Widening Rings of Being

Disclaimer: They belong to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made.

Warning: Adults only. BDSM. Violence. SEX. AU.

Pairing: H/D

Summary: Pain: Harry likes to give, Draco likes to receive.

Title borrowed from Rumi: Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open? Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking. Live in silence. Flow down, down in always widening rings of being.


Widening Rings of Being
By Alwayzefree


Sharp, red light. Deep liquid crimson, the color of fresh blood. Insidious pain, creeping inside his nerve endings seductively; tingling, twitching, burning. A gradual buildup of sensation until agony exploded through every cell of his body. Cruciatus. Draco Malfoy loved it, wanted it, and craved to be consumed by it.

His father called it training. Every day that he could remember, from age six until he left home to attend Hogwarts, his father subjected him to the Cruciatus curse. Oftentimes, Draco thought he was his father’s guinea pig.

Lucius Malfoy would also give his son potions that created a variety of interesting effects. He administered potions that formed boils and blisters, or those that had Draco vomiting for days on end. On one occasion, Draco turned purple with vibrant yellow spots for twenty-four hours. Another time, he lost consciousness for several days. Quite frequently, Lucius would have the house-elves carry his books down to the dungeon of Malfoy Manor, ancient, threadbare tomes, with long-forgotten curses and spells in them, which he used to experiment upon his son.

“Stronger, faster, better, smarter,” he’d say, looking Draco up and down critically.

“That’s what you have to be, who you have to be. A Malfoy. Superior. You’re a little frail, a little sickly. Have no worries,” he’d drawl in a cold voice, “we’ll toughen you up. The Dark Lord does not allow weaklings in his service.”

At first, when he was younger, Draco looked forward to the training. He had really believed that he would be magically transformed into someone who didn’t get sick all of the time, someone who could do all that Father expected him to do. When that didn’t happen, as time went on, he wished his father would just Avada him and get it over with.

When Draco was thirteen and home for the summer holidays, the training intensified. Things were heating up; his father told him imperiously, it was vital that he take his place at his father’s side in the fight against the Dark Lord’s enemies. According to his father, the next few years would pass by in the blink of an eye and Draco must be ready. The sessions became longer in duration but didn’t occur every day. Lucius was often away from home on “business”.

After that, Draco began to dread going home on holiday and for the summer. Just the sight of his father caused a physical reaction: his heart rate sped up, his body trembled, and he felt sick and nauseous. He felt as though there were two or even three of him and his life was divided into the various roles he had to play. He even named the different characters Training Draco, School Draco, and Draco Alone.

Training Draco and School Draco were very similar. They both were stronger, better, faster, and smarter. Both knew they were superior to all. Both dressed impeccably and revealed no emotion. The only difference between the two was that Training Draco wished for death on a daily basis. School Draco treasured the reprieve of class at Hogwarts.

Draco Alone seldom made an appearance; Draco was rarely allowed solitude. Even in his own mind, to maintain the façade, he had to be who he pretended to be. Draco Alone didn’t wish for death; he wished for peace. Although, like Training Draco, he frequently considered causing his own death to attain peace.

After a particularly intense session, one in which he believed that his constant wish for death might actually become true, Draco had an epiphany of sorts. Alone in the dungeon, drained and spent after being under the influence of the Cruciatus curse for more than an hour with no respite, he realized three things.

The first insight was that he was stronger, better, faster and smarter on Lucius’ terms not his own. The second was that Lucius was a liar and that he himself was just as self-deceptive as Lucius was. Lucius wasn’t superior; he was slave to the Dark Lord. Draco wasn’t superior; Granger was smarter and Potter was faster.

The third thing was that if he didn’t get out of there and away from Lucius he would not survive. Experiencing the prospect of his own death so closely enabled him to see that he truly wanted to live. He recognized that if he didn’t think differently, act differently, his previous wishes for death would become true.

The last evening before the holiday was over, Lucius called him in for a training session. “This will last until you return for the next holiday.”

Draco stood in the center of the dungeon. He was clothed in a black school robe with several layers of clothing in between. He didn’t know why he always tried that; it didn’t make any difference. Cruciatus penetrated anything. No physical or mental barrier he tried had ever worked against the curse.

His eyes were open, steely gray and expressionless. His facial expression was identical to his father’s, cold, and impassive. Only his hands, trembling in the pockets of his robe, betrayed him.

Casually, as though he were pointing at something of interest, Lucius pointed his wand at Draco, and uttered the dreaded word softly, “Crucio”.

For the first twenty minutes, Draco endured the pain silently and without moving. There was no way to prepare for the curse and tolerance did not increase over time. Each attack was different. Sometimes it would start as a dull ache in his stomach, other times it would be a grinding pain behind his eyes. On rare occasions, it started in the tip of his toes as a tickling sensation.

Today, it felt like a punch to his solar plexus. Draco gasped for breath and barely managed to remain standing. The pain radiated outward and stayed at a steady, dull throb spreading across his upper torso in slow, tortuous increments.

Afterwards, he could never pinpoint a moment when it changed. It happened so unexpectedly that his eyes flew to his father’s, was Lucius doing this? Lucius’ expression remained the same, icy and still.

Beneath the pain, a wave of pleasure undulated across his body, subtle and tantalizing, leaving him aching for more. With horror, he realized his penis was thickening and lengthening. Oh God, Oh God.

His knees buckled and he collapsed onto his side. He knew that, as always, he would have bruises all over his body from the hard fall onto the freezing dungeon floor. Only this time, instead of being at the point of begging his father to stop, he wanted to beg him to go on and on and on.

He writhed and jerked on the floor, torn between excruciating pain and agonizing pleasure. His body was totally out his control and at the mercy of the curse that held him within its grasp. The part of his mind that was still capable of thought accused him of being a sick, weak arsehole.

