Redeem Me

DISCLAIMER: Warning! I make no claim to any property of J.K. Rowling's, and am in no way profiting by this. I do offer her my sincerest thanks for allowing us this garden of the mind in which we play. Further Warning! This story...and likely any I ever write…are dominated by gay themes and characters. That's how it is, if this in any way makes you uncomfortable...do not read further.

Redeem Me…by Samayel

Chapter 44: Stupid Whore


Contrary to popular opinion, Ron Weasley was not stupid. Stubborn, prideful, and overly inclined to make hasty conclusions perhaps, but not stupid. A man who could plot a dozen moves ahead in a game of wizard chess was by no means mentally deficient. Certain things became obvious within minutes of Harry and Draco’s arrival at the party, and Ron would’ve had to be blind to miss them.

Draco was smiling from ear to ear, and Harry practically glowed. The two of them kept looking at each other liked they each thought the other had hung the moon, and despite the polite thanks and kind words about the gifts and tickets, Ron might as well have turned invisible.

‘They’re fucking. It would have been more subtle if they’d just worn fucking signs that pointed to each other and read ‘Just Fucked’! I can’t believe this shit. My best friend and his former worst enemy…are shagging! Awww, criminey! I hope to Merlin that at least Harry’s the top! Ooof! Bad image, Ronny…baaad image. Just find a way to deal with it and get Harry alone for a few minutes to talk about this.’

The party rambled on, and Ron didn’t have much luck peeling Harry away from Draco…until Oliver Wood got there. Wood took a contract with Puddlemere United after school, and he made assistant coach after only four years on the team. His fast rise had made him a celebrity among wizards who followed Quidditch, and he often dropped by celebrations where old friends were to be found. Harry hadn’t seen Oliver in years, and Ron knew a chance when he saw one. It was hard enough just ignoring the sheer volume of alcohol, and watching Harry and Draco fawn all over each other was more tension than he could easily adjust to.

Oliver dominated Harry’s attention completely, and with just a few carefully timed statements by Ron, Draco was left completely out of the loop, moved to the background of the conversation for the time being. If he could just get Draco to piss off for a few minutes, he could drop a few questions to Harry and sort this all out. Not that he was absolutely against it, since after all, Charlie and Dula were great…and good mates as well, but Harry and Draco just made no sense. Plus…the looks Draco had been giving Ron for interrupting him had been pretty horrible. Not quite the old ‘Malfoy Glare Of Death’, but close enough for Ron’s money. It was sweet relief when Draco acidly commented that he was going to get something more to drink, then sauntered off looking like he’d just bitten into a fresh lemon. Harry was still floored by Oliver’s arrival, and he looked slightly hurt and confused about Draco’s irritation with him. Really…what was Harry thinking? It’s Draco, for Merlin’s sake! That what he’s like. Maybe he wasn’t evil, but he was still Draco.

Things settled down comfortably, and it felt a little like old times with Harry and Oliver talking about Quidditch. The thought of a decent, stiff drink crossed Ron’s mind more than once, but he kept it in check. He wasn’t Gryffindor for no reason at all. He’d made his promise and he was sticking to it…no matter what.

He’d almost managed to steer things around to Harry taking a short walk with him, but what he saw going on over Harry’s shoulder set his blood boiling. Draco was getting chatted up by Fenton. The Cannons’ Seeker was notorious for his sexual appetite. Anything even remotely attractive eventually wound up shagging him…and Draco didn’t seem too upset about the situation. Admittedly, Fenton was gorgeous, a pure-blood from a wealthy family, and so polished and charming that he’d been featured in Witch Weekly almost every month for the last two years, but the man was a pig. His teammates knew better than to trust him farther than they could throw him. He might be the red hot prospect that drew crowds and recruiters, but he was also a complete bastard.

‘I can’t believe the wee cunt went off with Fenton! I pull Harry away from him for a few minutes and he runs off with the Cannons’ own walking sex machine! I don’t care if Harry likes him…he’s a fucking tramp. I’ll sort this shite out fast enough!’

