Dark Times for Draco Malfoy

Peter stood to watch Draco return to his woman. The near seventeen year old blond lit up when he saw her and his lips parted in a big smile. She was there and she embraced him. As if they loved each other. They cast aside all bonds, embraced and kissed in front of every one. In front of Melchior, Draco's master.

Peter cast his gaze down. He didn't know whether to feel appalled by the apparent lack of decorum or if he should admire Draco for his courage to display such affection to someone else beside his master in such a daring manner. He picked up the laundry basket and went out to the back to hang it all up to dry. It was his favourite spot. From there he could watch the ocean, feel the wind against his skin, watch the grassy landscape unfold to the very horizon, and on it the distant houses which made up the small settlement of Eoropie. It was the spot where he could hang up the laundry and stay hidden. Here, he could let his mind wander. Here, Peter Drinkwater allowed himself to dream. Here, the image of Draco kissing his wife replaced itself with a long gone daydream. And Peter had to admit that yes, he admired the blond. It was the kind of act and the kind of emotion Peter wished he could show his lover. Whether it was a woman or a man. Just not Malachi. For the sight of Malachi induced nothing but fear.

Here, Peter allowed himself to dream forbidden things. This was the only spot where Peter took out buried hopes and emotions. Here, he daydreamed about loving his eudaimon. Peter Drinkwater had once lived in small town called Midsomer Mallows. That was where his new life had begun. His life as a slave to the eudaimon Malachi Sparrow-Monterey. A slave in his own home at the Windy Whistle Farm, Peter had been forced to live in the cellar whilst serving his half demon master. And the one thing which had kept him going, had been the daydreams. No man lives who does not harbour hope. And Peter had daydreamed of a tender and loving Malachi. He had dreamed of mutual passion, of compassion and equality in a relationship. Once he had realized he was with child, those impossible dreams had been switched off and Peter had faced up to his responsibility as a future father. Now, as a father of two and soon to be three, he had a part-time job at the local post office. The little he earned, he spent on clothes for the children, or on food. But more than once it had been necessary to beg Malachi for some money to buy new shoes to the children. He tried to put away whatever money he could. A five pound note or some coins. It was his savings. Savings for an impossible dream. Or for bad times. For the day when he was no longer welcome at the Lighthouse Farm. It wasn't for himself. He would manage. It was for his children.

Peter was so narrow-minded, so brainwashed with terror and paranoia he was certain that if he was to fall from grace, then he would lose his right to be the children's father. Like him, they would be on their own, unattended and at the mercy of the eudaimons. Peter did not count on Malachi to care for them and to be a father to them. Peter had already worked it all out in his mind: He would make sure they knew he loved them, then give them whatever savings he had. He would leave a list with chores, and it was a long time ago since Peter had started on a book with instructions on how to solve every single problem in their daily life. Everything from how to behave when their father raped them, to how to get food and how to clean their clothes and how to get a job. Peter failed so thoroughly to understand that his children were the offspring of a half demon. They were eudaimons themselves, born into a wealthy family where versatility was welcome. They had demonic powers and the benevolence of the community of Eoropaidh. They would never lack anything. And most important of all: Jack Sparrow would never allow the eudaimons to separate Peter from his children. A Child Bearer and his children were inseparable.

Peter never spent long hanging the laundry to dry. He couldn't afford for Malachi to find him out. Without his dreams, Peter knew he would suffocate and go mad. Hanging clothes up to dry was his safety valve.

Peter did his best to avoid Draco and his girlfriend. Seeing their happiness was like a stab in the gut. It was a happiness Peter realised he so dearly missed. He kept telling himself he didn't deserve it. He wondered what it was that Draco had done which allowed him such frivolities as a girlfriend. How come he was so easily absolved from his sins and not Peter? The only answer could only be that Peter's crimes were graver than Draco's, though he could no longer remember what they were. He knew it was wrong to wish for the kind of freedom that the blond slave obviously had. He knew it was wrong to wish for that kind of master which Melchior proved himself to be. Melchior was capable of kindness. Malachi was only cruel. He knew nothing of kindness. Peter beat himself mentally for feeling the way he felt about Draco. It was wrong to be envious. Jealousy was a vice. Bad, bad Peter.

