Hard Time

Chapter Six: Marked For Sale


Draco was kneeling at his customary spot on the floor by Pucey's chair when he noticed the copy of The Daily Prophet.

Pucey's hand was in his hair, casually petting him, as if he were an obedient hound. This was pretty much what he'd been this week, after one more 'punishment' session last week which had left him with a broken rib. It hurt when he coughed. It hurt when he moved. It even hurt when he breathed, but it was better than it had been last week. At least he could move without being in agony now. The bruises were fading also. None of the guards had even noticed.

So Pucey had bought his obedience, for now. Pucey's hand slid under his cheek, gently raising Draco's head. Draco let his head be positioned, and was rewarded by a bit of sausage, fed from Pucey's fingers. He chewed and swallowed without batting an eye. Lately he'd taken to staring off into space, letting his gaze go glassy. That, and hiding, seemed to garner less abuse. If they forgot he was there, they didn't toy with him. He was starting to get a rather disgusting personal view into Wormtail's habits. But it was survival.

He wondered where they'd gotten the newspaper. There weren't many visitors, but he did know that some of the inmates had friends in other places, in Europe, for example. He'd seen an owl or two come to deliver letters. It had probably come with one of them, he reasoned. The paper was lying on the other side of Pucey's chair, from where Pucey had dropped it after reading it. Somehow, he was certain that its placement was on purpose. He couldn't quite read the headlines without moving from his position. Another invitation to disobey.

Draco tried to look out of the corner of his eye at the paper, straining his vision until it began to blur. "Potter," he managed to make out, and then he had to rest, and accept another bite of food, and an uncomfortable tug on his hair at the back of his nape. Pucey seemed to like the fact it was growing longer every day. He glanced over at the paper again, and he managed to catch another name. "Narcissa." His heart gave a leap. Potter and Narcissa in the same header? With sudden recklessness, he leaned over and snatched up the paper.

"Harry Potter Saves Narcissa Malfoy from Azkaban", the paper read, and he began reading quickly even as Pucey grabbed for the paper and one of Pucey's other mates began savagely kicking him in the side. Harry Potter testified on behalf of Narcissa . . . saved his life the night of . . . reduced sentence to only three years at Azkaban . . . He made a savage noise as the paper was ripped out of his hands, leaving him with useless bits of paper and an unbearable rage at his predicament.

"Give it back!" He cried, leaping up to claw at Adrian, managing to scratch him across one cheek, before Goyle was pulling him back. But he wasn't to be cowed that easily. He struggled against the hold, kicking and snarling as he tried to reach Pucey to tear into him.

The guard strode up to the bars. "Stop it! Stupefy!"

The force of the spell slammed Draco into the wall where he crumpled to the floor. He laid there unable to move, unable to breathe, body screaming with the pain of too many recent beatings piled upon the only partly healed rib and the shock of the spell. He looked on dazedly as the guard opened the door and strode into the common room with two other guards as backup, wands out and pointed at them. "Break it up, you lot! Finite Incantatum! What's going on here?"

Pucey held up the paper that had been ripped from Draco's grasp. "Nothing, sir; just a little argument over an article he saw in the paper. I reckon Draco didn't like seeing his mum all cozy with that Harry Potter, you know." He grinned wickedly, nodding for Goyle to help Draco up. Draco would have refused, but he wasn't given the option, with a hard pull on his arms, he was standing, woozily, and Goyle kept him upright, a firm grip on his shoulders telling him he'd better play along. Draco glared at Pucey.

The guard strode up to Draco and tapped him with his wand, wresting Draco's attention away from Adrian. "Is that right? There'll be no fighting in this ward. We have an arsenal of hexes you don't want to experience. You hear me?"

Draco realized with dawning horror that they were blaming him. He glanced over at Pucey again, lividly, and at the others around them. Of course they would all back up Pucey's words. He truly was without a friend here. Swallowing, he finally nodded, not trusting himself to speak, chest still tight, each breath sending daggers through him. The guard nodded, and Pucey wiped the trickle of blood from the scratch on his cheek.

The guard looked around at the other inmates gathered around to watch. "Back to your cells! Common room time is over." With a last disgusted glance at Draco, he headed back to the guard's area behind the iron bars. Goyle shoved Draco forward, the meaning clear. Draco wondered what punishment Adrian would have for him this time. Adrian, meanwhile, had dropped the Daily Prophet on the floor. Draco tried to get one last glance, but all he saw was a picture of Harry outside the courtroom looking irritated.

