Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/358864.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Character:
      Draco_Malfoy, Harry_Potter, Original_Characters, Mr_Greengrass
  Additional Tags:
      Torture, Suicide, Enforced_Feminisation, Minor_Character_Death, Prison
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-01 Completed: 2012-03-08 Words: 25915
****** Erlestoke ******
by Vaysh
Summary
     Erlestoke House of Corrections is a low security wizarding prison.
     It's not Azkaban, Draco Malfoy thinks when he's committed to serve
     his five months prison sentence there. But Erlestoke holds horrors
     that Azkaban doesn't know.
Notes
     This story was written for the Harry Potter Darkfest 2009.
     HM_Prison_Erlestoke in Wiltshire shares with the fictional wizarding
     prison of this story only its name and its location. After an
     "astoundingly good" inspection report in 2003, the prison was
     declared one of the best in the country.
     My heartfelt thanks go to my beta Pink Mint, for her meticulous
     attention to detail and the grammar lessons.
 
It is an odd coincidence that brings Draco Malfoy and his mother to the iron
gates of Erlestoke House of Corrections at the same time as Barnabas Greengrass
arrives with his two daughters. They stand in awkward silence, Draco's elegant
mother and Daphne and Astoria in robes with fur trimmings and wool caps,
wrapped in the morning mist before the looming gate.
Mr Greengrass and he both wear simple robes, Draco notices, nothing extravagant
or expensive. You don't want to draw attention to yourself in a place like
this, his mother said, in a tone that carried all the unspoken fears that have
been going through Draco's head ever since the verdict was declared. A blond
posh pure-blood boy in prison. Alone. He takes a deep breath to stop the hot
fear that washes over him as he looks down the quaint, cobble-stoned road that
leads into the village. In just five months he will be home again, celebrating
his nineteenth birthday with a beast of a party before he leaves wizarding
England for good. The dark brick building before him is not Azkaban. His father
is the one he should be afraid for.
His mother and Mr Greengrass chat amiably now, which Draco thinks is wholly
inappropriate. Greengrass isn't even old blood, he's a carpenter turned nouveau
rich when he took over the family business of his wife and started supplying
the wizarding world with antique furniture.
Daphne tries to speak to him, but Draco turns away. She'd been a favourite of
the Carrows, always ready to cast a Crucio. Draco doesn't recall her having any
qualms about using an Unforgivable, and yet she is free while he has to go to
gaol.
Astoria doesn't let go of her father, hides her face in his robes and clings to
them when Daphne tries to take her away. Mr Greengrass bends down to her and
Astoria gives him something that makes him smile and pat her blonde head, as he
puts the gift into the pocket of his robes. He has large, strong hands, Draco
notices, the hands of a man who works with them.
The high gate opens and swings back without a sound. Two guards clad in the
maroon Erlestoke uniforms check Draco and Mr Greengrass' names on a roll of
parchment. What a pair they make: the youth offender with the faded Dark Mark
and the slightly balding man without the Mark, guilty of funnelling large sums
of Galleons into the Dark Lord's cause. The unfairness of it all comes back to
Draco and he swallows. This is not the place or time to rage against what has
happened to him. He will get back at them, all of them, one day. But first he
has to make it through the next five months. And make it he will.
A black bird swoops out of the mist with a caw and alights on one of the old,
stone gate piers. Draco glares at it when they pass the gate and are lead
through the courtyard into the building. Tears prick his eyes. Soon Mother will
have to leave and he's going to be alone with all these strangers.
But first they have an appointment with the prison's Governor, a round-bellied
wizard dressed in robes that match the colour of the guards' uniforms. He is
friendly enough when he asks Draco and Mother into his office, introduces
himself with John Wilmot, Madam, no relations to the Earl of Rochester, and a
chuckle. They go through the terms of Draco's sentence again. He's convicted of
'accessory to trespassing, assault and murder'; only his youth and mitigating
circumstances kept him out of Azkaban. It makes Draco angry to hear it all
spelled out again. He doesn't deserve any of this. Merlin, he had that lunatic
in his home and Draco won't even think of the things the Dark Lord made him do.
Using the Imperius and smuggling a necklace and mead into Hogwarts was nothing
compared to it. It is punishment enough that he is not allowed to finish his
education, but is forced to spend months in this sordid place instead of
studying for his N.E.W.T.s. in Durmstrang where Mother secured a place for him.
Better angry than afraid, he thinks, when the Governor pats him on the shoulder
and says, "Couple of months fly by in no time." In Mother's direction he
mutters something that sounds like, "Mudblood justice, shame for the boy," and
Draco cannot help but smirk.
He is careful not to let that smirk show when he and Mother are sent off with a
burly guard whose eyes are icy-blue and cold and all that Draco is afraid of.
But the guard is not looking at him; he stares at his mother. They say good-bye
and Draco almost cries when he watches her slender shape walk down the long
grey corridor, waving at him and mouthing, It will be all right, darling.
The guard at his side chuckles and Draco realises this was the wrong thing for
him to see.
He's brought to Storage where they meet up with Mr Greengrass again. The
corridors are filled with a rush of inmates in prison garb, but it's eerily
quiet in the storage room with its high wooden counter and the rows of shelves.
The burly guard snaps Draco's trunk open and throws everything on the floor -
- his robes, his shirts, his socks, his books. They leave him nothing but his
wash bag; all else is logged into storage. The guard even haggles about the
toothpaste, but the officer in charge slaps the expensive French brand back
into Draco's hands.
"What about my Potions book?" he asks, keeping his voice soft and timid. He has
not packed any book he cares about but he's planned to study up on Potions,
make use of the waste of time as best as he can.
"No personal things." The officer behind the counter wears a long thin
moustache, to hide a harelip, Draco suspects, from the strong nasal tone in his
voice.
"It's a school-book," he tries one more time.
"You won't be studying here, pretty boy," the burly guard says, icy-blue eyes
twinkling, and Draco knows he should never have mentioned the book. He is asked
to hand over his belt, his tie; they make him kneel down and take the shoelaces
out of his custom-made Italian shoes. Then the officer takes his wand, ties a
piece of parchment around it that says no. 3168 and drops it into a drawer
underneath the counter. By the clattering sound of it, there are dozens of
wands stored in there. It makes Draco furious. Nobody should be allowed to take
a wizard's wand from him.
Further down the counter, Mr Greengrass is having his own argument.
"No pictures, no jewellery, no valuables," a red-haired, tight-lipped guard
yells at him. "Can't you read the rules, prisoner?" His uniform is buttoned up
all the way to his pronounced Adam's apple. Draco hates him instantly.
"My daughter gave me the locket just now in front of the gate. Come on, chap,
you're a married man yourself." Mr Greengrass points at the golden ring on the
guard's left hand. "It's just a picture and a lock of her hair. Sentimental
stuff. You know how girls are at this age."
Draco is impressed and it's not that he wants to be. If Mr Greengrass uses this
smoothly honed voice to sell his antique couches, then Draco may be tempted to
buy one himself, once he is out of here. But the friendly talk clearly doesn't
impress the guard. He rips something out of Mr Greengrass' hand and throws it
onto the counter. It's a small oval-shaped locket on a golden chain.
"Don't get chummy with me, prisoner." The guard is standing very close to Mr
Greengrass now, too close for it to be comfortable. "Nobody here cares about
who you are outside. Forget your pretty little daughter, forget your precious
connections. At Erlestoke, you're nothing. Is that clear?"
Mr Greengrass nods, his eyes drawn to the storage officer who gives the golden
locket a curious look, then shoves it into a small brown envelope. With his
baton the red-haired guard slaps at Mr Greengrass' jaw so he has to look at
him. "Never mention my wife again," he mutters, his voice so low Draco can only
hear it because of the uncanny quiet in the room.
"Think you're better off than him?" a soft voice drawls behind him.
Draco shakes his head when a paw-like hand hits his back so hard he's stumbling
towards the door. The burly guard makes him walk down the busy hallway, then up
narrow stairs and more stairs and more. They end up in a deserted corridor
underneath the roof, where Governor Wilmot is waiting for them with still
another long roll of parchment in his hands.
The guard steps up to him and they quietly talk. Draco feels ridiculous with
his stack of linen sheets, wool blanket, maroon-striped clothes and his wash
bag with the half-emptied toothpaste on top.
They make him wait forever. He's counted the fourteen doors in the corridor
three times and acquainted himself with the peeling paint on the wall beside
him. Finally his guard turns to him and says, "All right, Sir, we'll have him
single-celled."
He grabs Draco by the elbow as if he couldn't walk by himself, but before Draco
can pull away, the Governor calls out to them from the stairs, "Put him to work
in the library, Fenwick."
The guard -- Fenwick -- keeps silent as they walk to the end of the corridor.
He opens the cell with a long iron key. Draco feels the wards beating down on
him like sharp, cold hail. The room is smaller than his closet at the Manor,
eight by five feet at the most. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hangs thick
in the air. But other than that the cell is all right. The square barred window
goes out towards the old park and grey sky. In the distance runs the dark line
of Erlestoke Manor's woods.
Draco takes one step into the cell, then turns with a questioning look towards
the guard -- Fenwick, he reminds himself -- before he puts his things on the
bed. Fenwick nods and Draco sits down. The mattress is so thin he can see the
metal springs pushing up through it. Fenwick watches him from the door, a
toothy smile on his ruddy face that does nothing to warm the cold in his eyes.
"Enjoy your first day, blondie," he says, then slams the door shut behind him.
Draco lets out a deep breath. There's a sconce on the wall, a wooden chair, a
rickety table. Underneath the bed he discovers the chamber pot. No Moste
Potente Potions, but they left him his fucking toothpaste! Draco laughs out
loud. The sound is brittle and shaky, but it feels good to laugh in this place.
He doesn't need his potions book to make it through this.

                                      *
The food is disgusting, over-cooked and too salty, but the servings are big
enough for those brawny blokes over at the tables where the real criminals sit.
Draco only sees his fellow inmates at mealtimes and in the bathroom. Nobody has
yet come on to him. There are guards watching everywhere.
There are no windows in the room off the library where Draco has to work. It is
even smaller than his cell, with one desk, one chair and stacks and stacks of
books. The air is so dry his eyes burn within hours. But it's clean and the job
is easy. The library is changing its classification system, going from the old
Wenlock Code to a numerical system that has been in use at Hogwarts forever.
Welcome to the twenty-first century, Draco thinks when the librarian, a
wrinkled, grey-haired wizard who looks older than even Dumbledore, tells him
what to do.
Every day he sits in the small coop, removes the old labels with solvent and
glues on the new ones when the parchment and leather have dried. He does it
without any magic, but he suspects the glue is some kind of sticking potion.
The solvent smells acidic and medicinal, like something Muggles would use. They
make him do elves' work and his throat is parched from the dust and his back
hurts badly in the evenings. Still it's much better than he'd expected. In the
afternoon, when the wizened librarian has left for the day, Draco is allowed to
keep the door open for fresh air and daylight.
And then there's Elliot, a thin boy with sandy hair who delivers books to the
inmates and in general gives the librarian a hand. He can't be much older than
Draco; he hardly looks old enough to be working in a prison. Muggle-born, Draco
quickly finds out, but Elliot seems to hold no grudge against wizards with the
Dark Mark on their arm. He smuggles pumpkin juice into the library for Draco,
he chats with him whenever he comes by on his rounds. Predictably, Elliot's
hero is Harry-Circe's-gift-to-wizarding-kind-Potter, and once he learns Draco
was at Hogwarts with Potter, he wants to know everything about him. Draco's not
seen Potter since the battle in the Great Hall. It's rumoured he's at St.
Mungo's, recovering from what's politely labelled 'nervous exhaustion,' but
everybody suspects is spell damage from the Dark Lord's Killing Curse. Of
course, Draco mentions nothing of this to Elliot, but sticks to telling funny
stories about Potter blowing up cauldrons in Potions class. Which inevitably
enamours Elliot, who's only been to Muggle schools, even more to the Chosen
One. Inwardly Draco rolls his eyes at the boy, but he's grateful for the quiet
afternoons when they talk about Potter and Hogwarts and Muggle books. Elliot
never asks why Draco's at Erlestoke, and Draco doesn't tell him.
He writes his mother every other day. He has to ask Fenwick for parchment and
quill. The guard grins at him knowingly when Draco hands him a letter to be
approved for delivery. Draco knows they read his letters; they are allowed to,
after all. Still, the thought of Fenwick touching the parchment his mother will
hold in her beautiful hands makes him sick. He looks forward to the days when
he does not have to write. It's all meaningless drivel, anyway. Mother will
come visit on Sunday. Then he'll tell her everything about this place.
He's not yet been allowed yard exercise; he's not been out of the building in
five days. He misses flying, the wind in his hair. He finds himself walking
around in his tiny cell, three steps to the window, three steps back to the
door. He sleeps badly on the hard mattress. The hours are long at night when he
stares out the window until daybreak.