Peter's dreams at night kept returning to the night he had been forced to participate with Draco and Melchior. His dreams kept spinning on alternative versions. The one Peter cherished the most, was about how he would be asleep in the same bed as Draco. It would be summertime – night time – and Melchior would enter the room, naked and with a warm smile on his lips. And there wouldn't be anything malevolent – no evil anywhere. In this dream, all was bliss. It was perfect, because both Draco and Peter were Melchior's slaves and it was a three way relationship they all enjoyed. And Melchior would clutch their blankets with each hand and carefully drag them off their naked bodies. And Peter would be frightened, shy and exhilarated. He would lay awake and watch as Melchior mounted Draco first – just watching and observing their passionate embrace, knowing that soon it would be his turn. Melchior would always turn to Peter before he finished inside Draco, and the blond would be desperate for more. But Melchior would pay him no heed and turn his attention to Peter. And Peter would be like a virgin – tense, excited and uncertain. And Melchior would be patient, he would bend downwards – down to that forbidden area where eudaimons shot in their load of sperm and then some nine months later a demon offspring would be born with pain and sweat and tears. And leaning in, Melchior would lick him and dig his tongue inside Peter's hole, lapping up the juices which – in the end – would be running like a river. Each time, Peter would be equally surprised. For Melchior to do something so – unspeakable as to lick his slave – was unthinkable. It was an unclean area of the body! That area was strictly business – not pleasure. Here, in Peter's dream, he could experiment and taste the forbidden sensations, here – it was all right to be with his master. Fear was all right, pleasure was all right.

Draco would be all over his master, tugging at his arm, kissing Melchior's muscles, begging him for a child. He was jealous of Peter's swollen belly and wanted so badly to be in the same state. But Melchior in Peter's dream just ignored him. Draco wailed and complained about being ignored. His gaze kept lingering on Peter's belly, his hips moving against Melchior's body eagerly beckoning him inside.

Peter could no longer remember what it was like to have a flat belly. So even in his dream his belly was round, it still was Malachi's offspring but somehow, Peter belonged to Melchior.

Peter allowed himself these thoughts in his dreams. All though they were evil, rebellious thoughts, they were safe here. In his dream, there would come a point where he was beside himself with dangerous lust, and Melchior's tongue would start to wander upwards, across Peter's swollen belly and the belly button, up to those jutting nipples. Their eyes would briefly meet before Peter would look away, remembering his place. Those brown orbs of the eudaimon were dangerous to look into. They were like deep dark pools of forbidden emotions, of untold desire and they had a tendency of pulling the gazer in and drown him. Sometimes, Peter steeled himself and gazed longer. Sometimes the eyes changed into the eyes of Malachi, and the sudden horror would wake Peter from his dream.
But his dream would usually go on. And in it, Melchior would proceed to kiss his neck all the while those great black wings heaved in the air, brushing against the ceiling. The eudaimon would be tender and patient, and upon entering into Peter, Melchior would hush his whimpers and gently kiss his lips, telling him softly that it was all right. It were the things which Peter so dearly missed hearing from Malachi. The little things which made it all bearable. Even pleasurable.

In Peter's dream, Melchior would be careful with him, gently thrusting, watching Peter's reaction all the time. Each time, the extra attention was like balm to Peter's mind. It was what he needed, what he craved in order to stay sane. Malachi never did such things. He never cared, only scrutinizing Peter's face for signs of disobedience. Draco would still be there, kissing Melchior's waist, kissing his arms, his ear and his everything he could crush his lips against. Peter could never get himself to be bold, like Draco. Not even in his dreams. Lying limp on the bed beneath Melchior was as bold as he got.

When Melchior had finished with him and kissed his forehead, he would once again tend to Draco, and the boy would eagerly please his master, turning, offering him his backside, standing on hands and knees and parting his legs. Melchior would kiss his entrance, Draco who would still be begging for a child. Showing anything but restraint, Melchior would commence to pound away at Draco's entrance, nearly knocking the blond off balance. But even here, in Peter's dreams, the blond loved the rough way the eudaimon handled him.

Upon awakening from such dreams, Peter always felt in want of more. He wanted more of those forbidden things. He wanted love. He wanted care and tender ministrations. He wanted concern and intimacy. But he had no one who would give him such. The gap between Peter and the eudaimons were wide. Too wide, and Malachi was the one responsible for it. And Peter neither dared nor wanted to jump across it. Waking from these dreams, Peter some times had trouble distinguishing whether or not he was still dreaming, or if the dream only had shifted into a nightmare as he would find Malachi sleeping on the floor next to him.

Malachi often awakened to Peter's whimpers. It would be night time and Peter would be asleep, dreaming. In time it had become Malachi's finest moments with Peter all though the ex-Londoner was asleep. He could tell that Peter was having a good dream. His hands moved in his sleep, past his face, down past his belly and then downwards to the holiest of holy. Peter's lips would curl into a faint smile, the creases on his forehead would vanish and he would moan softly. It was an expression of face which Malachi never saw elsewhere. Malachi would wrap himself in his sleeping blanket and lay down next to the sleeping Peter as carefully as he could, anxious not to wake him. He could lay awake for hours just watching his husband, watching those fingers come to life, rubbing and touching the folds down south. Some times, Peter would wake up just as he orgasmed, giving Malachi a reward for his patience. Peter would, however, freeze in instant fear as it dawned on him where he was and what he had just done without permission. It could take weeks before Peer returned to his old self whenever that had happened.

Since he himself had lost the gift, Malachi one day went to his brother. And Melchior told him the truth of what he saw in Peter's mind. Of Peter's wishes. Once the first anger and disappointment had settled within his chest, Malachi had known it would be the right thing to do.

