Hard Time

A Cut Too Deep

Cursing himself, cursing the pain burning in his chest, Draco stared towards where Harry had walked out the door of the examination room. Draco's eyes were stinging with unshed tears as he fought to maintain control. He wasn't going to let the fucking guard see him cry.

What a stupid git I am, he thought with savage self-hatred. It had just gone all wrong, everything. Harry wasn't supposed to see the rape. He wasn't supposed to witness Draco's humiliation. It had brought out every shred of wounded pride he had left, and he'd reacted as he'd always been taught to react when facing something that made him uncomfortable--with scorn and vitriol, feigning strength he didn't have, lashing out with a vicious tongue. It had always worked for Father.

But he hadn't meant to direct it at Harry; not this time. It was just that it was all so degrading, and he hated feeling that way. He had seen in the reflection of Harry's eyes just how pitiful he looked. How weak. Ugly.

He's not going to help. He just wanted to leave, Draco thought miserably, the back of his throat on fire. The most awful thing was, Harry had only come because his mother asked it of him. He never would have come otherwise; Draco saw that now. He might have saved his life in the battle, but he wouldn't now. Couldn't. Even if he did make a half-hearted effort, what could he do? Hero of the wizarding world, sure, but still just a half-grown boy, just barely of age. Narcissa had saved Harry's life and she still had to serve three years. He hadn't done anything so grand in anyone's favour. There was no hope for him. Three years, ha. He wasn't sure at this rate that he'd survive three weeks.

And oh the wand. Such stupidity, true, but he'd been desperate. Just a half-arsed thought of escape. Well, he thought wryly, at least someone knew now that he wasn't so cozy with the Death Eaters as everyone seemed to think. Perhaps they might at least change his cell. He could learn what his next tormentor would be like.

"Get up, Malfoy; time to go back," the guard said, and slowly Draco obeyed, wincing as he stood up. He dared a glance through his bangs at the guard and shuddered at what he saw. Before, the guards had pretty much ignored him, or treated him like the rest of the inmates. Now this one was looking at him as if he'd make a nice tasty snack. Another price for that little circus Pucey had dreamed up. He wondered if Adrian would find some way to benefit from loaning him to the guards. Brilliant.

The guard took him by the elbow and led him back through the empty common room, not uttering a word. On the one hand, Draco had to be grateful he wasn't being punished for his 'whoring'; on the other hand, they obviously weren't going to fix his rib either. He felt the familiar dread pounding in his chest as the guard opened the door to the cell and shoved him inside.

Pucey's eyes could burn holes through him, the way he was staring. Draco cautiously crossed over to his bunk, one hand on the ladder, ready to climb up if Adrian allowed him, or stay put if given any other kind of directive. Pucey snorted and spat with derision. "Have a nice chat with your old mate Potter?"

Draco felt the back of his neck heating up. "He just came because my mum requested it--fulfilling some ridiculous sense of honour, I reckon." He didn't offer more, standing timidly, hoping that Pucey wouldn't decide that it had been his fault the guard and Harry had caught them.

"They're closing the cells during meal times in the common room now. We'll have to rearrange our little brothel plans. Don't think you're done with Scabior, by the way. He'll want his full payment's worth." Draco wasn't sure what Scabior's payment had been; Pucey managed to get something from everyone, somehow. It had been long enough that even some of the straight ones were thinking they'd have a go. Apparently he was 'pretty' enough they could overlook the fact he was a bloke.

Draco nodded at Pucey's words, because he wasn't sure what else to do. It was like waiting for the storm cloud to burst. It would happen, sooner or later, but it would be very nice if it would allow him to get some sleep first. He was exhausted.

Pucey stared at him, measuring him. He had that look on his face, the one Draco dreaded. "I won't allow Potter to spring you out of here, if that's what he has in mind. I'll kill you before I let you leave here." The flatness of his voice told Draco that he wasn't joking. A shiver went through him. Doomed. Trapped.

A sadistic smile spread over Pucey's face. "Now off with the shirt, and turn around. You were a very naughty lad today."

A stab of fear went through Draco's gut. Feeling suddenly nauseous, not certain what would be coming next, he did as Pucey said, turning his face towards the bunkbed, holding onto the post in expectation of something that would hurt. A lot.