He rolled onto his front, the tender skin of his face scraping against the cement floor as he gasped, shuddered, and rocked against the rough, frigid surface. The friction from rubbing against his clothing and humping the floor became overwhelming. He had just enough control to keep from screaming as he ejaculated forcefully and endlessly. He collapsed onto the floor, muscles twitching and spasming convulsively for an eternity, then slackening abruptly.

He awakened suddenly, full of terror and one hundred questions. Did Lucius do that on purpose? What was happening to him? Where was Lucius? Was he in for more punishment?

He escaped to his bedroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Unbelievably, he appeared no different. Only he could interpret the look in his eyes. Guilt. Shame. Worst of all, there was a look of release and complete satiation on his deadly pale face that he could not erase no matter how hard he tried.

After that, holidays became more horrid. Draco determined that his father didn’t know what happened whenever he cursed him. He hadn’t discovered that Draco had come to crave Cruciatus. Draco had to stop himself from seeking it out or begging for it. He hated himself for feeling like this at the hands of his father. He hated his father for doing this to him.

Returning to school at the beginning of fourth year was more of a relief than usual. He researched this “sickness” like he was studying for a Potions OWL and learned the word masochist for the first time. He frantically tried to come up with a plan to extricate himself from this untenable situation but was unable to do so.

He withdrew even further into himself. For the first month, he brooded silently, as each day brought him closer to another holiday and a return to Malfoy manner. As he frantically considered his situation from all angles, he became conscious of the fact that his father was not as omniscient as he wanted everyone most especially his son, to believe.

His father had never guessed his son’s response to Cruciatus. Lucius’ arrogance was a weakness. He never suspected that there might be more to his fragile, sickly son than he knew. His father underestimated him, and Draco began to recognize that exploiting Lucius’ belief in his son’s frailty might be his only hope for survival.

He also realized he needed some type of ally. There was no way, as much as he wished to, that he could endure this situation on his own. This insight led to more despair. He wondered why he believed he could do this at all. He had no friends.

No one really knew him. They all thought they knew him, knew his life. Rich, pampered, spoiled prat. Daddy’s Darling. He laughed grimly. He could blame no one but himself he knew. In the interest of self-survival, this was the role he had chosen to play, but no one knew that but him.

Pansy? If anything, she was as trapped as he was. Maybe they could develop a mutual understanding but he just wasn’t sure. Crabbe and Goyle meant well, but same thing, almost all of the Slytherins were in a struggle for survival, and they didn’t even know it.

Millicent? Blaise? He knew a little about their family histories but not too much. Both had steered clear of him for the most part. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that’s where he should start.

Enter Harry Potter.

Draco didn’t understand why everyone put so much emphasis upon his relationship with Harry Potter. In all actuality, he could really care less about Potter. He didn’t hate him, didn’t even dislike him. He truly was too busy trying to keep himself alive and playing the role outlined for him long before he had even met Potter. It was only as he started to consider how to stay alive a little longer did he begin to understand that Potter was as trapped as he and the rest of the Slytherins were. He viewed Potter with a new interest.

By the time he was fifteen, Draco had become close friends with Millicent and Blaise and shared a wary friendship with Pansy. For some reason, Crabbe and Goyle were still very protective of him, even though they weren’t what he would necessarily consider friends. They allowed no one else into their strange partnership and he couldn’t figure them out. He also let it be known that he was on the “winning side”, whenever his loyalties were questioned. He wasn’t openly rebellious but it was a start and if his father ever found out, he thought he could finesse his way through.

By the beginning of seventh year, Draco thought he had it all figured out. He kept a low profile, endured what he had to, and stashed away what money he could. Before he’d take the Dark Mark, before he’d become a Death Eater, before he would become anything like Lucius, he would kill himself. He planned on leaving the wizarding world and living as a muggle if he had to.

Yeah, he had it all figured out, until he pissed off Harry Potter.

It all started with Quidditch as most things between them did. Draco accepted the fact that he would never beat Harry Potter to the snitch. He knew also that no matter what he did, Lucius would always find a reason to make him suffer for not being good enough, for just existing, In spite of both of these things, Draco learned to enjoy Quidditch for love of the game, the speed, the flying and the heart stopping race for the tricky, golden snitch. He always beat Ravenclaw and the Hufflepuff’seeker was no competition at all. He especially loved the challenge of playing against Potter.

When he first met Potter, Potter was a timid, confused, disheveled little boy. He hadn’t grown much in the intervening years; if the rumors were true, it was due to neglect and starvation as a child. He was slight and the top of his head barely reached Draco’s chin. Draco had observed the shy, tentative boy grow into a quiet, confident young man.
Potter was also an angry, reckless, and rebellious young man.

Ever since whatever happened and Potter’s godfather had died or come up missing again, Potter had become one angry individual. Maybe angry was the wrong word. Intense, Potter was tres intense.

During the second to last Quidditch game of the season, Draco had bumped Potter in an effort to capture the snitch. It had happened before, but for some reason this particular time really got to Potter. Of course, as usual, Potter’s hand wrapped around the snitch several seconds before Draco’s, so Draco was baffled when Potter retaliated by snarling, “Fuck you, Malfoy,” then slamming against him viciously before swooping furiously to the ground.

Unbeknownst to Draco, Harry had spent the night before the game staring into darkness and listening to his dorm mates’ breathing. He had awakened in the middle of the night, gasping and choking, not sure if the destruction of Hogwarts had been nightmare or vision. Maybe it was because the horror of losing everyone and everything he loved still remained or maybe it was just because of his fucked up life.