It was the same evening as Draco returned from his brief visit to Harry Potter. He had expected Hermione to be in uproar, to be upset and anxious but she seemed the contrary. She was relaxed, sitting by the small kitchen table in Port Royal with a cup of tea and nibbling on a biscuit as he barged through the door. Catching his breath, Draco had to take in the scene twice before he fully realised that she was all right. Melchior looked amused, and put down his tea cup.

“Back so soon? No frivolities then, with young Mister Potter?” he smirked, sipping from a porcelain cup. As if he knew what had taken place between them. The kiss. The unfathomable way Harry had behaved. Of course. He was an eudaimon, Draco reminded himself. The bastard knew everything there was to know. Melchior flashed a fanged grin before he eyed Hermione.

“Your future wife and I have had a splendid time getting to know each other.”

Hermione threw Draco a lopsided smile as if she was saying: Don't mind him he doesn't know a thing. Draco wanted to believe her. Very badly. He watched her get up from her seat and wander over to him. She had red roses in her cheeks.

“Tomorrow you both travel to Miss Granger's home. It's vital she makes the necessary arrangements for their safety. And you, Draco my boy, must be there to protect her and the child. I won't be needing you to night.”

On their way back to the Dragon's Lair, Draco couldn't stop himself. He took her hand and held it tight, steeling himself while he asked:

“Are you all right? You're awfully quiet. What did you two talk about? I mean, it's none of my business –!”

“ – I got a chance to speak my mind. I told him exactly how I felt about the nasty things he did to you at Hogwarts!”

He scrutinized her face. She was looking serious. He winced inside.

“How was Harry?” Hermione glanced at him, looking worried.

“Saint Potter? Oh, you know – the usual.” Draco replied in an overly Slytherin manner which made her laugh. It loosened up the mood a bit. She looked at him again and said:

“I told Melchior that I saw you together. I felt as if I was an UN representative dealing with an African dictator.”

“I have no idea what you just said right now.”

“He's dreadfully full of himself!”

Draco nodded in approval and laughed shortly of the comparison. She was right, but he couldn't help but to wonder why Melchior did not want him. Had he reason to be worried?


Ten o'clock in the evening
Peter had finished today's chores. He had taken a shower, thoroughly cleaning himself from head to toe. He shaved his legs before scrubbing them with soap. He did the same with his armpits whilst his thoughts lingered on the task ahead. He washed his hair twice and then brushed his teeth. He was becoming increasingly nervous. He put on a white collared shirt, a comfortable pair of trousers and looked at himself in the mirror.

He was a handsome young man. He had a natural tanned skin, narrow chin and high cheek bones. His thick brown hair curled itself at the base of his neck where he usually confined the unruly hair with a small rubber band. He was the younger and less weather-beaten edition of a Will Turner, with less will to live, a lot less courage and his head bowed low in submission and fright. He did not have those set jaws, the fierce determination and the fire burning in his brown eyes. Peter Drinkwater wore a constant frown. He had a knot between his eyebrows which bore witness to his constant worries. He was pale, undernourished, depressed and pregnant. He walked to the children's bedroom and kissed them good night. He wondered what horrors awaited him as he walked out of the house and over to Port Royal. Malachi had ordered him to service Melchior.

Peter's fingers shook from nervousness as they closed around the handle. The brown haired young man walked inside.

They set off next morning. She held his hand and, by side-along Apparition, they came to the Granger residence. Draco couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. He couldn't put his finger on it, still …! By the time they reached the front door, every cell in Draco's body screamed of danger. He intervened and seized her wrist before Hermione could put her hand on the handle. Being careful so no one saw him, he then flicked his wand at the handle. Unseen powers opened it. Draco entered first.

Hermione's mother was sitting alone in the living room. She was sitting on a stool, wearing a frock Hermione had seldom seen her in.

“Hello, dear. How wonderful to see you again, darling!”

“Hello, mum. What's with the dress? Going somewhere?”

“No, I just like it, is all. Cannot a girl dress up a little?!”

“You always hated that dress. Where's dad?”

“Napping, dear. Why won't you go out into the kitchen and fetch some tea for myself and Draco?”

Hermione started towards the kitchen out of old habit, but before she could take another step, a forceful spell whizzed past her head, blowing the door asunder. She stood in shock, swivelled on her heel to see Draco direct his wand from her direction and towards her mother.

“Hermione, get down!” Draco shouted. She heard someone swear behind her, and through the smoke from the blast she saw a large man dressed in black. He had shielded his face from the wooden shrapnel, and as he removed his hand, she gazed directly into a sour face, twisted by a hideous diagonal scar. She crouched in reflex as a green flash shot past her. Her mother dodged, produced a wand and aimed it at Hermione. Staring into her eyes, Hermione froze as she finally realised what Draco had understood from the moment they'd entered the house. This wasn't Hermione's mother. It was Pansy Parkinson. Two flashes of red and two flashes of green lighted up the room simultaneously. Draco dodged the curse from the Death Eater in the kitchen, and threw himself in Hermione's direction. She watched him reach out with his left hand at the incoming Avada Kedavra from Parkinson. Inches from his palm, the beam of green magic settled into a ball. He swung his arm in a fluid, elegant motion and the curse shot back out towards the impostor. She took the blow. The cells in her body dying, Parkinson reverted back to her true form instantly. She fell to the floor with a heavy and sickening thud.