In their cell, Goyle was already stretched out on his bed when Draco slunk through the door. The third cellmate, 'Sloth' Warrington, had been the other Chaser on the team Draco's second year. The nickname was more for the way he looked and not the way he moved; he had scraggly brown hair that fell into his eyes, but he could move surprisingly quick for his solid square frame, given a reason. Pucey nodded once, and Draco found himself being pushed up against the wall by Warrington, with Goyle watching on, for the moment. If they both got involved, he knew he was in for real trouble.

Pucey looked at Warrington eagerly. "Did you get it?"

"It's in me pocket. Took a bloody long time to file down," Warrington said in his thick Sheffield brogue. He tore at the front of Draco's shirt, pulling it away, leaving him bare waist up.

Draco looked at Warrington in consternation, shivering. What the hell was he talking about? He struggled against the hold, but Goyle was moving, coming into position on his other side, grabbing a hold of his hair and pressing him back against the wall. This was bad.

Determinedly, Pucey reached into Sloth's pocket and pulled out something small, metal and very sharp-looking. It once had probably been a hinge to a door or bed, but it had been sharpened into a small makeshift knife, with a jagged point at the end. Draco swallowed, feeling faint. "You're not going to kill me." He wanted to sound brave, but his voice came out barely a whisper, sounding nothing but pathetic.

Pucey sniggered. "Not today, Draco. It's too much fun keeping you around to play with." He suddenly became deadly serious, grabbing Draco's face. "But you pull another stunt like that in the common room and I might have to do something drastic." He pressed the point of the little knife against Draco's throat, hard enough that Draco could feel it pierce skin, could feel a drop of blood slither down his throat. He hardly dared breathe.

The knife slowly traveled down Draco's collar to his chest, the tip just lightly scratching the surface, keeping him pinned. Pucey's eyes were dark and hungry. "You need to understand something, Draco. You're mine. For as long as you're in here with me, anything you do, anything you say, you do it with my permission. Say it!" He stabbed the point of the knife a few millimeters into the skin at Draco's breast, cutting him. Draco gasped, terrified.

"Yours," Draco whispered. "I do what you say." Pucey was making a slice downwards, about three centimeters long or so. Draco wondered if Pucey meant to carve him up a tiny piece at a time. Beside him, he saw Goyle lick his lips.

"Better fucking believe it," Pucey muttered. He glared at Draco, holding up the piece of metal to show the blood. A dark smile replaced the frown. "I'm going to mark you, so that you never forget again."

A second cut, a small one diagonal to the first, and Draco realized, he was cutting a "P" into his chest. He whimpered, trying to squirm, but Goyle and Warrington held him fast. More blood was dripping down his front, soaking into his trousers. The cuts weren't that deep, not deep enough to be life threatening, but they'd surely be deep enough to leave permanent scars. Hot tears burned at the back of his throat. Adrian's words were sinking in. I'm never going to escape this.

Pucey finished cutting, bringing the knife up to his mouth to lick off the blood. "There. All done. You disobey me again, Draco, and I cut off your balls." He wrapped the blade in some ripped fabric and put it in his pocket before stripping off his trousers. Draco could see he was hard. He knew what was coming next.

He closed his eyes; it was easier that way, as he felt his trousers being yanked down to his ankles, as hands pulled up one leg to wrap around a naked hip. Easier to imagine that he wasn't here, that it wasn't Pucey. He grimaced at the hard shove in--never preparation, oh no--and endured the sloppy kisses and ill-timed thrusts, staying relaxed. It hurt less that way. He'd tried thinking of Blaise, but with Blaise giving him the cold shoulder, and worse, asking Pucey for 'favours,' that fantasy had very quickly gone out the window. Dark hair. He wanted to keep the dark hair. Eyes that were kinder. The roughness didn't matter, as long as the eyes were kind. He toyed with imagining different colours, but the colour that seemed to want to stick was green. Fiery green.

Of course that meant it was Harry Potter that he was imagining doing him. Draco couldn't quite picture Harry roughly pulling at his hair, and yet Harry was a rather hot-tempered fellow sometimes. Why not? And if there were extra sets of hands holding him, well that could be due to some spell Potter had cast. Some sort of revenge for all their childhood fighting. It was finally starting to feel good.