Harry didn’t know and didn’t care; he wasn’t into self-analysis. When Malfoy knocked into him, all of his confusion, frustration, loss, and rage focused upon one individual, Perfect Draco Malfoy.

Always impeccably dressed, cool, and suave at all times. Never, ever a hair out of place, not even on the Quidditch pitch. Frigidly, cruelly beautiful, with that frightening sneer, that awful, ever present smirk and the cutting, painfully accurate sarcasm.

Perfect Draco Malfoy, who had apparently decided that Harry was beneath his notice. No longer worth even his contempt. In a burst of overwhelming fury, Harry pushed back, and then angrily dove to the ground.

Draco wasn’t alone in his puzzlement over Potter’s uncharacteristic behavior. He watched as Potter stood quietly amongst cheering teammates, obviously barely tolerating hearty pats against his back, and jostling and shoving by ecstatic teammates. Finally, he pushed them aside and stalked towards the locker-room, leaving shrugs and questioning looks behind him. After a few seconds of quiet muttering, the team began cheering again, refusing to allow their Seeker’s mood to dampen their spirits.

Draco’s teammates murmured bitterly amongst themselves about Draco’s continued inability to beat Potter and carefully pointed out each other’s shortcomings as they walked slowly to the locker-room. They bypassed Draco without a second glance as he lagged behind. He thought it had been a good game; it had been the closest he had come to catching the snitch yet. He kept his musings to himself, knowing that no one else shared his perspective.

He took to the air again once every one else left the field, soaring higher and higher, circling clouds in the darkening sky, looking down upon the miniscule figures below. He felt as though he could fly into forever. The wind was cool and fresh against his pale, heated skin, rustling his hair and cooling his scalp.

Here, he could just be. Here, he just existed, nothing to prove, no reason to pretend. His face held a serene beauty that he was unaware of and that no one else could see. In the sky, he could find a small measure of happiness; he could escape from the stranglehold that his family name had forced upon him.

He would stay here always if he could.

Stronger, faster, better, smarter, were never words that he would use to describe himself. If he used the view others had of him to define himself, several words came easily to mind; evil, cowardly, prat, ponce; he knew what they all thought of him, even those who considered themselves friends. None of them could really see him and he’d never reveal himself.

There was no one who could perceive the hard won self-transformation. In early years, compartmentalization of all of the different selves who evolved in the interest of staying alive had been necessary. It was painful to admit that many times the lines between role-playing and who he had been had been dreadfully thin.

Now that the gradual integration of all whom he was had become essential, it was also painful to take a clear look at Draco Malfoy. Self-deception was not an option. Once he had decided to live, his life became a battle for continued existence at all costs. It was a battle with many fronts and many opponents; he was achingly weary.

He traversed the skies above Hogwarts several times over by the time he slowly, reluctantly, in graceful spirals, descended to the world below. He had promised to straighten up the Potions storeroom for Professor Snape in exchange for private lessons. If he was ever able to return to the wizarding community, he planned to open his own apothecary shop.

Draco laughed quietly to himself, imagining the Malfoy crypt rocking on its foundation as it residents simultaneously turned over in dismay at the mere thought of such a thing. A Malfoy, a merchant? Most definitely, yes. Draco was determined to do whatever he had to in order to survive. His surprisingly steely resolve had been forged by the harshest of crucibles, his father, Lucius Malfoy.

He felt acutely lonely but his thoughts had brought a small, unexpected amount of peace and contentment. Both his step and his heart were lighter when he entered the locker-room. He was taken aback to sense that he was not alone in the dimly lit space.

Harry Potter was there, waiting, emerald eyes blazing with fury. Involuntarily, Draco stepped back. Potter was smaller but he emanated a power and intensity that was quite intimidating.

“I’m tired of you trying to push me around, Malfoy,” he said in a soft, deadly tone.

Draco sighed and said, “Look, Potter, it’s just a game. Game’s over. You won, alright?”

Potter laughed bitterly. “A game? That’s all it is to you?”

Draco ignored the angry boy and attempted to walk past him towards the showers.

Potter grabbed Draco’s arm as he passed by. “Don’t you walk away from me,” he ordered.

Draco looked down at the hand on his arm and back at Potter. He wrenched his arm away and turned back around. Just as quickly, Potter grasped his arm again. Draco knew that later he would find bruises. He marveled at Potter’s strength as he was forcefully turned around to face the other boy again.

“Let this end this now, Potter,” Draco warned.

“End, we haven’t even begun,” Potter replied. He grabbed Draco by the collar of his uniform and shook him. “I’m tired of you. I’m so fucking tired of you.”

Draco looked at him, astonishment evident in his silvery eyes. “Potter, you’ve gone mad, haven’t you? I have no quarrel with you.”

Potter shook him again and said, “Oh really? Well, I have a quarrel with you, arsehole.”

Draco looked down his nose at him. His fear at confrontation with a wizard exuding so much power evaporated as irritation replaced his qualms. He was bloody tired.

“Get your hands off me,” he demanded. “Leave me alone.”

He tried to remove Potter’s hands from his collar but Potter wouldn’t budge. They tussled back and forth, falling onto the ground and rolling around.

Still unable to remove Potter’s hands from his collar, Draco resorted to punching the smaller boy in the stomach. He didn’t punch him hard; he just wanted Potter to let him go. The punch seemed to galvanize the smaller boy into action.

Harry released Draco’s collar and landed a series of punches to Draco’s upper torso. Draco could not defend himself against the attack and was unable to get enough leverage to get Potter off of him. He was overwhelmed by Potter’s ferocity.

Harry watched himself as though he was a spectator in a movie theater. He rarely ever resorted to physical violence. He felt a twinge of fear that increased his anger exponentially when Draco had accused him of being mad.