Draco felt the shock of death coming on as he saw his former girlfriend die. He forced himself to stay cold, spun on his heel just in time to avert the oncoming death curse against Hermione with an Expelliarmus. She shrieked in shock, and the pulse of the blast as the curses hit one another sent her falling backwards. She landed with her head inches away from Draco's shoes. Looking up, she could see that his outstretched arm and hand armed with wand, was shaking badly. The Death Eater hesitated before he snarled: “Traitor!”

His shout was mingled with Melchior's roar as the eudaimon materialized in the kitchen. Behind him was a portal, shimmering with blue oval light which was pulsating. A head taller than the Death Eater, Melchior loomed over the sorry creature, looking anything but pleased. Grabbing him by the greasy hair, Melchior pulled him backwards, disappearing into the light. The portal disappeared, leaving behind the former Slytherin and the Gryffindor. Breathless, Hermione stood. She was about to ask Draco about what just happened. He was looking at Pansy Parkinson's body. Just then, there were a series of thumps coming from the ceiling. Hermione gasped, turned on her heel and rushed through the door. Draco called out to her and chased after her out into the hallway and up the stairs. He doused the sudden flare of exasperation over her impulsiveness as he saw her open the door with her wand. His thoughts still lingered on Pansy's body. The door opened to the first and main bedroom. The noise came from the large cupboard where Hermione's parents kept their frocks and such. She her muffled voices. Draco ordered her to take cover behind him, and she held her breath while he opened the door with magic.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger's eyes beamed at the sight of their daughter. They had been tied and gagged, and once released they embraced her with tears in their eyes.

“That – that terrible, terrible young woman and her awful partner! Where – ?!” Mrs. Granger exclaimed, looking at her daughter, cupping her face in her hands.

“ – she's – dead. Draco killed her.”

“Draco?” The mother said, turning her attention to the blond boy who had backed away a little. “Draco Malfoy? That awful boy you told me about at your school? He who did all those nasty things to you?” She was a Granger all right. Hermione had inherited her eyes, and they were staring at him accusingly while she lay a protective arm around her daughter's shoulder.

“Mum, things have changed...!” and by that, Hermione realised just how difficult it was going to be to inform them that Draco was actually the father of her child. She let words be words and disentangled herself from her mother and father. She went to stand by Draco, and she took his hand. Resolutely. She cast the spell. Five minutes later her parents were asleep on the bed. Upon waking, they would have no idea they had a daughter. The would decide upon moving to Australia, and they would truly be safe. Hermione lingered. Draco understood that she wanted a moment to herself, to silently say goodbye to them. He went downstairs, steeling himself for the sight of Pansy's body once again. He stopped in his tracks as he came through the doorway. The body was gone. Entering the living room, Draco rubbed his face with his hands. He had struck her, hadn't he? Had he missed by any chance? Had she faked it?

Hermione!

Draco spun on his heel, heading for the exit. But the door had silently closed, and Melchior was standing in front of it. Draco ran into him. He yelped in surprise, but Melchior was quick to wrap an arm around his waist, drawing him close, covering his mouth with his left hand. He hushed the blond.

“She is in deed dead” Melchior whispered. “I have fetched her soul to Hell. I made her drag her own body into the portal. Fitting closure for a criminal, don't you think?” Melchior didn't wait for Draco to reply. He kissed the boy's lips greedily, and Draco returned the sentiment by burying his hands in the long, soft curls. The eudaimon broke the kiss and spoke softly: “She was going to bring Miss Granger upstairs and torture her in front of her parents. Then she was going to cease for a moment, just long enough to inform the parents that their daughter were with child. And then, she would torture her some more whilst explaining to the poor young girl how she was going to get you hooked on a love potion and marry you and live happily ever after. I am telling you this because sooner or later, when you're in Hell doing my bidding, you're bound to run into her. Hell isn't that big.” The eudaimon hesitated before he continued: “I had no doubts whatsoever. I knew you would succeed in taking her out. It's what you've been trained to do. But you made one mistake. One. You let her death get to you. You hesitated. Your emotions ran off and had I not stopped him, your son in the making would be dead right now. When in battle, your chest must be cold, and your mind empty.”

They heard Hermione walk down the stairs. Melchior kissed Draco again, and during the kiss, the blond felt his master vanish into thin air. It left Draco dissatisfied. He wanted more. He wanted comfort. He wanted to clear his mind of the guilt, knowing Hermione could have died. Melchior was of course right. He did hesitate. It only proved how inexperienced Draco was in battle. He beat himself up mentally for this, as Hermione opened the door. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she seemed calm. As if she'd cried herself dry. Draco put his irritation over Melchior aside and embraced her, holding her close for a long time. Then, she gasped as she realised that Pansy was gone.