"Who gave you permission to enjoy this! Open your fucking eyes," Pucey snarled, and the fantasy evaporated like that. Draco opened his eyes. But he did his very best not to let them focus, to let them be glazed, empty. He'd learn to dream with his eyes open if he had to.

"That's better," Pucey muttered, returning to kiss him. Harry's lips would be softer of course, less demanding at first, but as his passion grew, it would not be that far off from this, Draco thought almost distantly, feeling the assault as if it were happening to someone else. Harry would also get better at this, over time. He simply needed some instruction in technique.

Pucey came, and the hands shoved Draco down to the floor, leaving him there, hard and unfulfilled. The fantasy shattered again with Pucey's laughter. "You are one sick bastard, Draco. You're actually starting to enjoy it."

The worst of it, Draco conceded, was that he was.

***

Harry stared at the imposing edifice of what was no longer the Malfoy Manor, feeling the hot sun beating down on his back. The manor was of grey stone with a wrought iron fence and stately trimmed hedges and willow trees, on nearly four acres of land including a small duck pond. He had the absurd image of Draco playing there as a child.

Now, however, the house stood dark and empty, falling into neglect. The whole area was hidden by magic from Muggle eyes, of course, to appear as just a very large pond, but they needn't have bothered. There were no close neighbors other than a very old farmer living down the dusty lane.

A large sign had been erected in front of the clapper, announcing the sale of the residence and the auction. There was a large black wooden box beneath the sign, and as Harry watched, an owl flew by, and dropped a slip of paper into the box. More writing appeared on a slip of paper attached to the sign, and Harry realized it was keeping tally of the bids. The wizarding version of a silent auction, then.

Harry bent down to look at the latest addition to the paper. It gave a bid number, and then a blank space, and then an amount. He snorted softly. The house was being seriously undersold if this was the highest bid so far. Three thousand fifty gold Galleons, bid number 57. He wondered how many different wizards or witches were actually bidding. It didn't surprise him that none of them wanted to attach their name. Buying the house of a well-known Death Eater had to be a bit dodgy at best.

A sigh escaped Harry, as he stared at the house again. He remembered the Snatchers taking him here, the memory half muddled with Voldemort's activities that night and all the pain that had brought. He'd hardly seen the place. It was still unbelievable that the Ministry could seize everything. Voldemort lived here. What can I be thinking, even to consider making a bid?

He knew perfectly well what he was thinking. He was thinking of Draco, more than anyone else, and Dumbledore's words, and the fact Narcissa had saved his life. Lucius had sealed his family's fate by following Voldemort. He pretty much deserved whatever came his way, but Harry just couldn't feel the same way about his wife or son.

As he stood there thinking, another owl flew by, and another bid landed in the box. Three thousand two hundred now, and the sun was starting to sink. The sign said that the auction would be over at sundown. If he waited here, he might put the very last bid in before it set.

So he sat. He sat, watching the owls come and go, watching the sun sink towards the horizon, watching the dark windows of the manor and half expecting someone to look out at him--Draco? Or Voldemort. He couldn't quite shake the anticipation or the fear. Several times he tried to talk himself into leaving without placing a bid. Time was growing short. But he thought about other possible owners. What if--god forbid--someone like Rita Skeeter managed to buy it? Or somebody from Durmstrang? Each possible face came to him, more and more wrong.

Finally he stood up. The sun was a red ball of flame, dipping into the trees, soon to be swallowed up. He scrounged in his pocket for a pen, and went over to the paper with the bids. Sixty-four bids now. Four thousand Galleons--he paused as another owl flew by, and the number changed, four thousand two hundred. It must be the last minute rush, he decided, as three more owls closed in. He glanced at the sun again, allowing them all to deliver their messages, waiting, waiting.

As the sun diminished into a tiny sliver, he finally wrote on the paper, "Bid #69: Harry Potter. Five thousand Galleons." He watched the writing sink in, accepted as the sun set. For a tense moment he wondered if he'd done it wrong, or if he'd been too late. Then the letters on the sign began rearranging themselves. Where it had read "For Sale", it changed now to "SOLD." Beneath that, in bold red letters, it read, "Sold to Bid # 69, Harry Potter."

He swallowed, feeling suddenly faint.

He had just purchased Malfoy Manor.

***

TBC