                                      *
On Friday evening, shortly after lockdown, they come for him: the red-haired
guard, the moustached officer from Storage, and Fenwick. Draco's half asleep in
his bed when the door to his cell bangs open and the three uniformed men enter.
With a Lumos Fenwick lights the candle on the wall he extinguished not half an
hour ago.
This is it, Draco thinks. In the blink of an eye he is back at the Manor, the
red-eyed maniac sitting at the head of the table, throwing threats and deadly
insults at his father, casting the Killing Curse with such ruthless nonchalance
... Draco forces himself to calm his breathing. He will not pass out like he
did when the Dark Lord killed that silly teacher. Then the tight-lipped guard
pulls Elliot into the cell.
It's the moment when Draco realises Elliot, no matter his age, is so much
younger than him. His brown eyes are wild with fear; he is pale like a ghost.
Fly open, belt removed from his trousers, he tries to cover his groin with his
hand. The red-haired guard will have none of that; he yanks both of the boy's
arms behind his back, so hard Elliot screams out loud. They shove him against
the side of Draco's bed.
Draco instinctively scrambles against the wall, clutching the blanket to his
chest. He sees the leather belt in Fenwick's fist just before it comes lashing
across his head. Entirely unprepared for it, the pain overwhelms him. It's as
if boiling water is scalding the skin on his temple and ear. He tears up
instantly and covers his face with his arms. Sounds echo back and forth in the
small cell, the light dims to a fuzzy dusk. He hears clearly the words, "Hold
on to the boy, McKinnon. The poof'll blow him." Then Draco is wrenched from the
bed and finds himself on his knees.
The cock in front of him is soft, a pale piece of flesh hanging from the
unbuttoned fly. Uncut, he notices, the foreskin wrinkled and trembling. The
whole body before him is trembling.
"No," Elliot whispers. "I don't want that."
"Every man wants that," Fenwick says and the red-haired guard -- McKinnon,
Draco forces himself not to forget -- chuckles. It sounds like he's got
pneumonia, wheezy and wet.
Fenwick's fist is in Draco's hair, his grip so tight Draco cannot move his head
even one inch. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the other fist, the belt
wrapped around it. No ring, Draco notices and concentrates on this knowledge,
tries to think logically, tries to remember details. No ring. Small blue tattoo
on the thumb. A faint scar across the knuckle.
Elliot moves away from him. "I don't," he says, sounding desperate. "Draco, I
don't want this." He's begging him, not the bloody guards. Begging Draco not to
do what these men are forcing him to. He has no choice in this. That Elliot is
begging him, more than anything, makes Draco shake with fear, all of a sudden.
He shakes still when that red-haired McKinnon pushes Elliot towards him.
Draco's mouth and nose are pressed against the limp cock that seems so small
and child-like. Elliot starts crying, he whimpers, "Don't do it, don't, please.
Don't."
All Draco wonders is, How the hell am I going to get him off? He tentatively
licks at the soft cock, one swipe around the head. Elliot bowls over, pulls
away. He screams and struggles in McKinnon's hold until the belt whips across
his head, too. There's blood on Draco's face; drops of it run down his cheek
and fall to the floor. They shove him against Elliot again. McKinnon has the
boy in an iron hold, one arm around his chest, making it impossible for Elliot
to use his arms. McKinnon yanks his trousers further down, exposing pubic hair,
base of prick, balls. He is careful not to touch the boy's skin, Draco notices.
"Suck him." Fenwick's voice is low and commanding.
Draco takes the drooping head of Elliot's cock between his lips. Gently, for he
doesn't want to hurt him. He doubts pain turns Elliot on. The welt on his
temple burns like hot coal. At least he imagines that's how hot coals on skin
must feel. Fenwick pushes him forward, makes him take in more. Elliot whimpers
as if he's hurting, but Draco feels his cock twitch ever so slightly in his
mouth.
"You like to eat dick, blondie, don't you?" Fenwick's loosened his grip on
Draco and he's crouched beside him. "Knew it," he says with a nod towards the
third man in the cell. "Our little Death Eater here is a poof."
The storage officer has not moved or said one word since they came. Draco
glances at him and finds him staring, baleful dark eyes on him. That man hates
him. And Draco has no idea why.
Fenwick yanks him back to the business at hand. "Blow him, blondie. If little
Elliot here does not come in three minutes, you'll feel the belt again."
Shit. Draco takes in more of Elliot's cock. He is definitely getting hard now
and Draco sucks gently, twirling his tongue around the soft rim of the
foreskin. Elliot cries and moans and whimpers in McKinnon's hold, but he's no
longer pulling back. Quite the opposite. Draco feels him thrusting, slowly and
so hesitantly he's sure Fenwick doesn't even notice. He pulls back, lets the
head glide almost out of his mouth. It's not the first cock Draco's sucked and
he knows from experience the irresistible pleasure when someone sucks on the
slit of the head just as it slips from soft lips.
"Oh God," Elliot groans and starts struggling again. He wrenches one arm free
and smacks his fist fully into Draco's face, shoving him away. "Don't do this!"
he screams.
Blithering idiot. Merlin, that hurt! Blood gushes from Draco's nose and it runs
into his mouth. He grabs Elliot by the waistband, makes him stop squirming.
"Hold still," he says as calmly as he can. If his nose is broken, he'll make
the git pay. Fuck!
Fenwick's fist pulls just a bit harder at Draco's hair.
"I'm going to make this good for you," Draco says to Elliot. Hold still and
it'll be over in a minute, he means, but that would be a dumb thing to say
aloud. Never let the enemy know what you want -- and Draco wants this to be
over and done with, have the arseholes out of his cell, including that bleeding
wet who is making things hard for him.
Draco doubts very much that Fenwick and McKinnon want it to be over quickly.
No, have the Death Eater suck the Mudblood a bit longer, break them both, take
their pride, make them shame each other. Salazar, those low-lives are not
worthy of the name of wizard!
"Now, that's the spirit." Fenwick practically purrs. He lets go of Draco's hair
and caresses his neck. The tender touch makes Draco almost jump out of his
skin. He jerks forward, away from those strong hands; he clutches Elliot's hips
and holds on to the other boy.
"Fucking ponce," he hears a voice behind him, gone so hoarse and dark he barely
recognises Fenwick. It is all the warning Draco gets.
The air hisses before his pyjama top is wrenched from his back and pain sears
into him like a bolt of lightning. His skin snaps open -- he can feel it
splinter and break like the thin wood panels he clamped too hard with pliers
when repairing the Vanishing Cabinet. Draco's head tilts towards Elliot's
belly. Red sparks before his eyes as he tries to keep his body upright. It
feels like his head has been severed from his neck where the belt lashed across
it.
"Please," he moans.
"See what you've done?" McKinnon sounds impossibly cool and calm. "Your
boyfriend's so bored with your weenie, he's falling asleep."
Trembling fingers touch Draco's face and move along his jawline. They scrape
his smarting ear and Elliot doesn't mean to hurt him, but Draco lets out a sob;
he can't hold back anymore. Not with the flaming pain across his neck that
makes him sweat and shake and want to bury ever deeper into Elliot.
"Okay," the boy says, smoothing away Draco's hair from his face. "Okay." So
gently.
Magic surges, so powerful it makes the metal bed rattle. A spell enfolds Draco
in a cloud like smoke, moments before he hears the muttered, "Episkey". Pain
trickles away as his skin closes and is healed by magic. A glorious sense of
comfort radiates from his back; it feels so good with the smarting pain gone.
It takes seconds before Draco registers just how strong the healing spell had
been. With his lips wrapped again around Elliot's dick, he sucks, takes in the
small shy thrusts, swirls his tongue around the cock that hardens and thickens
in his mouth, all the while thinking Fenwick didn't need to say the spell
aloud, didn't need his wand, which is safely tucked back into the sleeve of his
uniform. The man is capable of wandless magic. The bastard is playing with him,
letting him feel a touch of his power. Draco doubts anybody here -- McKinnon,
Governor Wilmot, the bloke from Storage -- have any idea just how powerful a
wizard Fenwick is. How dangerous.
While his teeth graze gently along Elliot's erection, teasing him, making him
moan, Draco tries to remember who all went to Hogwarts with his parents.
Fenwick is their generation. Not Slytherin -- Lucius Malfoy made sure his son
knows all wizards and witches who were Sorted into the House of the Basilisk.
But the name seems familiar, now that Draco thinks about it. A memory tickles
at the back of his mind, something to do with Prefect's duty and the Armoury
Gallery. But how could such a powerful wizard who's been to Hogwarts end up as
a lowly guard in a small wizarding gaol?
Elliot thrusts harder, clearly aroused, but he still has a long way to go.
"You have one more minute, pretty boy," Fenwick whispers at Draco's side.
The threat of the belt is enough to make him concentrate on his task. He prides
himself on being good at this -- Merlin, he brought Blaise off in no time, and
not only once. And Blaise Zabini is as straight as a rod. Lightly, Draco
squeezes the head of Elliot's cock between his lips, he moves the tip of his
tongue against the slit and rubs it. Elliot's hips jerk forward and he is
panting, trying to hold back but unable to resist the tease of Draco's tongue.
His fingers are still touching Draco's face, pulling him close, pushing him
away, wanting this. Hating it.
Draco lets the length of Elliot's cock slide against the roof of his mouth. A
sharp gasp and a violent thrust; Elliot is losing control. Draco's pretty sure
this is his first blowjob ever, and he remembers how quickly he himself came
when Theo sucked him off that first time at the lake. The boy is hard now and
so thick Draco's struggling not to gag. But he doesn't pull back, instead he
sucks and licks as well as he can with a mouthful of cock. Come on, he thinks,
come on.
He moves his head back and Elliot thrusts forward, too close now to be gentle,
body set on release. Behind Draco, Fenwick steps nearer. His knees grind into
Draco's shoulder blades, which are still tender from the belt. The guard's
groin is pressed against the back of his head. He is hard as a rock. Draco
hides a smirk as he blows Elliot for real, head bobbing up and down, taking him
in deep. The boy's thighs shake like he's about to buckle any moment.
Fenwick bears down on Draco's head. Magic slices through him, sharp and
sickeningly familiar -- Imperio. Just for a split second and it's gone. Draco
finds himself with more cock down his throat than he can handle. He tries to
swallow, gags, tries to breathe and can't. Stay calm. Breathe through you nose.
He can hear Theo's voice from years ago, but he can't breathe, can't. With his
body's full weight Fenwick is forcing him to take Elliot in deeper and deeper.
Draco's throat seizes shut, tears spring from his eyes as his body reacts,
survival instincts kicking in. He fights, arches up with vicious effort, using
hands and head and all his strength to get away, to come up for air. But
Fenwick is so much stronger. A short burst of magic sweeps through Draco and
saps away his will power. He screams, or he tries to, for no sound comes from
his mouth filled to the hilt with twitching cock.
Someone laughs, cruel and languorous, but Draco, squeezed in without anywhere
to go, without air, can't see who it is. He is gagging constantly, his body
jerking wildly, tears streaming down his face. Black dots swim before his eyes.
He needs to breathe, needs air, needs --
He's yanked back so hard the collar of his pyjamas comes off. His stomach roils
as he lands smack with one cheek on the grimy floor and gulps, gulps for air so
greedily, he is making himself sick with dust motes and age-old smells, sucking
it all in.
When his vision returns, Elliot is on his knees before him, eyes closed, one
hand clutching the bed frame, his erection impossibly huge and red. He sways
back and forth, croaks, "No, no ..." as a drop of pre-come seeps from the tip
of his cock. The clear fluid dribbles down the length of Elliot's prick,
shimmering pearl against thick purple vein.
Draco chokes on the sharp acid rising from his stomach. His body jerks and he
brings it all up in forced, painful heaps: half-digested fishcake, carrots and
sugary lemon tart. He pukes all over the floor before him, can't stop puking
until he's a sweating, trembling mess.
Elliot is crying silently, imploring Draco with wide eyes to be all right.
Draco is not sure himself, but he nods. He has to lie down. One more second
upright and he's going to pass out. Elliot scrambles to force his erection into
his trousers. His fly won't close all the way, and he pulls his shirt over it.
Draco curls up in the vomit on the floor. What does he care? He wants them all
to leave. He wants his bloody cell back. And if Fenwick still wants him to blow
that kid, forget it! He's going to show them all his own bit of wandless magic.
"Well?" McKinnon asks. He sounds bored. One day Draco will get back at him for
that.
"Let's leave." It's the first word the officer from Storage has said during the
entire half hour or so since they've invaded Draco's cell.
"Second thoughts, Pep?" Fenwick drawls. "Pissing your pants already?"
"I'm going." The nasal tone in the officer's voice is stronger than before.
The three of them disappear without another word. They leave Elliot in Draco's
cell and the door wide open. It's clearly his job now to lock prisoner number
3168 in for the night.
Maybe Draco expects some kind of apology. Maybe he thinks Elliot will clean up
the mess on the floor. He has a wand, after all. Instead Elliot keeps crying
and just looks at Draco for so long finally he can't stand it anymore.
He says, "What the fuck are you staring at?" His throat bloody hurts and it's
all Elliot's fault.
Elliot's eyes never leave Draco as he moves back towards the door and pulls
himself up. A red welt runs across his left cheek where Fenwick hit him with
the belt. His shirt is spotted red on the collar and damp where it covers his
receding erection. He lowers his gaze for a moment as if to collect himself
before saying something, anything. When he looks up again, he stares out the
window. It is the moment when Draco becomes invisible to him; Draco can feel
it. He lifts his head to turn to the window, too. The bright glow of the candle
on the wall glimmers against the barred night.
A whisper, "Nox," then darkness.
The door slams shut and leaves Draco blind on the floor. He breathes slowly,
once, twice. He thinks, I can deal with this. Over and over again. He spent an
entire year scared out of his mind; he will make it through these five months.
Slowly he rises and wipes the vomit from his face and hair. The stink is
unbearable. He curls up on the bed, trying to calm the frantic beating of his
heart. It hurts in his chest, almost as much as his neck and the burning welt
across his temple. He reaches underneath the pillow for the tube of toothpaste.
He unscrews the cap and sucks at it, savouring the clean taste. He thinks of
summers spent in Aix-en-Provence with his parents. Lavender fields sparkle
sweet and purple in the dazzling light of the sun.
This night, lying awake and waiting for dawn, Draco hears the bells for the
first time, far away but coming closer.

                                      *
It must be going on noon. Draco is still waiting in his cell. Fenwick has
brought him breakfast this morning. It is something unheard of; nobody gets
served breakfast at Erle, not even the Governor. The scrambled eggs are over-
salted again; the bread is so hard it hurts Draco's gums to bite into it. No
tea. Nothing to drink, in fact, not even the watered down apple juice the
inmates are served for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Draco would give a lot for
the thin juice now. He hasn't had anything to drink since lunch yesterday.
Still, Fenwick fucking served him breakfast, thick porcelain plate on an old-
fashioned wooden tray.
It's Monday, the first day of his second month in Erlestoke House of
Corrections. Draco has no idea why he hasn't been allowed out of his cell
today. For the last four weeks he has been working in the library. The grey-
haired librarian barely talks to him, but Draco is rewarded with an
appreciative nod whenever the old wizard checks on the growing stacks of books,
sporting bright new labels on their spines.
Draco has not seen Elliot since ... It's been weeks. He knows Elliot is around,
though. His book trolley often stands right in the middle of an aisle, as if
the boy's just taken a short break from restacking. But Draco never sees him
coming back. And he's waited for him to come back from wherever he goes, waited
as long as he could without the librarian noticing.
When Draco came to the library the first time after, a bottle of pumpkin juice
was waiting for him on the desk. It's the last he's seen of Elliot and of
course, the librarian caught him drinking from it. He never asked where Draco
got the juice from in the first place. But pumpkin juice near his precious
books is against the Rules. The grey-haired librarian put up more of a fuss
than even that old hag Pince, and Draco received his first punishment: no yard
exercise for three days.
He loves to be allowed out into the courtyard, to walk for more than just the
few steps in his cell and in the same corridors every day, to the bathroom and
down the stairs to the hall for meals and to the library. If he didn't think
he'd make a fool of himself, he'd be running from the tall birches to the gate
and back, as fast as he can, just to lose some of the tension that's been
cramped in his neck ever since Fenwick's belt hit him. Some days his headaches
get so bad he can't eat dinner.
Yard exercise is from one to two, after lunch. Draco squints into the bright
light that comes in through the window. It's a gorgeous winter day outside,
brisk and sunny, the promise of snow in the air. Merlin, he misses being
outside. He misses flying so much. He can only hope that Fenwick will let him
out of the bloody cell in time for yard exercise.
Mother didn't come yesterday.
Draco doesn't understand it. She always comes Sundays and they spend two
precious hours in the visiting room. The guards are watching them, but they can
sit close enough to whisper and Mother brings cake and sweets. He never told
her about what happened. It's nothing to worry Mother with. She would be
appalled and make things worse for him in here. Raise a bloody complaint with
the Governor, that's what she would do. Merlin, his mother doesn't even know
he's sucked dick since third year at Hogwarts. But why didn't she come to
visit?
Did she mention something last Sunday about not being able to make it? He's
checked her letters that faithfully arrive every other day. Nothing.
Something is not right. Mother would never miss a visit. She knows how much he
waits for her when he's so alone in this place. There is only one reason why
she would not come without letting him know: an emergency with Father. Draco
dares not to think of what could have happened to him. He tries not to think of
Azkaban, ever. Erlestoke holds enough nightmares for him.
The door is thrown open and Fenwick comes in, another tray in his hands. Lunch
is a ham sandwich and a bag of pretzels. Still no tea. Draco wonders whether
the hot water boiler in the prison's kitchen is broken. Just looking at the
stale pretzels makes him want a glass of water badly.
Fenwick puts the tray on the desk, then looks at Draco with his usual toothy
grin. He's planning something, Draco knows it. The day after, Fenwick
Scourgified Draco's cell and healed his cuts and bruises. They've left him
alone ever since. Perhaps it was an initiation ritual or something. Still,
Draco wonders why it had to be Elliot and not one of the arsehole guards.
Fenwick would have loved to have Draco blow him. Like knows like, and Draco
knows a queer when he sees one. During the past weeks he's learned to read the
guard quite well. Nobody knows about his magical prowess, no one suspects he's
gay. Draco tried Legilimency on him, careful quick brushes when Fenwick was not
aware Draco was holding his gaze. His mind is an almost blank slate with only
the most superficial thoughts for display. Closely guarded by Occlumency, all
the time. Draco has yet to see Fenwick lose his cool. But the one thing he
wants from Draco is unquestioned deference; that much is clear.
It is against his better judgement, then, that he asks, because he can't stand
to sit in this bloody cell for another hour, "Do I get to go out for yard
exercise?"
"No." Fenwick leans against the desk. They are not three feet from each other
and it feels much too close.
"I was supposed to start with a new category today. Isn't Mr Hastings waiting
for me?"
"Hastings' been told you're sick." Fenwick stares, waiting for a reaction.
"I am not sick." Fucking mind games. Getting up, Draco reaches around the guard
for his lunch. There is an odd smell around Fenwick, a touch of mint, a hint of
coal. It reminds Draco of Snape, of all wizards. He grabs the sandwich, sits
back on his bed and bites into it. The bread is stale, left over from the
weekend.
Fenwick chuckles, a quiet dark sound that Draco has come to dread during the
past weeks. "Ah, so you're not sick. What about the headache last night? A
light fever, the doc tells me?"
"I'm all right." They dragged him into the infirmary yesterday, when he
couldn't eat dinner. The doc is a young Squib who looked at Draco once and gave
him a Sleeping Potion. Draco slept for nine hours straight; he didn't once hear
the bells.
"Can I have something to drink?" he asks, emboldened by the memory of the
doctor. It is not healthy to go without water for so long, and that doctor is
at Erle to make sure about the inmates' health.
"Thirsty, are you?" Fenwick, arms folded before his chest, sounds smug. Perhaps
he just wants to rile Draco up. Or maybe whatever he's planned has something to
do with not letting him drink. Not letting him out of the cell. Draco's head
snaps to the door, but there's nobody, not McKinnon, not Elliot. They won't
bring the boy into this again. Elliot has carefully kept out of Draco's way;
Draco has not mentioned Elliot again in his letters to Mother. They've made it
impossible for Elliot and Draco to be friends. And that -- Draco is certain -
- is all that Fenwick cares about.
He glances through lowered eyelashes at Fenwick's groin. The way he leans back
against the desk, his hips are jutting out. Draco can see the soft bulge
underneath the folds of maroon-coloured cloth. He's not aroused. What does the
bastard want from him? The greasy smell of the half-eaten sandwich makes Draco
sick all of a sudden.
Then Fenwick pushes himself off the desk. "Tonight you get something to drink."
It sounds more like a threat than a promise. But as the afternoon slowly
trickles by Draco cannot stop thinking of the rich, dark taste of tea on his
lips, the spicy flavour of pumpkin juice on his tongue. The cool memory of tap
water makes his throat ache.

