Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/416807.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Draco_Malfoy/Albus_Severus_Potter
  Character:
      Draco_Malfoy, Albus_Severus_Potter
  Additional Tags:
      general_dark_subject_matter, Infidelity, Rough_Sex, Masochism, Past
      Abuse, Dubious_Consent, Manipulations, Drugging_Via_Potions, Bloodplay,
      Immobilisation_as_a_Kink, Light_Bondage
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-05-30 Words: 11244
****** Experience the War ******
by snarkyscorp
Summary
     Albus wants to know more about the second wizarding war, and though
     Draco is reluctant, they strike a bargain. But Albus is unprepared
     for the knowledge that sometimes it is our darkest desires that
     frighten and arouse us most.
Draco walked down the hallway, a mug of tea clutched in one hand and a small,
weathered tome in the other. The spine on the leather-bound book read Dark
Enchantments of the Far East by Griswold H. Weatherby. Absorbed in the text,
Draco walked right past the broad-shouldered boy who had been waiting nearly a
half hour for his first chance to meet the new Potions Master and Head of
Slytherin House.
Draco wound through the classroom, past rows of empty cauldrons littered on
desktops, and silently disappeared into the adjoining office.
Albus Potter started, bright green eyes blinking dully behind thick-rimmed
glasses. He had bought a new pair just for this meeting—a dark brown designer
set, with square frames and a small yellow lightening bolt etched onto each
side. They had cost nearly half of his yearly allowance, but he had thought
they would have been worth the hefty price tag if it meant Draco Malfoy would
notice them. When he didn't, Albus couldn't help but feel a bit crushed.
"Excuse me, Professor Malfoy?" Albus called, already on his feet, clumsily
fumbling with his satchel to throw it over his shoulder. Tangled up in its
leather strap, his clumsiness cost him a few seconds too many; before he could
move another step forward, Draco's office door slammed shut.
Sighing, Albus gritted his teeth. Well, his father had told him it wouldn't be
easy if he wanted to speak to Draco, but he hadn't expected Draco not to even
acknowledge his existence. Still, Albus wasn't one to give up. He wasn't a
prefect in Slytherin House for nothing, after all. He had the necessary
patience and persistence it would take to reach Draco; he knew that much. It
was just a matter of convincing Draco now that he was worth the time for an
interview.
Knocking at Draco's office door, Albus waited for a response from inside and
took a moment to pat his starched shirt down. He had left his Slytherin robes
back in the dormitory, but the green and silver tie that was tight at his
collar made it all too clear in which house he had been assigned, a reminder of
something they had in common. He just hoped he looked proper enough in half
dress to make a good impression on Draco, because what he needed to ask was
something he was sure wouldn't be easily given—every little bit of confidence
would help.
The door swung open a moment later, and a soft, drawling voice called to him.
"Come in, but make it quick—I'm busy."
Albus entered quietly and opened his mouth to speak, then promptly shut it when
he saw Draco Malfoy standing not five feet from him. Draco's robes were off,
and he wore a modest but tight button-up and slacks that were slender against
his long legs and narrow hips. Looking at him, Albus felt for the first time
enthralled with a man twice his age in the same way he grew hot-cheeked when he
looked at pictures of Rodolpho Riggings, the star Quidditch Captain on the
Falmouth Falcons. Albus felt distantly light-headed and wished to Merlin he'd
thought to take a Calming Draught before he decided to wander into Malfoy's
office.
"Well?" Draco prompted, eyebrows raised and lips twitching impatiently.
"Potter, I presume?"
"Yes," Albus replied breathlessly. At least he had the sense to remember his
own name. "Albus, actually." He offered his hand, but Draco looked less likely
to accept the handshake than spit on it, so Albus withdrew it an awkward moment
later.
"Well, Mr. Potter, you are about as talented a conversationalist as your
father."
Albus's jaw dropped a little as he watched Draco turn away and move to the
nearby bookshelves to return his hardback he'd carried into the office with
him. Despite being sorted into Slytherin and having come into various scuffles
with students from other houses, Albus had never been insulted outright like
that. He couldn't even remember the last time anybody had spoken ill of his
father in the way the negativity seemed to drawl off Draco's lips eagerly, like
Draco had been waiting years to tell one of the Potter children how much he
loathed their father.
"My father," Albus began, heat crawling into his cheeks as he stood his ground
and clutched his satchel strap tighter in his fist, "Is the greatest wizard of
this century."
Draco turned to face Albus again, a sneer on his thin lips. "Well, whatever our
disagreements on the subject of the infamous Harry Potter, you certainly did
not come here to talk to me about him, now did you?" Draco's lips twitched in
the only sign of irritation Albus could physically see.
"No," Albus said. "I actually… Well, I write for the Hogwarts' Ledger, and I
was hoping you might grant me an interview." When Draco didn't immediately
answer, Albus shifted uncomfortably and toyed with the strap of his satchel
again, twisting it in his sweaty grip. "It's…it's the school paper," he said, a
little louder this time, to the point that putting forth the effort made his
voice crack. "I actually started the Ledger in my first year—I thought it would
be nice for students to know what's going on at Hogwarts, to keep everyone, you
know, informed." He cleared his throat and averted his gaze; Draco's silence
was unnerving and annoying. "Anyway, I'd understand if you don't want to, but
I'd appreciate a response at the very least."
"You ought to learn to respect your elders, Mr. Potter," Draco said stiffly.
When Albus looked up to respond, he found that Draco had drawn close to him. "I
did not hear even one 'Sir' in there, nor a 'please'." Tsking, Draco took
Albus's chin and tipped his handsome face into the light. "Didn't your
legendary father teach you manners, boy?"
Dark green eyes widening, Albus couldn't help but stutter in his sudden panic.
Draco's words made him feel both humiliated and suddenly aroused. Either
emotion would have been easy to handle alone, but as they crashed together in
Albus's chest, he felt his knees ready to buckle under the desire to let Draco
speak to him like that for the remainder of his days. Some part of Albus liked
it, some part of him got off on the strange, exhilarating humiliation of it
all.
"But I suppose, despite your awful social etiquette, that I could be
persuaded," Draco added after a moment, perusing Albus's features in the dim
lighting of his small office. Releasing Albus from his grip, he returned to his
desk and summoned another book from the shelves as he took a seat. "I presume
you want to know everything, including the dark times back when I was a Death
Eater? Including everything with Voldemort?"
Breathless with excitement, Albus nodded. Swallowing behind dry lips and a
sticky throat, he stepped forward, bright eyes a little too wide in his
interest. "Yes, sir. Everything. I want to know everything."
Draco nodded slowly. "And I assume you're taking Potions with me this term, Mr.
Potter?"
Albus's shoulders rose expectantly and then fell in a slump as he nervously
shook his head. "I…forgot to signup."
"Well, what luck," Draco drawled. "As I just happen to have an extra seat."
