Promethean Fire

Part III: Talons of Ethon

Draco did not sleep. The very idea of sleeping was ludicrous.

He paced and tried to think. He tried to think, and yet not to think. He needed a plan. He badly needed a plan.

And he needed to stop seeing Harry stretched out like an animal in a slaughter house every goddamn time he closed his eyes.

When he got back to his room, Draco had seriously considered continuing with his earlier plan of getting falling down sloshed. He did not do this because he knew that if he got drunk, he might well decide to take on all the Death Eaters, and hell, Voldemort as well, why not? And well…that would be bad.

So he paced. He paced because he could not think of anything else to do, and he could not sit still. He was twitchy and jumpy, and at that moment he knew, he knew that he was not the only person who was awake in the mansion, and this would not have bothered him so much if he thought the only other person still awake at fuck-all in the morning was Harry, but he knew differently. He knew that Harry was not alone. Oh no, Harry was the new Death Eater play thing, and he would not be allowed to sleep until they got tired of him. They had captured Harry Potter—the Harry Potter—their long-time enemy and their lord’s greatest nemesis. It was unlikely that the novelty of this fact would have worn off so soon.

So he paced the floor, unable to think clearly around the knowledge that Harry—his Harry—was being raped, or tortured, or both. He had never felt more completely fucking impotent in his entire life.

He needed help. He needed help so that he could help Harry. And there was no one. Anyone who might have helped owed their allegiance to that fuckwit Dumbledore, and they sure as hell weren’t going to betray him to aid an ex-Death Eater.

He’d thought of trying to persuade Harry’s friend Granger to help him. She and Harry had been annoyingly close all through school, and she had become a right good hand at all things lethal with a wand. Then he dismissed this idea. Granger and that prat husband of hers walked around with their tongues up Dumbledore’s wrinkly arse. The stupid bint would probably agree wholeheartedly with the crackpot’s ridiculous damn excuse for throwing Harry to the vultures.

Ridiculous or not, Dumbledore’s reasons made sense on an intellectual and rational level, whereas charging off to Harry’s rescue probably did not, and if Draco remembered correctly, Granger had been all about the facts. Cold logic was her daily bread. Perfect example: her loveless marriage to that complete dolt, Weasley. It was sensible in every way—except that she could not stand him. Every time she looked at him, Draco expected that the next time he would see the weasel was when he attended his funeral. Or helped her scrape him off the kitchen ceiling and cover up the murder.

Once he excluded Granger, there really was no one left. Except for Weasley himself, and that was just laughable. The poor man was already sadly lacking in the genius department before the war; getting hit with a few stray curses—and more than a few not so stray hexes—had not helped that in the slightest. Though Draco did not doubt that his intentions would be good, Weasley would get them all killed. He was a walking disaster.

There were others, all of them friends of Harry’s, but Draco was sure that once Dumbledore ordered them to stay away, stay away they would.

For the first time he wished that Harry’s wife was still alive. Ginny Potter had been as quick with her mind as she was with her wand, and she positively ran on spontaneous passions and spur-of-the-moment decisions. She would have hexed the twinkle right out of Dumbledore’s eyes and flew to Harry’s side like a raging whirlwind. Rationality be damned.

Too bad that six months after they were married, Ginny took an Avada Kedavra from Bellatrix Lestrange beside the lake outside Hogwarts.

Shit, Draco was getting maudlin. This was no fucking time to be rehashing old history down memory lane.

Draco had made a promise to Harry, and Harry was waiting for him. Harry was waiting on the hillside by their tree. Draco couldn’t fail him.

But his ability to act was, at least for the moment, limited—oh hell, who was he kidding? His ability to act was fucking nonexistent.

********

Draco almost didn’t go down to breakfast the next morning; if crying and sleeping seemed obscene, then eating—the very idea of it made his stomach twist in knots. The idea of doing so companionably with Harry’s tormenters and rapists made him want to tear his hair out in bloody chunks.

He went down to breakfast anyway. He was getting rather used to doing things that he did not want to do anyway.

It only gave him a moment’s pause to see Harry naked and kneeling on the floor beside the Dark Lord, his hands bound in front of him, his head bent toward the floor. He looked broken, but Draco hoped that he wasn’t. He hoped that Harry had listened to him and retreated inside himself to that place on the hillside.