                                      *
This early in the year, night falls around five. In the blue light of dusk
Draco sits on the chair at the desk. He tried to sleep, he recited Golpalott's
seven laws word for word as they are spelled out in Magical Drafts and Potions.
He experimented with casting a wandless Aguamenti. No such luck. He hasn't
heard or seen anybody since Fenwick left. An uncanny quiet lies upon Erlestoke
House of Corrections. Only the black birds caw outside in the deserted park.
McKinnon brings him dinner. The red-haired guard opens the door just enough to
push the tray in. The smell of overcooked food at once fills the cell, some
kind of goulash and potatoes. And there on the wooden tray sits one of those
cheap white cups tea is served in at Erle.
Draco is off the chair the moment McKinnon pulls the door shut and leaves. He
snatches the cup from the tray. It's cold and not tea. The liquid substance is
smooth and thick, its colour an opaque orangey pink. It looks pretty and Draco
tries to convince himself that it is some odd blend of blackberry, plum and
pumpkin juice. But he has not earned his O's in Potions for nothing. The
liquid's frothy consistency, the vague scent of mint, the shimmer from the
lacewing flies -- all of it spells Polyjuice.
Bastards. It takes all of Draco's will power to not hurl the cup against the
wall. He can see the pink goo clearly in his mind's eye, dripping down the
grey, flaky wall. His hand shakes badly and he almost drops the cup by
accident. But he holds on to the handle. A high percentage of Polyjuice Potion
is plain boiled water, no matter the other ingredients.
He sniffs at it and wonders whom Fenwick wants him to be. Elliot, it can only
be Elliot. Draco misjudged the guard's interest. Fenwick was hard that night
not because he wanted Draco to blow him, but because he wanted that boy Elliot.
It makes sense, in a sick and twisted way. Elliot is not a prisoner; Fenwick
can't get to him. But he has Draco in his power, Death Eater scum whom nobody
cares about in this shithole. Elliot often leaves his uniform jacket lying
around. Draco's seen it in the library thrown over the back of a chair.
Everybody can get at it and pick a stray hair of Elliot's from its collar.
Cup on the desk, dinner untouched, Draco sits on the bed. In the darkness he
sucks at the toothpaste again. His mouth is so dry, it hurts to swallow without
saliva. But the sweet, clean taste soothes him, helps him to think clearly.
He's taken Polyjuice before. He can be Elliot for a while. If Fenwick wants to
blow him, he will deal with it. If Fenwick wants to fuck him, fuck Polyjuiced
Elliot rather -- well, he's not the first bloke Draco's had up his arse.
Elliot's arse, that is.

                                      *
It's a clear night outside with the light of the full moon reaching into
Draco's cell through the bars. Time passes like the clouds that ever so often
darken the sky. The bells chime nine, then eleven. Draco thinks there must be a
church in the village. When he closes his eyes, he sees the bottle of pumpkin
juice Elliot left in the library for him, apology, last gift, something. How
tempting, the drops of moisture on the glass. Draco can almost taste the nutmeg
and feel the smooth juice wet his lips. Hunger he can deal with. Merlin, he's
too nervous to eat anything as it is. But he hasn't had anything to drink in
more than thirty hours. He needs to drink.
When the bells announce midnight Draco downs the Potion in fast large gulps.
He barely notices the vile taste, for it is so good to have something wet and
fresh slide down his throat. His mouth waters at the delicious feeling, as he
savours it for a short moment. Then his insides coil and twist viciously. Draco
doubles over. A burn like fire moves from his stomach all through his body.
There is a sharp tingling all over, then his skin turns hot and bubbly, melting
off his bones like burnt wax. His shoulders are squeezed together by a force he
can't resist, at the same time his chest puffs up. Draco goes down on his
knees, unable to stand any longer. The stuff is Polyjuice all right.
Moments later it's over and he kneels panting on the floor. Long strands of
hair fall into his eyes and tickle his neck. He touches his face that has
become smaller and rounder; the skin is incredibly smooth, no stubble on his
chin and jaw. He looks at his hands and they are slender, wrists shrunk
absurdly thin, long nails shimmering silver in the moonlight. His trousers feel
unnaturally lose, and when he reaches between his legs, his dick is gone. Draco
brings one hand to his chest and he feels small firm breasts underneath the
rough cloth. What the bloody fuck?
He gets up and stands on trembling legs. This body feels so light, hardly like
a thing made of bones and flesh at all. His shirt and jacket hang lose on his
small frame. The trousers are about a foot too long and they swirl around his
ankles and shoes, which are much too big for him now. He makes a step, stumbles
over his own feet and almost takes a fall. Quickly he bends down and rolls up
the too-long trousers. With a feeling almost like awe he trails his fingers
across the smooth hairless skin of his shins. He's been Polyjuiced into a girl.
A girl ...
He walks towards the window and focuses on the image reflected in the glass.
Out of the moonlit night the pretty face of Astoria Greengrass stares back at
him.

                                      *
The girl is younger than Astoria and she wears a Muggle skirt. Her blond
strands have none of the silver sheen of Astoria's hair, her cheeks are
slightly broader, her nose a bit flatter. But other than that the resemblance
is striking.
Draco looks into the man's dilated pupils, which are almost black and glazed
with lust. The officer from Storage is unable to take his eyes from Draco's
face, he stares and stares, all open to Draco's Legilimens spell, with no
defences, magical or otherwise. Draco can see and feel all of it: a shabby
Muggle classroom, other children in the background, the humidity of a hot
summer day. The boy with the pronounced cleft in his lip stands helplessly
before the pretty blonde girl. He likes her so much, wants to kiss her, touch
her hair that is like sunshine. But she laughs at him and sing-songs, Clumpkin,
clumpkin, Nono's a clumpkin! Loud and mean, so all the others hear. Hot
embarrassment colours the boy's face as he stammers and swallows, unable to
move, unable to say a word, so afraid that his lips won't form the sounds that
in his mind are perfect and beautiful ...
"Stop it, blondie!" A big rough hand slams over Draco's eyes, breaking the line
of vision between him and the storage officer. For a moment Draco struggles
against the hand, but Fenwick has him in a strong hold. "Merlin, Pepper, don't
you have any Occlumency at all? The brat's been reading your mind straight.
He's a bloody wizard, damn it. Let's just hope he's not stumbled upon anything
important."
"Julie ...?" The officer's nasal voice trails off.
Nono Pepper, Draco registers, filing the name to memory. He will not forget it.
They have him strapped onto the bed, his slender girl's legs spread wide open
and tied to the metal frame. Fenwick holds down his shoulders and now his head,
too. His hand covers half of Draco's face. All he can see is the reddish dark
where Fenwick's thick fingers are pressed over his eyes and nose. The guard is
surprisingly gentle, making sure Draco cannot see, but not hurting him.
Of course, he has hurt him before when they came, perhaps half an hour after
Draco Polyjuiced into Astoria. They must have tracking wards on him, for how
else could they've known when he finally drank the Potion? Fenwick slammed him
against the wall when Draco struggled and tried to resist, hopeless as it was
with this small weak body. They stripped off his prison clothes, left him naked
but for his pants, which are overlarge for this slender girl's shape. The
bruises hurt enough to tell him there is nothing he can do, whatever their
plans are with him. The short glimpse into the officer's, into Pepper's mind
tells Draco something of what to expect. The moment before Fenwick broke the
connection, he felt the boy's embarrassment turn to hatred, hatred laced with a
desperate and unfulfilled need. Unfulfilled until now.
"Julie," Pepper whispers again.
"She's all yours," Fenwick drawls and McKinnon's dirty laugh comes from the
door.
There's a gasp at the wall, of shock or fear, Draco cannot tell from the sound
alone and he cannot see, cannot turn his head with Fenwick holding him down. He
wonders whether it's been Pepper gasping. He wonders whether it was his own
startled gasp at what must surely follow now. The bed creaks and groans under
the weight of a large body, as someone -- Pepper -- heaves himself onto the bed
and comes to kneel between Draco's spread legs.
"Leave her alone, Jake." The voice is so slurred with need that the nasal tone
is barely detectable. "I want to see her eyes."
Jake Fenwick takes his hands away from Draco's face, but hesitates long enough
for a trailing caress along his temples. The gesture is unreadable -- does the
bastard mean to comfort him? Or does he want to fuck Draco himself? With his
eyes still closed, Draco focuses on his breathing, inhales slowly, exhales. He
is going to make it through this. Then Fenwick is gone and Draco is left with
this big man so close to him, his smell of pine soap, beer and, faintly, sweat
everywhere. Draco slowly opens his eyes.
There's another gasp, louder this time, and it comes from Pepper, his broad
face looming above Draco.
"Such pretty blue eyes, like violets --" Pepper literally drools on him,
there's spit dripping down from the cleft. He leans even closer, rubs his
scratchy cheek against Draco's. It takes all he has not to squirm and try to
get away. Then Pepper moves his mouth over Draco's, his lips very shy and no
tongue. Draco is thankful for it. He keeps all still and hopes Pepper doesn't
want more. But he just pulls back. His lower lips quivers and he looks at Draco
as if he's disappointed. Merlin, what did he think? That he enjoys being
snogged by a harelip? Clumpkin all right, Draco thinks. Pepper's eyes widen and
for a moment Draco fears he knows Legilimency after all. But the man's face
turns red as a beet, embarrassment all over him. He moves back, weight shifting
to the foot of the bed, and rummages through his trouser pockets. With an
awkward gesture he pulls out a red-chequered handkerchief, unused and carefully
folded. He wipes the spittle from Draco's chin and cheeks, mumbling apologies
to the incomparable Julie whom Draco already hates with a passion. If he has to
be a girl, he wants to be Astoria and not some stupid Muggle brat.
"Hey, Pepper, you going to fuck her or what?" McKinnon seems bored again
already. Perhaps he wants a go himself once Pepper is done with the girl.
What's one more? Draco focuses on anything but the soft chiming of the bells in
the distance.
Pepper wipes his face one more time, then he puts the handkerchief away. He
turns his head towards the door. Draco can see his profile clearly in the light
of the magical candle.
"Out with you!" he snaps at Fenwick and McKinnon. The nasal tones take nothing
away from the authority in that voice. Draco reminds himself to not
underestimate the man.
The two guards also seem to know they'd better obey. McKinnon chuckles and
Fenwick smacks him playfully when they step towards the door.
"What about him?" Fenwick asks.
Him? Draco twists his head, trying to see. But all he recognises is a human
shape sitting in the shadows at the door where the candle doesn't reach.
"Leave him or throw him out, I don't care." Pepper has already turned back to
Draco. He caresses the small breasts with one hand, unbuttons his trousers with
the other. His cock is fucking huge and for the first time Draco is afraid of
the pain. He's not had time to find out much about this Polyjuiced body, but
from how it felt when he touched the pussy, Astoria is still a virgin. The fear
drives all questions about this other person out of his mind. He can't suppress
a strangled moan.
Pepper's head snaps up and searches Draco's eyes. Idiot! Didn't Fenwick tell
him to be careful? Draco waits until Pepper's hand is back to groping his tits,
eyes still glued to Draco's, then he breathes "Legilimens" without moving his
lips. It's his only chance to find out anything that he can use against those
pricks, and Merlin, he will not miss it.
Draco's spell cuts easily through the whirl of memories to a deeper place.
There, a black-feathered owl drops the Daily Prophet on an embroidered table-
cloth. Disappeared Believed To Be Killed the headline reads, underneath it
says, Octavius Pepper, 64, latest victim of Death Eater attacks. An adult
Pepper takes the paper from the owl's claw. A witch, her face much too old for
the greyless hair, implores him with teary eyes. Pepper shakes his head. His
father's death leaves him drained and empty; he's lost the ability to shape his
slow words. Draco senses kinship that goes beyond family. The Prophet falls
onto the breakfast table, revealing a photograph of the man: older, smaller
than his son, but the same cleft lip, the same thin moustache. Draco follows
Pepper's view out to the street. It's a Muggle neighbourhood and a blonde woman
walks by with a little boy at her hand. The jolt of mingled hate and want that
shoots through Pepper says Julie loud and clear and --
The slap across his face is so hard he yelps. It's not Occlumency but equally
effective: the pain makes Draco twist away and the connection breaks. His left
cheek burns like fire.
"I can see you, Death Eater, behind her eyes," Pepper growls hoarsely. "Don't
think I don't know what you're doing. Get out of her eyes! This is just for me
and Julie." His voice becomes a mere whisper, but Draco recognises the words
for what they are. Pepper is mental, certifiably crazy. This must be why the
others follow his orders, why Fenwick obeys the man, if reluctantly. Merlin,
Pepper should be in the Crazy Ward in St. Mungo's. How ever could a lunatic
like him become an officer in a gaol?
Strong fingers tighten around Draco's throat. Pepper wants an answer and Draco
nods and coughs, trying to press out a yes.
"Don't you dare say a word," Pepper hisses, inches away from Draco's face. He
lowers his weight onto him, crushes this fragile girl body with his thick
thighs, his protruding belly, his barrel chest. His cock slaps against Draco's
thigh, huge but still soft. Pepper's just a shower. Still, he tries to push the
half-erect cock into the tiny hole between Draco's legs, shoves it against the
pliable softness again and again, but doesn't manage to enter. He's getting
impatient, his mounting anger radiating from him like heat.
He says, "Open you fucking legs. Am goin' to ... goin' to ..." He tears at
Draco's left breast like he wants to rip it off, then he takes it into his hand
and squeezes so hard, so hard that Draco cannot help but scream with the pain.
Inside the breast there is an achingly tender core that Pepper grabs and rolls
between his big fingers, back and forth, and it hurts so much, Draco cannot
stop screaming. He knows it's useless; they put a Muffliato Spell around his
cell. No one will come to help him. Still, he needs to scream or else he'll go
mental.
And Pepper stops. It feels like a victory. The bastard lies on top of Draco and
doesn't move. His weight pushes him deep into the mattress so that the springs
bore into his back. Pepper is panting, his cock hard now. He lifts himself on
his arms, brings his mouth one more time to Draco's lips, still only touching.
Then he drags his face across the aching breast, the thin waist of the girl and
buries his nose in her soft pubic hair. Draco tells himself it's easier when
he's all relaxed. It can't be that different from taking a dick up his arse.
And so he let's himself go lose, let's his thighs fall open a bit more. It's
all Pepper needs. He groans with need and frantically grabs his cock, guides it
towards Draco's pussy and slams into it.
Draco's head is knocked hard into the metal frame of the bed as he is shoved
against it. His legs are spread so wide, it feels like his hips must break.
Excruciating pain burns through him as something rips apart. It's not Astoria's
virginity that is taken, but sinew and muscle that were never meant to be
stretched that wide without preparation. This body is too young to endure any
of this. Draco feels the child in this Polyjuiced body, senses the skin
memories of a trotting horse beneath it, of smooth water gliding over it. Draco
has felt pain that turned to pleasure, but his knowledge means nothing to the
girl's body. It goes into shock under the onslaught of such cruelty. Draco's
heartbeat accelerates, his lungs contract, making it hard for him to breathe.
Cold sweat covers his skin, his head starts swimming as his blood pressure
drops. Soon he will either throw up or pass out. And there's nothing he can do
to convince this body that it will be all right, if it just holds still and
focuses on something else, something good, something far away from here. Like
flying a broom through a blizzard. Like swimming out into the middle of a dark
green lake.
He fists the sheets, holds on to them with all his strength. Pepper slams into
him again and again. It hurts incredibly, as if he's scraping the skin off
Draco's insides. Aren't girls supposed to be wet? He's never heard his straight
mates talk about having to use lube for sexual intercourse. In his mind he
screams at the brutal bastard, Use some bloody lube! -- And how about a Condom
Spell?, his mind supplies, not helpful in the least. One good thing: it will
all be over soon. Polyjuice wears off after one hour, two at the most. And once
Astoria is gone, Pepper will no longer want to touch him. He's had his fuck
with the imaginary Julie and that will be it.
But Merlin, he does take forever. Draco's lost his sense of time, but the
bastard must have been at it now for twenty minutes or more. He grunts and
groans, head bowed over Draco's girl body, his hips grinding into him with each
plunge. Draco's back will be all bruises and cuts from the bedsprings. Blood
flows from between his legs; he feels it trickle down his thighs. And it's not
that bastard's spunk, Draco's certain of it. If his bad luck holds Pepper won't
get it off, no matter how much he wants to. And it will all be Julie's fault.
The taste like cabbage is heavy in Draco's mouth, from the Polyjuice Potion
that threatens to come up. He grabs for the sheets, presses his lips shut, to
not vomit, to not scream, to not cry, as his body is invaded over and over
again.
A loud grunt, a heaving thrust. The back of Draco's head is slammed against the
bed frame with such force he blacks out for a few moments. He comes back to
pain white and sharp that twists in his groin. His girl's voice, high-pitched
and thin, fills the air like fog. He's going to kill me, Draco thinks and then
there's only this huge heavy body moving above him, this hot hard pain
splitting him open inside. He grabs the crinkled sheets in his hands, holds on
to them, holds on, holds --
The incessant creaking of the bed. Shadows the candle throws onto the ceiling.
This is what Draco remembers. Not the pain. Such pain does not enter memory. He
cannot remember the moment when Pepper came. But come he did, for the sheets
are all sticky and wet. Pepper pants and pants and can't seem to stop panting.
His big limbs are all loose and relaxed. Draco is crushed beneath the heavy
weight of his body.
He turns his head with effort and sees the figure huddled at the wall. In the
darkness eyes shine bright with tears. Draco meets their gaze without thought,
without feeling anything. The bells ring right outside in the park. And Draco
starts to hum, still only audible to himself, a soft chiming that reverberates
within him and soon will fill all his being.