“Melchior took her” Draco explained to her softly. “It's over, for now.”


Murdering Pansy Parkinson had broken something inside of him. Not only had she been the first person that he'd ever slain, she had been his former girl friend and fellow Slytherin. They'd spent hours in his chambers at Malfoy Manor, talking, kissing and laying plans for the future. They'd laughed together, dined together – yes, he'd treated her to every pleasure possible. She had been his first, but he remembered clearly now that she'd pointed out to him that he had not be her first. Before him, there had been someone else, and she'd shared that piece of information with him as to scold him for his inexperience.

But this year, the eudaimon had made sure to teach him well. He held his head high at Hogwarts – knowing the girls undressed him with their eyes. He was reaching maturity fast. Soon, it would be July. Draco guessed that all though he had murdered her, he somehow mourned Pansy. He couldn't quite help it. He mourned what they'd had, but he had no regrets about murdering her.

Draco was unusually quiet during dinner. It was just Hermione and Draco, and they dined in solitude at the Dragon's Lair. They'd bought the ingredients and Draco had impressed her with his newly acquired skills in the kitchen. It had taken his mind off Pansy for a while. The dinner came as a result of a mutual need for comfort. She had lost her parents. He had killed his girlfriend. They were both in shock, slightly frightened by the unexpected involvement of Death Eaters. It was beginning to dawn on them both that Voldemort would not rest until either he or them were dead.

One other thing which bothered him was that the more time Draco spent with Hermione, the more he wished himself in bed with Melchior. The eudaimon's presence inside him was becoming an addiction. Touching his own entrance, probing inside his puckered entrance, Draco would often find traces of Melchior's sperm. But it had been less of that lately, and with today's clash with Death Eaters left Draco feeling vulnerable. Having Melchior's sperm inside him meant he held Melchior's favour. He was guarded, under the eudaimon's watchful eye and sheltered from harm underneath his great black wings. But lately, Melchior had taken to being evasive. Draco had won his queen and child, but to what price? Was he to feel as an adulterer for the rest of his years with her? Would he have to endure being eaten up by guilt every time he sneaked off from her side in bed, skulking in the dark, braving the creatures of the night just to be with his master? Was it all worth it? It didn't take a genius, Draco thought to himself as he finally got the chance to slink away from the Dragon's Lair in the dead of night, to see that choosing Melchior one hundred percent would be the easy way out. Had he still been a true Slytherin, that's what he'd do. Self-preservation above all. But Melchior would scold him. Melchior would condemn him and go back to torturing him into insanity if Draco was ever to sink so low. Leaving Hermione was not an option. He neither wanted to or couldn't. All the same, the need for Melchior's cock, his warm touch and breath ghosting Draco's pale skin, was as important to Draco as the very air he breathed. Together with Hermione, Draco felt more than ever how genuinely he was becoming Melchior's creature.

Draco didn't bother to knock. He opened the door to Port Royal violently, closed it shut and started up the stairs as he observed that the living room was dark. He tore off his sweater, left it on the railing. He freed himself off his shoes and loosened the hem of his pants. He opened the door to Melchior's bedroom. It was bathed in darkness, but he saw the familiar black wings spread out from the bed to the floor. Not one, but two heads, were raised from the pillows. Draco stopped and stared as he realised that Melchior was with someone.

Through the darkness, he saw and felt Melchior rise. He was naked. The pale moonlight shone through the curtains and painted the eudaimon's naked body in a pale blue light. The shape in the bed stirred, and Draco recognized the man as he struggled into a sitting position.

“Peter?” Draco asked softly. Turning his head, Draco looked up at the advancing eudaimon in front of him. Before long, the half demon crushed his lips upon Draco's, and every idea the blond ever had about why Peter and Melchior shared bed, was swept away. Not wanting to break the kiss, Draco rid himself of his pants and underwear, revealing a jutting erection which was dying to be played with. Draco glued his body to Melchior's, putting his arms around the eudaimon and squeezing him tight. His erection was burning against Melchior's skin.

“Have you come to play? At this hour?” Melchior whispered softly. He was going to say something more but Draco sealed his lips to the eudaimon's, digging his fingers in a mass of brown curls. An idea came to mind, and Draco freed himself from Melchior, gasping for air and crawled into his bed next to Peter.

“Evening, Drinkwater” Draco nodded shortly to his child bearing colleague. Melchior smiled a big, playful and hungry smile. It was the kind of wicked grin any man sporting a visit to a whore house would have on his lips just as he entered the building. Except, these delicious pretty things in front of him weren't whores. Not in any way.