He wasn't disappointed. Something lashed at him, something of leather but with a metal end--a belt with a buckle, he realized--probably the 'payment' from Scabior. He bit back a cry, feeling the tooth of the buckle puncturing his skin on the next blow; it was hard to say what hurt worse, the sting of the leather or the hard bruising of the buckle. The buckle, he decided, as it hit his spine on the next swing, sending a jolt through him that made him fall to his knees. He wondered if Pucey could actually crack his spine with that.

"Up, dog!"

If there was some miraculous way that Draco would wandlessly cast a killing spell, now would be the time for it. He snarled, hating Pucey, hating everything, everyone. But he stood up again, and took the next blow. And for that he hated himself most of all.

By the fifth blow, he could feel wetness sliding down his back. A glace at the floor confirmed his suspicions; he was bleeding, and quite a lot. "How long are you going to hit him?" Goyle asked. The tone of his voice was peculiar. Not caring, or afraid, no. It was more like what Pucey was doing . . . fascinated him. Draco bit back a sob. His back felt like liquid fire.

"I reckon that'll do for now. We'll need him functioning for later--the others aren't going to want to wait forever for their turns." Draco shuddered in relief for the respite, two hot tears betraying him by slipping his control to make trails down his cheeks. He was not going to give them the satisfaction, even if it killed him.

Pucey suddenly grabbed the prison shirt and scrubbed it down Draco's back to wipe away the blood. Draco choked on a scream; his back was raw. When he saw the moisture on Draco's cheeks, Pucey smiled, his eyes going dark and hungry. Oh please, not again. Not right now.

Turning Draco around to face him, Pucey drew him in, kissing him hard. It was everything Draco could do not to fight him, not to bite down on the invading tongue. He let his body go slack, his eyes go distant. He could see the look of horror on Potter's face. There was no comfort there this time.

Pucey drew away, studying him, then slapped Draco, hard. Draco blinked, surprised.

"Look at me when I'm touching you! I know what you're doing, and I won't let you do it. Who are you fantasizing about, Draco? Your old flame Blaise? Pansy?" Pucey scoffed, then sneered. "Or maybe it's your hero Potter you dream about, eh?"

Draco tried to remain still, to show no reactions whatsoever, but his eye must have twitched involuntarily, for Pucey's face mottled with rage. "Potter?! You're thinking of that fucking half-blood? Think he'll come save you and take you away?" He drew back his hand and Draco braced for another slap.

Instead Pucey punched him hard in the nose. Draco felt it break, and made a low anguished sound as heat spread across his face, feeling the blood start to gush.

As Draco rushed to cover his face, Pucey shoved him to the ground. "See how much Wonder Boy will want you without your perfect looks, traitor."

Draco looked helplessly at Goyle and Warrington, but they only stared back coldly. Grabbing a handful of shirt to stem the blood, Draco started to crawl towards a corner where he could try and force things back into place, but Pucey shook his head, kicking him. "Don't move. Don't fucking move, or I'll break more than your nose."

So he huddled there, as the others chatted for a while, laughing about the scene earlier, making his ears burn as Pucey described the look on Potter's face--classic, he called it. Classic horror. Pucey, Goyle, and Warrington were stretched out on their beds now, ready to sleep. The pain in Draco's face and back was coming and going in waves, making him light-headed.

Just before lights out time, Pucey threw him one last look, with a grin. "Oh by the way. I know you didn't get to read the rest of that article last week. Shame really; it had quite a lot of news. Did you know the Ministry took Malfoy Manor? They saved a few of your mum's things, for what she did and all. But the house itself they sold at auction." He sniggered, cruelly. "Guess that's what comes of helping Potter." He rolled over to sleep, leaving Draco huddled on the hard stone floor.

Draco hadn't been given permission to move, and he was certain Pucey was just waiting for him to slip up again, so he stayed there, curled into a miserable ball, unable to even cry because his face hurt so badly. And how horrible did he look, he wondered? He wasn't sure he could bear to look. I can't take another night, he thought desperately, listening to the sounds of the others breathing, throbbing all over.

He must have blacked out for a little because when he opened his eyes next, there was faint moonlight coming in from the tiny window, bathing the cell in a soft silvery glow. Goyle and Warrington were snoring loudly. Pucey seemed dead to the world.

Slowly, very slowly, Draco rolled over onto his hands and knees, biting his cheek at the ache of muscles held too long in one position, at the way the movement pulled at his still healing rib. His nose was all swollen up so he had to breathe through his mouth, very softly. There was a half-formed idea in his head, a new plan of escape. Harry wouldn't be in time, even if he did choose to help. He had to do something on his own.

