Erlestoke

II. Bells

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.

*