Changes

Disclaimer - Characters herein belong to JK Rowling. I\'m just borrowing them for a while...

Harry doesn’t understand how life can seem to be carrying on as normal, when in the space of just over three weeks, his whole world has been turned upside down and quite probably inside out too. He can’t quite reconcile the fact that nothing seems to have changed, despite the fact that *everything* has changed. Harry suspects that sooner or later he’s either going to figure it out, or he’s going to lose his mind, and frankly, his money’s on the latter option.

Three and a bit weeks. That’s all it’s taken for Draco Malfoy to shake Harry to the core, to show the Boy Who Lived a world of sensation he hadn’t even dreamt existed. Twenty five days for Harry to discover that perhaps he didn’t know as much about himself as he had previously believed. 600 hours of watching the rest of the universe carry on blithely about its business, while Harry himself watches, as if he were merely an observer, rather than a participant.

Three weeks and 4 days ago, he’d stood n a hallway, hands buried in blonde hair as the Slytherin sucked his cock, and then took Harry, kneeling on the dusty floor. Two weeks ago he’d allowed himself to be laced so tightly into a corset he could barely breathe, and then he’d been screwed until he’d passed out. A week ago he’d fucked himself on a fake cock as cold grey eyes had watched his reflection, and a haughty voice had whispered all kinds of dirty thoughts in his ear. And he’d loved it. He’d got off on feeling like a whore, wanton and corrupted; he’d loved the fact that he didn’t have any responsibility, didn’t have to think. He’d loved even more watching Malfoy lose his composure, and the sudden, blinding knowledge that Malfoy was as obsessed with this *game* as he was; that neither of them was apparently able to walk away from this twisted parody of an affair.

And that’s why he’s here, in the Potions Classroom, late in the evening, staring as Draco Malfoy prowls towards him. A smirk twists the blonde boy’s lips, and the wicked gleam in his eyes leaves Harry in a now all too familiar state; dry mouthed and achingly hard beneath his robes. Harry doesn’t even try to hide his arousal this time, but the hot flare of desire is tempered with the bitter sting of humiliation, because Harry knows that before this night is over, he’ll have given in to every, and any, demand that Malfoy makes of him.

Harry can no longer pretend that the only reason he keeps these assignations is due to Malfoy’s threat of blackmail. He keeps them because he is addicted to the blend of pleasure and pain, and even more hooked on the euphoria of giving over control, of knowing that, despite the dark mix of hate and lust that flows between them, Draco won’t damage him irreversibly. At least, not physically. Harry doesn’t dare think about how much he is already coming to anticipate, and even rely upon the sense of release that he gains from letting Draco do whatever he wants to him.

Draco doesn’t need to speak; the look he gives Harry, all heat and malice, is enough to let Harry know that this encounter is going to go the same way as all the others. Harry was suddenly glad that he decided not to wear anything beneath his robes tonight, though he still feels the cold sense of despair at how easily he falls into the role of submissive, eager plaything. He’s caught between opposing forces; heat of his arousal and lust, cold from his despair and shame. The dichotomy is confusing and it keeps him off balance; torn between the needs of his body which knows nothing but how good Draco makes it feel, and the voice in the back of his mind that screams constantly at him about the sheer stupidity of what he’s doing. So far, the body’s winning and Harry can’t fight it. He’s fighting too many wars on too many fronts to muster up enough energy for even the briefest skirmish on this particular battleground.

So he watches Draco approach, watches as he walks past Harry, to sit on Snape’s chair. There’s something perversely arousing about that picture, something that Harry is in no way ready to deal with at this time. By the flare of lust and devious amusement in those ruthless eyes, Harry knows that he’s going to have no choice though, Draco has clearly already seen those thoughts on Harry’s all too expressive face.

The smirk becomes a smile, all teeth and vicious mirth.

“Strip Potter”

The voice is as sinful as ever, so full of confidence that his order is going to be obeyed, and Harry wishes he could just turn around and walk away; but he’s already beginning to realise that there are many forms of slavery, and that maybe the very worse kind is to be enslaved by pleasure. He’s yet to figure out just why such hateful satisfaction can be so alluring.

Harry’s hands tremble as he undoes the clasps of his robe. He can only imagine the mockery that Draco will heap upon him for this oh-so obvious sign of his eagerness, and the bitter knowledge of its inevitability burns his throat. He can’t look at Malfoy, can’t watch the smile grow ever sharper and ever wider.

The robes drop to the floor, leaving Harry naked, and vulnerable. The sound of Malfoy sucking in a sudden breath is almost enough to make him look up. Almost.

“You really are a little slut, aren’t you Potter? So eager for a good fucking you’ll even walk around the school in nothing but those robes. Do you go to your lessons like that? Have you sat in this classroom wearing nothing but those robes?”