Ron excused himself quickly, letting Oliver and Harry chat while he trailed after Malfoy, hoping he could pull Draco off that slag Fenton and give the wee bastard a piece of his mind. Nothing rough or anything, but Merlin, Harry didn’t have a lot of dating experience backing him up, and the notion of Draco polishing Harry’s wand and then trotting off to the next guy was just infuriating. Harry would be in for a tough time if Draco decided to play rough with Harry’s heart, and Ron just wanted to have a few choice words about it before leaving Harry to Draco’s tender mercies. Nothing more, nothing less.

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Draco had watched a great mood quickly turn into a sour one. First, the press of festive, orange-clad humanity was more than he was used to, and second, Harry’s fame pulled almost everyone toward them. Draco didn’t mind not being recognized, and only had to endure a few suspicious glares from the people who did know who he was, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that, having just enjoyed himself so immensely in the Skybox, he rather wanted to just be with Harry and be left alone, but they were hemmed in by people who wanted Harry’s attention almost from the minute they arrived, and Ron was no exception.

Almost an hour had gone by before Draco’s fraying temper had snapped. That ginger ogre, Ron, had interrupted him or spoken right over him a half-dozen times, and with Oliver Wood in the room, Harry only wanted to talk about Quidditch with his old house chums. Not that this was such a bad thing, mind you, but Draco was largely disregarded by the others, and couldn’t get more than a word or two in before being interrupted and ignored. It was infuriating, and even more infuriating was that Harry didn’t seem to notice or care. Coming as this did, on the heels of such a special moment between them, it stung all the more, and Draco tired of competing for Harry’s attention. Finally, Draco slipped off to sulk at the table with the punch, which was delicious, and took the edge off of his irritation nicely. He’d been just a little tipsy before, in the Skybox, but not drunk, and he was still in good shape now, but he was feeling pleasantly warm and relaxed, as well as a little off balance compared to usual. It wasn’t all that bad, but he settled for making this cup his last, since he didn’t really like being any more intoxicated than he already was.

’I can’t believe those inconsiderate prats! Gryffindors! They’re all the same! The three of them might as well have been triplets the way they act…stuck on each other like clinging vines. Ron’s gift was nice and all, but he’s still a big, rude clod…even if he isn’t trying to maim me. Oaf! That does it…I’m asking Harry to take me home.’

“This is entirely unacceptable. The most attractive and graceful person in the building, and he’s alone by the punch? I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me…are you sure you’re not under a pile of Glamours that only I can see through?”

Draco turned to the smooth voice behind him, and looked up. The man who had spoken was perhaps an inch taller than Harry, with a classic Seeker’s build, lean and yet powerful. His hair was an artful mess of dark, chestnut-brown curls, and his eyes were a smoldering, volcanic blue that were breathtakingly well set in a handsome and chiseled face. He carried himself like a pure-blood, but with a relaxed sense of self confidence that was immediately impressive. He had an easy-going smile that gave Draco the first impression of harmlessness…and of good humor, and he was probably only a few years older than Draco. While Draco suspected that he was being ’chatted up’, the implied flattery was intoxicating, and a perfect balm for his recently soured mood.

“I guess your eyes are playing tricks on you. There's no one like that here, but those are still nice things to say. I’m Draco…and you are?”

“Jonathan Fenton, Seeker, at your service. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Draco. So you came with Harry Potter?”

His greeting was delivered with a perfect short-bow, traditional among the well-bred, and Draco found himself remembering the old etiquette he once took pride in knowing. Being chatted up by someone this handsome was a compliment in itself, and it was refreshing to make conversation with someone outside the Weasley household that didn’t think ill of him for his reputation.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too. Harry brought me, but Ron Weasley provided us with the tickets. It was a terrific game. I used to play Seeker for my house team in school, and what you folks were doing out there was just amazing.”