He had come to that conclusion several times over the past several months. Since Sirius had died, he had felt isolated and more alone than ever. Lately, as he considered all the misery and traps life held for him, he couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t seem to care about any damn thing. He was reserved. even around his friends and kept to himself because he felt so raw. Every little thing irritated him.

Hermione and her know it all comments, gods, the girl had an answer for everything, Ron’s hidden jealousies, Seamus’ goofy since of humor, Neville’s clumsiness, Dean’s well meaning, silent support, it all annoyed the fuck out of him. Sometimes he wanted to just go, just disappear, and never return. Sometimes he thought he’d just do it, just walk off one day. Or maybe just off himself just to get away.

Malfoy pushing and bumping against him to get to the snitch was just one thing on a long list of things that had pissed him off today. Harry’s emotions were on a heady, thrilling roller coaster ride to hell. Somehow, grabbing Draco Perfect Malfoy, pushing against him, and punching him was extremely satisfying. The crunch and burn of his fist against Malfoy’s body, over and over again was exhilarating.

Taking control of Malfoy’s lithe, muscular form, sitting on top of him, and banging his head into the concrete floor repeatedly sent a cascade of intoxicating adrenaline throughout his entire body. His heart pounded rapidly and noisily in his ears; so quick that he could feel the rush of blood coursing though his body with unprecedented vehemence. His hands were trembling; his entire body was shaking with a combination of rage and elation. The feeling of liberation was indescribably delicious.

Letting go. Letting it all go.

The shocking sight of blood on the floor beneath Malfoy’s head removed Harry’s strange, disorienting detachment from his actions. Finally, he noticed the swelling around both of Malfoy’s eyes, his twisted nose, and blood on his upper lip. Oh Merlin.

Glazed gray eyes looked up into his, their expression too complex for Harry to begin to analyze. He thought he saw a mute appeal for mercy, but he wasn’t certain.

He jumped up. “Malfoy,” he moaned. He raised quivering hands to his face and ran them through perspiration soaked hair. “Oh fuck, oh Merlin.”

He dropped back down to the floor and gathered the crumpled body into his arms. “Oh gods, oh gods. Malfoy, we’ve got to go. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to get help.”

He jumped up again and turned in a circle. “No, I can’t leave you.”

Harry knelt by Draco’s side. “Draco, I’m going to have to move you.”

“No, no. No, Harry”, Draco whispered urgently. Survival, he reminded himself as he felt himself drifting away. This can’t get back to Lucius.

Harry stared down at him, green eyes wide and bewildered, terrified that Draco would die, and that it would be his fault.

“Hand me my wand,” Draco instructed, forcing the words through inflamed, aching vocal cords. “Back pocket.”

Quickly, Harry did as he asked. Draco pointed his wand at his head and murmured a quick healing spell. It would only get rid of the superficial damage; he would deal with the rest later. Harry looked on with surprised relief as the ugly bruises faded and the blood and swelling dissipated.

“Draco, I’m sorry. I…”

Draco interrupted the attempted apology brusquely. “I’ll need you to help me to the dungeon, Potter. I can’t make it on my own.”

The walk back to the dungeon was long and tedious. They traversed the long halls silently, hoping not to get caught. It was after curfew. Draco hoped that Snape hadn’t gone looking for him.

They had to pause and hide several times so that Draco could catch his breath. Supporting Draco Malfoy’s tall, slender form and worrying that he might collapse down before they reached the Slytherin’s lair wasn’t enough to distract Harry from his racing thoughts. He considered going to see Madame Pomfrey after he dropped Draco off.

Surely, Malfoy was right: he was going mad. To just attack Malfoy out of the blue like that for something that occurred every single game they played was insane. Maybe it was some kind of spell.

Harry dismissed that idea instantly. He knew there was no spell. He had lost control of himself and it was inexcusable.

“I owe you, Malfoy,” Harry said softly. “And again, I apologize”, he continued.

The words made no impression upon Draco; he was concentrating upon putting one foot in front of the other. Just as he felt that he was going to collapse, they arrived at the entrance to the Slytherin dorm.

“Should I…?” Harry began.

“Not if you want to see tomorrow”, Draco answered abruptly.

“Just go.”

Harry waited until Draco whispered the password and entered the dorm. Draco looked him full in the face and said, “Stupid Gryffindor”.

As the door swung shut behind him, Draco took a deep breath and straightened himself up to his full height. He clenched his jaw, ignored his aching head, and sauntered gracefully past several Slytherins talking quietly in the common room. He ordered them to bed and waited until they were gone. Slowly and painfully, he walked to his room and manually closed and locked the door. He followed with several arcane locking and silencing charms.

He dropped to the floor and buried his face in his hands. He cried silently for long moments, and then uttered a loud, despairing cry of pain and rage. He had felt so fucking powerless and helpless. He hated it.

He loved it.

From the moment Potter had glared at him with that terrifying, edgy look on his face, he had been hard. When Potter grabbed his arm, it had been all he could do to keep from begging him to do it, to do something, anything.

While Potter was thrashing him within an inch of his life, all he could do was lay there, embracing the pain and pleasure of it, helpless and as out of control as Potter had been. It shamed him that the only thing that had kept him from cumming all over himself was having his skull almost bashed to splinters.

He had learned over the years to exert some control over this frightening need of his. He kept himself from cumming when his father performed the Cruciatus curse upon him; he waited until after, when he was in his room alone. He just couldn’t bear the thought of having that connection with Lucius.

He restrained himself from seeking punishment and from begging Lucius for more. He kept himself from all of the little games and relationships he saw his fellow Slytherins engaging in. He knew better than to allow someone else that much power over him.