Peter Drinkwater was staring wide-eyed at the scene unfolding right next to him. He was sort of glad he was being ignored, for it was so unbelievable he didn't know if he was awake or dreaming. The eudaimon climbed unto the bed just as Draco spread his legs more than willingly. His hands reached forward, groping for skin, long strands of hair, torso, cock – anything! The blond was ready, hot, willing – his lips swollen, kissable – his cropped blond hair plastered to his forehead and temples from sweaty lust alone! And he hadn't even been mounted yet! Peter rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Was his dream coming true?

Finally getting a solid grip on the half demon, Draco put one hand behind the eudaimon's neck and the other one he wrapped around the throbbing demonic shaft. Thus – he pulled Melchior close, practically leading him to the watering hole which Draco now represented. Melchior held back, kissing and kissing the youth until the boy whimpered and muttered – his body bucking beneath the eudaimon.

“Please – please take me!” Draco nearly snarled, “I want you inside me, I need you inside me!”

“You're sad. You're mourning the woman you killed today” Melchior told him softly between kisses. He continued to plant kisses on the boy's mouth.

“I don't want to talk” Draco sighed and moaned, grinding his pelvic area against Melchior's abdomen. “Just do me! Take me! Fuck me hard and make me forget today!”

It looked as if Melchior was about to give in. He shifted his position, shifting his weight, resting it on his elbows which he put to either side of Draco's shoulder, locking his neck with his hands. The kisses were almost chaste.

“Running from your emotions will not help you.” Melchior looked from Draco to Peter.

Peter felt the words hit him in the gut. Melchior's brown eyed gaze struck him down in his soul, unlocking something. Peter had no name for it, other than that it enlightened a terrible, terrible small flame. Terrible because it would only cause an internal struggle for him: Peter knew he was slowly drowning. He knew he had settled for a life in slavery. He had given up his freedom, strangling every impulse to flee, thinking it would only make matters worse. There was no running from a demon. The responsibility for children he didn't really want, had been forced on him. He was partially in charge of a household he didn't want. A life he'd never asked for, neither wanted. It was easier to be frightened instead of being courageous. Living in submission was easier than fighting when one was unarmed.

“Just give me tonight” Draco replied softly.

Those words were Peter's sentiments exactly! They represented everything he had dreamed of for so long. A night of fearless passion! Of tender embraces and emotions revealed!

Peter watched Melchior's hips move, watched the eudaimon settle between Draco's legs. The boy gasped, arched his neck backwards and revealed his Adam's apple. Peter could tell that he was being penetrated. Relief washed across the young man's fearless features, and he eagerly settled for the rhythmic thrusts of Melchior's erection inside him. The eudaimon would not stop kissing his servant. It was not the hard, ruthless pounding Peter imagined it might have been, but instead there was a silent, tender and highly passionate way he moved. Draco closed his eyes, and the eudaimon paused his kisses to rest his forehead against Draco's forehead in an intimate gesture. It dawned on Peter that what he was observing – was lovemaking. He recognized some of the ways Malachi some times behaved towards Peter in bed. It was done slowly, tenderly and with great intimacy. And always – the kisses. The kisses always frightened Peter out of his wits – thinking that Malachi was teasing him about actually biting – puncturing the flesh and drink the blood.

He watched in awe as Melchior and Draco rubbed noses, kissing each other softly. Then, Melchior toughened the thrusts, digging his fingers into a mass of blond hair. Draco swallowed – his eyes shining with lust, begging for more. Peter looked away. He was thinking hard about Malachi, about the advances he'd made in bed over the last year. Advances which by now had died away. Now, Peter imagined that Malachi only took him when the need became too great, and when Malachi saw no other option but to expose himself to Peter's revolting body and hapless manners. Peter had vague memories about Malachi ordering him to make love. But Peter had been too frightened. He hadn't been able to move, let alone do anything which could imitate lovemaking. It was safest to just lay there like a sack of potatoes and simply survive.

Melchior increased the strength he put in his thrusts, pounding away at Draco's entrance. Looking over to the blond, Peter thought it looked as if the blond enjoyed it. Did he like pain? Peter wondered. It was painful, right? The boy bucked and squirmed beneath his master, muttering about 'more' – 'more'! The eudaimon grabbed hold of the boy's erection and began to pump in time with his thrusts. The boy was over the top and moaning out loud in no time. Disentangling himself, the eudaimon bent down and lapped up the fluid which had erupted from the boy's cock. He did it with such ferocity and eagerness that Peter was dumbfounded. He had never liked sperm. He hated it – because Malachi had raped his mouth so many times and forced him to swallow every last drop – that just looking at it made him feel queasy.

Peter held his breath as he watched Melchior turn his attention towards him. Moving over, he removed the bedspread and caressed Peter's calves. Peter was wearing tights and a t-shirt on Melchior's orders. Leaning in, the eudaimon placed his cheek against Peter's legs and stroked it all the way up to the insides of Peter's thigh. To Peter it was a highly erotic motion. He wanted to squeeze his legs together. But he resisted the impulse as he remembered that he had been sent to Melchior just for this purpose: To please him. Next to him, Draco yawned and stretched his slender limbs as far as he could, apparently satisfied. Peter allowed the eudaimon to undress him. Harnessing his anxiety wasn't easy.