The conversation moved quickly, and Draco found he was actually enjoying himself again, and let his past irritation slip away. He could go home later, and Harry was obviously having a great time, even if it meant he wasn’t paying much attention to Draco. Truthfully, it had been a long time since either of them had spoken to much of anyone from outside the Burrow, and Draco realized that Harry probably enjoyed the change of pace just as much as Draco did. Jonathan seemed courteous to a fault, and when he seemed shocked that Draco hadn’t seen any of the Cannons’ clubhouse, it didn’t seem at all amiss to take a tour of the place. After all, Harry would likely be involved with Ron and Oliver Wood for who only knew how long, and anything was better than just standing about and brooding. The fact that the company was handsome and well-spoken didn’t really hurt either.

The Cannons’ clubhouse was more than just offices and a banquet hall. It held hundreds of years of mementos from teams of the past, and despite the rather glaring orange décor, which didn’t really suit Draco’s tastes, it was still an impressive sight. Photos, news clippings, old portraits that chatted garrulously about games from ages ago, and trophies from years gone by graced the hallways and rooms that Jonathan led him through. The last room was the official Trophy Hall, and while the Cannons’ hadn’t won much over the last century, Fenton had helped to bring a few new trophies in, and things were looking pretty good for the Cannons lately. Recruiters for next year’s World Cup were already setting appointments and making interviews, and several Cannons’ players were considered to be ’of interest’ for the time being. Given that it had been more than a century since a Cannons player had made it onto a World Cup team, it was a time of great excitement.

Draco realized much too late that he was far from the party, and well out of earshot from others. It wouldn’t have occurred to him at all, except that Jonathan was standing terribly close while he spoke about the trophies, and his insistence that they close the doors behind them suddenly seemed less like a gesture of politeness, and more like a careful move to insure privacy. There were couches here, old and well appointed, but surely he didn’t expect anything of a boy he’d met not twenty minutes ago?

Draco got his answer when a minute later, just as he was about to suggest that he was missed and should get back, Jonathan Fenton leaned down and planted a forceful kiss on Draco’s lips, and his hands were on Draco’s hips, pulling the two of them close and tight together, allowing Draco to feel the erection straining in Fenton’s slacks. Panic overwhelmed him completely, and he whimpered unresponsively into Fenton’s mouth, offering a wordless plea for freedom.

Draco tried pushing away, and Fenton grabbed at him and pinned his arms easily, forcing him back and onto one of the couches. Draco was already breaking into tears, and he couldn’t really help it. In the back of his mind, this scene was a replay of a hundred others, and his part was already pre-determined. Give the man what he wanted, and he won’t hurt you. Make them happy, and they’ll go away. Do what you have to, and just get it over with. These were mantras that had made it possible to survive the past year, and they didn’t vanish just because his situation had changed for the better so recently.

Draco’s world was a nightmare pastiche, a weird blend of horrifying days past, with sudden and terrible explosions of the current and the real.

’Yes! What a perfect little whore you are! Slut…you know this is what you want!’

MacNair’s voice blurred away, only to shift in timbre until it was Fenton’s.

“Mmm. C’mon! I saw you in the Skybox…you know you want some of this!”

He wasn’t really resisting, but at some point he took a slap to the face for crying and shivering instead of responding, and his mind exploded back into the past. London, LeStrange’s hidden manor, streets that he had no name for, and the seats of Muggle autos where favors were exchanged hastily for a few crumpled and dirty notes of Muggle currency. If it wasn’t to be pain and complete degradation, Draco knew what he had to do.

Fenton recognized the posture Draco was adopting the minute Draco went to his knees, and promptly fumbled for his fly while standing upright.

“I knew you were the type who liked it rough and dirty. The way you gave it up in the Skybox showed me what I needed to know. That’s a good little slut. I’ve got something for you right here, you pretty thing.”

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Ron Weasley finally met a dead end, wondering where his quarry had fled. It didn’t bode well that he was in the farthest chambers of the clubhouse, and could barely hear the party from here. If Fenton and Draco were back here, it wasn’t just to look at the trophies! More than one party had seen players sneaking off with dates for a bit of fun, but this was Draco! Draco who was at least nominally supposed to be engaged in some kind of relationship with Harry. The idea of Harry and Draco as some sort of couple confused the hell out of Ron, but he was much more offended by the notion of Draco having a quick one off with Fenton after obviously capturing Harry’s attention. He knew he had to nip this in the bud before Harry got hurt, and there was only one room left to check.