He crawled over to Pucey, and knelt there, shaking a little, waiting for the second that Pucey would open his eyes and see that Draco had moved. Moments passed, and nothing happened. Cautiously, Draco reached out to Pucey's jeans pocket, ever so slowly trying to work his hand inside, seeking something sharp and metal wrapped in cloth--Warrington's knife.

His fingers grazed it, and carefully, so very carefully, he worked his fingers to drag the package out of Pucey's pocket, pausing at one point when Pucey gave a long sigh. Draco froze, waiting. A moment passed, and Pucey gave no indication of waking. Draco pulled the knife the rest of the way out, and clutched it to him, slowly unwrapping the piece of metal.

As much as he was tempted to stab the sharp point into Pucey's jugular vein, Draco knew that would not solve his problems. Pucey just happened to be holding the reins right now, but there were others just as capable of taking his place if given the chance. Killing him might bring satisfaction, but it would not bring freedom.

Time was slipping away. The guards checked cells periodically during the night, to make sure there wasn't any digging going on, and that all prisoners were alive and counted for. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to do it quickly. There was no point in keeping the knife, not when Goyle, Warrington and Pucey all out-muscled him. He wasn't going to kill Goyle in any circumstance, not even after what Goyle had done. He couldn't cut away that last shred of friendship.

That left only himself.

Draco turned over his wrist, holding the knife in his right hand, looking at the pale skin of his wrist, the blue veins, clearly visible by the moonlight. An end to torment. His home--gone. His parents locked away. Friends all turned against him. There just wasn't any point to any of it any more, once he thought about it. He'd been a coward all along, letting stronger forces control him, buffet him. Perhaps this was just another form of cowardice. But he just couldn't do it any longer.

He pressed the point against the vein. Some idiots tried to slash across their wrists. No, no. The blood was more likely to coagulate, and not flow. He knew the proper way to go about it. If he was going to do it, he was going to be successful.

His heart raced. Do I really want to die? But all he had to think about was the look of horror on Potter's face. He had thought the Malfoy family was powerful, undefeatable. But Voldemort had shown them otherwise over the last few years. He was just a wretched little pet. And he couldn't bear it.

With sudden resolve, he slashed deep, cutting into his wrist, up the arm, severing the veins. Pain made him reel, swooning, as blood began to flow out the wound. But what was pain? He was in pain already. Just one more. He had to slice the other one. Then the pain would go away, for good.

Merlin, it hurts, he thought, trying to keep silent, but little choked sobs were leaving him, despite his best efforts. There was a growing puddle of blood; it was soaked into his trousers, heading towards the drain. Pucey stirred, and in a panic, Draco tried to grasp the knife with his other hand, but the tendons had been cut; he couldn't grip it. Feet, he thought dully. Have to use my feet.

"What are you--oh shit!" Pucey had awoken, seen the blood. In a panic, Draco transferred the knife to between his feet, holding it steady. He didn't have time to worry about mechanics; he stabbed down, and cried out as he felt the metal slice into his other wrist.

Not enough time--damn it! Pucey wrenched the knife from him but blood was starting to flow from the other wrist too; though the cut wasn't long, it was deeper. Black spots danced in Draco's vision.

"Goyle--try and stop the bleeding!" Pucey said, shaking Goyle awake. Draco found himself lying on the floor, though he didn't remember doing that. Weak. Tired. The blood looked black by the light of the moon and stars.

Pucey began banging on the door. "Suicide attempt! Get your bloody arses over here! ESCAPE!!!" He kicked it a few times more, in frustration.

Draco tried to wrest his arm free from Goyle, who was trying--and failing--to stop the flow of blood. Goyle looked rather pale, Draco thought, and the thought made him giggle. It wasn't hurting so much any more.

It was difficult to hold onto consciousness; the dark beckoned, velvet-lined, permanent sanctuary. But Draco had to make sure his cellmates didn't manage to save him. Just a little bit longer, that's all. Just let the guards take a little bit longer.

The wooden door burst open, and there were two guards. "GET BACK!" They ordered Goyle and Pucey, while Pucey tried to explain in stuttering words what had happened. Draco giggled again; Pucey was surely going to lose his knife, at any rate. Perhaps they'd even punish him.

He feebly tried to bat away the hand that came to check him, but nothing seemed to work any more. There was a faraway panic that it hadn't been long enough, that they were going to be in time. "Just let me go," he thickly muttered, head lolling as one guard picked him up.

Then he passed out.

***

TBC