“Dr – Draco?” Peter whispered, looking over to the blond with a plea in his eyes. “Please? Ho – hold my hand?”

Draco reached out and took Peter's hand, not breaking the gaze. Peter face was naked fear. The Child Bearer started as Melchior's tongue connected with the sensible flesh downstairs – in that forbidden place which only eudaimons accessed. He squeezed Draco's hand hard and resisted the impulse to push Melchior's head away from between his legs. The ministrations of his tongue triggered a series of electric impulses which made Peter go into a spin of conflicting emotions. This was something Malachi never did. Peter wasn't even sure he liked it, as lust bloomed in his abdomen. It was a feeling he wasn't supposed to feel. But Malachi had told him to please his brother in every way. And if Melchior wanted this – then – then, well what was Peter supposed to do? Object?

The sensation in his belly grew, and Peter was reminded of times at the Windy Whistle Farm at Midsomer Mallows, when Malachi had tortured him and forced him to orgasm on command. Ever since then, Peter had hated lust. He had hated the new landscape below. His male genitalia was gone, replaced with a female look-a-like. He had been forced to work with his re-arranged abdomen, and he had been in misery. Now, what was left of Peter Drinkwater existed from the neck and up. His body wasn't his, still he had to endure these conflicting emotions.

Peter's eyes watered over. He wished himself back on his mattress in his bedroom. It was Malachi's territory. Peter preferred his little nest at the corner. A small retreat when the large double bed grew too lonely or to fearsome. It was the bed in which he serviced his lord, nothing more.

Now, he was in Melchior's bed.

It took him a while to realise that Melchior had stopped. Both master and slave were looking at him

“Are you … frightened?” Melchior asked him softly. There was pity in his voice.

Peter nodded weakly. He wiped away his tears as bes as he could, not wishing to embarrass the eudaimon.

The eudaimon moved away from between his legs. Lying down next to Peter's left shoulder, he sighed lightly, rested his head against the back of his hand and observed Peter.

“Did you at all enjoy it?” Melchior asked, again the same inexplicable soft voice. As if he wanted to talk, not criticise, the way Malachi did. Peter felt compelled to be truthful. He shook his head weakly, squeezing Draco's hand harder in anxiety. Would the eudaimon explode in anger the way Malachi did?

“Then I'm sorry. I only intended for you to feel good. You – you're so different from Draco, you see. I'm not sure how to handle you. Tell me, what is your idea of pleasure? What – must I do? To give you pleasure?”

Peter hadn't forgotten he was with a mind-reader. He had ideas, all right. He had dreams. Images of himself with Melchior. But he willed them away before they could materialize in his mind, he hid them, obliterated them before Melchior could fully read the fluttering, broken shards. Oh yes, Peter had learned his lesson well, before Malachi had lost his powers. Back at the Windy Whistle Farm, Malachi had picked his mind and laughed at Peter's dreams, time and again until Peter taught himself discipline – to wipe his mind clean before Malachi got the chance to hurt him again. Daydreaming had been dangerous back then. Standing by the kitchen sink, scrubbing dirty dishes and recklessly daydream about taking his car and drive off, had often ended in rape.

Now, lying here with Melchior, who was showing him such incomprehensible kindness, Peter did not dare to even begin to dream.

“I will not take offence if you show me. Please. Show me.” Melchior whispered.

The crisp image of Peter sound asleep on his own mattress, safe and smug, materialised in his mind. Melchior peeked into his mind and saw this. He did not display the disappointment he felt, but at the same time he also understood the image that followed: It was of Malachi, barking away at Peter for returning during the night with unfulfilled mission. Peter was tired of the attention Melchior gave him. He wanted to go home but did not dare to. He feared punishment.

“Why don't I go with you and explain to Malachi that this is how we agreed it should be? And if you want, you may return again tomorrow evening.”

“Please” Peter whispered, “may I speak?”

“Of course.”

“He will be angry either way.”

“You think so?” Melchior replied. “He ordered you here to please me. Would he really be angry over something like that? And I can't recall him saying anything about how many days or weeks said pleasing should take. To me, it's satisfaction enough to have you here in my bed. Sleep now, while Draco accompanies me to the bathroom.”

“Huh?” Draco replied. “Bathroom? Now? I'm tired …!”

The Ex-Slytherin groaned and got out of bed. He trudged off with Melchior right behind him. The eudaimon closed the bedroom door carefully. In the bathroom, Draco yawned. The half demon only smiled at him when he turned the youth to face the mirror. He bent the boy forward and parted his legs, ignoring the grunts and half-hearted complaints. “But we already did this ...!”

“You did. I didn't” Melchior told him with a wicked smirk. Draco inhaled sharply as he was filled. The boy's ring muscle was still warm and flexible, and Melchior slid inside with one thrust.

This time, he really abandoned all restraint.

