Doubt

Title: Doubt
Author: Ravenna C. Tan
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: "Doubt" in the 100 Quills 50.1 table.
Word Count: 3495
Summary: Draco has madness in his blood. Harry copes.
Warnings: Anal fisting.
Disclaimer: This is non-commercial, just-for-fun fan fic. These characters belong to J. K. Rowling and her publishers, not me.
A/N: Written for sktypied who requested insane!draco.

Doubt
by Ravenna C. Tan

It's something I've learned to get through--The Malfoy Madness. Don't feel sorry for me--I knew what I was getting into before we bonded, exchanged rings, and mixed our magic.

The first time the madness manifested was during the war, after Draco joined the Order. It was something of a blessing and a curse that Draco would sometimes go berserk. War is a good time to have someone with a seemingly uncontrollable capacity to wreak havoc and destruction. But everyone was a little out of our heads in those days; we must have been, or he and I never would have started fucking in the first place.

That's what it was, you know--and at first it wasn't even that. It started out as furtive hand jobs in the dark, and progressed to blow jobs and then to full-blown fucking whenever we could manage it and still keep it a secret. It's hard to really explain what things were like then, but I'll try. Wondering when he was going to jump me--and whether he'd be rough or gentle when he did--was highly preferable to stewing in fear about when I might kill Voldemort or whether I was going to die. It didn't take long for me to learn to distract myself from my own mortality even further by reciprocating. When he was dog tired and dead asleep I liked to see how far I could get before he would wake up. Sometimes it took hours of careful movement, and very lightly applied charms, before I could get myself into position, or even all the way inside him. When I did it right, he would wake up with me fucking him.

It beat nightmares.

Love came later, or at least we recognized it later, when there was time and peace, when kissing became more important than blinding moments of release. But I knew about the madness in his blood. We had talked about it, the suspected real cause of death for Abraxas Malfoy, maybe even what drove Lucius into Voldemort's arms all those years ago...

It isn't like lycanthropy--there's no predictable schedule for when Draco will turn. I'm fairly convinced that visiting Malfoy Manor can trigger it, but it's hard to be sure. The last time we were there, he set all the alder trees on fire before I could rein him in. I'm just happy we live in a converted industrial loft and not in some ancestral Wizarding home, his or mine. The whole building's ours and we've made it invisible to Muggles.

Sometimes I get a little warning. A moment of panic in his eyes, maybe he chokes out my name at an inappropriate time. And then, it's like he's gone, and a new Draco is there in his place. No, not a new Draco. An old Malfoy. One who helped get me through the war, and who could cast any Unforgivable without hesitation.

Other times there is no warning, and it takes me a while to realize the shift has taken place. Malfoys are natural schemers--maybe all Slytherins are--and even his madness can sneak in. This is the case tonight, as he brings me a glass of wine while I'm sitting on the roof looking at the river. We've built a nice patio up there, and on summer nights when the sun sets late I like to sit in a chair carved from a rowan tree and just watch the clouds make pictures in the sky.

He slides a hand onto my shoulder and hands me the glass with the other. I take it, murmuring thanks and enjoying the feel of him close to me. I swirl the wine in the glass, like he's taught me to, and take a swig, swishing it in my mouth and then swallowing it.

"Is this the same one we had yesterday? Tastes a bit more... acidic," I say, trying to sound like I know what I'm talking about. I'm fully expecting him to make fun of me--my knowledge of wine doesn't match his and I'm not terribly interested in trying to catch up.

"Try it again," is all he says, so I repeat, taking a larger swig this time.

There's definitely an odd flavor to it. "Something earthy, almost musty. I don't think I like it."

When he laughs, the hairs stand on the back of my neck. It isn't his usual warm laugh. There's an edge of cruelty to it that reminds me of when we were teenagers and trying to kill each other. I know he's turned and I'm grateful that he seems quite calm. Perhaps this won't be so bad.

The wave of vertigo hits as I realize he has poisoned me--or at least Potioned me. I let the glass fall; it shatters on the patio stones. "Draco..."

He flings his glass over the edge of the roof, but I never hear it hit the ground below. His hands run down my chest from behind, and he presses his lips to my ear. "I didn't think it was fair that I'm always the one who goes cuckoo. All by myself."

My wand is downstairs. I don't know where his is, but it isn't in his hand, which is lifting up the edge of my shirt, trying to pull it over my head. "What do you mean, all by yourself? You know I wouldn't leave you alone." It seems harmless, so I let him pull the shirt off and run his hands up and down my bare chest.

He circles me and then straddles my lap, his fingers grasping at my nipples like hungry sea creatures. I arch into the touch, wondering still what he's drugged me with, but it doesn't feel unpleasant. So far most of what I feel is a little drunk and a little horny. And then he answers me. "I mean, it's not fair that you don't go mad, too."

"And I suppose you put something in my wine to make me go round the bend?" I look into his eyes, which are huge, the pupils fully dilated. I've learned to play along and I've never been one to panic.

He nods. "Yes, I did."