He made himself look away and cross the room to the table, where he sat down in his customary seat and poured himself a cup of tea. Tea he could handle. Tea was alright. He could keep down a fucking cup of tea, for God’s sake.

The others had already gathered around the table and were discussing strategies and battle plans. There were to be two more raids on different camps of the Order today. One led by Lucius Malfoy on a settlement just outside of London, the other by Rodolphus Lestrange in Cartagena. They were planning to massacre all of them, including some of the more influential members of the Order of the Phoenix, such as Remus Lupin and Kingsley Shacklebolt. However, this had been planned for over a month and Draco had long ago warned Dumbledore of it.

It might not matter, but the Order would be ready for them when they attacked.

Voldemort sat in his high chair and listened, a small smirk playing on his thin lips, one of his hands sometimes wandering to fondly touch the top of Harry’s bent head.

Draco felt like he was going to vomit and took a deep drink of his tea to try and hold it in.

When he looked again, Voldemort’s eyes were intent on him and he froze.

“My Lord?” Draco said. “Something—?”

“Do you like our new pet, Draco?” Voldemort asked. He made it sound like an idle question, but Draco knew better. The Dark Lord did not ask idle questions.

Draco glanced down at Harry, who had not moved, and felt a flicker of foreboding. “Yes, my Lord,” Draco said, forcing his voice to be calm. “I am sure that it pleases you to have him here.”

Voldemort’s lips twitched. “Indeed,” he said. “I understand that the two of you were school mates.”

“Rivals,” Draco assured him. “We were never friendly.”

The Death Eaters had stopped their conversations and were listening to the exchange intently. Some of them had knowing feral grins on their faces like they knew what was coming. Draco wished like hell he knew why.

“Rivals,” Voldemort repeated. “Yes, your father mentioned that to me. It must please you then, to see him brought so low, does it not?”

Draco felt his heart leap a little in panic. Oh fuck, oh shit, what the hell was he getting at?

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and looked down to see Harry shaking a little. Harry had returned a little from that place inside himself enough to hear their conversation.

Go back, Harry, Draco thought desperately. Just go back.

“Draco?” Lucius said from across the table. He sounded disapproving and Draco looked up and realized that he had yet to answer the Dark Lord’s question.

“Yes, my Lord,” Draco said. “It does.”

“Then I should like to know why you refused to participate in last night’s revelries,” Voldemort said.

Everyone turned and looked at him and Draco reached for the cold security of his Occlumency training to still his hands, which wanted to shake, and calm his heart, which wanted to tear itself from his breast in horror. “I was here, my Lord,” he said calmly. “I saw it.”

“But you did not participate,” Voldemort repeated. He stroked the top of Harry’s head almost affectionately as he waited for Draco’s response.

“No, my Lord,” Draco said. Had he honestly thought that no one had noticed? Voldemort noticed everything. God damn the man anyway. “I find the idea of fucking Potter distinctly unsavory.”

The Dark Lord’s thin lips curled with amusement. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“But I have it on good authority that he is very good,” Voldemort said. He looked around at his followers and they all snickered and made sounds of agreement. “You set yourself apart from them by refusing to share in their triumph,” he said. “You have refused to partake of what is rightfully a spoil of war.”

Draco swallowed around the lump that was forming in his throat. He was getting an idea of where this was going and it revolted him right down to the depths of his battered soul. “My Lord, forgive me, but…but I would rather not, if it’s all the same—”

“It is not ‘all the same’,” Voldemort said, his gaze becoming sharp and almost angry, his hand tightening in Harry’s hair until he gasped. “You may not set yourself apart from my other followers. You are one of my most loyal servants, and this,” he waved his hand to encompass the room full of Death Eaters and Harry kneeling abeyant at his feet, “disturbs me. I will not allow this slave to cause discourse among my Death Eaters.”

Draco stared into his cold eyes, knew what he was saying, and felt the cold comfort of Occlumency wash over him. When this was all over, if this ever ended, he was going to find Severus and give the man a great smacking kiss.

When Draco looked again at Harry, his disgust was not the slightest bit feigned.

Voldemort made another gesture of his hand and someone—Draco thought it was McNair—seized Harry roughly by the back of his neck, brought him around the table, and shoved him down on it right next to Draco.

Draco stared at Harry and tried to make himself calm, tried to make himself breathe, tried to keep his mind from snapping and turning him into a raving mad lunatic right then and there.

