He Knew

Betas: Summerborn and Karli.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize belongs to JK.

Author's Note: The warnings for torture and non-con are for references to it. There is no graphic detail for either. This was written for a challenge at the LiveJournal community "hd_angst".

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"Where are we going?"

So soft, so trusting. "I've found us a new place to shag," Draco replied, just as softly, striving to keep the threatening waver out of his voice. He had never liked the dark, but knowing what was—could be—up ahead and around the bend for him—for Harry—made his irrational fear grow in leaps and bounds. He wanted to turn back, to give in to the cowardice that lurked ominously on the periphery of his mind, waiting to take over his thoughts and actions. But he wouldn't. He was stronger (or so he liked to tell himself) than the curling, crouching desire to shake and tremor and pant his fear. It wouldn't be too much longer though, and he could use a portion of that fear to propel him forward into his obligation.

"What's wrong with the Room of Requirement? Or your room? And then there's the Quidditch broom closet or locker rooms and the toi—"

"Nothing!" Draco snapped, reflexively tightening his hand on Harry's wrist. Merlin, if Harry had really been about to go through all of the places they'd fucked, he'd be prattling on and on until they reached their designated meeting place, and Draco thought it'd be in bad form for the others to hear such a private list. It didn't matter that they wouldn't know what Harry was talking about—would probably think it was just Harry being his usual barmy self; it was really the principle of the matter.

He could feel delicately strong bones and tendons shift beneath his palm and wondered if he was holding on too tightly. No complaint was forthcoming however, so he maintained the grip and quickened his pace, wincing as Harry tripped loudly in his effort to adjust to the surprising speed change. The sounds of that scuffling would broadcast their presence through the echoing darkness; something he would rather have avoided because now the others knew he was coming. They would be expecting him, and now he had no choice but to go through with the previous arrangements.

"Ohhh, getting impatient, huh? I love it when you're eager to get your hands on my dick."

Draco fought valiantly, but, in the end, he lost to the smirk lazily curling his mouth. What an overt, club-on-the-head, Harry thing to say. And normally, it would have him pushing his boyfriend against whatever was closest, whether it could handle a rough shagging session or not. Now, however … the smirk faded.

"Draco?"

A hesitant hand swiped across his robed back and then returned, digging into the fabric, bunching it up and just slightly pinching the skin beneath it. "Yes, Po—Harry?" he answered, mentally cursing his proclivity to return to old habits when he was angry or nervous. Of course, he had gone far beyond mere nervousness at this point.

Silence greeted him.

He gritted his teeth and yanked on Harry's arm, hurrying his pace still more, intent on getting them to their destination before Harry could ask uncomfortable, impossible-to-answer, questions. More scuffling sounds erupted behind him, the hand in his robe clenching tighter, and he could have laughed at the clumsy dolt, unwittingly giving the both of them away again. Unsure about whether he could prevent his laughter from spinning into hysteria, he kept his mouth firmly shut. Gods, the fear that had been prowling the edges of his thoughts like a hunting wolf was circling closer and closer, herding his guilt to the forefront. The faster he got there, the faster it would be over and the sooner his suffering would end.

Abruptly, his face collided with—something—the wall, if the dirt and moss smearing across his face was anything to go by. Thrown so harshly out of his melancholy thoughts, he was disoriented—had he walked into the wall?—and tried to back up, twist around and away from the damp earth. It was then he also, belatedly, realised that the hand once curled into his robe had disappeared, and he had the inane thought that he hoped Harry hadn't walked into the wall too. "Har—" he began before suddenly finding himself reacquainted with moss-covered dirt. Spluttering, inhaled dirt flying, he managed to turn his head flat along the wall, the weight of a warm body pressing against his own preventing further movement. "What the fuck, Harry?" he complained, whining slightly. Heated breath flowed over his shoulder and the silken whisper of the blindfold he had wrapped around Harry's eyes brushed against his cheek.

"Yes, I would like you to fuck me,"

And a mortifying squeak escaped him as his flaccid cock was unexpectedly squeezed by a warm, grasping hand.

"But first, I'd like to know where we're going …"

The hand teased, rubbed, and gently palmed his cock through his trousers. Draco wasn't surprised by his immediately enthusiastic response; Harry's hands were a gift from God, in his opinion.

"… And why I have this damn blindfold on when I can tell we're underground where I probably don't need it."

