, they said, and left it at that.
Hermione. Just the thought of her name filled him with guilt, and he had hardly begun his drink. He was not worthy of her. He shouldn’t even be near her. She was so good, so kind, a shining example of all that was pure and good and right in the world. What was he but a filthy murderer? There were days (like this one) when he was afraid to go near her in case he corrupted her, damaged her purity and beauty somehow, by his poisonous presence.
Like Ginny. So good, so brave. She was doing well, her team had come third in the national league last season. Still waiting for him though. Still seeing the child he had been. She couldn’t see what he had become. Couldn’t see the darkness in his heart. He avoided her, hoping she would find another, some knight in shining armour who would sweep her off her feet, keep her safe and happy. Keep her pure and shining. She wasn’t for him. He was too damaged, too broken, too evil for her.
He had bourn the darkness of his link with Voldemort for too long. The taint of it had sunk deep inside him. That was the only explanation. He was tainted by evil. Evil had made a home for itself within him, and he was beyond hope. He took another sip from his drink. The amber liquid burned. It burned like he imagined holy water would. But he loved that burn, craved it. Not the alcohol, though that helped to calm the torment of his mind, helped him cope. It was the heat, the slight pain that he needed. Later there would be more. Later he would pay for every death, every hurt. Hermione would find him tomorrow. She would heal him and put him too bed and say nothing. But that was later and he was a coward. He couldn’t do what he knew he must until he had drunk some more of this delicious fire.* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He had finished the first bottle when he began smashing things. Glasses thrown at walls, his fist through a vase. And then anything and everything. He tore the cushions on the settee, loving the feeling of power, the wonderful sick tearing noise as the fabric submitted to him. Pictures were torn from their frames, the mantelpiece collapsed in a wonderful cacophony of sound. The clock stopped, the little silence suddenly noticeable among the pain of noise. When at last there was nothing left to smash, he began on the second bottle. Then he began on himself.
He unleashed his magic, knowing the wards would hold it, letting himself go wild. Around him the flat creaked and groaned, but held. The same could not be said for the furniture. A cupboard, still fat with tins and jars, tore itself from the wall and came hurtling towards him. He did not duck. His magic sucked and pulled shards of broken glass and splinters towards him, faster and faster, hitting him hard enough to send him spinning, His glasses cracked but held. Protecting his eyes. The air was full of floating furniture and fittings, swirling like a hurricane, with Harry at the centre, watching wide-eyed as his attackers got closer and closer.
A little cut on his arm. Mysterious little cut, appearing by magic. Funny. All magic. Floating baked beans, sink, cupboard doors, all magic. Broken glasses, no good. Off they pop, down with all the other broken glass. And now the world is fuzzy, blurry. Fuzzy blurry shapes attacking. Was that beans or soup? Hurt like soup. Probably tomato.
Noise. Strange noise, out of place noise. People noise. No people today. Knock knock knock. Ding dong. Knock knock knock. Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing dong. Knockety knock. Harry scowled. No-one was allowed here today. Today was his day. His day for atoning. His day for drink and pain and punishment.
“Not here,” he shouts his voice as blurry as the world around him. Why? Blood in his mouth. Not enough teeth.
Words now. Mutter mutter mutter, outside his door. Magic words. Opening words. Trying to break his wards. Open the door. Tell the mutterer to go.
He wrenches open the door. Blond man shape standing there. Very fuzzy. Won’t go away. Slam the door. Door won’t shut.
A brief struggle, brawn against magic. Magic wins. The fuzzy man shape marches into the destroyed living room. Blonde man is talking. Saying words, so many words.
“…enough of this Potter. You think you’re the only one who suffered? The only one who lost people? The only one who had to kill to survive? It was a war Potter. Civil war. It touched everyone. We all mourn but right now people need you. Why aren’t you out there giving people hope? Giving condolences? Supporting my bloody ministry? Doing anything other than just sitting here moping!”
Harry didn’t know what to say. His magic had calmed and with it his mind. And now he was standing in the middle of his wrecked living room, with an out of focus blond man who could only be Draco Malfoy, deputy minister of magic, shouting at him. He suddenly realised he was angry.
“Why are you here Malfoy? No one comes here on this day. No one! Everyone knows I spend the anniversary alone.”
“Granger comes here.”