He had learned to pleasure himself by hurting himself. He knew all the little ways to torture his cock until it was weeping with need. He would sometimes tie himself up at night, after making sure his wand was within reach, and lay there until morning, restraining himself from cumming until then. He had learned a thousand ways of sweet torment and he engaged in them regularly. That had been enough. Until now.

It galled him to know that Harry Potter had brought him to this.

He crawled to his bedside table and gulped down a restorative potion he routinely kept on hand to help him recover from sessions with Lucius. He disrobed, laid down on the bed and turned onto his side beneath the covers. He hurt all over. He wasn’t sure if the pain was even physical. He just knew he hurt.

Behind his eyelids, his encounter with Potter replayed in an endless loop of pain, humiliation, and desire. Potter’s green eyes burning with rage and power, searing into him. Invading his soul so that all he wanted to do was surrender everything he was.

Potter, a hundred times stronger than he looked, tossing him around, pummeling him as if his extra height and weight were insignificant. Harry Potter exuding authority and command even while totally out of control. Emerald eyes wild and crazy, magic leaking out and discharging in heated, exciting bursts of energy.

He had felt that energy running along his skin, crackling through his hair, tunneling into his bones. It felt clean, pure, and sweet. It had hurt so good. Merlin.

Draco’s hand was on his cock before he was consciously aware of tugging and pulling on himself roughly, brutally. Within seconds, his entire body was convulsing with a pleasure so exquisite that it was painful. He ejaculated copiously, more than he ever had before. He licked the discharge off his hand greedily, imagining being ordered to do so by Harry Potter.

=======================================================

Draco waited patiently for Potter to finish detention with Snape and met him outside the door when it was over. Harry started when he saw him. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?”

“I need to talk with you,” Draco replied.

Harry eyed him distrustfully. “Now?”

“Yes. There’s an empty classroom just down the corridor on the right.”

When Harry didn’t respond, Draco added, “Look, Potter, I’m not up to anything. I haven’t said anything about what happened, have I? Just give me a listen.”

He started walking down the hall. After a few seconds, Harry followed behind him. Harry shifted uneasily when Draco locked the door. His green eyes were watchful and suspicious and his arms held loosely at his side.

To Draco, he appeared ready for anything. Draco leaned back against the door with a small, reckless smile on his face. “Hurt me,” he said.

Harry stared at him, obviously puzzled. “Excuse me?”

“You heard correctly, Potter. I said, Hurt Me.”

Harry laughed. “You’re crazy, Malfoy.” He didn’t move.

Draco recognized several of the multiple expressions that crossed the Gryffindors face as they stood there.

Guilt. Shame. Two of Draco’s most loyal companions.

Harry knew he shouldn’t but curiosity prompted him to ask, “What’s this all about, Malfoy”.

“You know, Harry,” Draco said knowingly.

“No, I don’t know”, Harry said angrily. “I’m leaving, Malfoy. Move out of my way.”

“You owe me, Potter,” Draco said. “You said so.”

Draco waited a few beats, then said, “Now then, as I was saying, hurt me, Potter. You know you want to.”

“Malfoy,” Harry inhaled and exhaled rapidly, “Look, I may have acted like an arsehole last week, but the truth is as much as I might like to, that I can’t just walk up to you and hurt you. This whole thing is crazy. I think we’re both mad.”

Draco ran an impatient hand through his hair. This was not going the way he had envisioned. He’d thought that Potter would jump at the chance to beat his brains in again.

“Okay, Potter. Let’s try this again. Why don’t you just spank me?”

Harry’s stomach dropped to his toes. This is exactly what he had avoided thinking about all week long. He knew that if he truly wanted to leave, there was nothing Draco could say or do to keep him. Except, ‘you owe me, Potter’.

His own words thrown back in his face. How typically Slytherin. How typically Gryffindor to say such a thing in the first place. Only, he couldn’t deny that it was true.

Challenging green eyes met steely gray. “Alright then, Malfoy. I suppose you’re right, I do owe you.”

Harry walked over to a wooden bench lined up against the far wall of the classroom and sat down. “Over here, Malfoy”.

Draco walked over to him and stood in front of him silently.

“Take your trousers down, Malfoy. Your pants too,” Harry added impatiently. “Do I have to tell you everything? Is that part of this too?”

Draco remained silent as he pushed his clothing down round his ankles. He didn’t think that Harry really required an answer. Harry yanked him forward and pushed him over his knees.

“What’s wrong with you, Malfoy?” Harry asked quietly. What’s wrong with us?

He slapped Draco’s left butt cheek indifferently.

“Harder,” Draco commanded breathlessly.

Harry felt irritation rising and tamped it down. He landed several hard taps across Draco’s left buttock before switching to the right.

“Harder,” Draco said. The hoarseness of his voice echoed around the room and he flushed with embarrassment.

“Shut. Up. Malfoy,” Harry said, grabbing a handful of Draco’s hair and pulling backwards roughly.

Draco groaned and Harry let go abruptly. He felt Draco’s prick, hardening against his thigh, dampening his robe. He swung harder, pissed at Malfoy and himself too for landing him in this situation in the first place.

Draco gasped and put his hand across his mouth, biting his fingers. He didn’t want to put Potter off because he would die if Potter stopped now.

Draco’s skin was like hot satin beneath Harry’s fingers. It hadn’t taken long for the cool, velvety tissue to heat up. Harry marveled at the silken, ivory skin contrasting with the dark olive of his own. Already the fragile tissue was reddening.

He admired the long, lean length of Draco, admitting to himself that Draco was the loveliest boy he had ever seen. Slender and muscular; his buttocks were small but round and well formed. He slapped Draco’s ass several more times then stood up so quickly that Draco rolled off his lap and sprawled across the floor on his back.

