Lunar Eclipse

Word count: 9500
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Remus Lupin (and reference to Tonks/Lupin)
Warnings: slash, reference to het, BDSM, bondage, erotic asphyxiation, drug usage, reference to prostitution, violence, darkfic, possible character death (I know, but it's in the first paragraph, so you can decide not to read further than that if you don't like it).
Disclaimer: I don't own neither JK Rowling's characters nor does Total Eclipse belong to me. Additionally, the author is not responsible for underage readers.
Beta-ed by: Vaughn.
A/N: Originally written for hp_kinkathon, but it didn't get posted because (it wasn't kinky enough) the recipient has withdrawn.


Additional A/N: the fic was inspired by the movie Total Eclipse. If you Google a pic from the film, it might or might not explain why it prompted me to write this fic with these pairings. :)

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It is interesting how innocuous objects can remind one of things once believed to be long forgotten. I didn't expect to encounter the name Malfoy again after the last time I had seen him, and yet, there it is, written black-on-white in the Sunday Times – a Muggle newspaper. The article is about slave-trade in Africa and how it is still being practiced along with the hunt for ivory. Apparently, in a fight employing firearms between the local police and one of those gangs last week, some European named D. Malfoy died from three bullets shot straight through his chest. (One of those bullets had come from an officer, and two from his accomplices, after he had tried to flee with the money.) I wonder if this D. Malfoy and the one I had known were the same… but, I don't think I will ever know.

Draco Malfoy… I taught him when he was thirteen and looked innocent, like the other boys his age. He was a small thing with glowing blond hair, a shrill, piping voice, and an obnoxious manner, sprouting prejudiced and deliberately cruel statements at any given occasion. Then I had to leave the school, and he became one of the many faces from my past; he was nothing special to me at the time.

When I met him again, in a place that bore an eerie resemblance to Knockturn Alley despite being entirely Muggle, he was already seventeen. Funny how some of the things about him had changed irrevocably and some stayed the same. He had grown; that was the first thing I noticed after my mind fitted the image of that same blond – if a bit longer and less well groomed – hair together with its thirteen year old counterpart, and made the connection.

He was not yet a man, but not a boy anymore, either. The wide-eyed innocence was lost forever from his countenance, though as I learned from experience later, he was perfectly capable of faking it for those who were willing to give him extra payment for his efforts. He looked haggard, with his hair duller and his clothes ragged. He hadn’t had a bath for Merlin knew how long and he stank of sex with men who paid for his drink and food – mostly his drink – and paid for the bed he had been sleeping in.

I saw the recognition in his eyes when they brushed over me casually, and then focussed in on me. The minute hesitance as he considered whether or not I posed danger to him. To be honest, I'd expected him to turn on his heels and disappear behind a corner, but for some reason – I never asked him why – he decided I was harmless and perhaps useful, and came up to me on his own. That was when I first saw the poor state he was in from close up, and my nose confirmed what he did for a living.

The second thing about him that had changed drastically was his voice. It had deepened somewhere along the rough road of puberty and acquired an easy, sophisticated elegance that made him sound like some otherworldly being out of the reach of mere mortals like me, and the most desirable creature in the universe at the same time, despite looking, to all appearances, like a street urchin. No, I had to correct myself, being a street urchin. He greeted me with my old school title, offering his hand as if we had just met at one of his parents' garden parties.

My wife was out of town for a few days, visiting her mother to ask for her advice and support for her pregnancy. On the spur of the moment, which is said to be a Gryffindor trait, I decided to offer him the comfort of my home, to be able to get a proper clean-up, a proper meal and a bed to sleep in, if only for a night. I was surprised when he accepted without requiring persuasion. I shouldn't have been; I should have realised that had been his goal from the first second after he had decided that he wouldn't run from me.

We spent the night having an unexpectedly relaxed conversation about how our lives had gone since I had left Hogwarts. We felt comfortable sharing our private thoughts with each other, since we both assumed that, the next day, our roads would part and never cross again.