Waving Albus away, Draco returned to settling his things. "I expect to see you
at the first lesson, bright and early tomorrow morning. Afterwards, we can
discuss the terms of this interview you are so desperately craving. Have a good
day, Mr. Potter."
                      ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Albus tried to tell himself it was all about getting the interview, about
telling Hogwarts the story of a man who had once struggled as a Death Eater
under the darkest wizard of their age but had managed to turn his life around
and grow to be an experienced Potions Master and founder of the Experimental
Potions for the Treatment of Magical Diseases at the Ministry. But even Albus
knew there was more to his strange fascination with Draco Malfoy—it had been
that way ever since Albus had met Scorpius. Though they weren't best mates,
they had both spent one or two nights piss-faced in the Slytherin Common Room,
talking just for the sake of drowning out the silence. The stories Scorpius
spun of his father, of Draco's exploits under Voldemort and his forced
compliance to become a Death Eater were the things Albus had always wanted to
hear about the war, the things his own father always left out when he answered
Albus's questions.
Harry always answered in the same stiff way, possibly because Albus's questions
grew more and more probing and grim. But Albus wasn't interested in the fact
that the war was hard on everyone and that people died—those were the things
already written in the history books. No, Albus wanted to know how Voldemort
rose to power so fluidly. He wanted the details about what he did to his
prisoners, what he did while the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix were
searching for him. How did he attain human form again? How was it possible that
nobody besides a scrawny teenaged boy could best him? How did he even manage to
gain admittance into Hogwarts?
Albus had a wonderful and nauseating feeling he could get Draco Malfoy to tell
him. It was, in fact, all Albus could think of when he attempted to sleep his
first evening as a Sixth Year at Hogwarts.
                      ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Albus's first lesson under Draco was an atrocious reminder of why he had no
business mixing Potions and would never excel in the subject. After the entire
classroom was smothered in dark purple clouds of noxious gasses and had to be
cleared due to his error, it seemed Draco knew it as well.
Draco drew Albus into his office as he bade the rest of the class to leave for
the remainder of the day.
"I expect four inches of parchment on the effects of adding the wrong
measurements of fluxweed into Invigoration Draughts by the next lesson."
The groans of the students' dismay echoed through the hallways as they exited
the Potions classroom and Albus hung back, watching as Draco began sweeping his
wand through the smoke, clearing the dark plumes in waves. Albus coughed as he
retrieved his own wand and moved out into the smoke beside Draco, mimicking the
way he cleaned it up to attempt to help. Draco glanced sidelong at him and
reached out, straightening Albus's wrist.
"Like that," Draco said, nodding. "I would have assumed you'd know how to fix
your own messes at your age, Mr. Potter."
Albus rolled his eyes and bit back a response that would have been highly
inappropriate. Finally getting the hang of the magic, he broke away from Draco
and continued to clear the classroom of the putrid smoke in the opposite
direction entirely. Once they had both managed to clear the room, Albus
pocketed his wand and glanced at the door. He was unbearably sweaty and was
sure he looked worse for the wear and smelled like a wet dog from the stench of
the potion—it would have been nice to go back to his dormitory and change
clothes, spray some cologne or even take a quick shower, and then return to
interview Draco for the article. But he half suspected Draco wouldn't let him
come back if he left, and at the very least they were alone, so it would be
easier to ask the kinds of questions Albus needed to ask.
"Now, if you are quite done destroying the Potions classroom on your first day
under my tutelage," Draco drawled, a sneer on his fair, pointed features, "I
think perhaps we should discuss the terms of your little interview."
"I would like that," Albus said, trying to keep the enthusiasm out of his
voice, figuring the more excited he was about getting answers the less Draco
would be willing to share with him just out of spite. "Your office, sir?"
Draco waved his hand towards it with a nod and the two of them made themselves
comfortable. Draco removed his robes, down to his crisp white shirt unbuttoned
at the collar and slacks. Albus took the hint and removed his own robes, though
he felt somewhat silly disrobing in his professor's quarters. Then again, he
had had tea with Hagrid several times after curfew hours, so what was the
difference, really? Informal was informal.
Setting his satchel down beside the chair, he knelt to retrieve a scroll and
quill from it and then turned to find Draco's eyes on him. The look in them was
unlike anything Albus had ever seen before, and it caused a ripple of pleasure
to pulse through his body. As the tremor ran through him, he gripped the quill
and parchment as if they would give him the necessary strength to stand
upright.
"So," Albus began quietly, "Sir—Professor. Shall I ask you some questions now?"
"I suppose," Draco answered, still staring at him in the same unnerving way
that made Albus's skin tingle. "But there is just one matter left unresolved."
Before Albus could ask what it was, Draco answered it for him: "Repayment. You
didn't assume I would give such a personal interview without asking something
in return, did you?"
"What did you have in mind, Professor?" Albus swallowed around the lump in his
throat, hoping against hope that Draco didn't want him back in his Potions
class again. He was afraid next time he might truly destroy the classroom with
his fumbling fingers and shoddy potions-work.
"Quite simple, really," Draco drawled. "I am in need of an assistant in my
classroom. Someone to clean the cauldrons after the first years have destroyed
them, someone to assist in organizing the ingredients, someone to brew a warm
cup of a tea for me between classes."
Albus gaped. "You can't be serious, Professor—not after I nearly obliterated
your classroom. I'm a mess at Potions; I'd be the worst assistant."
Draco shrugged and looked away. "Either you become my new assistant and
continue taking Potions to better master the skills you are so desperate to
avoid, or this interview of yours will never see print." Turning his dull gaze
back to Albus, Draco sneered. "Imagine it, Potter: you will be the first and
only wizard to have asked such questions of me and received honest replies.
Others from the Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, and all the other rags have been
crawling all over me to get my stories, but I've never told them what they
want—what you want." Draco leaned forward across the table and despite himself
Albus did too, eyes shining with desire. "Wouldn't you just love to be the
first, Mr. Potter? Wouldn't cleaning a few cauldrons and learning to make some
interesting potions be an easy fee to repay such a reward?"
Albus had to admit, Potions was sounding better and better now that he was
imagining himself as the only wizard to have successfully achieved an interview
with Draco Malfoy. Suddenly, it was all Albus could think about—all the
attention, the infamy that came not from his surname or the names of other
famous wizards but from his own actions and hard work. He could already see the
surprise on his father's face when he read the article, could see the jealousy
in James's eyes when he heard that his little brother had excelled where he
hadn't. Everybody thought he'd been sorted into Slytherin on accident, but only
Albus knew that these kinds of desires for attention and infamy were the very
reasons the Sorting Hat had been right all along.
Albus's tongue swiped over his dry mouth to wet his lips, as he unconsciously
stared at Draco, admiring the handsome, strong lines of his face. "I think
that's a very fair trade, Professor."