Harry shivers, the mental image of doing just that was as exciting as it was disturbing. From the moment Harry had discovered just how seductive hate and pain could be, he’d purposefully avoided thinking about Snape in any capacity but that of greasy bastard. Allowing one Slytherin to defile him was one thing, adding another to the mix, even in his fantasies, would likely kill him.

“Come here Potter”

There was no mistaking the salacious tone of Malfoy’s voice. No doubt that Draco got off on this, on watching Harry abase himself in this way. Harry wonders if it was the power, or the sex that really did it for Malfoy.

He stops just in front of Malfoy, starring down at the floor.

“Look at me”

Harry raises his eyes slowly. Draco is, improbably, sprawled in Snape’s chair, legs spread so wide it looks almost painful. Harry’s eyes get no further than Malfoy’s lap though, where Draco is slowly stroking his own cock. Harry can’t look away from the sight of the erection, slipping though Draco’s fingers, the oil he had used to ease the friction shining in the candlelight. Harry hears his own breath catch, understands now why Draco had wanted to watch him fuck himself with the dildo. There’s something so utterly erotic, and so frighteningly intimate about watching someone pleasuring themselves, and Harry is transfixed by the sight, and by the sound of Draco’s breathing, speeding up now, hitching every so often as he allows his fingers to rub over the head of his cock.

“Kneel down Potter”

The voice is breathless, and it takes a few seconds for the words to sink into Harry’s brain. When they do, he’s on the floor before he even realises he’s moved.

“Time to find out if that pretty mouth is as good as it looks Potter”

Harry knows what Draco wants, and just the thought of doing that, of servicing Malfoy in that way, while he sits in Snape’s chair causes a wave of desire to ripple through him. Draco is still fully dressed, his trousers only open enough to release his cock. Harry can just imagine what a picture they make; Draco, legs spread, cock slick with oil while Harry knelt, naked, between the spread thighs.

“Suck me Potter. I want to fuck that hot little mouth of yours”

Harry leans forward, tentatively resting his hands on Malfoy’s thighs. A rush of satisfaction runs through him when the muscles under his hands tense, ever so slightly. Harry leans forward, as one of Draco’s hands settles on his head, while the other presses the slippery cock against Harry’s lips.

The oil is greasy on Harry’s tongue, but relatively tasteless, and does nothing to disguise the taste of pre-come. Harry laps at the head, fighting down his dislike of the taste and the texture. He leans forward, letting his mouth slide further down the shaft, until his lips meet Draco’s fingers, still resting around the base of his cock. Harry licks them, letting his tongue slide between the fingers, vicious pleasure stabbing through him at the hitch in Malfoy’s breathing. Harry relishes this undoubtedly brief reversal of power; the way Malfoy twitches when Harry uses just a hint of teeth, the way the blonde pants softly as Harry lets his head sink down, while his tongue licks and twists as he does so.

The hand in Harry’s hair tightens, and it’s the only warning he gets before his head is dragged away from Malfoy’s lap. He catches sight of Draco, eyes dilated until there is only the barest rim of colour showing; bottom lip red where he’s obviously bitten it to stay quiet. Harry licks his lips, still slick with oil and spit and pre-come, and the soft groan that escapes Malfoy makes the action worth the unpleasant taste.

Draco’s hand uncurls from around his cock, and his fingertips trail over Harry’s bottom lip. Harry licks away the wetness they leave almost without thinking, so captivated is he by the play of expressions across Draco’s face. When the fingers brush over his mouth again, Harry is quicker, and lets his tongue slide over the tips. Draco shudders, and as his eyes half close, Harry begins to understand, finally, why Draco can’t walk away either.

When Harry sucks on those fingers, the sudden, although quickly stifled, gasp makes him want Draco’s cock back in his mouth. When the hand in Harry‘s hair pulls hard enough to hurt, Harry has to bite back a groan of his own, the sting adding a by now familiar, and welcome edge of pain.

Draco pulls his fingers away, and there’s a moment when time seems somehow suspended, when Harry’s world consists of nothing but raw sensation and pure lust, but that moment is all too brief.

“Stand up Potter”

It’s of little consolation to Harry that Draco’s voice is so breathless, because he’s pretty damned sure he wouldn’t be able to speak at all. Draco reaches down, and when he brings his hand back up, the sight of the paddle makes Harry’s breath stutter, and his heart beat speed up. The knowledge of what is undoubtedly about to happen makes Harry’s skin crawl with nervous anticipation. His stomach twists with a hint of real fear; he knows that this isn’t like the other games Draco has played. This time, the bruises will be deliberate. And Harry’s knows he’s damned when just that thought makes his cock jerk and his balls tighten almost painfully.