After the wine we drank had sufficiently loosened my tongue and slackened my manners, I asked him how he ended up living on the street. He told me about his father having been imprisoned at the end of his fifth year – which I knew, since I still worked for the Order – then the impossible task he had been ordered to carry out after his initiation as a Death Eater – I remember having exerted an enormous effort not to look shocked by the revelation of something that had only been suspected by our side up until that point. Not that I deluded myself with the belief that he hadn't been able to see through it, even if I hadn't been inebriated; he simply chose not to care or react. After the failed mission, he said, he had run away from the Death Eaters and the wizarding world was now his enemy – just like mine, in a way.

He asked me a lot of innocuous questions, the significance of which I didn't realise just then. In my state of mind, I thought he was simply making small talk to kill time. I only managed to piece together the parts afterwards. He asked me why I had been in that back alley, since I did not seem the type to enjoy the company of male whores. I remember laughing and telling him that he may never know, but then, for some reason, I felt compelled to tell him the truth – or what I preferred to think of as the truth, anyhow – so I found myself in the middle of simpering about how I had become so used to the Wolfsbane Potion that I was not able to stand the transformation without it, but since Snape was not there to provide the potion for me anymore, I had to find a substitute, and that was heroin and other Muggle drugs, like cocaine and pills. I told him this tale about how I was still experimenting with the combination that worked the best for me, when in reality, I pretty much took anything I could get and afford – and not only during full moons.

Whatever else he learnt about me during that night, it brought about the decision that I would be a satisfactory subject to stay with and live off of. He did not need a long time to figure out exactly what he could use to secure my agreement with, either.

That was how I woke up the next morning with a skull-splitting ache, a queasy stomach and flashes about a wild night, only to find them being instantly confirmed by a naked boy laying in my bed, reeking of the stench of both of our sexes.

I was so furious with him that I wanted to throw him out, even before he had time to dress properly, and forget that I had thought just last night that he was nothing more than a lost child needing comfort and a home… But his calculations paid off. I was feeling guilty about having been unfaithful to my wife, who was carrying my child, and that the one I had slept with was almost a child himself. My first reaction was that I had to keep it a secret. Thus, I gave him the opportunity he had been counting on: to secure his livelihood through me.

To say that Nymphadora was shocked when, upon coming home, she found a Death Eater child sitting comfortably in our drawing room, with his legs elegantly poised on top of a footstool, reading some ancient text book from the Black library, would have been an understatement. I am still amazed by the fact that I managed to persuade her to let him stay and to keep his presence a secret from law enforcement and the Order both. I think she only agreed because she saw that I was desperate to keep him there… I might have babbled something about Draco being an excellent Potions student and that he agreed to try and make the Wolfsbane Potion for me. She saw the anxiety in my eyes and must have put it down to my mounting desperation to solve the furry little problem that had started to grow out of proportion recently. She had never liked my solution of turning to drugs to begin with, so that might have contributed to her final decision to let herself be persuaded by my pathetic pleas.

Draco, of course, had never agreed to doing anything like that, not even in my drunken hallucinations, but he knew well enough when to keep his mouth shut for his own benefit. So during all this, he sat unmoving in his chair, listening, his eyes never lifting from his book, an innocent-looking smile curved on his face behind the heavy tome that I knew to interpret for what it really was: amusement.

That was how it all started, but when I thought it would also stop there, I could not have been more mistaken in my beliefs. I had to realise that my altruistic delusions about Draco Malfoy essentially being a child who only hurt people for self-preservation had been fundamentally wrong. But that was not the worst, what could have happened.

I realise now that most of the unfortunate occurrences could have been prevented were I not still nursing the fantasy that I could save him if I only tried hard enough. And, I am wise enough to admit now, if his youth, beauty and otherwise charming personality – he could be charming if it served his purposes – did not blind me from realising that I was lying to myself about his real self. Yes, I also confess that I fancied myself in love with him, or, more accurately, with the more angelic than factual image I had built of his character within my imagination. Actually, after all of those same feelings having been dredged up again just because I had seen his name in the paper, I am not sure I have ever stopped loving him, despite everything that happened.