"Perfect," Draco said, leaning back in his chair. Waving his wand towards the
office door, he let it slam shut and several bolts slithered into place. "For
privacy. Now, you have your parchment ready?"
Albus fumbled for a moment with his inkwell, settling it on Draco's desk so he
could dip his quill's tip into it. Reaching for his wand, he tapped the
feathers on the quill and it shook for a moment before it levitated out of his
fingertips and began scrawling notes to the parchment on its own.
Draco glanced sidelong at the self-animated quill and parchment and his eyes
narrowed a little. "There is one other rule that we should discuss before I
begin," he said.
"Anything, sir."
"If I say that a subject is off-limits or I answer a question but bar you from
publishing it, I expect that my privacy will be respected. Is that clear?"
Albus nodded. "Anything you tell me not to publish won't be published."
"Let's begin then."
Albus started with simple questions: Draco's full name, age, family history,
marriage, career, professional associations. These were things everyone knew,
things even Albus knew mostly, but they were important details that were
necessary to set the scene. When Albus moved on to more personal questions, his
palms began to sweat; he rubbed them distractedly against his thighs.
"When did you become a Death Eater?"
Draco's jaw tightened. It was clear he hadn't expected the questions to be so
serious so quickly. But Albus was somewhat impatient for the 'good parts', the
things he had always wanted to know, the things his own father refused to tell
him, the things even the history books omitted.
"I'm sure your father has told you all about my family," Draco replied,
loosening his collar a bit more as he summoned a fresh cup of a tea. "My
father, Lucius, had been a Death Eater in Voldemort's first uprising. Because
he thought Voldemort would give him everything he desired, my father became
Voldemort's second in command more or less for selfish reasons. If there was
one person Voldemort trusted during the initial years of the first uprising, it
was my father. I would have said, when I was a boy your age, that they were
friends, but now I know better—Voldemort had no friends, only imbecile
followers too stupid to know better."
While Draco collected himself and blew the steam from his teacup, Albus shifted
in his chair, hooked already on the responses Albus knew no one had yet been
able to extract from this man.
"Anyway, I loved my father of course. He was a brilliant wizard, a powerful man
of the world. When I was a young boy, there was nothing I wished more than to
be the mirror image of him. I styled my clothes in the way he did, slicked my
hair back because I saw pictures of when he was my age and had done the same,
and adopted his attitudes against Half-Breeds, Muggles, and Mudbloods."
Albus twitched at the use of the word 'Mudblood', and Draco sneered in
response.
"Oh, don't think me still so prejudiced, Mr. Potter. I can assure you, I no
longer feel any hatred towards…Muggle-borns, shall we say?"
"That's better," Albus said stiffly, unable to keep the grimace from his face.
It wasn't every day someone said Mudblood like it was just part of the natural
flow of conversation. His Aunt Hermione fought daily in the Ministry for the
rights of all witches, wizards, and magical creatures of every kind; he knew
better than most what prejudice looked like.
"But when I was young," Draco went on, "I often spoke ill of anyone who was not
a Pureblood." Draco held up a hand to silence Albus's further protests or
arguments. "If you are going to tell me how wrong I was, I can save you the
time—those days were quite different, you understand. My father had a very
persistent viewpoint, one that I was raised to believe was the law. Even my
mother, Narcissa, who was quiet on the subject for the most part could be
overheard commenting on the blood status of just about any witch or wizard I
knew entering Hogwarts. 'Don't befriend that one,' she'd tell me before school
started, 'But you would do well to become friendly with her'. I learned that
someone's blood status was more important than any other single thing about a
person. That is, in fact, why your father and I are not—and have never
been—friends."
Albus shifted again. "Why's that, Professor? My father wasn't Muggle-born. His
father was a wizard, and his grandfather, and—"
"But your grandmother was Muggle-born," Draco interrupted. He lifted the teacup
to his lips and drank quietly, then settled the teacup to the saucer with a
sigh. "It didn't matter to my family how talented a family was—if they weren't
Pureblood down to the last seven generations, there was no use for them in
Voldemort's time." When their eyes met, Draco grinned. "You are undoubtedly
angry at this interpretation, but you are quite lucky, Mr. Potter, that your
father did what he did for the world or you would be living in a similarly-
jaded time where your family would still be considered second-rate by blood
status elitists. They still exist of course, but it has now become the norm to
ignore them."
"You haven't answered my question," Albus said tersely, trying to ignore the
angry feeling that overwhelmed him when he thought of the prejudice in the
world. "How did you become a Death Eater?"
"Ah, yes," Draco said, lowering his gaze. Fingers cradled his teacup and he
gave it a light push, swirling the tea leaves and water within. "So as I said,
I wanted very much to be in the image of my father." Draco's earlier grin faded
quite quickly, an ugly frown on his otherwise handsome, pale features. "I was
provided the perfect chance in my Sixth Year. Just before, during the summer
after my father was locked away in Azkaban for his crimes. Your father put him
there, actually, and I was livid at the world, ready to prove my worth to
defend my family's good name." Another swirl of the tea before Draco lowered
the cup with a clang to the saucer again. "Voldemort was also livid and
impatient for his chance to regain power. He knew his time was limited if he
didn't move fast, because there were still people who thought your father was
an insane dupe, a mere puppet for Dumbledore's aging dementia, and that
wouldn't last forever."
Albus's throat was dry now too, and he found his gaze drawing to Draco's
teacup. Swallowing beyond the desire to drink from it or remove himself to get
a cup as well, he merely quelled the desire and continued to listen with baited
breath.
"Voldemort gave my family an ultimatum," Draco continued quietly, his voice
barely above a whisper. "Without Lucius, we were useless to his cause, but
instead of agreeing and making our silent way out of his trap, I stood up and
said that there was plenty we could offer him. Unfortunately, he seemed to
agree." Draco's fingers trembled as he removed them from the teacup and lifted
the sleeve of his shirt on his left forearm. An aged tattoo in the shape of a
skull and snake puckered and shrivelled the flesh there into a grotesque scar
that wound in and out of otherwise flawless, porcelain skin. "I was told that
it was my duty to assist Voldemort in one of his greatest tasks, and if I
failed, that he would slit my mother's throat in front of me and force me to do
the same to my father."
The creak of Albus's chair gave him away as he leaned in to try and get a
better look at the disgusting remnants of Draco's Dark Mark tattoo. Draco
looked up, aware of Albus's interest, and held out his arm for Albus to study.
"I was given this," Draco whispered, "And I was told that I could not fail in
this task. I was taken into a small room, stripped naked, and my own Aunt held
me still while Voldemort pressed his wand into my flesh and administered the
tattoo that you see now."
"Did it hurt?" Albus asked, unable to help himself as he reached out and drew
his fingers across the lumps and sinews of marred flesh.