                                      *
McKinnon is a much more efficient rapist than Pepper. He casts a Silencing
Spell on Draco and adds some kind of protective charm. Then he throws a jacket
over Draco's head so he can't see, can't do Legilimency, can hardly breathe.
McKinnon weighs a stone less than Pepper; his dick is smaller, too. He barely
touches the girl's body and penetrates Draco without a moment's hesitation. It
hurts, but there's enough spunk for him to ram into Draco without too much
pain. He comes within minutes and is off Draco immediately after. The stifling,
sweaty stink of the jacket is the worst of it.
All the while, muffled by the scratchy cloth around his head, Draco hears
jostling and shoving at the door.
"Get off your pure-blood arse." Pepper's voice.
"He's can't get up, you idiot. I Petrified him, remember?"
"Make him move, I don't care how. I want the piece of shit out of this cell."
Draco can't understand Fenwick's grumbled response, but the "Finite!" that rips
through the air is clear enough.
The echoes of the spell have hardly subsided when the screams of the fourth
man, the man who cried, watching what Pepper did to Draco, fill the cell. He
yells, "That's a little girl there! My daughter! You can't do this to her! You
dirty pigs can't --"
Fenwick's sharp "Silencio!" cuts him short. With a loud thump a body is thrown
against the wall. "Stupefy!" Fenwick shouts, and Draco feels magic blast
through the cell. The iron door screeches furiously in its hinges as someone
bangs it open. For a moment Draco hopes that the man got away. Then Pepper's
Petrifying Spell ends the kerfuffle. McKinnon laughs beside him as the jacket
is yanked from his head.
Mr Greengrass lies face down on the floor, unmoving, one hand raised in a
useless fist. The bald patch on the back of his head is round and the size of a
Galleon. Fenwick and McKinnon grab him at shoulders and legs and carry him out
of Draco's cell. Pepper is nowhere to be seen. The door of the cell is wide
open. Out in the corridor, Draco can hear the two guards curse as they drag Mr
Greengrass to wherever his cell is.
He could walk out now, a little girl dressed in nothing but ripped pants. He
could walk out. But he can't.
The silence still chimes within him. He is breathing, but each exhale, each
inhale is a conscious effort. The flow of air brings him slowly back into his
body. He starts shaking so badly that he has to hold on to the sheets again.
Carefully he moves his legs, these spindly girl's legs. Pain slices through his
groin with the movement; it makes him break into a cold sweat again. He cannot
help the whimpers that come from his lips. Slowly he moves his hands over his
stomach, touches the girl's soft skin. How much longer until the bloody
Polyjuice wears off?
Draco must have passed out, for the next thing he knows is Fenwick sitting
beside him on the bed. The guard casts healing spells on him, mumbling, "Bloody
pigs," as he points his wand at Draco's bruised ribs. When he notices Draco
looking at him, he simply says, "Turn around."
His body tingles all over. He is warm. He feels almost good. The pain is
subdued, and he wonders whether Fenwick has given him Strengthening Potion.
There is a cup standing on the desk, like the one that had the Polyjuice in it.
He swallows, but can taste no remnants of pomegranate in his mouth.
Draco tries to move and turns onto his belly with surprising ease. Fenwick
continues with the healing spells. Erlestoke is quiet but for his soft voice;
it's almost peaceful in the cell. Draco could fall asleep now if he wasn't so
thirsty. He needs to take a bath badly, needs to brush his teeth. But mostly he
needs to drink. He leans up on his elbow and feels a burst of strength rush
through his muscles. The effect of the Polyjuice Potion grows thin.
Fenwick must have noticed it too, for he puts his wand away and stands up to
get the cup from the desk. Draco sits up on the bed. A stretch runs through
him, as his body lengthens. He takes the cup from Fenwick and looks into it.
Orangey pink. Frothy. A shimmer of lacewing. For a moment he just stares at the
guard. His blue eyes are so cold. Then Draco understands. The cup falls from
his hand and Polyjuice Potion would have spilled all over the bed if Fenwick
had not caught it. Draco presses his fist against his mouth and bites into it.
Hard. But he can't stop the tears falling from his eyes. He sobs desperately as
Fenwick gently moves his hand away. He lifts the cup to Draco's closed lips,
pushes softly but insistently until Draco opens his mouth and drinks. Drinks it
all, down to the last drop.

                                      *
Draco is administered Polyjuice Potion in regular intervals of six hours. One
of the three men comes shortly before the cells are opened at six every
morning. One comes shortly before noon when Draco hears the other inmates walk
down to the hall for lunch. One comes in the early evening. Draco assumes it
must be around six from the way the blue of dusk turns ever lighter as the days
lengthen into spring. And one comes at midnight. The bells tell Draco as much.
Somehow Fenwick managed to prolong the effect of the Polyjuice Potion. And
Draco just knows it was Fenwick who brewed it. The other two don't have that
kind of magic. But usually the potion has to be taken every hour on the hour.
There's ways to have it wear off later by adding more of the powdered bicorn
horn, but six hours seem impossible. Draco wonders if whatever Fenwick has
changed in the potion recipe will do lasting damage to him.
He's been this girl now for more than two weeks, but he cannot get used to
Astoria Greengrass' body. He will lean against the window sill and watch the
other inmates do their rounds, when a lock of her long hair falls into his face
and he jumps in surprise. He will stand above the chamber pot to relieve
himself, when he realises he's missing his aim with piss spurting from her
pussy instead of his dick. He will try to push McKinnon off him when the fucker
slams him against the wall to take him from behind and finds her thin arms and
small body are no match for the man.
While Draco is given Polyjuice Potion on a precise schedule, they come for him
whenever they want to. It's always at least two of them. They are not taking
any risks. There is no chance that he may overpower one guard alone and escape.
Pepper, shy and adoring and brutal, comes to fuck his Julie almost every night.
He doesn't always get off, and those times are the worst. For McKinnon, Draco's
a mere plaything; he shows up once, sometimes twice a day, using the girl's
body for his perverse pleasures. Fenwick only touches Draco to heal his body
afterwards. And to force the potion down Draco's throat when he struggles and
fights and knocks the cup of out the guard's hand.
The first days Draco spent going from furious rage to utter despair, screaming
until his voice gave out and pounding against the iron door with bleeding
knuckles. He was so certain that someone would hear him and call the Governor.
That doctor or the librarian had to wonder where prisoner number 3168 had gone.
He was waiting desperately for Sunday, hoping against hope that Mother would
come and they would have to let him change back, would have to let him talk to
her. All along he feared that all his fervent hoping and wishing would be in
vain. And it was. Nobody comes into his cell but Fenwick, Pepper and McKinnon.
Sometimes they bring Mr Greengrass. He sits Petrified in the corner, forced to
watch, tears streaming down his face.
In the back of his mind Draco knows they will kill him in the end. If they
meant to keep him alive, he would be raped blind-folded by nameless pricks. But
where is his mother? Where is Wilmot? Somebody from outside must be in contact
with Mr Greengrass, too. Draco is a pure-blood wizard, heir to the Malfoy name
and estate. It's simply not possible that three common gaolers can do this to
him without anybody taking notice.
As the days pass, he devises long plans of revenge that involve the Manor's
dungeons and the cruellest spells he recalls from his father's Dark books. The
pale February sun spills over him, calling him outside. He can feel the girl's
body yearn for long walks in the snow, for the warmth of a fireplace. They've
taken away Draco's clothes, and he is always cold in this body, no matter how
deeply his burrows himself into the sheets and blankets. And thirsty, he's so
thirsty all the time. Polyjuice Potion doesn't quench the need for water and
Fenwick gives him so little water. For long hours Draco lies curled up in Mr
Greengrass' usual spot in the corner and thinks. It all leads back to Fenwick,
every time. Pepper is mental and gets to fuck his Julie; McKinnon will fuck
anything he can stick his prick in. But Fenwick? Draco doesn't understand
what's in it for the guard who hides his magical power as much as the fact that
he desires men. But Draco needs to understand him if he wants a chance to get
out of here alive. And so he thinks and thinks. It keeps the fear at bay.
He tries to figure out the guards' routines, to detect some pattern to their
comings and goings. McKinnon has family, he knows as much. They all must go
home and leave Erlestoke at some point. With Astoria's long nails he scratches
lines and nibs into the soft plaster of the wall behind the desk, counting the
days and nights, noting who's come when. But he can't make sense of it; the
patterns are just too random.
Draco barely sleeps because he's always listening for sounds in the corridor.
That's why he hears the steps approach one afternoon, a Wednesday according to
his calculations. On Wednesdays, the inmates get to play some kind of broomless
Quidditch, and they've just come out into the park. It's still at least an hour
before his next dose of Polyjuice is due. But the steps come to his cell, and
Draco recognises them now. Only Fenwick wears the nailed boots that are
standard gear for the gaolers. But he walks uncertainly and stumbles against
the wall. He tries for the keyhole several times before he gets the door open.
He's not pissed enough to forget to close the door, but he's pissed all right.
Draco can smell the Firewhisky from where he sits on the bed.
Oddly, Draco feels entirely safe. Fenwick will not touch him as long as he
looks like a girl. And drunk, Fenwick is vulnerable.
The guard throws a bottle of water onto the bed, casually, as if water was not
the most precious thing in Draco's life right now. Draco snatches the bottle,
uncaps it and drinks and drinks and drinks.
"Easy, easy." Fenwick takes the bottle from Draco's lips, but he doesn't take
it away from him. Instead, he pulls his own flask from his jacket and sits down
beside Draco on the bed, back to the wall and legs outstretched. He offers the
flask to Draco who shakes his head. Fenwick shrugs and takes a big gulp of
Firewhisky.
He sits so close their arms touch. The warmth of his body seeps underneath the
wool blanket Draco wrapped around himself. The girl barely reaches up to
Fenwick's upper arm. Draco glances at him, trying to figure out what this is
all about. Did the guards get into a fight? Has Fenwick had enough? A tiny
voice in his head warns him that the Polyjuice wears off in less than an hour
and then Fenwick might want to fuck him. His erection is clearly visible
underneath his trousers.
But then Fenwick raises his arm and invites Draco to move closer. The girl
cannot resist, it's been too long since anybody offered such comfort. Draco
leans against Fenwick's shoulder, allows Fenwick to pull him tight. The warmth,
the sturdiness of this body, the faint smell of mint and smoke -- it all makes
Draco want to give up, give in and cry. But he doesn't, swallows the tears. For
a while they sit quietly and watch as the daylight dims and a winter sunset
blazes on the horizon. Fenwick drinks from his flask, Draco from his bottle of
water.
"See this?" Fenwick dangles his left hand in front of Draco's eyes. A faint
scar across the knuckle. "The scar? Barney gave me that." He chuckles drunkenly
and leans his head back with closed eyes.
"When was that?" Draco's just a bit too interested, but Fenwick doesn't look
like he'll notice.
"Hogwarts, o' course. I've been with Barney a' Hogwarts." Another chuckle,
darker this time. His eyes are still closed. "Always wanted to fuck in the
Armoury Gall'ry. Said blokes in iron suits turn him on." He opens his eyes,
looks down at Draco with a smirk. "Where d'you go for sex?"
"West Tower, mostly. And the greenhouses."
For some reason, Fenwick finds fucking in greenhouses hilarious. Draco tells
him about the famed incident with the cock ring and the Mandrake root, and he
roars with drunken laughter. Then he abruptly stops. "Takes no Mandrakes t'
turn you back into a boy," he whispers. His voice is slurred with more than
whisky, and he weaves his fingers through Astoria's long hair.
They sit like this in the fading light. Draco is not surprised Fenwick doesn't
move, even when it's high time for the next dose of Polyjuice. He can feel the
changes in his body, a stretching and filling. Fenwick holds him through the
entire transformation, only tightens his grip when Draco's hair withdraws into
his scalp until it's back to its normal length. Fenwick's breathing hard and
fast; his arousal is palpable between them.
Draco flexes his fingers and toes, turns his head to one side, then the other.
It amazes him with what speed and little pain the change back happens, as if
blood and flesh and a wizard's magic know the body they truly belong to. He
moves away a bit from Fenwick to give his larger frame more space. The guard
doesn't stop him, but he never takes away the arm. He's playing a dangerous
game, but Draco is underfed and exhausted. Fenwick has at least three stone on
him; even pissed, Draco stands no chance against him.
As if to make the point, Fenwick shakes his wand from his sleeve and places it
beside himself, out of Draco's reach. "Don't get any ideas, blondie," he
mumbles.
Draco nods while he's getting all kinds of ideas. The door is unlocked. He has
his body back. Fenwick is drunk. If he is quick he can make it down the
corridor and the stairs. He has a vague memory where Wilmot's office is. He can
find it. But it's after six. Is the Governor still at Erle? Who else is there
that Draco could run to? The doctor? Is he in after hours? Fenwick's hand moves
up and down Draco's arm, caressing his skin, pulling him gently closer. It's
clear what he wants.
Draco takes another sip from the bottle, and now, with the knowledge of his own
body, he tastes the faint bitterness of valerian root. It explains the aching
tiredness in his bones. "Bastard," he mutters, but there's no bite to it. He
feels sleepy all of a sudden.
Fenwick barks out a laugh. "Not takin' any chances with you, Draco Malfoy," he
whispers in his ear.
A thrill runs through Draco as he hears his name for the first time in weeks.
Then he notes the emphasis on the family name. There's history between Fenwick
and his parents, Draco is sure of it.
"How was Hogwarts?" he asks with all of the girl's innocence. "Back when you
were there, I mean."
"Hoggy Warty Hogwarts," Fenwick sings, entirely off-key. "Was fun while it
lasted," he slurs. "Never did take my N.E.W.T.s, though. Left after sixth
year." There's regret in his voice, but also something darker, something
hateful. Draco's certain Fenwick didn't leave Hogwarts by his own choice.
Drowsy from the valerian root, sitting in the dark, engulfed in the warmth of
another body, he throws caution in the wind and goes by instinct. "Did you know
my mother? You two must have been at Hogwarts at the same time."
He knows he hit gold when Fenwick's fingers tighten around his arm. "Tell me,
blondie," he hisses, "does your mummy know you like to suck dick?"
Draco shakes his head. Fenwick's hold on his arm starts to hurt.
"Thought not." A bitter laugh. "Don' ever tell her. Didn't like it one bit when
she found out about Barney and me. Stuck-up bitch, that's Narcissa for you."
Fenwick must be more pissed than Draco thought, or else he wouldn't be babbling
like this. But the pieces begin to fall into place. The old story, told
numerous times at the Malfoy's dinner table, when his mother, doing Prefect's
rounds, caught a pair of lovers in the Armoury Gallery in the act. Draco always
thought they were a girl and a boy, a boy from Slytherin House. Now he is sure
the boy must have been Fenwick's lover. There was some odd funny ending to the
story that he doesn't now remember. Did his mother tell on Fenwick and his
boyfriend? And so what? Nobody gets expelled from Hogwarts for being queer. An
image flashes through Draco's mind, of Dumbledore in his outrageous robes,
earrings glittering beneath his long grey hair. Another image threatens to
rise, the dark one, of Dumbledore eerily pale, falling and falling --
A shiver runs through Draco's body at the memory and instinctively he leans
closer. Fenwick starts caressing Draco's neck and throat, nipping softly at his
ear. Draco realises he has mistaken his movements. He turns his head away
sharply, mumbling, "Don't."
Fenwick sighs, but stops stroking him. He's breathing hard. Draco can see his
chest rise and fall in the dark. The smell of Firewhisky is all around them.
"Merlin, wan' to fuck you," Fenwick rasps, voice thick with need. He pulls the
blanket away from Draco's body. For a moment they both stare. Draco has not
seen himself in weeks and this body looks strange to him. Thinner than he
remembers and in the dark his pale skin seems to glow. Fenwick lets out a
strangled moan. He reaches for Draco's dick, which lies nestled against his
groin.
"No. Don't." Draco twists away, certain that Fenwick will force him now. But he
doesn't. He merely flicks at the sconce with a disappointed grunt. The candle
ignites and Draco swallows at this casual display of wandless, wordless magic.
He remembers Fenwick's strength as he slammed him against wall; he remembers
the icy look in his eyes. Somehow he knows all of this is Fenwick's scheme. But
what, what does he want?
Beside him, Fenwick stretches into a more comfortable position, unbuttons his
trousers and takes his cock out. Draco scrambles to get away, but Fenwick's arm
clamps down on him. "Let me look at you at least," he whispers as he starts
stroking himself.
Draco lies very still. He can feel Fenwick's eyes moving over his body, taking
in his nakedness. It's unnaturally quiet outside. Draco stares into the night
where the orange ball of the sun dips behind the line of trees. He listens to
the heavy breathing beside him, the low grunts, the slapping sounds of Fenwick
tossing himself off. Fenwick's other hand, the one that holds Draco close, rubs
hard circles into his skin. When he comes, he buries his face in Draco's neck
and moans a name that Draco doesn't catch. Draco turns towards him, has to look
at him. Fenwick's head lolls back against the wall and he meets Draco's gaze.
For once his blue eyes are not cold, but all soft and hazy.
"Ah, but you're a pretty boy," he drawls, voice still shaky from orgasm. "We
could've had a lot of fun together, you and me."
The words make Draco's stomach knot, and he cannot help the fear that spills
from his lips. "Just Obliviate me. Please. When it's all over, Obliviate me."
He never meant to say aloud what's been going through his mind for weeks. Never
tell the enemy what you want. But Draco so very much wants not to die.
Fenwick stares at him for a heartbeat or two, then leans forward and presses
his mouth on Draco's lips. Draco gets a fleeting taste of Firewhisky and
something darker, like burnt leather. Fenwick breaks away abruptly and looks
towards the door. There's a racket out on the stairs. He takes his wand, cleans
himself up and turns back to Draco.
"We'll see about Obliviating you," he says off-handedly, as if this wasn't
about Draco's life. But he's heard and he understands what Draco is offering.
It's more than Draco could have hoped for.
People are trampling up the stairs and shouting down the corridor. "Aurors!"
Draco can make out in the din. And, "Lockdown! Lockdown!" as the alarm goes
off.
Fenwick is off the bed in an instant. He snatches the bottle from Draco's hand
and Vanishes it. Closing his fly, he looks pointedly at the blanket. Draco
wraps it around himself, huddles against the wall. Already he can hear heavy
footsteps tramping down the corridor towards his cell. When the door opens and
McKinnon rushes in, Fenwick leans against the desk, wand pointed at Draco.
"The bloody Aurors are in for an unannounced inspection." McKinnon is out of
breath and only belatedly realises that Draco is not a girl anymore. "What the
fuck is this, Jake? You better not let Pepper see him like this." He looks from
Draco to Fenwick and back, and Draco sees understanding dawn in McKinnon's
eyes. Not his problem, but Fenwick's.
"I have him under control," Fenwick says, slur entirely gone from his voice.
"Just make sure the Aurors don't come up."
McKinnon nods. One more look and he leaves, a smirk on his face. Fenwick
follows him shortly after.
There's commotion all over Erlestoke. Draco watches from the window, trying to
find out what's going on. Light spills from the building, but he can make out
only shadows moving quickly through the dark park. He presses his ear against
the door to listen. There's banging and shouting in the other corridors, and he
thinks he can hear the Governor's voice rising above the clamour. But nobody
comes to his cell. For a while he pounds against the door as hard as he can.
Then he stops. Nobody hears him up here and he'll only pay for it if the guards
find out.
Fenwick comes back hours later, when the racket died down and all is quiet
again. He brings Draco dinner, cold pork chops and peas. Draco watches him as
he places the tray on the desk without a word. He looks sobered. When he meets
Draco's gaze, the ice is back in his eyes. It's like whatever was between them
in the fading light of the day has never happened.
But something has changed. There's a bottle of water on the tray. And a
familiar cup. Draco knows what he has to do.
When Pepper barges into the cell long after midnight, muttering about Aurors
and their damned inspections, he finds a blonde girl sitting on the bed.