Not surprisingly, a standard Locking Charm had been placed on the doors from within. Ron hadn’t made it through a war without acquiring a certain level of skill, and he cleared off the spell without so much as blinking. The door was locked the traditional way as well, and Ron could hear only vague noises, including Fenton’s voice, beyond it. Ron had hunted long enough, and he’d built up a decent head of steam. His temper, frayed by hours of avoiding alcohol while others indulged around him, and from trying to accomplish something fairly simple and encountering so many complications, snapped. One booted foot slammed into the point where the double doors locked together, and they crashed open with a shriek of splintering wood and grinding metal. The tableau before him etched itself into Ron’s mind.

Fenton was standing, fly open, with Draco kneeling before him, and he had his hand twisted through Draco’s hair. Draco’s face was buried in the man’s crotch, and Fenton was looking at Ron with mingled outrage and surprise. Ron didn’t know what to say. It was a pretty pathetic sight, and he hadn’t really believed that things would go that far so quick. It looked like Harry was dealing with a complete fucking slut, and any intervention by Ron was pointless.

But, contrary to popular opinion, Ron Weasley was not stupid. Stubborn, prideful, and overly inclined to make hasty conclusions perhaps, but not stupid. Fenton bellowed at Ron, but not enough to distract him from certain crucial details.

“Fucking Merlin, you arsehole! Piss off! Can’t you see I’m about to get off here? Get the fuck out, Weasley!”

Ron was well aware that, as a rule, a slut would never be sporting a bruised cheek, and that tears had no business streaming down a voluntary partner’s face. Ron moved in fast. When Fenton pulled away and tried to shove his genitals back into his pants, Draco crawled away quickly and curled into the corner of the room, while Ron reached maximum velocity long before Fenton was ready.

“Weasley! C’mon…there’s noth-”

Ron’s fist crashed into Fenton’s stomach so hard that the man was lifted off his feet and bounced off the wall behind him. Meaty smacks followed, then soft and muffled crunches. When Draco finally opened his eyes, it was only because Ron was leaning over him, speaking in a commanding tone that was impossible to ignore.

“Draco…Draco! We have to go. I just Apparated Fenton to St. Mungo’s emergency ward and came back. We need to clean you up before Harry sees this. If you think I’m trouble, just be glad it wasn’t Harry that busted in here. There’s a bathroom just down the hall, but you’ve gotta be a soldier for me. Stand up and march! Come on! You can do it!”

Draco was still numb, unsure of what constituted reality. The sudden and overwhelming urge to be back at the Burrow hit him and hit him hard. He started fumbling his way upright, pushing away Ron’s offered hand, then vomited violently onto the carpeted floor, choking on mingled tears and bile.

“Home…wanna go home. Please…please get me home. I don’t want Harry…to…to see me like this. Please. Get me…get me out of here.”

“Okay. Just follow me, mate. C‘mon…that’s it…one step at a time. Let’s go. That Fenton‘s a right bastard. We‘ve had complaints about him before, but he never tried anything in the clubhouse ‘til now. I‘m just sorry it was with you. The fuckin‘ bastard. Don‘t you worry, mate. No one‘s gonna fall for his ‘pretty face’ until St. Mungo‘s get some specialists to work on him. I set into him something fierce. I‘ll probably wind up on the bench again, but it was worth it just to wipe the sneer off his fucking face. Let‘s get you cleaned up.”

Ron waited outside while Draco washed up in the Gents restroom. The mirror above the sinks was enormous, and the room was brightly lit and clean. Draco looked at himself in the mirror; pale as ash, bruising quickly along his cheek, and red-rimmed about the eyes from crying. He still couldn’t stop shaking.