"It was the worst pain I have ever known in my life," Draco said simply, eyes
on Albus as fingers continued to wind across the pale skin of his arm. "The
tattoo took sixty seconds to administer, and Voldemort's wand had to completely
penetrate the skin of my arm. It was as if thousands of needles had snaked
their way under the flesh and began sewing thread, blood, and muscle into my
arm. I couldn't move it for a week."
Albus finally attempted to remove his hand, only because of the look Draco was
giving him. Before he could fully remove his fingers from Draco's skin, Draco
reached out and took Albus's hand at his wrist, pulling him half over the desk
in a sudden burst of strength that left Albus breathless. With his wand
removed, Draco traced it over Albus's skin, following the veins from the pulse
point at his wrist up to the juncture of his forearm and elbow, where the
sensitive skin tingled at the touch.
"That's…horrible," Albus managed, shivering the more Draco's wand traced the
flesh. "You were only sixteen…" The same age as Albus was now.
Draco nodded as he stared down at Albus's arm. "I was one of the youngest, my
mother told me. She was horrified, of course, I could see the disgust in her
eyes whenever she looked at me, but I told her everything would be all right,
that as long as I followed Voldemort's orders, we could get father released
from Azkaban, and we would be safe." Draco pressed the wand firmly into Albus's
flesh until Albus winced. "I was naïve."
When Albus's skin started burning, he thought he was going mad, imagining the
pain Draco must have been in during that tumultuous time, but then he realized
that Draco's wand was emitting a painful, prickling heat that ebbed its way
beneath Albus's skin until the skin began to sizzle and prick.
"Professor," he exhaled, trying to yank his arm away with a sudden panic that
alarmed him. "Professor Malfoy, please! My arm!"
Draco looked up at him as if noticing him for the first time and slowly removed
his wand tip from Albus's arm, where an angry red welt had already formed.
Albus sank back into his seat with an exhale, trembling as he ran his fingers
over the sensitive mark Draco had left in his wake.
"You are lucky, Mr. Potter," Draco said quietly, the sound of his voice bitter
and subdued. "That is just a mere bruise, a burn that any salve from the
infirmary can heal within a fortnight. This—" he gestured to his Mark with a
growl, "—Will never go away, no matter how many times I wish it would. It is a
mistake many young wizards make, to choose the wrong path for themselves in the
hope of infamy or revenge. This is proof that weighing your decisions
carefully, thinking them over until you are sure you can live with the outcome,
is the right path."
Albus took a moment to let the story sink in, the sound of the quill still
scrawling the end of Draco's story the only noise between them. Though his arm
hurt, the burning had subsided and the redness of the irritated welt had
already gone down. Stranger still, when Albus moved to make himself more
comfortable in the chair, he felt the firm bulge of the beginnings of an
erection pressing tight against his trousers. It was less embarrassing to know
he had a hard-on in front of his professor than it was confusing as to what
exactly had turned him on. And yet it was the same feeling, the same mix of
confused arousal that he had felt the previous day when Draco had spoken ill of
him and his father and he had allowed it.
His brows furrowed as he thought of something else then and cleared his throat
to relieve some of the tension in the air. "Professor, what task did Voldemort
give to you that was so important?"
For a moment, Draco said nothing, only stared at the quill blotting ink in
preparation for his response. Then Draco laughed, the sound of it hollow as it
released from his throat.
"It was simple, actually," Draco said. "And when I accepted it, I was thrilled.
I told all my friends, boasted how I wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts after it
was completed because there would be no point in droll studies. It was a trick,
you see. You've read about the Death Eaters storming Hogwarts, I assume?"
Albus nodded. "None of the history books have ever said how it was done."
"That's because your father never told them, and he is one of a very select few
individuals who know that it was my fault." Draco paused with a glance towards
the still-moving quill. "What I am going to tell you next is not for
publication, Mr. Potter. Is that clear? It is imperative that this not be
written."
Again, Albus nodded, head bobbing pathetically, as words escaped him at the
knowledge he would now be among those select individuals who knew this grand
secret.
"Voldemort wanted to gain control of Hogwarts, and they discovered a possible
way in a pair of vanishing cabinets, one which was located in Knockturn Alley
and the other that was hidden in a secret room here at Hogwarts. I was given
the task of mending the broken cabinet at Hogwarts to allow passage between the
two."
Albus frowned, absently running his fingertips over the welt on his arm. "So
you let them in?"
Draco smiled sadly. "You ask that question as if I had a choice at that point,
Mr. Potter. Imagine that you were in my position: your father is in Azkaban,
getting his soul sucked out on a daily basis by rabid Dementors, your mother
can't bear to look at you or when she does is sobbing and tearing her hair out,
and all the while you are being told that if you fail, they will all die anyway
and so will you. Of course I wasn't happy about it once the reality sank in,
but I had little choice to stop what I had started. So yes, I fixed the cabinet
and allowed the Death Eaters passage into Hogwarts grounds. But that was only
half of the task. The second part of it is the part that is most important that
you keep to yourself. The thing Voldemort desired above all else at that
time…do you know what that was, Mr. Potter?"
Albus swallowed behind the taste of sickness rising in his throat. "He wanted
to kill my father."
A mirthless sneer curled the edges of Draco's thin lips. "How very like your
father, to assume everything was about him. While Voldemort did want your
father dead, he needed someone else to go before he could attain that prize."
Albus's brows knitted in confusion. "Dumbledore?" he asked quietly. "But I
thought Severus Snape killed Headmaster Dumbledore?"
Draco's sneer faded quickly. "Severus was under an obligation to my mother at
the time to assist me if I failed at my mission. But the main task I was told
to undertake was indeed to kill Albus Dumbledore."
Albus was positively writhing in his seat by now, impatient to review the notes
his quill was scrawling to put the pieces together and start the article. Just
a few questions had already painted the most vivid picture he had ever seen.
"But you couldn't do it," Albus breathed. "You couldn't kill him."
"No, I couldn't." Draco began to roll down his shirt sleeve, covering up the
Dark Mark.
They sat in silence for a long time, Albus running over the responses Draco had
offered him and Draco listening to the sound of the quill racing across the
parchment. Then, Draco broke the silence with a soft spell that stopped the
quill in its tracks. Both quill and parchment tumbled into Albus's lap, rolling
themselves together.
"Sir?" Albus pressed, glancing from the quill and parchment to Draco.
"I think that is enough questioning for one evening, don't you?" Draco stood
from behind the desk and stretched; Albus unabashedly stared at the strong,
lean lines of his body. "Besides, I do believe you are my assistant now, and
the cauldrons will need cleaning before my next class."
Stumbling out of his seat, Albus fumbled to check the time and his eyes
widened. "Shit," he cursed, red-faced at the curse and at the time. "I missed
my Defense class."
Draco grinned knowingly as he rounded the desk and clasped a hand on Albus's
shoulder. "You should probably come around after classes tomorrow then for
another round of questions. Perhaps in my private chambers? They are much more
comfortable than my office."