For the next two weeks, everything seemed to have returned to normal, despite his often unnerving presence in our home. He was very cunning about being in our way; I have to give that to him. He only let us sense his presence – or me, to be more precise – so I wouldn't entirely forget about him. He also gave subtle hints to remind me of my deed, so I would remember the exact reason for him being there – and the constant reminder made me think of that night again and again - even when I was lying in my bed with my lovely wife - and crave that indefinable difference that had made the experience so unique.

It wasn’t only the fact that he was a male that affected me so strongly. I know people still think that Sirius and I had been together like that, but that's not true. Draco was the first (and only) man in my bed, so it was no wonder I was curious to explore all those possibilities – even more because they seemed to be forbidden. Like a magnet, he pulled me into the syrupy depths of an illicit affair.

I had not even noticed this dangerous attraction until, a few nights before the full moon, Nymphadora left for a safer location – we both agreed that we couldn't risk the life of our child while I transformed without the Wolfsbane Potion – and left me alone with him. He was not afraid to make use of the opportunity.

My first surprise came when I woke up in the middle of the night to find him – again – in my bed. I don't think he even bothered with dressing for bed when he was alone in the room that had become his bedroom in our house, at least, he had never asked for nightwear, so I assume he habitually slept in the nude. Knowing that, it really shouldn't have surprised me that he had nothing on, and he quickly brought us to an equal footing before I even had time to wake up properly. My second shock came when he told me that this time, our roles would be reversed. I will not say that I didn't enjoy it, being on the bottom, even though the experience did not come close to the first time with him: being inside him, feeling his warmth and the way he was gripping me tight, eliciting the most brilliant sensations solely with the play of his inner muscles.

Part of the reason the sensation was less enjoyable was that he had no real patience for proper preparation when the one on the receiving end was not him. He took painstaking care in teaching me the distinct phases of stretching the anus to be able to take something of the size of a penis without tissue damage, and I had been an eager pupil who even found pleasure in administering the treatment.

He, on the other hand, was nothing if not perfunctory, almost cold about it, clearly only bothering so he didn't cause any damage, before he turned me flat on my stomach and fucked me thrice over. He never even touched my penis; in fact, he didn't even allow me to get up on all fours so at least I would have some access to myself. My orgasm, when it finally came, was from the insistent prodding on my prostate and the too rough rubbing of the bed linens on the underside of my cock, trapped beneath my body.

I did not know what to make of all that. I felt a like fool for having just accepted the assault without a word of objection, and more of a fool when I asked him, after everything, why he had acted like that.

For a second there, he gave me a blank look, then smirked in that infuriating-frightening-kissable way of his, and said, "Because I wanted to fuck you," as if it had been obvious from the beginning that he did not want anything else from me.

On second thought, it should have been obvious.

"But…" I was so confused by his expression, devoid of any feeling, that I didn't realise I would have been better off if I hadn't even opened my mouth. "It wasn't good for me."

That was the most pathetic thing I've ever said in my life, I think.

He shrugged, still looking at me as if I was a bacterium under a microscope.

"Now you know how it is for me on the street," he answered lightly, with so much cynicism that even a slightly demented idea crossed my mind for a second: that it was not Draco Malfoy in my bed, but Severus Snape or Lucius Malfoy on Polyjuice.

When I woke up in the following morning, I couldn't find him in the house. I thought he would be back for dinner – he had never left out a meal before – but when the time had come and I was about to get out the cold chicken Nymphadora had prepared before leaving, it became apparent that he had not intended to come back, since the larger chunk of the meat was missing, which I assumed he had taken with him.

At first, I thought – hoped? – that he was gone for good, but then another alternative occurred me: it was a full moon night. No wonder he didn't want to stay under the same roof with a werewolf.