                                      *
Draco thinks the bells must have woken him. He hears them clearly in the attic
above his cell. Erlestoke House of Corrections was a grand manor house once,
heart of the estate of two old pure-blood families, the Monthermers and the
Montacutes. Father would know their entire history and why they passed out of
existence. Draco is certain there are ghosts living in the old building.
He is lying naked and cold on the floor. There's flesh-coloured vomit on the
wooden floorboards around him. It smells like rotting grass. They didn't give
him anything to eat last night. Draco wonders whether the Polyjuice will wear
off sooner, now that he disgorged most of it. He yearns to be Draco Malfoy
again, outside and inside, even more since that short time in his body with
Fenwick. He catches himself smoothing the girl's long hair from his face in a
gesture that feels like he's done it forever. He will look at her left wrist
and mistake the unblemished skin for his own. More and more this girly body
feels familiar, and it's not only because he's learned to crouch over the
chamber pot when he takes a piss. It scares him how right Astoria's body feels
when he's not thinking.
It's dark outside but for a greying in the east. The cell still lies in
shadows. Draco doesn't know how he passed out here underneath the window, but
he remembers the beating Pepper gave him last night. His eyes are puffed slits;
his head hurts as if he was banged against the wall. Familiar or not, Draco
curses Astoria Greengrass' weak female body. He reaches for the window sill to
pull himself up and screams with the sharp pain that shoots up his arm.
Breathing hard, he leans against the wall. His right forearm hangs in a twisted
angle from his elbow. He cradles it against his chest and bites his lips to not
cry out again.
Draco stands on shaky legs and stares out into the morning. The bells chime
softly, as they greet the new day. There's blood smears on the glass. Draco
shivers. His reflection shows him Astoria's beaten-up face, large purple
bruises underneath her eyes, split lip and her small nose crushed. Curse you,
Nono Pepper! But even more, Curse you, bloody stupid wanker Jake Fenwick!
All day yesterday Draco waited for him. It was the usual routine: Polyjuice at
six in the morning, Polyjuice at noon, Polyjuice at six in the evening and at
midnight. But it was never Fenwick who brought the potion, always McKinnon.
Even more tight-lipped than usual, he threw the girl down and slammed his hard
prick into her throat until Draco thought he'd die suffocating on the dirty
prison floor. Then McKinnon shoved his baton into the girl's vagina, the entire
length, twenty-four inches or more. Draco passed out in the middle of it. When
he came around at nightfall, in a bed smothered in blood, he knew something was
very wrong.
There's still an odd, fuzzy pain in his belly now. He touches his pussy and the
folds are hard like bone, the hole clamped tight and very dry. Draco cannot
stick even one of his slender fingers into it. Pepper, who came by last night
fully aroused and lusting for his Julie, couldn't penetrate it, either. After
more than an hour of a cursing, sweating Pepper digging into Draco's bruised
groin and getting nowhere, Draco offered him his arse. It was the wrong thing
to do. Pepper had beaten him to a pulp, all the while screaming that he wasn't
a sick fudge packer and the Death Eater poof should bloody leave his Julie
alone.
Fenwick didn't come to bring the Polyjuice Potion. Fenwick didn't come to heal
him. Draco reaches for the blood on the glass; he presses his fingers against
it. A humming sound comes from his lips and joins in with the bells. He tastes
his tears as they reach his lips. The saltiness surprises him. How can
Astoria's tears taste like his?
As he stares out into the frost-covered park, the floorboards underneath his
bare feet vibrate from the ringing within him. A part of him knows there are no
bells in Erlestoke. What he hears is a memory from his childhood. A fire
erupted in a Muggle farm nearby Malfoy Manor. He'd watched with his parents
from the gardens as the orange shine lit the horizon, the bells of St. James'
ringing out into the night. Draco doesn't remember, but Mother told him how for
days he'd talked about nothing but the fire and the bells, scared and
fascinated at the same time.
He knows all this. The bells are from another time, from a belfry in Avebury
miles from here. And yet he hears them as clearly as his own voice. The thought
has crossed Draco's mind that he may be going insane. That's why he does not
stifle the humming. It is real at least, as real as the water bottle he'd hid
underneath the bed. It's the one Fenwick brought him Wednesday night and never
took away. It is empty for McKinnon has not given Draco any water. But it is
there, bluish glass shimmering in the dusty twilight whenever Draco glimpses
underneath the bed. It would be easy to break it. It would be easy to cut a
mark into his left wrist with the shards. Looking at the blood smears on the
window, Draco thinks there may be no other way out of this cell.