Albus felt his cheeks burning uncomfortably, and with Draco's touch, he seemed
to feel the welt on his arm ever more presently. "Tomorrow night then."
"But I do expect you here before lunch and after dinner every day to scrub the
cauldrons and set my classroom in order, Mr. Potter," Draco said sternly. "Do
remember our bargain. And take care to stop by the infirmary to put some salve
on that."
Albus nodded and gathered his things as he retreated from Draco's office and
moved into the classroom. The cauldrons were still steaming with potions, and
Albus imagined he'd miss his entire lunch just getting the built-up gunk
cleaned out. With a heavy sigh, he set his satchel and parchments down and
gathered his wand, readying himself for the task at hand as he tried not to
think about the war and Draco's dismal part in it.
                      ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Becoming Draco's assistant turned out to be one of the worst bargains Albus had
ever made in his life. Besides cleaning the cauldrons twice daily and preparing
Draco's tea every morning, there were other tasks that Draco set out for Albus
that didn't seem altogether fair. For example, Albus was made to file the
potions ingredients in Draco's private Potions stores. From what Albus could
tell, the potions did not actually belong to Draco but seemed to have been in
the large store for years, since a great deal of the jars were covered in
cobwebs and others filled with mold or rotting gunk. Albus had a nagging
feeling Draco was only making him organize the potions as some kind of revenge
for the probing questions or perhaps as nothing more than spite.
Despite the atrocities Albus discovered in organizing something that had
obviously not been touched in years, Albus found that it was worth his time.
The more he worked for Draco and gained his confidence, the more questions he
was allowed to ask about his studies at Hogwarts, about his time as a Death
Eater, and eventually about Voldemort.
The first week, Albus learned that Draco was the one who was supposed to kill
Dumbledore, that Draco had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts that night during
the second uprising of Voldemort, and even that Draco and Harry had gotten into
a physical scuffle that left Draco scarred for life. Draco had only too smugly
removed his shirt to show Albus the aged white scars that ran from his shoulder
down across his chest and to the curve of his torso. While Albus had been hard
pressed to keep from moaning at the sight of Draco's exposed body, he hadn't
been able to stop thinking about the fact that it was his father who had done
that to him. Harry had never once admitted to any violence like that, and even
the history books said that Harry was famous for both never casting a Killing
Curse and mainly using Expelliarmus to bring down his enemies. Albus wondered
how much of the stories Harry had told him were true and how much were toned
down to either make Harry look better than he was or to downplay the real
violence in the recollections.
Mostly, Albus just wished he could get his hands on a Pensieve and a crate full
of his father's memories to learn the real things first-hand.
Still, at the second week as an assistant to Draco Malfoy, Albus started to
feel like he was gaining the knowledge he so desperately desired. When he
arrived late to Draco's private chambers one evening, Draco was already seated
on the small couch near his fireplace, a tray of tea and cakes on the coffee
table in front of him, clearly ready to go on with the tale.
"Sorry, Professor," Albus said, closing the door behind him and fumbling in his
hurry to remove the quill, ink, and parchment from his satchel. "The first
years really did a number on your cauldrons, so I missed dinner to—"
"It's all right, Mr. Potter," Draco drawled, waving Albus close. "No need to
apologize. We have the rest of the evening before us, after all. Have a seat."
Albus smiled and settled his things behind the couch. Leaving his Slytherin
robes on, Albus took a seat beside Draco and tapped his quill and parchment
with his wand. As they levitated away from him and began filling in the gaps
from their previous session, Albus took an offered cake and shoved it into his
mouth, reaching for another.
"You've no idea how hungry I am, sir," Albus sputtered, mouth full of sweet
cakes. "I skipped dinner to clean up, and it took ages, and I'd obviously
rather be with you than at the Great Hall by myself for a late bite."
Draco chuckled. "You do quite remind me of your father now—no sense of manners,
always in a rush, shoving a second cake into your mouth before you've had time
to finish the first."
Albus rolled his eyes and made a point of swallowing before he responded. "I'll
take that as a compliment, Professor." After dropping a cube of sugar into his
tea, Albus picked it up to take a drink.
"I presume you think we are close enough now that you can simply partake in my
foods without my permission to do so."
Halfway through a large gulp of tea, Albus choked a little in his haste to put
the cup back down. "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean—"
"I am quite sure you meant no harm." Draco grinned. "Please, feel free. Shall
you ask me some questions again? Or is this a personal visit?"
Albus blinked, still trying to clear his throat from having nearly choked on
the tea. His cheeks were feeling warm from embarrassment and the heat from the
fireplace. "A personal visit, Professor?"
Draco studied him for a moment in silence, and the look in his eyes made Albus
recoil into the cushions. They were sitting so close on the small sofa that
Albus was even warmer because of Draco's body heat. The light of the fire
against his pale skin warmed it, casting a faint pink glow to the white skin.
Albus had always envied the porcelain texture of Scorpius's skin; it was one of
those traits that was so rare, unique, individual. Albus was fair-skinned like
the rest of his family, with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of his
nose like James and Lily, glasses like his father, hair like his father, eyes
like his father. Everything he was belonged to somebody else—it would have been
amazing to be pale like the Malfoys, to have white-blond hair like Draco or
light eyes like Scorpius.
"I was…sort of hoping to ask a few more questions, Sir," Albus added quickly,
because the look in Draco's eyes was unnerving and his own thoughts were bound
to give him away. Just sitting there in the dark beside Draco was enough to
make Albus half-hard from wanting the impossible, the strange things he could
not voice.
Draco sighed and tipped his head back, stretching his arms above his head
lithely. "Of course. Please go on. Where did we leave off yesterday?"
"You told me about your Aunt Bellatrix locking you in your room as punishment
for not killing Dumbledore…and about Severus Snape helping you get away after
that night."
Draco reached for his own teacup for a sip and nodded thoughtfully. "Ah yes. So
I assume you are going to ask more about what happened after that. More about
what I did during what would have been my Seventh Year at Hogwarts."
"You didn't return to Hogwarts, then?" Albus pressed, as the quill started
taking notes again.
"Oh, I did return actually, but it was nothing of a school year at all. My days
were mostly spent sitting in corners, trying to avoid getting caught writing
owls to my mother. I returned home as often as I could, but it was nearly
impossible to remain there either, as Voldemort had taken up residence at
Malfoy Manor. It wasn't even that he enjoyed what we could have offered him
there—it was more to keep an eye on my father and to punish my family for what
he perceived as a lack of willpower and a failure to all Death Eaters."
Draco stood from the couch with some difficulty—Albus noticed his fingers were
once again trembling, and for a moment Albus wondered if he should put away the
quill and parchment and forget about the interview for the evening. Then, as
Draco retrieved a large green glass bottle from the top shelf on the far wall,
he began speaking again, so Albus said nothing.