Secure in that thought, I ate my sparse dinner and began with the usual preparations for my transformation – not because they were necessary, but because I have found that the menial tasks tended to calm my nerves and occupy my hands until the time came. So I went and showered again, shaved, and set out the comfortable dressing gown, which I preferred to slip into after shedding my clothes so they wouldn't get ripped on top of my bed, things like that.

I noticed with dismay and not a small amount of worry that I only had about three pills of unknown origin and effect in my stash, and nothing else to combine them with. This was unnerving, since I knew that my metabolism would be most likely to burn through that pathetic dose before the first hour was over. Well, there was nothing for it, I thought. I had to make do with what I had. I put an extra strong Locking Charm on the reinforced door of the servants' quarters I was using to spend my time in during full moon.

That was when I heard the front door opening and closing, and I knew with an undisputable clarity that it could only be Draco who had – for some unfathomable reason – returned. I was almost out of my mind, feeling the moonrise nearing with every second tickling by. I was frozen to the spot, listening to his light-footed steps coming closer and closer until he appeared in the doorway to the back hallway with a smile on his face and a small plastic bag in his hand. I could smell just what exactly was in that bag as clearly as I was able to scent at least three different men on his skin under his seemingly immaculate clothes.

"What… why?" I asked, momentarily confused by the almost primal need to get to the contents of that little bag and the questions I was desperate to know the answers to.

"Consider it as a favour," he said in a soft voice, patting my cheek as if I were a child and he my favourite uncle giving me a too expensive birthday present. "It's just a small token in exchange for your generosity. For letting me stay in your home," he added, winking, and then pressed the small plastic bag between my fingers.

When I woke up the next morning, laying in my own vomit in the middle of the cool stone floor of the servants' quarters, and remembered our exchange from the previous night, it made me feel like I had become his pimp. As if I had been the one to send him out to sell himself on the streets, for my benefit. And it did not alleviate this feeling at all when I realised that he would have done the same even if I wasn't there to make a 'favour' for, simply because that was the way he had become used to getting by.

After that, he came into my bedroom almost every night that my wife spent away, and later, even when she was there, sleeping in the neighbouring room. I would like to say that she didn't notice anything funny going on, but then I would be lying. She was an Auror; she always had keen intuition and an eye for the detail, so it was inevitable that she would eventually catch on to what was happening behind her back.

As her pregnancy progressed and her body grew heavier, it became almost a rarity when I would touch her at night. I thought she preferred it that way, being uncomfortable with the changes that she went through, but now I think the real reason for the growing distance between us must have been because she realised my unfaithfulness. I don't know when that happened, nor am I ever going to ask. One of the new rules between us was that we avoid speaking about the topic of Draco Malfoy. But now it seems that I had been walking around with my eyes shut regarding Nymphadora and her feelings, or simply did not want to see her anguish, preferring to keep to my delusions about having both a loving family and a new, exciting and illicit lover whom no one was the wiser about.

I don't know what I found so captivating about my dangerous dalliance. Not the sex, because it not only continued in the same manner as our second time, but it also got rougher, more impersonal on his side – except when he got angry with me for something or another.

It was always me on the bottom. He told me he didn't like to be fucked, so I should not expect him to endure it for me. He only did that if he needed the money – which, if nothing else, made it also glaringly obvious just what our first night had been really about. The only times he allowed me to take him were the nights before full moon, and then, too, only for a specific reason that he didn't even bother to hide – most likely got his kicks out of telling me so I could not possibly misunderstand.

After the first time, still oblivious to his real agenda, I thought that it meant something for him, perhaps that his feelings were changing and he was starting to return my tentative affection.

"Didn't you… like it?" I asked him. I couldn't fathom why, after having just had brilliant sex like that, he could still be in a foul mood.

He looked at me, grimaced, and said with a blank face, "No. I don't like bottoming, period."

To say that I was more than a little confused is perhaps unnecessary.

"Then why…?" I asked, still not understanding.

His face changed for the fragment of a second and he gave me one of those smirks that he managed to make look disgustingly superior and boyishly adorable at the same time.