’Stupid, stupid whore! You’re such a fucking whore. They can all see it. A few nice words and you wag your tail like a little bitch in heat. No wonder this shite happens…no wonder. In school you’d have seen that coming from a mile away. What the fuck does Harry see in me? How can he even look at me? How can he not see this? Or does he see it, but he’s too kind to say it? Does he feel sorry for the stupid, little tramp that showed up on his doorstep? If he really knew what I was, he couldn’t possibly keep from being disgusted. Maybe he wouldn’t say it, maybe he’d still look after me, but he’d have to want to puke when he thought of the things I’ve done. I deserved this. I walked right into it…I wasn’t even paying attention, but I walked right into it. I deserved it…I deserved it…I-’

Draco finally lost control for a moment, punching the mirror in front of him as hard as he could. A huge crunch sounded, and a spider web of lines formed just before shards fell to the counter and shattered into still smaller pieces. He could hear Ron coming in. Draco just stared at the red mess of his hand, knuckles sparkling with chunks of silvered glass embedded throughout. Drops of red were spilling slowly onto the white tile floor while he stared at his rapidly swelling knuckles. The pain was blinding, and still weirdly soothing, offering him something to concentrate on that was so much easier to see and cope with.

“Aw, fuck all! What have ya gone and done? I leave you alone for a minute and you’re all torn up. Hold steady.”

Ron calmly rattled off a few spells for healing. His lessons from the war had never been lost. Ron hadn’t had Harry’s raw power, or Hermione’s complete dedication to mastering every subject, but he had studied and practiced all the spells the Order had put in front of him after Dumbledore’s death. He’d changed with the times, learning what he knew he’d have to…knowing that it might mean life or death. He’d been better at Healing Charms than Harry was…and that was still true.

The bruising on Draco’s face faded even faster than the cuts and swelling on his hand. Draco recognized a Cheering Charm in the mix, and almost resented it, but it didn’t induce much cheer. Instead, it just took enough off the edge of his fucked-up state of self-loathing to allow him to function and think clearly for a moment.

Ron Apparated Draco back to the Burrow, and made sure his mother was aware that Draco had had a ‘difficult time’, ensuring that Draco wouldn’t be left unattended. Draco just sat quietly on the edge of the bed, while Molly fetched a full strength Calming Draught and tried to maintain a calm demeanor, but it was obvious that she was terribly worried about Draco’s silence and unresponsiveness. He was only answering with vague nods when Ron Apparated back to the party to get Harry.

Harry took longer to make it back to the Burrow than Draco would have imagined. It was almost an hour before Harry returned, and Draco was half convinced that when Harry had heard what happened, he was just too disgusted to come back right away.

Harry sat down beside Draco, and Draco didn’t have the heart to look up at the moment, and just remained still, hands between his knees, staring at the floor and wondering why he’d been allowed to live through a war…only to wind up enduring things like this. Was it some kind of punishment that just wouldn’t end until he’d paid with his sanity? Or was it just that he sought out people and choices that would hurt him? Was this what he really wanted?

He tried to form words, and made a few noises before collapsing into tears. This time…this time Harry let him cry himself out, cooing reassurances all the while, handing over a cloth to clean his face once he’d got it all out.

There was talk, mostly by Draco, and he was conscious of being reminded that it wasn’t his fault…but the words just rang hollow in his ears. He knew Harry meant it, but he just didn’t believe it. When they’d made ready for bed, and there was darkness and silence, Draco couldn’t quite bring himself to touch Harry’s waiting hand. He tried to close his eyes and let the world bleed away to nothing, but it was hard to believe that peace would ever come to him.

Harry meant to comfort. He really did…but his whispered words chilled Draco to the bone.

“Don’t worry, love. You’re safe. I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you. Don’t be afraid. I promise you…he won’t hurt anyone again.”

Draco’s mind reeled at the significance of those words. Harry had been almost an hour getting home. How long had he spoken to Ron? How long was he on his own? Long enough to reach St. Mungo’s?

Morning took a long time to come, and Draco knew this to be true. His eyes didn’t close once, and his waking mind was on fire with fears that couldn’t yet be voiced.


TBC!!!