"So this is something I'm sure you've never read in the history books, but
Voldemort tortured, maimed, killed, and abused Muggle-borns and Muggle-lovers
for fun while he stayed at the Manor. Well, I don't actually think he took any
pleasure in any of the acts, to be perfectly honest, but he certainly loved the
reactions he could garnish from my family."
Draco paused, slopping some whiskey onto the floor as he trembled pouring it
into the glass. Albus jumped to his feet at the sight and steadied the bottle
for Draco while he poured. His calloused, worn fingers brushed against Draco's
smooth ones, and Albus looked up in time to meet steel-gray eyes that bored
into his soul.
"Thank you, Mr. Potter," he said quietly, nodding. "Would you like a drink?"
"Yes, sir," Albus said, more out of fear that saying no would be rude than out
of actually wanting any. When he raised his glass to his nose, it smelled like
Muggle paint thinner.
"Firewhiskey."
Draco's explanation made sense, but Albus said nothing as he resumed his
previous position on the couch, cradling the cup between both hands as he
waited for Draco to resume his story. It took a moment for Draco to regain
composure, but after a shot of Firewhiskey and a few breaths, he went on.
"There was this Muggle Studies professor who used to teach here at Hogwarts."
Draco swallowed, eyes trained somewhere beyond the rim of his glass. "Charity
Burbage." The sound of his voice was hoarse and sluggish, as if just saying the
name caused him great pain. "She wrote some article or another regarding the
impudence of Purebloods to think that they would eradicate Muggle-borns, and
she was well-known for her stance on all of this of course. I had never really
known her, not until they brought her to the Manor." Draco poured himself
another shot of whiskey and downed it before returning to sit beside Albus
again. "She was a prisoner at the Manor for barely a week before Voldemort
started using her as an example, slashing her chest and throat in front of us
while we attempted to eat dinner. And then, during one of the Death Eater
meetings, he hung her above the dining table while she begged for her life. He
grew tired of her whining and silenced her with the Killing Curse."
Staring at Draco became almost unbearable as he went on, so Albus looked down
into the whiskey instead, his own fingers trembling. The quill to his right
scrawled the notes of Draco's tale furiously.
"That wasn't the worst of it," Draco went on dully. "As she hung lifelessly
above our heads, Voldemort summoned his snake and…" With a thick swallow, Draco
waved his hand as if to pass over the worst of his story.
"He fed her to the snake?" Albus gasped, his heart absolutely racing at the
thought of it.
"Yes. Tell me, Albus, have you ever seen a snake eat something bigger than
itself? Imagine it for a moment: you are just a boy, caught in a horrible
situation, with a dead woman hanging above your head. Your father is an escapee
from Azkaban, certain to be sentenced to death, and your mother is incapable
and unable to assist in anything more than wretched, useless sobbing. And when
the woman's hunched body is lowered to the table, a giant snake coils around
her and begins to devour her, starting with the head and working her way down
over the lumps of breasts, the bones of her hips, the sinew of muscles in her
thighs. This was not a quick swallow, either. I was made to watch the entire
thing, or as much as I dared before I passed out. Since it takes a normal snake
hours just to eat a simple cat or small cub, I imagine this lasted much longer.
I am quite sure my mother had nightmares about it until the day she died."
"Do you?" Albus breathed, leaning in so close to Draco that their knees nearly
touched on the small sofa they shared. "Have nightmares about it, I mean?"
Draco sneered in disgust. "Wouldn't you, Mr. Potter?"
Albus knew it was a stupid question, but he couldn't help but ask it. Painful
as it seemed to be to Draco, Albus had come for these details, the worst
aspects of the war, the things no one could speak of. To stifle further
ridiculous questions, Albus downed the whiskey in his glass with a cough as it
burned going down. He didn't even notice when it refilled itself again.
"That was the most benevolent act of mercy Voldemort ever bestowed," Draco
added a moment later. "To kill someone, to release their tortured soul, to let
them die. But it was also an example to my family of what would happen to us,
should we betray or let him down again." Draco sighed. "Next question, Potter.
These Voldemort-centric ones are getting old, and I'm sure it is boring you."
"It's not boring, sir!" Albus said, a little too quickly. Flushed with
embarrassment, he avoided Draco's gaze. "I want the whole story, everything
that you're willing to tell me."
"Another question then, a change of pace."
"What did you do?" Albus asked quietly after a moment's thought. "While
Voldemort was living at the Manor, I mean. How did you occupy your time with
him there? With all the Death Eaters?"
"My parents and I tried very hard to keep our distance, but my insane Aunt
Bellatrix saw to it that I was involved in nearly every torture imaginable. And
at times, she would amuse herself with tormenting me in private." Draco glanced
to the ever-moving quill. "This is another one of those things that must not be
printed, do you understand?"
Shifting in his seat, Albus suddenly felt very warm and very dizzy. He had
unconsciously tipped more of the sweet, warm alcohol between his lips to drink,
and now the room was swaying.
"Do you understand, Mr. Potter?"
Albus managed to nod, eyelids heavy as he tried to focus on Draco, who seemed
very far away now.
"Not even my mother knows what happened when Bellatrix dragged me off to the
cells beneath Malfoy Manor. I was too embarrassed to tell her at the time and
too worried Voldemort would find out I had somehow betrayed him in telling her
without his permission. There were times she would strip me until I stood nude
before her and Voldemort, and she would practice the Cruciatus Curse on me or
Voldemort would place me under the Imperius Curse just to see how well I would
attempt to fight against it. Once, in between whips of the Cruciatus, he made
me touch myself, pleasure myself, while he watched, while my Aunt sniggered in
the corner."
Albus couldn't help the rouge of colour that suddenly flushed on his pale
cheeks at the thought of Draco, bent to someone's whim, nude and panting, prick
hard, body taut. The moment the image penetrated his mind, Albus couldn't get
rid of it no matter how hard he tried. It was horrible, everything Draco had to
go through, and yet Albus was turned on by the pain of it, by the release he
imagined on Draco's face when he came, even against his will.
"Do you understand that kind of pain, Mr. Potter?" Draco's voice was suddenly
very close to his ear, and Albus felt his eyelids close of their own accord as
a moan slipped out of his lips and into the stifling air between them. "Have
you ever been embarrassed in such a way, with your body on display and your
emotions laid bare for strangers? Your pain their twisted pleasure?"
"No," Albus ground out, desperate to keep his voice from cracking but failing
somewhat miserably as his throat was dry.
"You've never so much as scraped your knee without someone rushing to your
rescue, isn't that right?" Draco's lips made contact with the taut flesh of
Albus's throat, and Albus gasped tightly. "Your pain was nothing more than a
soft yelp in the wind, but you've yet to experience the howl of true, gruesome
agony."
"Never," Albus exhaled. His head felt heavy, so he let it loll to the side,
exposing the juncture of his throat and shoulder for Draco, who took full
advantage of the skin to suckle there.