"Hurts less if I go out after I let you fuck me first," he drawled, and was gone to offer up his body on the street in exchange for those awful drugs I had no willpower to refuse to take from him even before I had enough time to comprehend the implication behind his indifferent explanation.

I still don't know how, after that, I still managed to live almost five months of my life in blissful ignorance to both the issues with Draco and the fact that I was hurting the feelings of my wife. I don't know how long it would have continued either, had she not finally had enough of the cruel pretence and confronted me with my own stupidity and carelessness.

One morning after I came back from the 'bathroom', she locked the door, threw up a Privacy Charm and told me straight out that if I didn't stop my affair with Draco Malfoy, then she would walk out the door and I wouldn't see her ever again.

She told me that she was going to stay with her mother for a few days, and when she came back, either the problem was 'taken care of', or she was going to pack all her belongings and leave me, taking my unborn child away from me.

I watched in silence while she stuffed a few days' worth of clothes into her trunk, went to the front door, walked out and Apparated away without a word - and then I panicked.

I remember running around the many rooms of the old house like a beheaded hen until I found Draco sitting comfortably in the library, with one of those Dark Arts books propped up against his knees. He threw a glance at me, lifted an elegant brow with an amused glint in his eye and made a comment before I could have said anything.

"Trouble in Paradise?"

I think that was the first time that I saw him for what he really was: not a lost child, nor a preternatural creature, but rather a nasty incubus with a heart as black as coal, sponging off on people who were too weak to stand up against him: me.

"Draco," I began, managing to contain my temper due to decades of practice. "You have to go." There. I had said it, finally.

He just continued to look at me unblinkingly, with an unchanged expression, as if I hadn't said anything of worth, then slowly opened his mouth.

"You surely realise that you cannot get rid of me that easily." His expression was frozen, but his tone was light, almost playful, which only made the total effect all the more unnerving. I shook my head.

"You have run out of blackmail material, if you hadn't noticed. Nymphadora already knows about this… thing between us," I said, not really knowing how to call what we had, or rather, did not have. A relationship it certainly was not. Not even an affair. Why had I even been clinging to it? It gave me more worries than the short-lived and not very satisfying release was worth. If I hadn't been a werewolf, I would have started wondering whether Draco had been using a Dark Curse on me, like the Imperius, to make me do those things. Not because I had suddenly changed my mind about liking the sex with him, let there be no mistake about it, sex was about the only thing I liked of the whole mess. And despite its one-sidedness, it could have been enjoyable, if there wasn't all that secrecy and shame wound around that small pleasure like a vice; it was only to be expected that it would suffocate someday.

Draco seemed to have lost the thin hull of tight self-control that he had managed to maintain to that point. He wasn't stupid. He knew what my wife knowing about us meant. It was just that he had no other choice but to grasp the last straw and hold on to it until it broke. If I had been in a clearer state of mind, I would have recognised sooner what this discovery meant for him: to have to go back to the street, to live from one day to the other again. No wonder he wasn't willing to relinquish his newly acquired standards without a fight.

"You still need me to get your drugs," he snarled, pushing himself up from the chair, letting the book carelessly tumble to the floor, face down, some of the pages carefully preserved through the centuries of its existence now lying crumpled under its weight. "Don't forget that I sold myself for you! And I would be still willing to do it if you let me stay…"

His voice became weak and broke at the end, but I was not in the state of mind to judge whether the momentary slip of control had been real or just clever acting.

"Draco, I have no doubts that you heard every word she said. I cannot let you stay." I shook my head, the hurt obvious in his eyes starting to break through the natural shields surrounding my conscience, fortified by my anger. I swallowed and turned away my face, pretending that I did not notice the shine of unshed tears clinging to his lashes. Tears of hurt, tears of anger, how many kinds of tears were there? For all I knew, they could also have been faked; that was what I told myself. And, considering the events that followed, they most likely were.

"Then, at least let me stay the next three days," he said, his voice defeated. I looked at him, contemplating.