“I owe her too much to throw her out. But even she has the courtesy to leave almost straight away. This is not a public day!”
Anger is good, hot. He can feel his magic beginning to rise again, beginning to swirl, picking up little bits at first, just dust and glass but swirling faster and faster.
Then Malfoy punches him on the jaw. That shocks him. Surprises him. It takes him a minute to work out the correct response. And then he breaks Malfoy’s nose.
And then they are fighting in earnest, fists colliding with tender flesh, nails tearing at skin, wands and magic forgotten.
And then he doesn’t really know how it happened, but he’s on the floor and Draco is on top of him, straddling him, with his hand around Harry’s neck.
“Fuck you Potter,” he snarls. “I came here intending to be civil. I wanted to help you. But if you want pain...”
And then he does something strange. He dips his head and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Harry’s shoulder. Harry whimpers, and then cries out when he feels Malfoy’s teeth break the skin. He was getting hard from the warm weight above him, and the expression on Malfoy’s face, when he grins at Harry, blood dripping down his chin, doesn’t help to lessen Harry’s straining erection.
Malfoy feels it, he knows, because he laughs and grinds down against him, making Harry whimper in pleasure and pain as the rough fabric of his jeans rubs against his sensitive flesh.
He does it again and Harry gasps and calls Malfoy’s name. Malfoy snarls at him, his teeth still covered in Harry’s blood, then raises one hand and slaps Harry’s face hard, loving the way Harry shudders beneath him at the blow. Then he does it again, just because he can.
He thought they had a truce, he and Harry. He thought he’d put all the school-boy bitterness aside. He’d even had counselling for it for fucks sake, as though he were an American! But now he had Potter at his mercy, Potter shuddering beneath him, the taste of Potter’s blood in his mouth he knew it never went away. He just buried it deep. And now it’s all come bubbling to the surface again.
He grabs Harry’s hair and tugs hard, his already interested cock becoming rock hard as he watches Harry writhe beneath him. And then he knows. Knows without a shadow of a doubt. He needs to fuck Potter. He’s going to fuck Potter. No matter what Potter might have to say about it. The word rape never enters him mind. It is simply something which is going to be.
Methodically he begins to rip Potter’s clothing from him, though he can’t resist stopping every now and then to cause some little pain, or to dip his head and run his tongue over the still weeping bite mark at the other man’s neck. He feels like if he doesn’t keep that taste on his tongue this might all turn out to be unreal, just a dream of a fantasy. But then he’s never fantasised about Potter before.
“Never made him scream before,” he mutters to himself. If Potter heard him he gives no indication of the fact, writhing and moaning beneath Draco. It occurs to him then that Potter is lying in broken glass. That thought makes him shiver and he lies down, pressing him body against Potters and grinds against him, listening hard, trying to capture every little noise, be it pleasure or pain.
Finally, finally, Potter is naked. Naked in all his bruised and bleeding glory. Fuck, Draco knows he shouldn’t like looking at him, not this much. He shouldn’t allow that one idle little thought about how Potter is pretty into his head. To compensate, he slaps Potters face again, harder this time, and feels his cheek connect with his teeth.
His erection is beginning to get desperate now, begging him for release. “Soon,” he whispers to it. Then louder, more deliberate, “I’m going to fuck you Potter. Here, on your back amongst all the broken glass I’m going to fuck you till you scream.
Harry just whimpers. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling anymore, so much pain but mixed in is so much pleasure. His whole body’s on fire with sensation, his nerve endings screaming for his attention. He can’t think anymore, not really. But based on the past ten minutes he’s pretty sure it’s a good idea to go with whatever Malfoy suggests. So far he’s been incredible, giving him the pain that he needs, needs so much it frightens him, and the pleasure he craves so much but has been denying himself.
“Up Potter,” a voice behind him growls. “On your hands and knees,” and he can’t help but obey, struggling to get tortured muscles to obey him, sliding on the layer of splinters and broken glass, wincing as his thus far protected knees come into contact with the mess on the floor. But it never occurs to him not to obey. The word rape never enters his mind. This is something that has to be. And besides, right now he’d do anything Draco told him too. Without needing to be told he spread his legs and arched his back just a little, exposing himself, then he just holds himself as still as he can, braced for whatever Draco’s going to do to him.