The glass of Firewhiskey fell from Albus's limp fingers with a clank to the
stone floors, and Albus released another moan as he felt Draco's teeth sink
into the taut flesh.
"Is there something about these stories that draws you to them night after
night in my chambers? Or is it that you enjoy spending your time here, alone
with me?"
Draco's fingers made slow work of Albus's robes, drawing the thick material
down off his shoulder, down the upper slope of his back, and Albus swayed
dizzily in response, unable to so much as move his arms or legs to protest.
Even his words became slurred and unintelligible. "I…no, I'm not—I mean, I
didn't—"
"Tell me the truth about your intentions here, Mr. Potter," Draco went on, as
if ignoring Albus's soft protests. "Are you truly after the interview of the
century from me, or are you here for selfish reasons? To get off on these
gruesome stories and my thoughts on them?"
Albus struggled in earnest as Draco pulled his robes off his body and untucked
his jumper and shirts from his trousers, but it seemed the more he struggled
the worse the effects of the Firewhiskey were on his system and the less he
could truly manage to move. Despite everything, he was desperately hard and
panting helplessly the further Draco went, the more clothes that were removed.
When Draco's bare fingers touched the skin of his stomach and sides, Albus
allowed his body to sink until his back was flush with the armrest. Draco
tipped his body over it, Albus's head lolling limply and mouth agape as Draco's
palms ran flatly up over the arch of his ribs, shoving the material of his
clothes up to bunch at his throat as he did so.
"I saw your reaction when I pressed my wand to your arm and let it burn your
skin," Draco growled possessively. "Do you think I didn't notice you didn't
bother putting any medication on it? Or all the times while I told stories of
the Dark Mark and you sat there rubbing it like some sick child with a rash?"
Albus tried to shake his head, to explain himself, but then Draco's hands were
on his hips, at the fly of his trousers, and then Albus was naked from the
waist down, and he knew he was half-hard from the way Draco was talking to him,
from the way Draco handled him, so he just let out a groan instead when Draco's
fist closed around his cock and began to stroke it slowly from base to head.
"Is this how you wanted me to take you? You were too weak to tell me yourself
that you fancied me, that you wanted me to take you in exactly this way, bent
over the sofa like a common whore. I think you like it when I abuse you, just
like you enjoyed it when my wand burned through your skin. Tell me you liked
it, Potter. I want to hear you say it."
To Albus's utter surprise and horror, he uttered the words Draco was so
desperate to hear: "Yes, sir. I've wanted this since I first saw you. I bought
these glasses just to impress you—I thought you'd think I was something unique,
that you'd appreciate the money spent on them. When you burned my skin, I
wanted you to keep on burning it until my skin peeled off. And I get off
hearing your stories, the torture and the torment of your life, of Voldemort's
wrath, and I need you. On me, in me, everywhere, sir, please."
Albus's limp body arched dully off the sofa as Draco lifted him, but when their
mouths met for a deep kiss, Albus could not participate. His jaw remained slack
as Draco's tongue slithered into his mouth and claimed every crevice. Draco's
fist continued to work Albus's cock into full hardness, and Albus whimpered
pathetically when Draco removed himself from the sofa and began to undress.
"So you liked the pain," Draco drawled. "And you like listening to my stories
of torture, the way my Aunt abused me, the death of innocents. You are a sick
little boy, Potter, and these are dangerous things which arouse you."
Draco summoned his wand and pressed it into the welt that still shone as a
light bruise on Albus's forearm. The same heat that Draco had previously
allowed to burn Albus before boiled against his skin again, and Albus cried
out, body twitching the longer Draco held his wand still against him.
"Look at you, just like the lot of them, getting off on the pain of others,
aroused in your own misery. Do you even understand your desire, why you enjoy
the dark side of pleasure sliced with pain?"
Albus screamed but somehow his voice shrivelled away in his throat. Nothing
more than an abused, broken doll, Albus gasped and writhed and twitched until
his spasms forced his orgasm to rip through his body.
                      ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
When Albus awoke, it was late, and his body was caked with a thick sheen of
sweat, which had cooled somewhat and made him shiver. A pale sheet had been
thrown haphazardly over his lower half, and he was curled up awkwardly in a
ball against the armrest of Draco's sofa.
Unfurling his body slowly, Albus's stiff limbs responded with angry stabs of
pain. When he tried to stand, he found that he was unable; instead, he tumbled
numbly to the floor with a thud.
Panic laced through his thoughts as he tried to remember how he'd gotten to
Draco's chambers and why his fly was undone and why there was dried come on his
stomach and sweat at the back of his neck and his eyes burned from the swell of
tears. Despite his best efforts, Albus could neither move nor recall the reason
he'd wound up as he was. The only thing he remembered was the sound of a quill
scratching against parchment.
Somewhere far away, Albus could hear someone coming his way, racing quickly to
his side. Then, a warm hand combed through his hair and gave it a firm yank.
Albus winced, staring up into the overwhelming silver stare of Draco Malfoy.
"Drink this," Draco commanded, lifting a goblet to Albus's lips.
Despite himself, Albus was parched and thirsty and even though he was afraid to
drink whatever Draco was offering, he was too desperate to say no. Part of
Albus wondered if he even had any ability to say no and mean it.
After the first few drops touched his lips, he suddenly felt more energized and
the muscles in his legs twitched. Jerking his face free of Draco's grip, he
clasped the goblet himself and tipped it back. Some of the dark brown liquid
drizzled down over his chin and throat as he slurped greedily and swallowed the
lot of it.
"There, now, that's better," Draco said.
Without so much as a response, Albus wound back and let his fist connect with
Draco's jaw. He wasn't exactly the strongest boy for his age, nor had he ever
punched someone before, but he managed to knock Draco off his feet, sending his
professor stumbling back into the wall.
"What the bloody fuck am I doing here?" Albus growled, fumbling to get to his
feet and zip up at the same time. "What did you do to me, you bastard?" Still
weak-kneed, Albus stumbled back into the couch and fell into it despite his
best effort to remain standing.
Blood was oozing thickly out of Draco's nose and when Albus looked down at his
fist, the knuckles were red and swollen. The sizzle of pain sank in, and Albus
groaned.
"You were interviewing me for your little paper," Draco snapped, pushing
himself back up to his feet as blood ribboned grotesquely down over his upper
lip. "Then you had a little too much to drink—lightweight, aren't you, boy?"
Albus growled in warning, even though he didn't think he could stand again even
if he wanted to. "What did you put in my drink?"
To his surprise, a sneer curled Draco's lips. "Smart boy. Two ingredients, Mr.
Potter, both of which you would know if you were more adept at Potions."
"Verituserum," Albus said firmly, already understanding half the story as his
memories began swimming back through his head.
"Good, good," Draco drawled, wiping his nose with his fingers, smearing the
blood all over his upper lip and into the crease between the upper and lower
tier. "Perhaps there is some hope for you yet. And the second?"