                                      *
They are all around him, hanging from the rafters of Erlestoke's attic: a ring
of six bronze bells, their sizes ranging from treble to tenor. The clappers
swing as one bell after the other rings out into the open spaces around the
prison, reaching from the woods to the village. Their sounds enfold the seventh
bell, the one cast in flesh, which has joined them in their chant. The clapper
strikes its small waist, swinging back and forth, left and right. The rippling
waves of sound permeate the skin, flood the veins and make the blood sing. They
spill from its lips onto sheets, onto the floor. Each strike deepens the
humming that soon fills the entire cell. It ruffles the linen; the metal of the
bed frame chimes with it. The hidden water bottle tinkles as the sound reaches
it. Brick wall, glass window, iron door -- the humming easily moves through it
and crashes into the wide open. There is no stopping the sound as long as the
bell rings.
"Stop the bloody whining, bitch!"
McKinnon's yell cuts through the ringing chant, and with it comes the pain.
Draco involuntarily kicks his legs to make the guard stop whatever he is doing
to his pussy. McKinnon has taken to stuffing things into him. Sharp things,
long things, magicked things that crawl and claw within Draco. A hard blow
lands on his temple, and his head bangs against the wall. White sparks before
his eyes, but he cannot stop humming. Even if he wanted to, he has no choice. A
mighty ringer is pulling the rope, and it's not Draco.
"Shut the fuck up. Ugly whore. Damn it! Shut up. Shut up! Shut. The Fuck. Up!"
McKinnon is losing it, pounding with bare knuckles into Draco's face. With a
sharp crack the ridge of his nose breaks, for the fifth time in as many days.
The girl's small front teeth are knocked lose; the next blow wrenches them from
the gums. There's blood everywhere. It's hard to hum with so much blood in your
mouth. But each blow just makes Draco's vocal cords tremble harder. Air pushes
up from his lungs, as he gasps from the pain. Air hits the tender cords, makes
them sway and swing into the high-pitched chime of the bell. A brittle sound at
first, but nothing can break it as it expands and rises. The girl floats on it:
unreachable like song, indestructible as the bell.
"Shut the bleeding fuck up." McKinnon's voice is a harsh whisper. Draco hears
strangled sounds from the corner at the door. McKinnon moves away from him and
leaves him cocooned in the soft humming. Exhale, inhale. The bell swings back
and forth. With his eyes shut Draco can almost imagine that he is up on St.
James' belfry, a soft breeze around him.
"Incendio!"
He smells the stench of burned hair before he feels the scorching wand.
Stabbing pinpoints of flame travel fast from the girl's pubic hair to the
inside of Draco's thighs. His body reacts instantly, trying to twist away from
the wand. The humming shatters on his tongue.
"Now you shut up! Now you shut up!" McKinnon yells wildly as he presses the tip
of his wand into the girl's soft skin. He has Draco immobilised from the knees
down with the full weight of his body, his hands free to cast spell after
spell. "Lumos!" he screams and the tip of his wand blazes. "Incendio!" Red
sparks shoot from it.
A foot or a fist smacks into the wall. McKinnon's wand goes for Draco's throat,
and he jerks away as fast as he can. He catches a glimpse of the wizard in his
cell. Mr Greengrass' body jerks as he struggles against the binding spell. A
burst of magic rips through the air. The desk shudders. The empty cup of
Polyjuice topples and clatters to the floor. It rolls towards Mr Greengrass,
who manages to kick at it so hard the porcelain breaks.
"Damn!" McKinnon clamps his bony hand over Draco's mouth, silencing the moans
that Draco cannot hold back. He points his wand at Mr Greengrass, but seems at
a loss of what spell to cast on him, after he's used dozens of fire spells on
Draco.
The door opens, and Fenwick enters the cell. He looks smaller somehow and pale.
Five days, it's been five days since Draco's last seen him. If I survive this,
I'll kill him, he thinks. He can feel the Avada Kedavra rolling from his lips,
its green light splitting Fenwick's breast. For five bloody days the bastard
has not shown up. He's left Draco to McKinnon's cruel hands, his twisted magic
and his insatiable prick, always hungry for new thrills, which only ever mean
more agony for the girl. Fenwick's never even come to heal Draco after
McKinnon's through with him. McKinnon's a sloppy healer and he only tends to
the visible wounds. Draco is sure he would let him bleed to death if it wasn't
for Pepper, who wants to fuck his beautiful Julie. But McKinnon, the sick
bastard, has done something to his pussy, and Pepper hasn't managed to fuck him
once since last week. Draco's a mess down there and it's all Fenwick's fault.
"God, what are you doing to him?" Fenwick looks from Greengrass to Draco,
taking in the situation. He draws his wand. "Are you fucking out of your mind?
The stink is all over the corridor." Fenwick mutters a Stupefying Spell, and Mr
Greengrass slumps against the wall.
"Worried about loverboy, Jake?" McKinnon's voice is all sarcastic drawl, but he
takes his hand from Draco's mouth and moves off the bed.
Draco gulps for air and immediately starts to cough. The stench in the cell is
overwhelming. Now that McKinnon is off him, blood returns to his legs. Draco
wants to curl up in a ball, but he can't. Not with the raw tattoo of
smouldering wounds on his thighs and belly. He whimpers, can't help it. The
whimpers turn into a humming, soft and stuttering at first, but then clearer as
the bells in the attic join in.
Fenwick stares at him with hooded eyes. Draco doesn't want to kill him anymore.
He still wants to hate him, wants it badly. Fenwick knew this was going to
happen. He knew Draco would be paying for whatever McKinnon saw between the two
of them. But Fenwick didn't help him. He didn't help him. Draco tries to summon
the anguished sense of injustice that made him so very angry only a couple of
days ago. But the last five days have worn him down. He's so tired, so cold, so
thirsty all the time. His head hurts constantly. When they leave him alone, the
injuries inside him keep throbbing with pain. He's not slept, not been able to
keep much food down. There were moments during these last days, moments that
Draco hardly acknowledges, when all he wanted was for it to be over.
Fenwick pushes McKinnon to the side and approaches the bed. His gaze hardens as
he takes in the damage done to the girl. The bell keeps swaying back and forth
from the impact of the clapper still. Each drop of blood, each nerve ending
still rings with it, a brilliant sound that Draco holds on to as Fenwick sits
down on the bed. The sheets are soaked with blood and piss, but he doesn't seem
to notice or care. His cold eyes move from the burn wounds to Draco's face. The
humming grows louder.
"Hear that? Hear it?" McKinnon screams from the door. "He's been doing that for
days. Bloody drives me crazy. Make him stop it." He steps closer and Draco goes
rigid with fear. "Hear me, gaybo? Stop the fucking shite!" McKinnon spits from
behind Fenwick's burly frame.
Fenwick drops the wand into his lap. He raises his hand and Draco jerks away.
But the guard only puts two fingers on Draco's lips. "Hush," he whispers,
"hush, Draco."
For a few moments Fenwick's warm fingertips vibrate with the sound, then the
humming peters out and fades into silence. The bell has been brought to a
standstill; the ringing chant has come to an end. Only a lingering echo reminds
of it. Draco swallows; his parched throat hurts as if he's been screaming for
hours. Will Fenwick give him water?
The guard reaches for his wand. He doesn't meet Draco's gaze as he heals his
broken nose and the hot swelling around his eyes. Yet Draco watches him as he
moves on to his chest, methodically casting spell after spell. There are dark
circles below his eyes. Every once in a while Draco catches his gaze by
accident and wonders whether he should try Legilimency. He needs to know what
happened; he needs to know what Fenwick has planned for him. For all the clear
signs that his plans went awry, there is an odd determination in his face.
Lips pressed together, Fenwick heals the burn wounds. Pink circles of new skin
remain, but even those will be gone in a couple of hours. Then he gently pushes
Draco's thighs apart to inspect the girl's ruined pussy. His body stiffens, as
his blue eyes widen in shock. His ruddy face turns a ghastly white. With a loud
clank his wand falls to the floor. Even later, Draco cannot make himself
believe all of this is just pretend. Fenwick's a brilliant actor, but nobody is
that good.
The next moment, Fenwick has McKinnon pinned against the door. He is a big man;
McKinnon's no match for him. Fenwick has one forearm wrenched against his
throat. McKinnon gasps and kicks his legs, but Fenwick doesn't give an inch.
"You sick bastard!" he hisses. "Do you want Pepper to cut him up? Why are you
doing this to him? Isn't it enough that you get a free fuck every day?"
McKinnon manages to get one arm free and shoves Fenwick back. "Jealous, Jake?"
he grinds out. "Don't take it out on me that you don't get to stick your weenie
up loverboy's arse."
Draco can only marvel at McKinnon's nerve. Clearly he thinks he's untouchable
now that he knows Fenwick's secret. It's beyond Draco, really, why he cannot
see how dangerous the wizard is. McKinnon is just a puppet in Fenwick's plan, a
puppet that stepped out of line.
"You play your sick games with him one more time and you're dead." Fenwick's
voice is crystal-sharp. McKinnon never sees it coming when he knees him hard
into the groin. He doubles over and Fenwick slams his big fist against his
temple. McKinnon slides down the door, mouth slack and glassy-eyed. For a
moment Draco thinks Fenwick's killed him, then McKinnon twitches and collapses
onto the floor.
Heavy steps approach in the corridor; someone -- Pepper -- is outside the cell,
trying to get in. The door smacks into McKinnon's crumpled body.
"God damn it! Open the bloody door!" Pepper sounds furious. One thing Draco
learned in the last weeks: you don't want Pepper mad at you, not ever. He has
no idea what hold the crazy storage officer has over the guards, but Fenwick
scrambles to push McKinnon away from the door. He throws a glance at Draco,
nods at him urgently, but Draco doesn't understand. Before he can figure it
out, Fenwick pulls the door open.
"Pepper," he says, tone calm, placating even, "sorry about the mess. McKinnon
forgot to secure the prisoner." He points at Greengrass, who's still out in the
corner.
Pepper's low-set eyes burn into Fenwick, his thin moustache trembles with
suppressed rage. He is livid, ready to lose it any second. There must be
something that keeps him together still, and Draco strongly suspects it is
Julie.
"And that's why you had to beat the shit out of him, Fenwick, didn't you?" The
nasal tones are so strong that Pepper's voice is little more than a slur.
Fenwick shrugs. "Dumb fart had it coming to him."
Pepper scoffs and steps to the bed. Instinctively, Draco edges closer to the
wall and starts to tremble. It's been weeks since Pepper has seen his body in
the light of the day. The girl is scrawny, her hair straggly and dull. Pepper's
never seen the injuries inflicted on her body. Hot fear sweeps through Draco as
he realises what Fenwick meant to tell him -- cover yourself up. Under Pepper's
penetrating gaze, he slowly reaches for the soiled sheets, which are bunched up
against the wall. He tries to pull them over himself, when Pepper's fingers
clamp around his wrist.
"I know what you're doing, Death Eater," he drawls, words so garbled it's hard
to understand. "But you're not going to take Julie from me."
He tightens his hold on Draco's wrist until the thin bones are crushed against
each other. It takes all of Draco's willpower to not scream in pain. It's his
right hand, and Fenwick hasn't yet healed the broken arm. For a moment it seems
as if Pepper's temper is about to explode, like last week. But then he abruptly
lets go and turns to Fenwick.
"It's time you get rid of this piece of shit," he says, voice calm and almost
clear. "I want to take my Julie home with me. I'm not waiting much longer."
With the tip of his boot Pepper prods the Stupefied body of Mr Greengrass. "Do
it already, Jake. It's not like you've never done it before."
Fenwick, body tense, crosses his arms before his chest, waiting for Pepper to
leave.
But Pepper says, "Come on already. Why do you think I'm up here? The Governor
has a visitor who wants to talk to you."
"What about him?" Fenwick points at Greengrass.
"McKinnon will take care of him." Pepper is already out of the cell. "Get
going, Jake. Wilmot doesn't like to wait." His pinched voice echoes through the
empty corridor.
Fenwick quickly glances at Draco, then he is gone. The key turns in the lock.
He's left Draco alone with two unconscious men, one a prisoner, one a guard.
For a moment, Draco can but stare at the door and the unmoving bodies. Slowly
the tension of the last hour drains from him and he slumps into the mattress
with sheer relief. He's heard what Pepper, the bloody psycho, said and he's
registered Fenwick's reaction. He's going to kill him. Draco is less scared
than he thought he'd be. Instead a sense of quiet finality comes over him,
deepened by the sudden stillness in the cell. He closes his eyes and listens
for the bells. There may be a soft tinkling as the wind blows through the
attic, but he cannot be sure. Once this is over, he may come back to haunt
Erlestoke as a ghost. The thought makes Draco chuckle.
The afternoon sun warms his tired body. He is drifting in and out of sleep,
with snatches of dreams mingling with reality. He dreams of magic so strong it
blasts open the iron door. He dreams of clinking glass as flutes of water are
raised to say a toast. He dreams of Astoria Greengrass, weaving strands of her
hair before she inserts the braid into a golden locket.
A shadow falls across Draco's face and he shivers. Slowly he opens his eyes,
certain that Fenwick is back. Instead the gaunt face of Mr Greengrass looms
over him, grey eyes stormy and wild, so unlike Astoria's. In his right hand he
holds Fenwick's wand. From his left dangles a ribbon of shiny light blue silk.