I try, just try, to ease my mind. "What was it?" He giggles. "Draco, was it dangerous?"

His giggle turns to that full-throated laugh I remember from the night he used Sectumsempra on Macnair, in the sneak attack outside Hogsmeade. "I'm always dangerous."

If I had my wand, I'd send my Patronus to Snape with a message just in case. But I don't have my wand. Draco's always been far better at Potions than me, but I am quite sure I recall a chapter in the N.E.W.T.-level text about concoctions that can rob a man of his sanity. Some of them permanently. If only I could remember the name of a single one, I might feel better. But I cannot think.

I feel much drunker than two swallows of wine should make me feel. And now Draco is kissing me, and the intoxication deepens. This is my lover, my bonded one, and I shove the knowledge that he could harm me into a deep and hidden place. There is nothing I can do now.

His kiss explores my mouth hungrily, as his back and neck bow and his hands clasp my head. When he breaks the kiss I am gasping. Sitting up straight, he stretches his arms toward the sky, and I let my arms encircle his ribs through the muslin of his shirt. Then my fingers climb the ladder of his ribcage under the cloth, toward his nipples. He cries out as I tweak them and I am, as usual, glad we have no neighbors.

His hands grip my shoulders suddenly and snap, he has Apparated us somewhere... the bedroom. Neither of us is Splinched as far as I can tell. I almost laugh to myself. Some of the mad urges he's had have caused him some serious harm, like the time he flung himself from the roof to escape a threat that wasn’t there. The bedroom seems ridiculously safe by comparison. Does the fact that we're in bed mean that what the madness wants this time around is to get laid?

He is still astride me on the bed and he reaches toward the side table--now his wand is in his hand. He performs a silent spell that makes our clothes disappear--I don't know if he's Vanished them or Banished them--and suddenly his red cock is bobbing free just a foot from my face.

"How are you feeling, Harry?" he asks, in that silky, Slytherin voice, full of insinuations.

"I..." I feel the Earth moving on its axis, the breeze from the open window, the gravitational pull of the moon as it rises. I clutch at his thighs with my hands as if it's necessary to keep me from floating away. "Whoa."

He smiles as if expecting this, his wand poised for something more. "It gets better," he whispers in my ear, and the next thing I know, he has leapt off me. Maybe he climbed off, but my sense of time is wrong and it seems like in the time it took me to blink, he moved from atop me to next to me. In the next blink, I find my hands bound behind my back. When did that happen?

I try to speak, but I can hear my voice and all that comes out is whimpers, not words.

He shushes me with strokes of his hand on my head and suddenly I want to run my hands through his hair. The fact that I can't, because my hands are tied, makes me want to cry. Whatever potion it is, it's a strong one.

He shifts toward me again on what seems a vast mesa, but which I know is only our bed. His eyes gleam wickedly and I wonder how long it will take for my hands to go to sleep, bound under me as they are.

Stroking himself languidly, he regards me, then gets on all fours, his cock just brushing my lips each time he rolls his hips. It hangs like a snake from a tree branch and as it teases my mouth I feel it has a mind of its own.

"What are you thinking?" I address his cock, a bit startled that my voice seems to work again. "Are you going to bite me?"

I hear Draco groan and I realize I've spoken in Parseltongue. "God, Harry, I don't know what you're saying, but it makes me hot."

I continue to talk to his penis. "Come here, you. I want you." I pick my head up and extend my tongue, trapping the head between my tongue and top lip and then sucking him downward.

Draco needs no further prompting and begins fucking my mouth with deep thrusts. I'm gagging, but in my drugged state, I hardly notice. I can barely breathe as he pulls out, and as he thrusts all the way in, my airways are blocked completely. I see stars behind my eyes and again that doubt about my safety surfaces, before I shove it away. What good will it do me, now? Were I not as out of my mind as he is right now, this would probably be terrifying. It would probably hurt. Instead, I tilt my head to try to take him even deeper down my throat.

Time is not passing in the normal way. I cannot tell if it is hours or minutes later when he pulls out and rearranges us on the continent that the bed has become. Tectonic plates are shifting under me as he rolls me onto my stomach and forces one of my legs to bend.

Now his hand is rubbing the cheeks of my arse, one finger sliding in the crack, one knuckle brushing against the pucker of my arsehole. I feel the hard, slender tip of his wand enter me then, and the familiar tingling rush of the lubricant he conjures. When he's not insane, he uses that spell regularly. I can feel the hard bone of his knuckle again though, which is not usual, pushing at my anus. In, then in a little more, then turning like a key in a keyhole. I moan. It's an odd invasion, but a pleasurable one. He twists it several times, right and left, until I am thrusting back against him. He straddles my one straight leg, though, and puts a stop to that.

Then comes the familiar sensation of his index finger, sliding deep and quick as far as it will go. I gasp, but between my bound hands and now my trapped leg, I can barely move. The second finger does not wait long to join the first as he thrusts his hand hard into me, over and over. A third soon joins in, in a familiar progression that usually culminates with him fucking me, though he is being rougher than usual.