Draco rolled his eyes. Jesus, he should have known; Harry had an astonishingly bad habit of wanting to 'discuss' things at the most inopportune moments. Draco had tried to break him of it, but somehow he'd always gotten distracted by something Harry did. Well, not this time, he thought resolutely. He was not going to answer those questions, even if the talented hand manipulating his prick to full hardness was very persuasive. "What—" he choked on the rest of his words as the hand gave a strong squeeze to the very tip of his cock. He bit his lip, swallowing a whimper. "Wh-what d-do you m-mean?" he hissed, the hand having now started to pull down the zipper on his trousers. Each snick sounded obscenely loud and erotic in the tunnel. A low moan rolled out of his throat as the zipper passed over his underwear-covered prick. Smooth, Draco, smooth. Let's try to keep your brain out of your cock when your father and his associates are essentially in the next room, hm? His eyes shot open—when had they closed?—and he instantly began to protest. "Harry, no … we-we can't." Draco pushed back against Harry's body, fingers digging into damp moss. "Wait until we g-get to the—place. Please?"

"Why? I like the idea of us fucking like the horny buggers we are right here. Right now."

Draco shuddered, revelling in the contrasting warmth of Harry's breath with the cool air around them; the feel of Harry's calloused hand making its way beneath the elastic waistband of his underwear to burrow into the pubic hair surrounding the base of his cock; the aggressive way Harry had shoved him back, pressed his body so firmly to the wall that he could barely breathe and could only hazily focus on Harry's cock casually thrusting along his lower back. "I d-don't—" He drew a shaky breath and dropped his head back onto Harry's shoulder. "It'll be more sp-special if we, oh god please," he groaned as fingertips feathered up his sweaty shaft, "f-fuck there …"

"I do believe it sounds like you are enjoying yourself. Son."

It is hours later and he has emptied the contents of his stomach, and then some, his convulsing throat bringing up only bile and acid and the bitter taste of his own betrayal and self-hatred. He is on his hands and knees, the dirt in front of him transformed into a grotesque mixture of liquid, solid, and something in between. The chamber is empty, save for him.

Harry is across the way, lying silently in the middle of the chamber, his body broken and contorted into various offensive positions that would otherwise not have been possible. That would most likely have caused him to scream in a terrifyingly inhuman way.

He snorts, spittle tainted bitter raining down upon the small lake of stomach contents. He can see small icebergs of food floating around in it and before he can question himself, he sticks a finger into the tepid quagmire, pushing those icebergs about until he gets bored. When he gets bored, he wonders what the hell he is doing, messing around with half-digested chunks in a soup of bile, when his tortured, raped, and murdered boyfriend is only a few yards away. Alone, bereft, forgotten. He frowns, narrows his eyes at those apathetic food particles. Slowly, his hand drifts towards the biggest one, carefully, tenderly, picking it up between his index and thumb, watching the liquid that had graced it sluggishly slough off. Once free of that trapping, he studies it, but momentarily, for he is already weakly standing up, his movements jerky, cursory.

He finds himself at Harry's unnaturally twisted body and he settles down next to it, onto his bent legs. He switches the small piece of food to his other hand, allows the fingertips of his free hand to flow over the already cold and stiff skin, muscles, bones. Just slightly, barely, faintly. He can almost imagine that Harry will stir, drowsily open his eyes and smile with a face shining of love. Those green eyes are already open though—opaque, unseeing, dim. And that is what jars him out of his reverie, drives him to take the piece of food and hover it over Harry's perpetually open, screaming, haunting mouth. He hesitates, unsure of what, exactly, he is doing. Then a small breeze swirls and eddies and flutters around him, whispering of a passionate love, a promising future, relentless guilt, a heart-wrenching betrayal, and a numb self-hatred.

The iceberg drops from nerveless fingers. The arched throat is stroked and massaged and caressed and he likes to think that Harry has swallowed his offering, given him exoneration.

His eyes travel down from that bared throat, that curved beauty, and he finds an odd smattering of cuts near the collarbone. He frowns. They look fresh, with old seeping blood crusted over, but there is something … off about them; they are crooked and shoddily done, as if the person carving the incisions into the skin had not truly cared about the way they looked—just that they were there. This did not match up to what he knew about ... Them. His father's associates would have done this with care, finesse, and precision, finally given the chance to damage the Boy-Who-Lived. Curious, entranced, he leans closer, trails his fingers over the cuts, pushing down on the fresh scabs and watching as they break beneath the pressure. No blood pours out, but he imagines that it is waiting just below the surface, yearning to do so. He picks one of the scabs off with a fingernail, digging that same fingernail into the cut. He raises it back up to his face and he smiles grimly, satisfied. It is cloaked in red, life, blood. But ... he tilts his head, eyes narrowing at the strange sparkling he now sees around the digit and under the blood. Confused, he glances back down at the cuts, noticing the same sparkling surrounding them, glistening and inviting closer inspection. He moves—just slightly—to the right and his world comes crashing down again.


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