It was two days before the full moon, and I knew Nymphadora would not come back before the moon had waned again. That fact, together with the hopeless expression on his face – I had observed by then that his expressions could change like water – made me nod in agreement, and then, without looking at him again, I turned my back and walked out of the library.

I did not see him for the entire following day, nor did he pay me his usual nightly visit in my bedroom. I think I was disappointed deep down that he would choose to ignore me in these last days we would be spending together, but my guilty conscience told me I should be grateful that he had stayed away instead. Though I am sure that his absence had less to do with him honouring my wife's and my wishes and more with feeling offended at having been thrown out. I was up almost the whole night, sleeping fitfully in short intervals and waiting for him to slip through my door, as he was wont to do – all in vain, because he never came.

The next morning, I noticed that the kitchen had been raided again, so I assumed that he intended to spend his day out on the street. The house seemed empty without the little noises he used to make, which my supernatural senses were able to pick up and discern from other sounds. He was not even gone yet and I was already missing him. God, was I pathetic!

I spent the day waiting for him to return. I forced myself not to think of him. I had to make myself ready for the full moon, after all. I even tidied up the servant's quarters designated for me to spend my transformations in. I repaired the furniture and changed the shredded sheets in the vain hope that the wolf would find some other way to amuse himself while locked in a small room with nothing to capture its attention other than destruction.

Draco returned late in the afternoon. I was setting the kitchen table for dinner, while my mind was occupied with trying to mentally sort through my medicine cabinet to come up with the blend of drugs that would help me through the night. I had been very careless, relying too much on Draco to replenish my supplies, so I barely had anything, not even a Headache Potion. Some Valium, a pathetically low amount of cocaine and the three ancient marijuana-laced fags I had found in what must have been one of Sirius' secret stashes while I had been cleaning out the attic were all I had left, and something told me that the combination would not be very fortunate. I was so immersed in my thoughts that I didn't even notice when the door to the kitchen opened.

"Not what I'd have imagined for the last meal…" Draco's voice jolted me out of my musings. I looked up at him, surprised. He was standing in the open door and eyeing the leftover vegetable soup I was about to heat up with distaste, acting just like any other time.

"You don't have to eat," I murmured, suddenly nervous due to the unblinking stare he had directed at me.

"You'd let me go with an empty stomach?" he asked with pretend incredulity and then sat down to the table without another word, expecting me to wait on him.

We ate in silence; both of us seemed to be in a hurry. I, because the time of moonrise was quickly nearing; he, on the other hand, looked like he had missed out on lunch and breakfast both and was trying to make up for the loss now.

I put my plate and spoon into the sink, planning to do the washing-up the next day, because there was no more time for that.

"I have to go. Good night," I said to Draco on my way, wondering whether this would be the last time that I saw him, or if he was going to be still there come morning. I was stopped, though, by a hand gripping my arm.

"Wait up!" Draco said. I heard his spoon clattering on the porcelain as he dropped it in order to grab me; then, his hand still on my arm, he stepped in front of me. "I have something for you," he told me, a devious glint in his eyes and a half-smile gracing his mouth. Then he reached into his pocket and lifted up a little bottle, dangling it in front of my face. "If you want it, that is…"

"What is it?" I asked, my voice hoarse from the sudden craving for the contents of that bottle shooting through my body. Whatever it was, I could smell that it was potent. And it was a combination I had not yet tried.

"It's my special mix," Draco drawled, his tone softening to a hypnotising, honeyed almost-whisper. Not that I needed much convincing in the state I was in. "You'll like it. Come on!"

I let myself be led by him and I only realised that we were not in the servants' room, but in my bedroom when the door clicked closed behind my back.

"Here, drink it." I grabbed the vial and gulped down the thick, bitter, anise-flavoured, alcoholic liquid without a second thought.