Harry took a good long look before saying, “Okay, we’re done here, Malfoy”.

“Potter, please, don’t stop.”

Involuntarily, Harry’s eyes fell upon Draco’s erect prick, red and swollen against his stomach. He licked dry lips and swallowed before meeting Draco’s eyes.

“You know you don’t want to stop, Harry,” Draco said softly. “And Merlin knows, I don’t want you to.”

Draco stayed where he was and remained very still. He sensed that everything hung in the balance in that moment. He was afraid that anything he said or did would muck it up.

Harry had been secretly hoping for this and despising himself for it all week long. He had tried to avoid thinking about anything involving Draco Perfect Malfoy. Small loops of memory would seep into his conscious thoughts unbidden. He would replay them, sometimes focusing on the feel of Malfoy’s muscular body beneath his own, other times remembering the sweet liberation of release.

He had been hard with need through most of it. It terrified him to realize that he wasn’t entirely certain if it had been the violence or his ever present desire for Malfoy that had been so arousing. He was afraid of himself. He loathed himself for finding Malfoy so fucking irresistible.

So irresistible that Harry unbuttoned his robe and shrugged it off automatically, his body responding way ahead of his brain’s dictates. He stepped away from the puddle of clothing at his feet and sat back down onto the bench. He beckoned Draco with one finger and pointed to his lap. Draco’s breath hitched in his chest.

He returned to his spot on Harry’s lap obediently and was rewarded with a heavy slap across the surface of his ass. Harry stopped fighting himself and concentrated on giving Draco what he had been begging for all evening. He pounded Draco’s ass brutally, alternating equally between both sides. Heavy taps, light taps, barely there taps; he included them all.

Draco remained still, biting his lip and trying not to move. He felt Harry’s stiff penis poking him in the stomach and was unable to stifle a groan. He just barely kept himself from rubbing against Harry’s leg like a dog in heat.

His breath was coming out in short, noisy, bursts of air. He clenched his jaw and bit down harder on his fingers. Just a little more, he assured himself, he could withstand just a little more.

The lights flickered on and off. He felt the cool, sweet essence of Harry’s magic shivering up his spine. The sensation totally immobilized him. He grappled viciously with his need for more and the fear of relinquishing all control to someone who hated him so deeply.

“Enough”, he yelled as he tried to roll off Harry’s lap.

Harry forced him back down with one hand and grabbed him by the hair with the other. He turned Draco’s head and bent down so that they were eye to eye.

“I’m not done yet,” Harry said fiercely, tightening the grip of his fingers in Draco’s hair.

Oh. God. Draco’s face contorted and he tried to speak but was unable to form a coherent word.

“Uuuungh”, he uttered through clenched teeth.

Harry used the hand that had been restraining Draco to deliver a vigorous smack across both buttocks. Draco shuddered. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he lost total control of the whole lot. The world turned white and time stuttered to a halt.

Loud, choking sounds that he had never, ever made before erupted from the back of his throat and he grabbed hold of Harry as he was besieged by a violent, luxurious, all encompassing wave of pleasure. His penis lurched against Harry’s leg, pulsing wildly and spewing thick, white gouts of cream onto Harry’s jeans clad thigh. Caught up in Draco’s frenzy, Harry continued spanking him through his orgasm.

Draco slid backwards and rubbed his face back and forth against Harry’s groin, mouthing Harry’s cock, a swollen lump beneath his jeans. Draco opened his mouth wide and bit down gently. Harry groaned.

“Please, let me,” Draco said, unsteady hands reaching for Harry’s fly.

Harry lifted his hips to help. With trembling, desperate fingers, Draco quickly unzipped Harry and removed his penis from the concealing cloth. One stroke up and another gentle stroke down. Harry’s penis twitched violently. Draco put his hand to his mouth and licked it, spreading a generous layer of saliva across the surface.

He looked up suddenly and found Harry watching him out of heavy-lidded brilliantly green eyes. His bottom lip was clenched between his teeth and he was breathing heavily. Holding Harry’s eyes with his, Draco placed his moistened hand gently round the base of Harry’s cock and slid the purple head into his mouth.

Harry’s head banged against the wall behind him and his eyes slammed shut. He thrust his hand into Draco’s hair and the lights went dark. Draco felt the crystalline, sweet push of Harry’s magic invading every pore and was instantly hard once again. The lights came back on and there was a silvery sound of a musical phrase floating through the air.

Then Harry came with quick, rhythmic twitches of his penis, and so much fluid that Draco thought he would choke. Harry released a choked scream, and another electrifying push of his magic had Draco cumming with him in small, shivery spasms that splattered miniscule puddles of his cream across the classroom floor.

Harry’s hand clenched and released in Draco’s hair as he quivered with aftershocks. Draco gently released Harry’s prick, placed it back into his jeans and zipped him up. He lay across Harry’s lap, unable to move, feeling vulnerable and angry at the multitude of weaknesses he had just exposed.

The clutch of Harry’s hand loosened and Draco turned his face and looked up at Harry. The Gryffindor’s eyes held an expression that Draco couldn’t interpret. His fingers felt gentle and soothing in Draco’s hair. Unable to bear the searching scrutiny any longer, Draco slowly closed his eyes; the caresses to his hair continued.

He awakened in the classroom alone. The floor beneath him had been spelled warm and he was covered with Harry’s robes.

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For the next week, Harry ignored Draco completely. Over the past year, their contact had been minimal. On occasion, they had been partnered in potions and they played against each other in Quidditch. For the most part, they left childhood hostilities behind them and treated one another with cordial indifference.
Now, Harry would not even share a passing glance. He held himself stiffly if he had to move past Draco, as if Draco were contaminated with something contagious. Draco avoided him just as diligently. If Potter didn’t want him, then he didn’t want Potter.