Draco awakened fully. He had trouble keeping his balance, and had to strain his muscles to keep erect. His face was inches away from being thumped against the mirror several times. Melchior would thrust until he was nearly at the top, then he would bide his time, let the pulse slow down and caress Draco's manhood quite absent-mindedly. Then, he would pound away at Draco's back door again – as hard as he could – until the orgasm nearly swept him away. But he would stop just in time – again biding his time and drive Draco crazy with his fondling. Then, a third time the eudaimon pumped away at an infernal tempo. Draco was gasping and pleading. His hole was becoming sore and numb, the sensation unbearable!

And Melchior stopped.

Draco whined loudly at this impossible treatment. His cock was rock hard once more and he felt like one big hole. He begged for release, cursed at the eudaimon loudly and threatened him openly – but alas, nothing helped. He was sandwiched between the sink and the eudaimon, and the eudaimon's hands held his hips in a lock-down. All Draco could do was to wait impatiently and sob out his misery.

Melchior pounded away once more.

The process of start and stop had increased the hardness of the eudaimon's cock. Draco had felt it inside. Melchior might just as well have fucked him with a thick wooden dildo. That's what it felt like. It grew harder and stiffer, filling the boy's hole more and more. Moving his hands a little closer together to Draco's buttocks, the eudaimon used his thumbs to part Draco's cheeks, thus gaining better access. Tilting the boy's hips a little, he got an even better angle. He continued to pound away while he whispered with glee:

“I'm going to make sure you can't sit properly tomorrow!”

Draco had no trouble believing that threat. He was so numb in his backside, so tense in every other muscle that he had begun to shake and sweat from the effort of keeping erect. There was no stopping Melchior now.

The eudaimon kept on slamming into the blond relentlessly, soaking up the waves of pure lust coming from the boy. He felt the oncoming orgasm, and slowed down until he came to a full stop.

Draco wailed in objection.

In answer to this, Melchior produced a clean handkerchief. He grabbed Draco by the neck and forced the boy's head backwards. Stuffing the boy's mouth with the handkerchief, he then quickly took a slender belt and roped it around Draco's mouth, tying it at the neck. The long end of the belt was used to tie Draco's hands together. Draco sobbed. Sort of half-heartedly. Like a stubborn child he refused to admit the treatment was turning him on, elevating his lusty sensation to new heights. Now, he really was trapped. It was a wonderful and perverse feeling!

Melchior pounded away again. Using his thumbs once more he exposed the puckered, slick entrance and made sure to bury himself to the hilt. Melchior's half demon cock had always been long. It reached deep into Draco's abdomen, and in this state, when it was throbbing, stiffer than a flag pole and slicker than a lollipop, it touched and rubbed places inside the boy which prompted sensations he had no idea existed.

Draco came. He moaned his orgasm through the gag, fighting for air, sweat pouring, legs straining, head spinning and stomach and chest churning with unmistakable impossible breathtaking and unbearable orgasmic sensations. Melchior grabbed his wrists and kept the boy from falling to his knees. Draco's cock shot it's load against the edge of the sink, the rest poured out over his toes and the floor. Draco watched it all, still moaning through his gag. He was coming more or less against his will. It wasn't supposed to be like this, but Melchior kept him locked, forcing his back to bend down wards. The pounding continued throughout the orgasm. Draco's head kept on spinning, delirious with lust and oncoming dehydration. Melchior pounded as hard as he could, drinking in the intense emotions which filled up Draco's aura. Taking a fistful of blond hair at the back of Draco's hair, he force the boy against the sink once more, and Draco was forced to rest his weight on the desk next to the sink. Melchior ignored the fact that he was slamming so hard that Draco hit his forehead into the grand mirror several times.

The eudaimon finally allowed himself the orgasm, burying himself deep to the hilt, then resting on top of Draco's back afterwards. The boy didn't like to be squeezed flat so he began to complain, this time singing a different and more sincere tune about discomfort.

“Oh right” Melchior said, a satisfied and wicked grin plastered on his face. He got off, slid out and grabbed the belt leading down from Draco's neck to his tied hands. He didn't try to undo it. Instead, he dragged Draco with him out into the small hallway, down the stairs until he was at the front door. The eudaimon smiled a lopsided, boyish smile and before Draco could comprehend that no, it really wasn't meant as a joke – the eudaimon was serious! – he shoved the former Slytherin outside and shut the door.

In the middle of the night, standing on the door step of Port Royal, stark naked, gagged and hands tied behind the back, so sore and stiff-legged it hurt to move his legs, Draco watched as the light upstairs in the small hallway was extinguished. Melchior was going to bed. He turned and looked over to the Dragon's Lair. Could Draco show himself like this to Hermione? He saw no other option. He needed either for Hermione to untie him – or – or he had to get his wand! Motivated by the prospect of avoiding complete ridicule in front of his wife to be, he trudged off towards the Dragon's Lair, muttering curses to Melchior. That blasted eudaimon and his games!