He hears a little grasp behind him, then without warning, Draco pushes one of his fingers inside him, the lack of lube making even that small intrusion hurt. He cries out, which seems to spur Malfoy on. Harry only has a few moments to adjust before another finger is added and then only a few seconds later a third.
He hears a spell that he doesn’t recognize, and braces himself for pain, but none comes. And then Malfoy’s fingers are gone and are replaced with something far larger and then he knows what the spell was.
He almost protests at the gentleness with which Malfoy breaches him, but the protest is knocked from his lips as Malfoy pulls back and slams into him without waiting for him to adjust. He sways forward with the force of the thrust and scrabbles to get some purchase on the wreckage that covers his floor.
The glass on the floor isn’t cutting his hands and knees so much as worming its way beneath his skin and it’s agonising enough to kill any arousal but he’s so high on endorphins and pain and arousal that it just adds an incredible edge to his pleasure and he thrusts back against Malfoy, mewling his pleasure, unable to articulate words.
Just when the pleasure was nearly at its peak, Draco grabs his hair and jerks his head back painfully, pulling the skin taught and making the bite mark begin to bleed again.
“Say it,” he snarled into Harry’s ear, making him shiver. “Say my name.”
“Malfoy,” Harry gasped, and then screamed when the man above him dug sharp fingernails into his bloody back. “Draco!”
Draco gave a breathless laugh and reached down and wrapped one hand around Harry’s cock, stroking hard and fast and being less than careful about his nails.
His other hand gripped even tighter on Harry’s hip as he thrust harder. He gritted his teeth, trying to delay his orgasm, determined not to come until Harry did.
At last he felt Harry tense even more below him and when he cried his name, Draco couldn’t hold back any longer. One last hard thrust and he was crying his own orgasm. The pleasure was so overwhelming it was almost painful, and for long minutes he held still, shuddering with the aftershocks.
At last he pulled out of Harry’s shaking body and dragged himself to the sofa, which was the only piece of furniture still half intact, and collapsed.
After a few minutes of silence he cracked an eye and sneaked a glance at the prone form of Potter, still lying among the debris.
“Merlin,” he croaked. “Please don’t tell me I’ve killed Harry Potter.” He closed his eyes again. “There goes my political career.”
He was more relieved than he’d ever admit when he was answered by a tired chuckle from the region of the floor.
“You can’t get rid of me that easily.” Harry tried to move, groaned and collapsed back into a prone position. “I really don’t want to move,” he muttered. “Usually I end up unconscious and by the time I come round Hermione has healed me and put me to bed.”
“So why not just stay where you are?” came a sleepy voice from the sofa.
“Because I’m not usually naked. And it smells of sex in here. Plus there’s the added fact that you’re here.”
That last was clearly a question, Harry angling to find out what Draco intended to do now he’d fucked him into oblivion.
This time it was Draco who chuckled. “Merlin, I’d love to see her face. Can you imagine?”
Harry smiled. “That would be worth seeing. But definitely not worth the aftermath. She’d kill us both.”
Draco sighed deeply and forced himself to sit up. He surveyed the room and then finally its owner.
“I ‘spose that means we’re going to have to clean up in here. Starting with you. Merlin you look a mess Potter.”
“And whose fault is that Malfoy?” Harry sighed deeply and slowly and carefully began to sit up and eventually to stand.
“Christ Malfoy,” he groaned. “You really know how to leave your mark.”
Draco smiled smugly and pulled himself up. “Right then Potter. Let’s gets started.” He reached his hand to Potter. “Shall we take this too the bedroom?”
Potter looked nonplussed but he did as he was told, taking Draco’s hand and leading him to the bedroom.
At Draco’s instruction he settled himself on the bed, lying on his stomach. Draco settled himself above him, straddling his hips, and slowly and methodically began to draw out all the pieces of glass and debris that had become imbedded in the delicate skin of Harry’s back.
By the time Harry’s skin was ready to be healed, Draco’s legs were going to sleep and he had a crick in his neck from bending over. Finally though, he was able to cast a healing spell. He hadn’t got the skill or the power to completely heal him, but at least there were no open wounds.
Then and only then he allowed the exhaustion to wash over him. Sighing deeply he shoved Harry across and collapsed next to him. He was just awake enough to pull a blanket over the two on them before they were both asleep.