He should have realised that Draco would never have allowed him that all too brief insight into what it would be like to be the one in control, if he didn’t have something planned to demonstrate to Harry that it was Malfoy who truly had the upper hand.

“Bend over the desk”

Oh god. Snape’s desk. This was too much. Letting Draco fuck him in dark and distant corners of the school was one thing, letting him use that heavy looking paddle here, in the classroom that Harry had to sit in every week was too real, too intense, too dangerous. Harry can’t do this, just can’t, but while his mind was gibbering, his body was moving; leaning forwards over the desk.

Right up until the moment the first blow fell, Harry still feels as though he’s in some kind of surreal dream. He can’t believe that Draco would go that far, here.

The first strike knocks the breath from Harry’s body, and leaves him stunned for a moment, shocked that Draco does indeed intend to go this far. The second blow is harder, and Harry can’t help the moan that escapes in response, though he bites his lip quickly, the fear that they might be discovered here winning out over the arousal at the thought of being discovered.

“Don’t worry Potter, Snape’s not here. I expect he’s visiting my father.”

Harry shuddered, then yelped as Draco landed a harder blow. There was just something about the way Draco said that, that gave Harry’s already over active imagination all sorts of explicit ideas. He though it was going to be a long time before he could get the thought of intertwined black and blonde hair out of his mind.

The fourth stroke was harder still, and Harry squirmed, gasping. The initial sting faded to a mild burn, just before Draco landed another blow, the sting and the burn merging into one, almost indistinguishable sensation of heat.

“Or would you prefer it if he were here. Does the thought that he could walk in at any time and catch us excite you Harry? Would you like him to see you like this? Bent over his desk, arse pink, cock hard, panting and desperate to be fucked.”

Another blow, and Harry knows sitting down is going to be really uncomfortable for a few days.

“And you do want me to fuck you, don’t you Harry? I bet you’d like Snape to fuck you too, wouldn’t you. Such a willing little slut; so eager, so ready to bend over and take it up the arse.”

All the while Draco speaks, he’s raining blows down on Harry’s arse with a steady, relentless rhythm and strength. He wants to protest, wants to deny Malfoy’s words, but he can’t.

Draco delivers a particularly hard blow, sliding over the line between pleasure and pain for an instant. A moment later, Malfoy’s body is pressed against Harry’s, his cock, slick and hard, slides between the throbbing cheeks of Harrys’ arse, the smooth glide merely arousing Harry further.

Harry’s breath catches when, instead of the fingers he was expecting, Draco leans back and his cock presses slowly into Harry’s body. Though the blonde boy moves slowly, Harry is shocked by the sudden stretch and burn, pain making him gasp, even as his eyes water. When Draco is as far inside Harry as he can get, Harry is panting, pain slowly fading as Harry forces his body to relax. Harry is burning, from within and without. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so hot in his life.

The first thrust causes Harry to arch, unsure whether he’s trying to get away, or get closer. The cock in his arse makes him ache; the slap of Draco’s hips against his butt causes a flare of heat and hurt, and yet he’s hard, desperate to come, panting and moaning.

“Touch yourself Harry, come for me.”

It shouldn’t be possible to be this close to coming from nothing more than an aching arse and a few filthy words. But Harry is getting used to experiencing the improbable. The sound of Draco’s groans, and the pleasure of finally stroking his own cock are all it takes, and Harry comes, shaking.

Draco’s final thrusts are agony against Harry’s bruised bottom. When he finally comes, Harry has to grit his teeth against the pain of Malfoy’s hips pressing hard into his tender skin.

Minutes later, Draco is watching Harry slip back into his robes. The self satisfied smirk that sets Harry’s teeth on edge is back. Harry still doesn’t understand how he can want to both smack the boy, and let him fuck him blind.

Draco saunters to the door of the classroom. Harry waits. He’s come to expect a parting shot, and Malfoy is predictable in that, at least.

“Don’t forget to clean up Potter. I doubt Snape would be impressed to come back and find your come all over his desk”

Harry says nothing. He’s trying not to think about sitting in this classroom, in just a few days, knowing Snape would be sitting in the very chair where Harry had sucked Draco; knowing that Snape’s desk would be stained, however faintly, with Harry’s come.

“Oh, and Potter? Don’t use any healing charms on that pert little arse of yours. I want to be able to watch you squirm in class, and know that it’s because of me.”

Harry stops breathing for a second. Draco leaves, but his words bounce around Harry’s head. He knows there’s something telling in Draco’s words, but his mind is still so fuzzy that he can’t work out what it is. Thing is, he know he’s got at least a week now to try and figure it out….