Another week passed and Draco realized that he was lying to himself again. He had no qualms whatsoever about lying to anyone else; he couldn’t stomach self-deception. He wanted Potter. He ached for him.

He couldn’t handle yet another rejection.

He found himself dreading Potions because of the possibility of being partnered with Potter. When the inevitable happened, he took no solace in the fact that Potter looked as reluctant as he felt. They prepared their tools in silence, working in tandem as if they knew what the other needed before words were necessary. Draco put the list of ingredients between them and as they had done before in the past, Draco collected the items on the top half and Harry gathered the supplies on the bottom half.

The slight flush across Harry’s cheek and the infinitesimal tremor of his hands provided Draco the courage to speak. “Can we talk, Potter?”

“Unless we need to discuss this assignment, the less said the better, Malfoy,” Harry replied quietly, glancing around the room to make sure their conversation remained unnoticed.

“Please, just five minutes.”

Harry turned and their eyes met. “Nine o’clock. Tower stairs,” he said under his breath.

Draco nodded and returned his eyes to their project when Harry looked away.

============================================================

Harry spent the evening ruing his decision and vacillating between going to meet Malfoy and not going. Something about the haunted look in Malfoy’s eyes had compelled his agreement to a meeting. Five minutes and no longer he promised himself resolutely.

For once, Potter was on time for something, Draco thought to himself grimly. Harry led the way up the stairs and Draco followed him down a long, winding corridor and up several more flights of stairs. He looked around curiously. He had explored the tower many times but had never discovered this particular room before.

The stark, empty room was flooded with starlight. They were up so high; it seemed that the stars were close enough to touch. It was chilly and Draco shivered; he hated being cold.

“So talk,” Harry demanded impatiently after waiting a few moments for Draco to speak.

He looked out of the window, not wanting to look into the clear grey eyes. He didn’t want to remember anything at all. He had spent weeks fighting the memories. He didn’t want to recall how good it felt to just let go. How it felt to have someone wanting him so desperately. How it felt to have someone so helpless and so willingly at his mercy.

Malfoy was an odd combination of fragility and strength. He was a puzzle that Harry wanted to solve. But he didn’t dare. Letting go like that had been liberating and at the same time the most terrifying thing he had ever experienced.

“Can’t stand to look at me, Potter?” Draco sneered.

“Like you said, Malfoy, I have no quarrel with you. I’m here because you wanted to talk. So talk.”

Draco stared at him, not knowing where to begin and feeling as though his life depended upon this moment.

“Hurt me.” He cursed inwardly. That was not what he meant to say.

“No,” Harry said. “I’m not doing that again.”

Draco started to unclasp his robes. Harry shifted and began to walk across the room towards the exit. Draco moved in front of him. “Don’t go.”

“This is sick, Malfoy.”

He put his hand on Draco’s chest and gave a small push. Draco made a little sound and Harry’s hand clenched into a fist.

“I bet if I touched you, your dick would be hard,” Draco said breathlessly.

“Well you’ll never know that now, will you?” Harry said roughly, not moving.

“I’m not going to keep begging you, Potter,” Draco warned, eyes narrowing.

Harry pushed him backwards and Draco sprawled onto the floor. Harry kept going past him.

“Potter”, Draco called out desperately. “I lied. I will keep begging.” He added in a low voice, “I will beg as long and as often as you want me to.”

Harry stopped in the doorway. Draco watched his struggle silently, afraid to say anything more. He kept still when Harry turned around. A window shattered behind him and a rush of frigid air entered the room.

They exchanged a long, mutually appraising glance. Harry shrugged out of his robe. “Take your clothes off.”

Draco removed his clothes with ease. After all, he had practiced endless times, fantasizing about a moment like this. He knew that starlight made his hair appear silver, his skin milk white and smooth like the finest of ivories. His eyes were made for star shine, clear and gray like liquid mercury.

He stood in front of Harry proudly, valiantly ignoring the cold air wafting through the room. He cursed silently as his teeth chattered.

Harry waved his hand and said, “Reparo.” The shards of broken glass coalesced with a series of musical tinkles. Harry made a quick motion and the temperature in the room increased dramatically.

The effect of this nonchalant exhibition of power upon Draco was immediate. His erect cock stood out from his groin. Suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable, Draco placed the palms of his hands in front of his crotch.

“Hands down, “Harry said. “I want to see you.”

Very slowly, Draco lowered his hands. He shook his hair back away from his face and pushed his shoulders back, rising gracefully to his full height. This time, he had no thoughts of posing. His only thought was to do as Harry asked, without question.

Harry circled Draco, thoughts in turmoil as he perused the beautiful figure in front of him. He wasn’t sure what to say, how to behave. Draco and he had cobbled this thing haphazardly out of nothing. He was accustomed to doing things in the heat of the moment, taking action.

He had had several weeks to not think about this. Now once again, it was staring him in the face. He couldn’t avoid it any longer. This was what he wanted without ever knowing that he wanted it. The part of him that had always looked enviously at people who had parents, people who had lovers, something to call his or her own, was suddenly certain that this was very real, and just for him.

“Go stand against the wall, Draco.”

Instinctively, Harry figured out that this was not just about hurting Draco or even responding from a place of anger. He recalled that Draco hadn’t been angry at him during their second encounter and that even during the first, that Draco hadn’t been angry until Harry had pushed him around a little. He couldn’t recall Draco being angry, spiteful, hateful and a right bastard, but not angry.

He walked up behind Draco, grabbed a handful of fine, silky hair, and pulled. Draco gasped. Harry smothered a groan, while grabbing a handful of Draco’s muscular ass and placing Draco’s hands one at a time next to each other upon the wall.