                                      *
"Darling," Mr Greengrass whispers, "I am so sorry, my little darling. So very,
very sorry." He is crying as he holds the girl in his arms.
The silk is so soft the girl can hardly feel it. With each breath she takes,
the ribbon tightens around her throat. She feels light-headed, and rainbow-
coloured specks shimmer before her eyes. In a distant part of her mind she
registers the stale stink on her father's body, the Confunded look in his eyes.
But he is warm, he is safe. He looks at her with such love. He will never hurt
her.
She tries to take another breath and can't. The ribbon tightens. Her legs
twitch.
"Soon, my darling, soon it will be over." Mr Greengrass' voice is so gentle. "A
bit longer and you'll be safe, Astoria. My poor sweet girl. They won't be able
to hurt you anymore."
Astoria? This is not her name. Her name is Draco, Draco Malfoy. She kicks and
struggles, grabs at Mr Greengrass' hands and tries to pull them away from her
throat. The ribbon tightens horribly; it cuts into the girl's skin. Cuts off
the air from Draco's lungs.
"No!" he rasps, "No!" Darkness hovers at the edges of his vision as the walls
of the cell come closer. With all the strength of this delicate body he arches
up and twists around. Mr Greengrass is not Fenwick. The ribbon goes slack as he
lets go of it with a desperate wail. Draco kneels on the bed, gulping in air
and pressing his broken arm to his stomach. It hurts like hell. When his lungs
stop burning, he turns to Mr Greengrass.
"I'm Draco Malfoy," he yells, or tries to yell. His throat is too raw for
anything but a croaking whisper. "I'm Lucius Malfoy's son. I'm Draco Malfoy.
I'm Draco." His voice breaks on the last words and he coughs.
Mr Greengrass stares at him. The wand in his hand is shaking like a leaf in the
wind. Its tip is trained upon Draco.
"They've Polyjuiced me. For weeks now. That locket Astoria gave you? That's
where they got her hair from." Draco can only hope Mr Greengrass has not lost
his marbles. All those long hours he watched what the bastards did to Draco,
thinking he was Astoria. Looking at him now, Draco sees how much the wizard has
changed. He's lost two stone at least since they were committed to Erlestoke.
His skin is sallow underneath a straggly beard. Something is wrong with his
eyes. His pupils are dilated when bright daylight fills the cell. His eyelids
blink too slowly, as if it takes conscious effort to do so. Perfect for
Legilimency, Draco thinks and wonders whether he should try.
Slowly Mr Greengrass drops the wand. His lips quiver as he tries to shape
words, but no sound comes forth. Draco moves away from him and wraps himself
into the blanket. The wool is unyielding with the dried blood all over it.
"He ... he said they abducted Astoria." His voice is so soft Draco can barely
hear him.
"Who told you that?"
"Jake. Jake did."
"Fenwick's lying," Draco grinds out. "The bloody bastard is playing his little
games with us."
Mr Greengrass gasps with obvious shock. Draco is baffled. Does Greengrass
actually believe anybody in Erle will tell him the truth? Then he understands:
he's used language Mr Greengrass has never heard coming from his darling
daughter's mouth. He is tempted to utter curses in the foulest language he
knows. But he is Narcissa Malfoy's son. A small smile is all he allows himself.
Inwardly he rolls his eyes at the man. It's ridiculous that Mr Greengrass can
still be affected by words after the things he's been forced to watch.
"He ... he showed me a pamphlet from the Ministry. It had your picture on it.
No, I ..." Mr Greengrass drops his staring eyes. "Astoria's picture, that's
what I mean. They were looking for her." He looks up again and searches Draco's
face. Draco pulls Astoria's features into a smirk of his own. The effect is
both startling and satisfying: Mr Greengrass jumps and backs away towards the
foot of the bed.
"Fenwick must have fabricated it," Draco says. "He's a powerful wizard."
Mr Greengrass nods. "Top of his class at Hogwarts." He's toying with the ribbon
in his hand.
Top of his ... Draco leans carefully against the wall. His arm hurts and the
fuzzy pain in his belly is still there, but he feels better than he has in
days. A memory tickles in the back of his mind, something Fenwick mentioned
when he sat at the very spot where Draco is sitting now. He knows he should
have paid more attention. Every small detail counts. He's got all of their
names but one. Draco lets his mind drift back to the twilight hour when he had
his body back. Light glints off the flask of Firewhisky as Fenwick drinks. The
sleeve of his jacket hitches up to reveal milk-white skin. A scar shaped like a
ragged star wraps around the first knuckle of his left hand. ... gave me that.
And again, a name, lost in an inarticulate moan of pleasure.
Mr Greengrass' mind is wide open to Draco's muttered Legilimency spell. He is
Confunded all right, making it harder for Draco to find the memory he is
searching for. But then he stumbles upon it, right near the surface of Mr
Greengrass' thoughts. He must have been thinking of it recently, or maybe it's
on his mind even now.
A moonlit hallway in Hogwarts. The boy's just turned fifteen. He is holding
hands with another boy, who's older than him, strong and funny, a Ravenclaw
Beater. Jake. They run towards the Armoury Gallery, the thrill of sexual
excitement all around them. They shed their robes and Transfigure them into
soft thick blankets. Jake's hot hands touch him everywhere. The boy rips his
shirt open, fumbles at his fly so that Jake can reach his naked skin, his hard
prick. They've been fucking for weeks now and still he gets so randy when Jake
is close. The boy never knew sex could be like this. He moans into Jake's
kisses, rubs himself against Jake's belly and groin, wants Jake to take him and
make him come. He turns around and pushes his bum back. Fuck me, he moans into
the darkness, and Jake does. Their bodies seem to be made for each other, the
way Jake thrusts into him slowly and surely, hitting that spot every time, that
spot that makes him go crazy with need. Desperate, dirty words tumble from his
lips. He's too loud but he can't help it. Jake puts the back of his hand
against his mouth, and he bites into the knuckles, bites as hard as he can to
stifle the screams. Love you so much, Barney, so much, Jake moans against his
neck. At the sound of his lover's voice the boy comes hard, Jake's blood on his
lips.
Mr Greengrass twitches at Draco's gaze. Barnabas Greengrass. His skin is
flushed underneath the beard. Absent-mindedly, he's been rolling the blue
ribbon into a small coil and now shoves it into his pants underneath the too-
loose trousers. He doesn't realise Draco is in his head; his Occlumency is non-
existent. But he remembers what Draco just saw.
And yet there's more to the flush than the memory of a schoolboy's stupendous
fuck. Draco prods a bit and a memory of his mother appears, her face younger
and softer, the Prefect's badge glinting on her robes. Sleeping with a blood
traitor, Greengrass, she says in the stern, judgemental tone Draco knows quite
well. He's not heard it much since the fall of the Dark Lord. But this is the
Slytherin common room, back in the seventies, Draco assumes. His father,
younger, prouder, is standing at the fire-place, watching with a sneer. A blood
traitor queer, Salazar, Narcissa says, disgust open now in her voice. What were
you thinking? A half-blood like you ... And the boy's world collapses around
him, all his plans, his parents' wishes, his own high-flying aspirations. He's
been Sorted into Slytherin for his single-minded ambition. He won't throw it
all away for a schoolboy's crush. He will tell Dumbledore --
"You're doing it again, blondie."
Both Draco and Mr Greengrass jump and the connection breaks. Fenwick is
standing in the door, a stack of clean sheets on his arm, a bottle of water on
top.
Mr Greengrass shakes his head to get rid of the cobwebs in his mind. Draco
knows the feeling all too well. Then Mr Greengrass turns towards the door, and
Fenwick notices the wand in his hand.
"Accio wand!" he shouts, holding up his arm. With a solid smack the wand
returns to the hand of its master.
Fenwick walks to the desk and drops the sheets onto it. He looks from Mr
Greengrass to Draco. Somehow he seems disappointed.
"Why don't you let the boy go, Jake?" Mr Greengrass says all of a sudden. "He
has nothing to do with it."
"Which boy, prisoner? D'you see a boy here? For if you do, then I can only
assume there's brain damage from those Confundus Charms after all." Fenwick
turns to McKinnon and crouches beside him. "Enervate," he says and casts the
spell.
McKinnon starts moaning and he clutches his groin. Carefully he sits up. He
looks at Fenwick with daggers in his eyes, but he keeps still. The raised wand
in Fenwick's hand may have something to do with that.
"You can stop with your games," Mr Greengrass says. "He's told me what you've
done to him. Let him go, Jake. You have me. You can do whatever you want with
me. But let him go."
Draco is touched by how fiercely the wizard fights for him. Offering his own
life for Draco's, he's braver than he's given him credit for. But it's no use;
he can see it in Fenwick's cold eyes. He has a plan and he's going through with
it. Nobody can convince him otherwise, least of all Barney Greengrass. Draco
reaches for Mr Greengrass' arm to make him stop trying. To give thanks of some
kind. The wizard turns to him in surprise. His lips twitch ever so slightly
when the girl's small hand takes his, a daughter's hand taking her father's.
Mr Greengrass whispers, "I'm so sorry, my boy. So very sorry." There are tears
in his eyes.
The raw pity in his voice is almost Draco's undoing, even when he knows Mr
Greengrass is apologising to him as much as to Fenwick who stands at the desk
and watches their every move. Draco is so terribly afraid all of sudden. What
will happen when Mr Greengrass is gone, when he's alone with Fenwick in the
cell? He wants to curl up against Mr Greengrass, wants to be held by him like
before, when he thought Draco was his daughter. A fearful sob threatens to rise
in his throat but he bites it down. He won't cry, he won't.
McKinnon scoffs and stands. He is still a bit shaky on his legs. "What now?" he
asks Fenwick, voice hoarse and scratchy.
"You take the prisoner back to his cell. I'll get the girl ready for Pepper."
Fenwick hauls Mr Greengrass up to his feet.
"You have a very clever daughter," he says, his voice so devoid of emotion that
shivers run down Draco's back. "And she loves her daddy very much. Do you think
she would want him to know what is done to her here? How she gets her pussy
stuffed every day? How those rough blokes just love to shove their big dicks
into her? Can you believe that she wants you to know that? When she can tell it
drives you out of your mind, seeing all that? Don't you think she'd rather tell
you it's some Polyjuiced boy? The Malfoy boy, too, when she knows how much you
hate the Malfoys." He shoves Mr Greengrass against McKinnon, who grabs him by
the arm.
Fenwick is a brilliant actor, Draco has to give him that much.
Mr Greengrass is white as a sheet. "You're sick, Jake," he whispers, but Draco
can hear the doubt in his voice.
"You have a very clever daughter, is all I'm saying. Slytherin, isn't she?"
Fenwick turns towards the desk, and McKinnon pushes Mr Greengrass out the door.
Draco hears him shuffling down the corridor, with McKinnon yelling at him to
walk faster.
He says, "I am Draco Malfoy," and wishes that his girly voice wouldn't shake so
much.
Fenwick looks at him in surprise, then barks out his bitter laugh. "Of course
you are, pretty boy."
He comes close and because he clearly doesn't want to hurt him, Draco lets him
lift the girl's thin body off the bed to change the sheets. Fenwick gives him
water, then heals whatever perverse thing McKinnon has done to the girl's
vagina. He gently mends Draco's broken arm and the bruised wrist. He even takes
Draco to the bathroom and lets him wash up. When they are back in the cell, he
gives Draco a wool blanket that smells clean and only a bit like mould. With
the soiled sheets balled-up under his arm, he walks to the door. There, he
stops and turns to Draco.
"You really hate me now, don't you, blondie?"
Draco is taken aback by the question, the first personal words Fenwick said to
him since that afternoon. "I've hated you since the first moment I saw you," he
says and wonders if that reply will finally bring down the Killing Curse on
him.
But Fenwick chuckles and leans back against the door. "I don't think that's
true. You were shitting your pants, but you didn't hate me."
Fuck him. "All right, so how about, I've hated you since you made me suck
Elliot's dick. Or maybe since you gave me nothing to drink but Polyjuice. Or
even better: I've hated you since you've allowed that swine Pepper to fuck me
raw, night after night!" Draco's sitting up on the bed as he shouts at the
guard. He is playing a risky game. But Fenwick hasn't killed him yet and that
can only mean killing Draco is not part of Fenwick's plan. Not for now at
least. And it feels good that for once it's him doing the shouting.
Fenwick watches Draco's outburst with a look of faint surprise. Well, fuck him!
Draco lets himself fall back onto the mattress, eyes on the ceiling. As he
catches his breath, it hits him that in Fenwick's twisted little world the
worst he has done is to make Mr Greengrass believe Draco is his daughter
Astoria. Draco himself is just another puppet in Fenwick's plan of revenge.
Everything that was done to Draco at Erlestoke is just a means to another end.
It's like Mr Greengrass said: Draco has nothing to do with it. This, this is
the moment when Draco truly starts hating Jake Fenwick.
He's still staring at the ceiling when Fenwick sits down on the foot of the
bed. He's curious about something, something that has to do with Mr Greengrass.
"You're a very accomplished Legilimens," he says. "Wandless, too." It doesn't
exactly sound like a compliment.
"I've learned from the best." He doesn't mention that all his teachers died on
the same day, a day that Draco considered one of the worst in his life not two
months ago.
"So you think you know all about Barney and me." It's a statement, not a
question.
"I know what I saw."
Fenwick's eyes don't twitch; his lips don't quiver. His features remain
deceptively calm. And yet, there's something in the way he hides his left hand
in the soiled sheets, the way he leans slightly forward. It tells Draco without
words that Fenwick's never used Legilimency on Mr Greengrass. He doesn't know
what Draco has seen. And he wants to know. And he doesn't. Legilimency is
tricky business. You always only see what the person remembers, never the whole
truth of it. In the blink of a moment Draco sees the means of his revenge
beautifully laid out before him. And unlike Fenwick, he won't even have to lie.
"I never did any of the things they said I did." Fenwick is offering him bits
of the story for bits of what Draco's seen in Mr Greengrass' mind. Oh, but he
won't play that game.
"What things?" he asks, all innocence.
"That I fucked him against his will. That I Imperioed him."
Draco can just see his parents devise such accusations to clear Barney
Greengrass' good Slytherin name. He loves them dearly, but he would never want
Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy as his enemies.
"He was very young." Draco tries for non-committal.
"Barney was fifteen. I wasn't even his first lover. He knew exactly what he
wanted." Fenwick pulls his left hand from the pile of sheets. "The scar? They
said his bite marks were evidence I forced him. That he was fighting me." His
bitter laugh has a frantic edge to it. "God, he was coming when he bit me. He
loved it so much that he couldn't keep quiet. He was biting into my hand to not
give us away."
Draco shrugs, wondering if Fenwick told all that to Dumbledore and the Hogwarts
Board of Governors. Abraxas Malfoy and Druella Black would have ripped such a
naive defence to shreds. Looking at Fenwick now, Draco cannot help thinking
that they did.
Fenwick gets up and grabs the sheets. He leans over Draco. "No matter what
you've seen, you know nothing about Barney and me."
Draco edges to the wall. Fenwick's upset and entirely too close. He waits until
the guard is almost at the door. Then he goes in for the kill.
"He loved you, you know."
Fenwick stops. His shoulders slump as if he's clutching the sheets to his
heart. He doesn't turn when he whispers, "You're a bloody liar, Malfoy."
Something drops to the floor. It's the empty tube of lavender toothpaste that
Draco has all but forgotten underneath his sheets. Fenwick stoops to pick it up
and stick it into the pile with the other rubbish.
Turning to Draco, he says, "I'm not going to kill you, blondie," casually as if
they were discussing what's for dinner at Erle tonight. "But you better not get
Pepper mad at you again."

                                      *
Outside, the Wiltshire winter has settled in. Gentle snowstorms shake Erlestoke
at night and transform the park into a white world of glittering wonders. Draco
stands for hours at the window and imagines clouds of snow-dust in the air,
snowflakes dancing on his skin. It's freezing in the cell and ice flowers bloom
on the window pane. The girl shivers all the time. Draco can hardly remember
how it felt not to be so cold. Fenwick brings him more blankets, but never
clothes. Clothes increase Draco's chances of escape, and they're not taking any
chances.
Within Erlestoke, the guards settle into their old routine: Polyjuice four
times a day, and whoever brings it stays until Draco dutifully swallows it.
Pepper comes for Julie at night. He has started talking to her, telling her
long stories about the home he's made for them. If it's not all just figments
of his crazed mind, then he's even added magical space for a nursery to his
flat. It makes Draco sick to his stomach to listen to this shite. But he heeds
Fenwick's warning, never speaks up and says as little as possible. During the
long hours that Pepper lies beside him, big hands groping the girl's tits while
he talks and talks in his pinched voice, Draco hopes and prays that Fenwick
does not Obliviate him to this: Polyjuiced as Julie for the rest of his life
without any memory of what was before or who he is. The thought makes Draco's
throat constrict and his heartbeat quicken painfully.
Fenwick shows up twice a day to bring water and food and heal whatever damage
has been done to Draco. Sometimes he brings Barney Greengrass to the cell when
it's McKinnon's turn with the girl. Since Fenwick has warned him off, McKinnon
does take it easier on her. His rapes are perfunctory, no more elaborate
torture games. Easier, of course, means it takes much longer. McKinnon can
barely get it up without his toys. He takes some sick pleasure from spurting
all over the girl's body when he finally does come. Even Petrified in his
corner, it's obvious the sight drives Mr Greengrass out of his mind.
Ever so often Fenwick leaves Mr Greengrass alone with Draco. These are the most
dangerous times. Fenwick will end the Binding Spell, help Mr Greengrass to his
feet and lead him to the bed. He is setting them up as puppets in his game, and
Draco tries very hard to not play along. They barely talk, and when they do he
makes sure Mr Greengrass knows whom he is talking to. But the girl cannot
refuse for long the comfort Mr Greengrass is so willing to provide. Draco may
manage a few awkward minutes sitting apart, but then she curls up in Mr
Greengrass' lap. His strong, warm hands smooth out the tangled strands of her
hair. Small soothing noises spill from his lips, wordless animal sounds that
promise warmth and safety. Draco knows they are not for him, but he soaks them
up and lets them fill his mind. With the bells gone, it is something to hold on
to.
He struggles not to fall asleep in Mr Greengrass' lap. In sleep, the girl takes
over. But his lids drop, his thoughts go wandering, his body nests deeper into
Mr Greengrass. Draco dreams of lavender fields, of a blonde girl running
through them on bare feet, hair and skirts flowing. He wakes to the memory of
light cloth that clings and sways around his naked thighs. My little girl, Mr
Greengrass whispers and Draco is too tired to tell him he's six feet one and
has never in his life worn a skirt.
Fenwick casts dark, jealous looks at them when he comes to take Mr Greengrass
away. Does he envy Draco the touch of Mr Greengrass' hands? Would he want to
comfort Barney like Mr Greengrass comforts the girl? Draco doesn't know.
One night he wakes with Fenwick in his cell, a dark shadow sitting in Mr
Greengrass' usual spot in the corner. Draco is so taken by surprise he
scrambles against the wall, for fear of what Fenwick will do to him. The glint
of the flask tells him the guard is drunk again. But Fenwick just looks at him,
eyes bright in the dim light. He looks and looks and drinks. He doesn't speak,
doesn't come close; he doesn't touch Draco. After what seems like hours, Draco
is so exhausted he falls asleep again. The next morning Fenwick's gone. It
might as well have been a dream.
Days and nights flow into each other with the soft howling of the wind and the
ever-present white outside. Draco's stopped counting the days. Sometimes he
hides underneath the desk and looks at the scratches and nibs in the wall.
There are eighteen scratches for the first eighteen days of February. Has he
been at Erle three times as long? Or longer? Is it March outside? Or still
February? The ice flowers on the window grow every day.

                                      *
Draco has his first period the day his father is executed in Azkaban.
Lucius Malfoy's death makes the front page of the Daily Prophet. They've chosen
an older photograph showing Father in his magnificent, silk-trimmed robes,
making an appearance before the Wizengamot. He is all polite smiles as he waves
to someone on the gallery.
Draco crouches to pick the paper up that someone -- McKinnon, he suspects -
- has thrown into his cell. That's when he notices the red smears on the
insides of his thighs and the clods of blood on the sheets. At first he thinks
Pepper hurt him again with his long, useless prick, then he remembers Fenwick
came by at midnight and took care of him. Draco's been feeling shitty all day
yesterday with a headache and his nerves raw. When Fenwick gave him the potion,
he started crying again, and he's not done that in weeks.
His head spins with what the blood on his thighs might mean. He forces himself
for the umpteenth time to remember all he knows about Polyjuice Potion.
Lacewing flies, leeches, bicorn horn ... He's been Polyjuiced for weeks without
taking breaks. Nothing he remembers from Potions class tells him exactly how
long the potion can be abused without lasting effects. Knotgrass, fluxweed ...
fluxweed picked at the full moon ... If only they had let him keep his Potions
book. Draco needs it now. Shredded boomslang skin, yes. And a bit of the one
you want to turn into. Who do you want to turn into? A girl?
Lucius Malfoy is dead. He's been executed on the second of March, less than a
year after the downfall of the Dark Lord whom he followed for most of his life.
So it's March already, Draco thinks. And wonders whether this is why Mother
doesn't come anymore on Sundays.
At lunchtime McKinnon shows up with the Polyjuice Potion. Draco hopes that at
least he will leave him alone when the girl's on her period. No such luck.
McKinnon is strangely intrigued with the menstrual blood that soaks the sheets
between the girl's legs. He smears it all over Draco's belly while he jerks off
and spurts his spunk onto Draco, too.
Humiliation burns in Draco's stomach; anger rises like acid in his throat. He
tries to reach for it, but the girl could not care less. The cramps in her
belly are so bad, she wants to curl up into a ball and sob. But McKinnon is not
yet done with her. He takes a Knut from his pocket and Transfigures the coin
into a bronze-coloured glass that he shoves into her bleeding pussy. It doesn't
hurt much, but then he casts a Reducto and the glass shatters within her.
Draco lies completely still, dreading what sick thing will come next. But
McKinnon moves away from the bed. He stares curiously at the girl, an expectant
look on his face. Draco knows it's not even sexual for him. It's simple
experimentation. What will happen if I do that, what if I do this? He sees the
girl's body but not Astoria. Draco Malfoy? The Death Eater brat? Prisoner
number 3168? He's not even in this cell. Draco's invisible, a ghost already.
Clutching at the last shreds of hate -- at McKinnon, but even more at Fenwick,
for where the fuck is he when Draco needs him? -- Draco closes the girl's legs
so McKinnon cannot stare any longer at her pussy. Immediately dozens of knife
points stab at him from the inside. The girl clutches her belly, but the knives
just slice deeper. Draco tells her not to move, not an inch, to lie absolutely
still. But the girl's instincts scream to pull out whatever's scissoring her
insides. She reaches into the shards. Draco's hands come away all cut up and
bleeding.
With a smirk McKinnon pushes his wand up his sleeve. The experiment was
successful; the results appear to be satisfying. Draco wants to tap into his
last reserve of hate again and throw insults at the bastard, useless as they
are. But the girl tells him to stop wasting energy and focus on lying still and
not bleeding to death until Fenwick comes. She is right. Stray thoughts fill
Draco's mind: that he is a half-orphan now, and a half-man, too, a Polyjuiced
boy on the rag.
McKinnon mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, "Fuck Fenwick," then
he opens the door to leave. Right at this moment, a familiar voice is shouting
down the corridor.
"Let go of me," it yells, obnoxious as ever. "I know he's here. Mrs Malfoy said
he's in a cell under the roof. And this is the one corridor the Aurors weren't
allowed to search."
McKinnon stands frozen at the door he's just opened.
"Damn it, Harry. You've heard what the Governor said. The cells up here are
evacuated because of Dragon Pox."
Draco doesn't recognise this darker voice. It's not someone he's ever met. But
he would know Harry Potter's voice anywhere. He is here, at Erlestoke,
searching for Draco! Mother must have got in touch with him when they would no
longer allow her to visit. Potter owes the Malfoys. Mother did save his life,
after all.
All of this flashes through Draco's mind, but paramount is this: someone is
here, looking for him. The door is open if only a fraction. Whoever is out in
the corridor will hear him. Already McKinnon inches the door shut, very slowly,
very carefully. In another moment Draco's chance at rescue will be gone.
Cut fingers forgotten, Draco pushes himself up from the bed. The knives in his
belly only make him cry out louder. The sound fills the cell and pushes against
the door, but the girl's voice is too soft to carry the full force of how much
Draco wants out of here, this body, this cell. His voice cracks in a high-
pitched squeal as McKinnon's hand clamps down on him. Draco struggles to get
free, bleeding all over McKinnon's face as he claws the bastard's face with
long fingernails. McKinnon snarls at him, wand drawn, as he rams his knee into
the girl's abdomen. The splintery sound of glass crunching into glass reminds
Draco to not again let an enemy know what he wants. Not even McKinnon's hard
grip can stifle the girl's agonised screams of pain.
Yet his "Silencio!" cuts them short. The Spell closes around Draco's throat and
he struggles to breathe. McKinnon is at the door again. They both listen
intently. There's a shuffle at the stairs, then light footsteps come running
towards the cell, followed by more forceful, heavier ones. Potter must have
heard something.
"The little fucker," McKinnon growls under his breath.
He shuts the door but for the bolt sliding home into the latch. The voices
outside are too muffled to make out what they're saying. For a couple of
minutes there's stomping and loud banging on doors.
Draco wants to scream for help again, but the Spell won't allow him to even
cough. His body is shaking with the pain of the splinters within the girl. Why
can't Potter find the cell? Why doesn't he come banging on his door? He
concentrates, trying hard to not let the girl distract him, and sends out the
shapeless markers of his magical presence. Potter felt it before, in every
hateful curse and spell Draco hit him with. He seems to sense it now, for he
shouts, "Malfoy! Where the fuck are you?"
The door bolt latches shut as McKinnon whirls around, face white with fury. A
muttered curse; magic blazes. His Stunning Spell sends Draco into blind
oblivion.