As rough as he had been during the war.

Oh God, is that his thumb, now? I wish I could see what he's doing back there.

"Draco," I try to say, though it's difficult with my face somewhat pressed into the pillows. "Love, what are you...?"

"Shut it." He presses his other hand on the back of my neck and practically growls. In that moment even my potion-addled brain senses things have moved from him pleasuring me to him taking me. Instinctively I struggle, but he has me held fast and jams his fingers into me. Through the vertigo, I will myself to relax. It's mad, I know, but that's what we are, utterly bonkers, right?

I relax and let him do as he will. It has been months--six? seven?--since his last bout of madness. I will survive this. He must have all five fingers in, stretching me like a small umbrella opening.

I've never felt the like. The image of an umbrella in my arse makes me laugh, and then he is laughing too, mad as a cuckoo bird, his command to me for silence forgotten. Or is it? Some time later, he conjures a gag and a blindfold, and in the darkness and silence my one connection to him narrows to his hand in my arse.

And then he is moving us again, rolling me onto my back, binding my hands over my head, to the headboard. He tugs with slick fingers on my cock and I whimper around the gag. Then that slippery hand returns to its home between my buttcheeks, where I am sure I am more stretched that I ever have been before.

He pushes and pushes with what must be his entire hand, twisting, snaking, opening me. My breathing goes deep, as with each long slow thrust I try to draw him deeper in.

And then it happens, and even though I am blindfolded--or perhaps because I am blindfolded--I imagine I can see it through his eyes. It happens; his fingers enter me and ball into a fist. My entire body reverberates like a drum struck by that fist, that sudden stone at my core. It doesn't hurt except for that feeling like he is squeezing my soul in that hand, so complete is his claim on me with his entire hand buried inside my flesh.

Then he moves his arm. He is fucking me with his entire arm and the feeling that gravity on Earth has utterly ceased to work returns to me. Without the gag I would be babbling or praying or maybe just letting out one long moan--oh wait, I am doing that anyway.

I wish I could look up to see his face, even if he isn't himself right now. But the blindfold is there. I could cry my need to see him is so strong.

Instead I clench my body around him, around the power of him curled in that hand. He laughs, low in his throat, and keeps fist-fucking me. Even with my cracked time sense, I know that it goes on for a long time, long enough for him to become the sun and my body all the planets circling it.

I have never loved him so much.

Then I feel his other hand creeping over my gagged mouth to caress my face. And a hot, wet mouth closes over my cock, which has been straining upward throughout this entire exercise. Oh God, his fingers clamp over my nose and I can't breathe, and he sucks me. I can't help it--I shake my head, struggling to free myself, to breathe again. The moment I am able to draw a breath, his mouth pulls free and I feel the breeze cooling the saliva on my cock.

After a few moments, his right hand still lodged deep in me, the left still on my face, he begins again. He licks and sucks my erection, while cutting off my oxygen. When my thrashing frees me to breathe again, he stops.

I don't know how many times we do that. A dozen? A score? So many I can't count, and I begin to wonder if I might really pass out, or if he might suffocate me. And yet I am hard as a rock. Do I have a choice--breathe or come? Is he even that rational at this point? And can I come before I simply black out from lack of air? I try hard not to fight, to let him smother me, while the sun burns hot at the center of my body, where his mouth is at its most wicked...

I come to. I am still hard and still blindfolded and gagged, but I am no longer bound. His hands are gone, and the feeling of emptiness inside me is profound. I pull at my cock before my rational mind wakens and tries to remind me of something. I rip off the blindfold and struggle to get the gag undone.

When I look around there is no sign of him. I should jump up, find him, find out what he's done and if he needs medical attention. But I'm still a bit vertiginous and my need to come curls through my belly like a live snake. My right hand slips around my cock again.

"Draco," I say, as I tug frantically at my foreskin. I press my face into the pillows, remembering the feeling of his fingers invading me, and I come screaming into the mattress.

When I can stand, I climb out of the bed and my wand points the way to him a short time later--under the bed. He is asleep, breathing softly, a blanket clutched to his chest. I have little doubt when he wakes that he will be himself again, with no memory of what he has done or said.

It hurts a little to think that the experience I just had, I didn't share with him. Only a little, though, as it feels quite good to be alive and breathing and snuggling in next to him under the bed. I bring some pillows and another blanket down with me and nestle around him. If I were always the one in danger when he turns, it would be easier for me to accept. This time there were no innocent bystanders, and he himself was never in jeopardy. I throw a protective arm over him. I would gladly face the danger myself every time.

Hermione thinks that there is no "Malfoy Madness," that it's just a romanticization a pureblood family came up with for the fact that casting the Unforgivables so often gives them split personalities. Snape thinks there must have been a Malfoy ancestor who made a deal with a devil, making them susceptible to minor demonic possessions.

I don't care why it happens. It is a part of him like my temper is a part of me. We both survived the war to have so many more moments--so many more years--than I ever thought we would. These fits of weirdness, the danger--it's worth it. As I take him in my arms, of that I have no doubt.

-end-