Harry turned his head on the table and looked at him, and there was awareness there in his eyes. He was here, now, aware of what was happening. Draco stared back into those green eyes and felt the weight of his helplessness and despair like a hand on his heart.

“M—my Lord, I don’t—”

“You will do it now and put my mind at ease,” Voldemort said firmly.

Draco looked back at Harry, saw that spark of awareness and understanding, but miraculously, he saw no fear or anger. This did not comfort him even marginally. It somehow made it all worse.

“Draco,” Voldemort said, and it was a cold and calculated warning.

Numb, Draco stood up. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he thought over and over but did not dare say it with every gimlet Death Eater eye focused on him.

Draco looked around for something, spotted the cube of soft butter to his left, and dipped two of his fingers into it.

“What are you doing?” Lucius asked, staring at him from across the table.

Draco lifted a brow and gave him a sardonic look. “I am not stupid enough to harm myself in the process,” he said flatly.

Several of the Death Eaters looked uncomfortable at this and he could just imagine that more than one of them was feeling a little sore in the nether regions this morning after dry fucking Harry the night before.

Harry lay passively over the tabletop as Draco carefully and as gently as he could, pressed first one slick finger inside him, then the other, and moved them to make the muscles loose. He did not want to do this. He was sure that Harry would never forgive him for something like this, and fuck, who could blame him? Draco wasn’t going to be able to forgive himself, why should Harry?

Draco calmly unfastened his trousers, pulled himself out and worked more of the butter over his cock until he was hard. God bless nature for her predictability, he thought bitterly.

He moved his fingers inside Harry once more, spreading them out in a careful scissoring motion, then he gripped Harry’s hips, tilted them to get the angle right, and pushed inside him. He tried to be gentle, to move gradually deeper and spare him as much pain as he could, but this was hard to do if he was supposed to make it look like rape. Which of course, it was rape, even if Draco was not a willing participant, neither was Harry, and he was the one whose body was being violated.

I’m sorry, he thought again, gritting his teeth against unwanted pleasure as Harry’s body tightened around him at the invasion. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…

Harry reached out with his bound arms and clasped the far edge of the table right in front of where Lucius was sitting.

Draco slowly pulled back, then pressed forward again, and Harry moaned. Draco went still and stared down at his back in surprise. That had not been a sound of pain.

“He is enjoying it,” Lucius said to the Dark Lord, laughter and astonishment in his voice.

“Is he?” Voldemort said. Several of the Death Eaters laughed.

Draco slid into him again, slowly, and Harry gasped and started to pant. Oh Jesus, Draco thought in despair. I’m so fucking sorry, Harry.

“Can you make him come, Draco?” Lucius asked eagerly.

There was an excited murmur from the watching Death Eaters at this original and really terrific idea.

Draco stared across the table at his father. Could he make Harry come? Yes, of course he could. Sure, why not, let’s toss a little more degradation into the mix, he thought with loathing, because, you know, being gangbanged by Death Eaters just wasn’t enough.

Harry whimpered beneath him and pressed his face into the wood of the table. Draco thrust into him, and he made the sound again.

“Draco,” Voldemort said.

Draco stilled his slow, shallow movements. “What?” he said breathlessly.

“I want to watch you make him come,” Voldemort said, his eyes intent on Harry’s quivering, whimpering form splayed out before him.

Draco looked down at Harry and felt his heart constrict. He nodded shortly and thrust forward, shallowly probing, searching for that place, that spot that would make it happen faster. He skimmed his hands up to Harry’s waist and held him in place, moving with consummate skill borne of a hundred caresses in the dark, a thousand words of encouragement, a million sounds of pleasure. He knew this man beneath him better than he knew anyone. He knew the things that moved him, to either pain or pleasure, and he called upon that knowledge now to make it quick.

He knew when he found Harry’s prostate because his breathing changed and his hips pushed back against him. Draco pressed against it, sliding over it again and again, manipulating that spot until Harry’s breath was coming in short, hitching cries.

Draco moved one of his hands from Harry’s waist and ran the palm down the curve of his spine, then back up, teasing the fine transparent hairs until Harry was shivering with gooseflesh. “Now, Harry,” he commanded softly.

Harry’s whole body tensed. He threw his head back and screamed, his orgasm gripping him like a velvet gloved hand, and came.