                                      *
Mr Greengrass has his arm wrapped around the girl's waist. He strokes her head
again and again, weaving in and out of the strands of her long hair that catch,
softly, on the rough calluses of his palms. Father's dead, Draco thinks and he
longs for a memory of his father, holding him with such love as Mr Greengrass
holds the girl. But all he recalls is a misty morning, Astoria clinging to Mr
Greengrass' robes when her sister tries to take her away. As if thrown into a
Pensieve, Draco can see in vivid detail Mr Greengrass' broad smile and the way
his strong hands pat Astoria's blonde head.
From the crumpled Prophet on the floor, Father smiles at him politely, then
waves at someone on the gallery.
But Merlin, how can that be, Jake? She's on her ...
I told you. This is no Polyjuice trick.
Did he really hear them talking? He feels warm with blankets all around. Draco
stretches carefully, and there is no pain. The splinters in his pussy are gone.
Instead they've stuffed a soft cloth between his thighs.
Mr Greengrass pulls him closer. "Shh, my star. It's all right, darling. Go to
sleep." His voice is smooth and dark like the night shadows that fill the cell.
"Close your eyes," he whispers into Draco's hair.
Draco keeps his eyes open for another moment. Potter was here, in Erlestoke,
running along his corridor. It can only mean not much longer now and they will
find him, they will get him out of here. Just a bit longer, another day,
another night ... But the girl doesn't believe Draco any more. She's at home
already in her father's arms, enfolded by his familiar smell of polishing
potions and chives. She closes Draco's eyes and tells him to stop thinking.
"Night, daddy," she mumbles, nestling tighter into Mr Greengrass' lap. For a
heartbeat his hand tenses in her hair, then he resumes his gentle stroking.

                                      *
In the morning light the glass bottle gleams a brilliant blue. It glitters like
the cut stones from Narcissa Malfoy's jewellery. Mr Greengrass lies beside it.
The sconce is halfway ripped out of the wall. The magical candle has fallen to
the floor, and he seems to reach for it with his right hand. Its thick fingers
are muscled rather than fleshy, with blue veins standing out from the freckled
skin. There's dust and small pieces of plaster in his hair and on his clothes.
It looks as if flour was sprinkled on the black and maroon stripes of his
prison garb. His head is turned unnaturally far to the side so that his chin
touches the back of his shoulder. A bruised band winds around his throat,
deeply etched into his skin, its colour a purple blue like violets. Blue like
his daughter's eyes. His own eyes go to the window. They stare wide open into
the brilliant rays of the rising sun.

                                      *
Huddled at the foot of his bed, as far away as possible from the dead body in
his cell, Draco sits awake and waits. Fenwick comes earlier than usual, at
least an hour before breakfast. Perhaps he sensed that it's over. He doesn't
acknowledge Draco, eyes fastened on Mr Greengrass on the floor. Slowly he
approaches the body. He picks up the candle, touches the water bottle as if to
make sure it is real.
Draco wonders whether this truly was Fenwick's plan all along. Whether he left
the bottle with Draco intentionally. Whether he gave Mr Greengrass these few
minutes with a wand that allowed him to Transfigure the bottle into a silk
ribbon -- or anything, tie, rope, anything to top himself. Draco cannot make
himself believe it. Fenwick wanted Mr Greengrass dead, there is no doubting
this. But too much of his plan has been coincidence, too many risks, too many
possibilities for things to turn out differently. Draco is strangely reminded
of his own fumbling schemes at second-hand murder, the Cursed necklace, the
poisoned mead. How much of a killer can one be when giving fate so many chances
to intervene?
As if he's heard his thoughts, Fenwick turns to him. He is paler than Draco's
ever seen him, but he tries for a lop-sided smile.
"Should have taken up with you, blondie, shouldn't I?" His voice is quiet, the
quiver in it barely perceptible.
"I don't think so." Draco tries a grin of his own. "You don't even like girls,
Fenwick."
Fenwick laughs at that, the brittle bitter laugh that never was enough to make
up for what Jake Fenwick lost during that sixth year in Hogwarts. Draco wonders
if anything or anyone could have ever made up for it. Fenwick affectionately
pats his knee; he lets his hand linger a moment on the blanket that covers it.
Then he turns to Mr Greengrass. It's all the apology Draco will ever get from
him.
Crouching beside the body, Fenwick puts his hand against the broken neck,
gently, as if the man was still alive. Carefully he turns Mr Greengrass' head
towards his own chest. He takes the body in his arms and lifts it from the
floor. Mr Greengrass lost a lot of weight at Erle. Still, he was a full-grown
wizard, turned heavier even in death when all matter sinks towards the earth.
The muscles in Fenwick's neck stand out like tightly pulled ropes. He sways for
a moment before he finds a balanced stance that allows him to carry his burden.
Quietly he walks towards the door and steps out of the cell. He never looks
back at Draco to say good-bye.
The door, two inches of solid iron, swings back as if to close, then it comes
to a halt. Pulling the blanket tightly around his shoulders, Draco steps to the
side of the door and glances into the corridor. Fenwick walks towards the
stairs with slow, heavy steps. His head is bowed as if he's buried his face in
Mr Greengrass' hair. Other than Fenwick, the corridor is empty.
Draco looks back into the cell. The bottle has rolled underneath the chair, the
Prophet lies half-hidden underneath the bed. The sconce hangs from the wall,
its candle gone with Fenwick. The winter sunlight is dimmed by the ice flowers,
which cover almost the entire window. Nothing in the cell reminds of Draco. The
sudden chance of escape makes his heartbeat stumble and race at the same time.
He checks the corridor one more time, listens for noises on the stairs.
Nothing. Draco steps onto the threshold of his cell.
Magic beats down on him like sharp, ice-cold hail, as he is thrown back into
the cell with vicious force. The door is open, but the wards to keep him in are
securely in place. Draco sobs from sheer frustration. He rages against Fenwick,
egoistic bastard that he is. He could so easily have taken the wards down and
given Draco his one chance of escape. Still, he won't give up, tries again and
again. For a while he's losing it, throwing himself naked against the wards,
screaming and begging and pleading that somebody please let him out. He ends up
beaten and dizzy in a pile inside the door.
It's the girl who finally makes him pull himself together and sit down on the
bed. Bright red blood is dripping from her pussy down his thighs to her small
feet. Before it can drip onto the Prophet, Draco shoves the paper out of the
way.
Astoria's lost her father not a day after Draco's lost his. Half-orphans, half-
men, both of them. Or one and the same.
The girl moves her hands over Astoria's breasts. In the icy cold of the cell
her tiny nipples are hard and almost white: small buds that will open into the
glittering beauty of the ice flowers.

                                      *
Water is seeping from the worm-eaten window frame where the ice flowers have
taken root. Last night's cold spell turned it into a sheet of ice that runs
down the wall from the window sill to the floor. Astoria has made her bed on
this pure, clear layer of ice covered by rime so fine and fragile it's like
spun sugar. Carefully she's stretched out on it and wrapped herself into the
soft light that trickles through the window -- brighter even than sunlight, a
blinding translucent white that enfolds her and keeps her safe.
The shadows in the cell are lengthening: noon has long passed and nobody came.
For the first time in weeks Astoria has not had her potion. She keeps moving
her hands over her body, tracing the ice flower pattern that coats her skin.
There are icicles in her blood, too, and perhaps that is why her period
stopped. But underneath her skin something hovers; a boy trapped like a ghostly
body underneath the black ice of a frozen lake. There's a shifting and changing
within Astoria that wants desperately to happen but can't. The ice flowers
rustle. Oddly, their chilly voices remind Astoria of spring.
"He's up here! Come on, hurry!"
A clear voice rings through the corridor. There are people stomping up the
stairs, with heavy boots and loud voices. Erlestoke's frozen stillness is
shattered by the din and clamour. Astoria sits up and huddles closer against
the sheets of ice. Wrapped in the frosty light nobody can hurt her.
A sea of red appears before the half-open door and threatens to flood the cell.
Whatever is holding it at bay must be what's holding her inside. There's
movement and the clear voice from before speaks up again.
"This is the cell. I am sure of it." It's a young man, a boy even, judging by
the high-pitched excitement in his voice. Astoria knows him; his name is on her
tongue. "They must have rendered the cell Unplottable for all those weeks. I
was up here so often, looking for him. But I never saw the door."
A sandy-haired boy steps into the cell. His body is like fire, his breath like
smoke. Astoria can feel its warmth from where she's sitting underneath the
window. Elliot.
He takes a few slow steps. Her nakedness startles him, perhaps even her female
shape. Astoria is pretty sure he's never seen a naked woman before. Under
Elliot's bewildered gaze her body begins to tremble. Not much longer now, and
the change will happen. It's pulling at her limbs and stretching her skin. She
covers her breasts with her arms. Her chest expands with each breath she takes.
The boy is about to burst through.
"He's not here," Elliot whispers. "There's a girl here. She's ... she's ..."
"I meant to thank you," she says, her voice scratchy and deepening like a
man's, "for the pumpkin juice. But you were never around anymore in the
library."
Elliot stares at her open-mouthed.
Harry Potter comes into the cell behind him. His robes are covered in snow.
Even his eyebrows are thick with frost; they make him look like a much older
man. From the boy comes a clear memory of him with sparks in his black hair,
flying through a wall of blazing flames.
Potter says something to Elliot before he comes closer and crouches before
Astoria. Slowly he extends his hand and helps her get up from the floor. She is
taller than Astoria ever was. Potter takes one good look at her, pulls off his
robes and hands them over to her. Her frozen fingers can barely hold the heavy
cloth, much less close the clasps. Potter helps her and his hands are very
warm. Astoria leans into them, because the boy's so desperate for heat, and
Potter does not take them away.
"Who are you?" he asks softly, searching her face. Perhaps there is magic in
Potter's voice, or perhaps it's simply that he asks. But his words more than
even the warmth of his hands make the ice flowers on her skin crack and melt.
It's the moment when the Polyjuice gives up its hold.
Reaching for memory, reaching for ... "What's with the glasses, Potter?" The
drawling voice echoes a schoolboy's hatred that is insubstantial now. "Are you
blind? It's me, Draco. Draco Malfoy."
Potter's mouth twitches into a smile. He turns to the Aurors, who are waiting
with Elliot at the door. "It's him all right."
He's laughing, relieved and a bit shaky as if he cannot believe he's truly
found Draco. He takes him by the shoulder and shakes him, very gently. "Git.
We've been looking for you bloody everywhere. Your mother's pulled every string
in and out of the book to keep the search going." Then worry creeps into his
eyes. "You're Polyjuiced, aren't you?"
Draco nods. His skin is on fire; his whole body is heating up fast with the
change coming over him. "I'm Draco," he says. He is shaking so hard his knees
buckle, and he would have fallen had Potter not caught him. He pants against
Potter's neck, whispering, "I'm Draco Malfoy."
Potter says, "I know you are. What's happening with you, Malfoy?"
Draco wants to explain, but he's too far into the change. Potter stiffens in
surprise when Draco's body fills out at some places, flattens at others, but he
does not let him go. The girl's long hair retreats into Draco's scalp, her face
reshapes into his sharper and pointier features. His shoulders stretch into
Potter's robes, which still hang loosely on him but fit his size.
When he's fully changed, Potter slowly loosens his hold on him, giving him
space. More and more people are filling the corridor. Their voices are terribly
loud. Draco's not ready to be seen with his body that feels awkward and gangly
to him: an alien thing. He turns away and leans against the window. The ice
flowers glow golden in the afternoon sun; under his fingertips they become soft
and wet. Rivulets of water run down the glass where the ice has melted and
given way to the view into the park. It's still all covered in snow, but the
sun hits the trees in an unmistakable angle that spells spring. Draco thinks
how very, very badly he wants to fly.
He turns to Potter, who's watching him with an expression Draco for a moment
mistakes for pity. Then he realises that it's not. He cannot help but chuckle,
noticing how crazy he must sound. But it is funny, really, that after all of
this Draco's finally earned himself Harry Potter's respect.
His voice shakes just a bit when he says, "Fancy a game of Quidditch, Scarhead?
I'm dying to get on a broom."
Potter blinks, then grins. "Anytime, Malfoy. Anytime you want."

                                   * fin *
 
Epilogue
Jacob Fenwick was found dead in a cell at Erlestoke House of Corrections,
having cast a Strangling Curse on himself. Nono Pepper was arrested and later
committed to the Janus Thickney Ward at St. Mungo's. After a week-long Auror
search, Thomas McKinnon was discovered hiding in a Muggle seaside town. He was
brought to trial and received the death sentence. John Wilmot was removed as
Governor of Erlestoke and sentenced to five years in Azkaban for aiding and
abetting the crimes that were committed under his care. Both the Erlestoke
librarian and the doctor were acquitted of all charges.
Elliot Miller left Erlestoke and now works for a bookstore in Hogsmeade.
The body of Barnabas Greengrass is buried in the family lot of his bereaved
wife. The particular circumstances of his death were never revealed to the
public.
After a two-month stay with the healers of the psychiatric ward at St. Mungo's,
Draco Malfoy moved from Wiltshire to London where he studies for his N.E.W.T.s.
He and Harry Potter have become friends.
Erlestoke lies peaceful and drowsy in the summer sun. It's quiet again after
the storms and uproar of the winter. A gentle breeze shakes the fuzzy flowers
of the dandelions in the park. Up in the attic a bell chimes, a wistful sound
that carries all the way from the woods to the village. There's a new ghost
haunting Erlestoke, and he loves to ring that bell. It disturbs only the crows
that flutter off the gate piers and hide in the birches. A pale young wizard
looks up to them. His parents accompany him as he is committed to the prison
for his five-month sentence. At Christmas he will be home again.

                                      *
 
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