He stepped back and looked at Draco’s long, lean, and muscular body hungrily. A wide, muscular back tapered into a slender waist, small, rounded buttocks and long, slender, well-developed legs. His skin was a soft as it looked, pale, and creamy, like white satin.

He didn’t want to spank Draco again, he wanted something different, but he was uncertain what it was he desired. Restlessly he searched the room then landed upon Draco’s clothing. He walked across the room and Draco turned to observe what he was doing.

“Face forward, Draco, I’ll let you know when I’m ready.”

Harry grabbed Draco’s leather belt from out of his trousers. There was a small emblem of a snake on the front of the belt buckle with a green emerald eye. Harry unraveled the belt and snapped it expertly. Draco jumped.

Harry walked back over to Draco and noticed several painful looking fading purplish bruises on his buttocks. There was something sinfully delicious about the thought of striking Draco on top of those bruises, Harry thought with a guilty twinge. It might hurt. A lot.

He started there first.

The initial blow landed on Draco’s right buttock with a satisfying snap. The second landed with a weird sounding thunk. Draco’s fingers scrabbled against the wall.

After that, Harry lost count. He whipped the belt across Draco’s back and shoulders repeatedly, observing with an eerie detachment as red welts appeared across Draco’s fragile skin. Draco’s breath huffed out of his mouth in noisy bursts of moist air. A heavy sheen of sweat caused his ivory skin to glisten beneath the starlight.

Harry was immersed in an unfamiliar universe where nothing existed but Malfoy and him. He felt all of those crazy things that he had been holding in so tightly for fear of releasing them, build, build, build and then once again let go. Malfoy mumbled incoherent phrases. Harry understood none of it. Occasionally he picked out his name, uttered breathlessly, in a tone that made him grab his dick each time.

Draco held beautifully still beneath the harsh blows, holding onto the wall for purchase, spreading his legs wider to keep his balance. These signs of acquiescence, symbols of the power and control he exerted over this man, given freely, willingly, drove Harry mad. The snake on Draco’s belt came alive, hissed, then faded back into metal.

Harry hissed in response, filled with a sudden, monumental need to own and possess, MINE.

Instantly, the room was encased in a pale blue glow. Draco’s body was outlined in electric blue sparks. He felt himself sinking into nothingness. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, all he could do was feel. Feel the slap and pressure of the belt striking him endlessly. Feel Harry in him and all around round him. The pain reached a terrifying crescendo then exploded into a continuous flow of sharp, pleasurable jolts. He cried out hoarsely as his entire being was suffused with the cool, pure sweetness that was Harry.

His knees buckled and only Harry’s swift grab around his waist prevented him from falling. Flesh on flesh was unbearable for both. A startling sense of union left both of them feeling unshielded and unprotected. Unable to contain the force of the overwhelming and unfamiliar sensations, Harry pressed into Draco’s back and bit him on the shoulder.

Draco screamed hoarsely and began crying out, “Harry, Harry, please, Harry.”

Flames of cool, blue fire engulfed them. Harry turned Draco around and pressed their mouths together. He licked and bit and nipped at Draco’s lips, wanting and needing, hungry for more and more. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t get enough.

Tentatively, Draco’s hand crept up Harry’s body and embedded itself into thick, silken hair. Still tentative and fearing rejection, his other hand unbuttoned the top button of Harry’s shirt. When that effort wasn’t rebuffed, Draco used both hands to undo the remaining buttons and slide Harry’s shirt off. Moments later, they slid carefully to the floor. Harry enfolded Draco’s upper torso within his arms and ground their lower bodies together hungrily.

Draco wrapped his legs around Harry’s waist. The small whimpers and gasps of need that each thrust elicited from Draco’s throat fueled Harry’s desire. Harry rocked against him, clutching Draco against him as though he would never let him go.

“Give it to me. Give it to me. Give me everything. I want it. I need it. Now.”

Helpless before Harry commands, Draco responded instantly, relinquishing mind, heart, body and soul. He felt it all pouring out of him and into Harry in a swirling, alarming instant of time that he knew left him forever changed. His world would never be the same.

Unconsciously waiting for Draco’s complete and total surrender to find his own release, Harry let go, finally understanding that the surrender was mutual. Time seem to stop, swallowed by the intensity of what they were experiencing.

The part of him that seem to act independently of itself, before Harry was consciously aware, pressed tender kisses against Draco’s face. This part recognized Draco as his and was unsurprised and accepting. Each kiss was followed by the corresponding thought, mine, mine, mine. Draco responded to Harry’s gestures of ownership with relieved sighs. He fell asleep contentedly with Harry still kissing his face.

He awakened to find Harry staring at him somberly. The floor beneath them was warmed and Harry had transfigured his cloak into a warm blanket. It didn’t seem odd to Draco that he was curled up to Harry’s much smaller form. He felt warm and protected; Harry had always seemed larger than life to Draco.

He returned Harry’s gaze seriously. They looked at each other for long moments, reliving those moments of vulnerability they had shared. Harry couldn’t look away and Draco didn’t dare.

“I know what you’re thinking, Harry. I used to drive myself mad. Thinking that I was sick. Hating myself. Ashamed. I’ve had a long time to think about this.” Draco paused, desperately trying to find words to both persuade and reassure. Once again, he felt as though his life was at stake.

“People like me are made for people like you, Harry. It can’t be a coincidence.” Draco nuzzled into the comforting arms enfolding him. “We’re not sick, Harry.”

The chest beneath him rose, and collapsed when Harry exhaled noisily. After a long, scary moment, the arms tightened around him and pulled him closer. Draco let go a relieved breath and continued, “We’re not sick. We’re just different.”