Draco tried to pull out before it could happen, he did not want to come inside of him, shame him even more, but he wasn’t fast enough. Harry’s muscles squeezed around him tightly and with a vehement curse, Draco climaxed.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, pulled out, and stepped back. Harry remained slumped over the table, quaking with aftershocks. Draco refastened his pants with trembling fingers. He wanted to reach out and touch Harry, give comfort, whisper an apology, beg for forgiveness. He did none of these things.

Voldemort was looking very pleased. The Death Eaters—even his own father—were staring at him with a mixture of awe and amusement.

“I need a fucking shower,” Draco snarled and walked out of the dining room. Let them think whatever the hell they wanted to think about that.

He felt dirty. He felt evil and dirty, and so far distant from reaching his absolution that he need not even consider it. He did not deserve it anyway.

********

An hour later, after scrubbing himself raw, Draco was standing in the middle of his bedroom ruffling a towel through his hair, carefully thinking of nothing, when there was a crackling sound from the fireplace along the far wall. He glanced up and watched the grate fill with green flame just before Granger’s head appeared in it.

“What the fuck do you want?” Draco snapped.

He turned his back on her and began pulling on clean trousers. He didn’t care one wit that he presented her with a full-on view of his bare arse as he did it, either. It was his bedroom, and she had not been invited. She could just deal with it.

“Is the door locked and warded?” Hermione asked, not batting an eyelash at his frank nudity. She’d been married to Ronald Weasley for five years; it was nothing she hadn’t seen before—and she had to admit, Draco was a damn sight prettier to look at.

“Yeah,” Draco said, shrugging into a black knit sweater and turning to face her. “Locked, warded, and silenced. I repeat; what the fuck do you want, Granger?”

“Draco… damn it.” She climbed through the fire and stood up, brushing soot and ash off her robes.

“Are you bloody daft, woman?” Draco hissed. “You can’t be here. Not you, not here, not now of all fucking times—”

“I heard about Harry,” she said

“I assumed you would,” Draco said, his face losing all expression. “What of it?”

“We—I,” she hesitated. “That is, myself and Lupin—we want to help.”

Shaking a little, Draco sat down on the edge of his bed. He stared down at the floor between his legs, his hands clasped together between his knees and took a deep breath. “What about Dumbledore?” he asked tonelessly.

“Dumbledore’s cracked his last nut if he thinks I would ever just let Harry die here,” Hermione said angrily. “Give me some fucking credit, for Christ’s sake, Malfoy. I could never—not like this.”

Draco lifted one trembling hand and pressed his fingers to his forehead. “You should know…what’s been done to him. You need to be prepared for…”

Hermione moved closer to him and ran one of her hands through his hair, caressing the back of his neck soothingly with her cool fingers. “Shh. I’m sorry, Draco,” she said softly. “I can’t even imagine…”

Draco was immensely grateful that she did not say that everything would be alright, that she did not make empty promises. He reached up and clasped her hand, squeezed it, then let go.

“I don’t want your pity, Granger,” he whispered. “I don’t want it, and I hardly deserve it.”

“Want it, or want it not, it is yours,” she murmured.

He made a little humorless laughing sound. “If you knew…you would not say that if you knew.”

She did not ask him to explain that. Another thing for which he was grateful.

Draco sighed and lifted his head. “So, you and Lupin, eh?”

Hermione smiled slightly. “Sometimes,” she said. “We all take our comfort where we can get it, Draco.”

Draco nodded. “You know about the raid in Cartagena?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s been warned.”

Draco nodded again. “I’ll be there. I’ve been assigned to go with Rodolphus. I’ll—tell him to…God, I can’t stand this, Granger. I’m going mad.”

“You stay away from his wand, he’ll stay away from yours,” Hermione said, trying to use her reasonable voice. “We can’t hope for anything else.”

“About Harry,” Draco said, “I…I know you’ll probably hate me—can’t blame you. I hate myself, believe me, and I won’t defend myself if—when you learn about it, but—”

“Draco,” she said, and that was all. He stopped talking and she lightly touched his head again, then turned and walked back to the fireplace. “I’ll floo you later tonight. We have to get him out of here as soon as we can. For both your sakes.”

Draco watched her take a handful of floo powder and toss it into the fire. “I’ll see you later, Granger.”

She smiled sadly. “Yes. I hope so,” she said and walked into the fire.