"A memory potion," Albus guessed. "Or something to make me infatuated with
you."
Draco chuckled mirthlessly. "Oh, my dear, Mr. Potter. So righteous, just like
your father, thinking the world is always wronging you. No, there is no love
potion or anything of the like, just a mild sedative which caused an unforeseen
reaction in conjunction with the Veritaserum."
"An unforeseen reaction?" Albus screamed, voice cracking. "You tried to rape
me!"
Draco was close to him now, standing tall and broad-shouldered before the sofa.
Albus sank further into it, gathering all his strength in case he needed to
make a run for the door.
"The sedative shouldn't have caused you such pain, Mr. Potter, and to be
perfectly honest, I had thought you would enjoy the loss of control."
"Why would you ever think such a thing?"
"Your reactions to my stories, to the burn on your arm—you are a masochist, Mr.
Potter, and I think you are aroused by the pain and the abuse. But please, do
tell me if I'm wrong."
Albus gritted his teeth. "You're wrong."
"There is one simple question you neglected to ask during our little
interviews," Draco explained casually, reaching out to draw one fingernail over
Albus's dry lips, which parted despite the fact that he wanted to gnash and
gnaw Draco's finger off. "Did your father ever tell you that I am an
accomplished Occlumens and Legilimens?" The look on Albus's face said it all,
and Draco chuckled again darkly. "Every time you met my eyes, every thought you
were thinking was so clearly displayed I did not truthfully even need magic to
tell you were aroused by what I was doing to you. I was merely offering you the
chance to allow it to happen."
Albus's mouth bobbed open as he tried to concentrate his thoughts into
coherence. Of course he didn't like being hurt and punished; what sort of a
person would be aroused by such things? And Draco's stories…
"You're wrong," Albus said tersely. "You don't know what I want, what I
like—you don't even know me."
Draco watched Albus for a moment in silence, his response a single exhalation
and the tightening of his jaw. They stared at one another for a long time,
Albus trying not to think of how aroused he must have been, how pathetic it was
that such things got him hard, about Draco's fist pumping his cock until he
came and passed out from the effort.
Then, suddenly, Draco was upon him. One hand covered the scream fresh on
Albus's lips and another ripped at his shirt until Albus's hands were trapped
behind his back. With a whispered spell cast from Draco's lips that Albus
didn't recognize, Albus realized dully that he couldn't move his arms. Lashing
out with his legs, he managed to land a good kick to Draco's shin. When Draco
hissed and drew away from the couch, Albus tried to make a run for the door.
Stumbling, he fell face-first to the floor. His glasses clattered several feet
away, leaving him blind. With his hands behind his back, he was unable to gain
leverage to push himself back up to his feet.
Attempting to crawl forward, he was stopped by the weight of Draco's knee,
which dug in between his thighs firmly from behind and rubbed right against his
balls. In his haste and desperate crawling, his trousers had slipped down
further, exposing the crack of his ass, which Draco's fingers drew along
softly.
The single sensation made Albus gasp. As Draco held Albus's shoulders down with
one hand and worked his other hand down his trousers from behind, Albus cried
out, tears prickling at the backs of his eyes.
And then, warmth flowed over him. Slick warmth, crawling deep inside his ass,
rushing through him like a flood released from a dam. Arching in pleasure,
Albus mouthed at the dirty carpet beneath his lips and bit into the soft coils
to keep from sobbing.
To his utter horror, he was rock hard from just that slick spell, which
lubricated him inside and out. Lamely, he writhed against the carpet, rubbing
his prick to the floor in desperation to get more friction.
Draco yanked Albus's trousers off a moment later. Laying barely clothed, face-
down on Draco's floor, Albus settled as the sound of his own breathing and
Draco's became the only sounds in the small room.
"Please," he whispered, begging as tears leaked out of his eyes. "Please,
Professor."
"Please, what, Potter?" Draco asked, his voice oddly soft and cautious, no
trace of malice or degradation. It surprised Albus so much that he could barely
respond.
"Please…please I need release," Albus hissed, shuddering as humiliation washed
over him. "I…I do like it. I love it. I want to come. I need it. Please, sir."
A groan released from Draco's lips, so softly Albus almost missed it over the
frantic sounds of his own panting gasps. And then, Draco had settled down over
him, his hard prick pressing against Albus's spine.
"You must do something for me, first," Draco whispered.
Albus shifted uncomfortably with a growl. Hadn't he done enough for Draco
already? What more could he possibly give the man?
"I want you to lay perfectly still. When I fuck you, you are not to utter a
single word or move a single muscle. I want you to remain motionless while I
have my way with you, while I shove into you and spill myself. And then, I will
flip you over, and I promise to please you in just the way you need. Is that
clear?"
Albus shivered as Draco's fingers combed affectionately through his hair. He
nodded, but in case Draco couldn't tell, he whispered his answer as well:
"Yes."
"One more thing," Draco whispered into the shell of Albus's ear, causing him to
shudder. When Albus didn't hear a response, he thought perhaps Draco had lost
his nerve, but then a cold spell washed over him, bathing his body in ice and
rendering him physically unable to move even if he wanted to. When he tried to
wiggle a finger, it took so much effort it left him breathless. Even breathing
became difficult, and he swore the beating of his heart slowed down as well.
But when Draco was inside him, none of that mattered. Though Albus wished he
could move, so that he could writhe and arch and shove back into Draco, it was
almost more arousing to know that he couldn't move, that his cold body was only
of use to Draco on his own terms. The embarrassing realization, that he did in
fact get off on losing control, made Albus's eyes roll in pleasure as Draco
fucked him.
And when Draco was done and the spell lifted, Draco's promise of giving Albus
exactly what he needed came true. Draco jerked Albus until his cock exploded
into Draco's fist, which was a humiliating five minutes after the first stroke
against his erection.
As he came down from his orgasm, Albus felt the impromptu bonds around his
wrists loosen and release; slowly, the spell lifted as well. Rolling over, he
pushed himself to sit up carefully, feeling Draco's come slither down his spine
and into the crack of his ass.
Draco helped him to his feet and assisted in getting his trousers back on
properly. Albus couldn't bear to meet his eye and excused himself as soon as he
was able to walk out of the room, fumbling to find his way in the darkness and
praying he could make it to his room before he collapsed.
                      ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Every evening now it was routine—Albus met Draco after dinner, after scrubbing
the cauldrons clean for him, and they talked. Draco told Albus everything he
wanted to know, every detail about the war and about Voldemort, and even the
things Albus feared most—the mistakes made by his father.
And when the quill had scrawled the last words of the evening, Draco pressed
Albus into the couch and cast his spell, turning Albus's blood cold. Albus
learned to be patient, to wait for the moments when Draco released him from his
frigid, immobilized state and gave him whatever he desired.
After each fuck, Albus understood himself less than before. All he knew was his
desires were dark, and the only way to find relief was through Draco's strange
manipulation.
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