My eyes were closed while I felt it course through my body, warming my insides and flooding my blood with endorphins. The effect was intoxicating, as if I had been suddenly catapulted out of my skin and were falling free now, getting farther and farther from my consciousness. I only came to my senses when I saw him pulling out his wand and casting a Locking Charm on the door.

"Draco? What are you doing?" I asked, my voice laced with alarm. What was he doing, locking himself into a room with a werewolf only minutes before the full moon was about to rise? For a second there, the frightening idea crossed my mind that he would rather commit suicide than be forced to leave, but that suspicion was quickly alleviated by two things: one, he was the stereotypical Slytherin; survival was his first priority. The second thing was the new dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Don't worry, I said you'll like it," he drawled again. "Now strip!" The command fell from his lips as if it was the most natural thing to expect me to obey him.

And in a way, it was. I don't deny that part of the appeal in being with him was the enjoyment derived from the strange, reversed dynamics between us. I had gone wrong somewhere when, during our dalliances, I relinquished control over myself and put it entirely into his hands. I told myself that I was just giving him the affection he was craving, but actually, with that kind of compliance, I was spoiling him worse than he ever had been spoiled before.

Now he was expecting the same like any other time, when the moonrise wasn’t about to turn me into a bloodthirsty monster. But even if my common sense objected strongly to the action, out of habit, I followed his command almost instantly, with a strange mix of fear and excitement coursing through my veins.

"What did you give me?" I managed to get out the question while I was struggling with my shirt buttons. I felt light-headed as the drugs started to kick in.

He didn't answer, only with an enigmatic smile that caused a cold shiver to run down my back, while at the same time, a feeling of anticipation began to build in my guts.

"Lie on the bed, face down. Now spread your legs and arms. Grab the bedposts," he rattled off the list of commands in rapid succession, and I found myself obeying without a twinge of self-awareness. He murmured a spell – some kind of binding charm that fastened my limbs to the bedposts, but it was not a version I was familiar with: instead of ropes, he conjured steel wires as thick as my finger. I knew that not even the strength of a werewolf would be able to snap or even loosen those.

I shuddered in fear. Not because I was afraid of what Draco would do to me. The whole being tied-up by him thing was not exactly new to me, as he had requested it a few times in the past. Or, when he had been in that kind of mood, he had just tied me up without asking for my consent. I let him do it, yielded to his wishes, as there was no way he would have been able to force me otherwise – neither with spells nor physically.

I would be lying if I said I hadn't found any fulfilment in being tied up those times. There was something dark and exciting in the act of being left at the mercy of someone – especially if that someone was Draco Malfoy. There was a sharp, intriguing contrast between the darkness inherent in his family that he had, naturally, inherited and his youthful appearance that rendered one confused as to whether he was a wolf in a sheep's hide or a sheep in a wolf's hide. That combined with his explosive nature and sharp wit that was always ready to come up with new methods of torture, and Draco was not someone one would have trusted not to hurt them, or not to let them suffer if that suffering served his pleasure.

That was the true appeal to this particular game: something to make it smell and taste real, not just an act. Of course, I, being a werewolf and having the benefit of a body that was capable of healing fast and that possessed superhuman strength, was less likely to suffer lasting damage from the practice, but that knowledge only served to make Draco show less restraint in how far he was willing to go with me. It didn't matter. I had had more than enough opportunities in my past to develop a high tolerance for pain, after all.

But now it was different. The full moon was coming, and I was bound to a bed with bindings that wouldn't give, once the transformation had begun. My wolf form was considerably smaller than my human body, which meant that, after the transformation broke them, my bones wouldn't be able to re-set into the wolf's shape. If he didn’t untie me by then, I would spend the night suspended, with broken limbs, and, inevitably, in a lot of pain.

I wasn't afraid of dying. I knew my body had a fair chance of healing itself from the damage once the moon was down again. It was the pain I was afraid of.

A human is able to overcome pain, or at least comprehend the reason why it is happening to him and know that it is going to end; he only has to wait. A wolf's mind isn't that intricate. When I am in my lupine form, I am practically an animal. An animal that becomes a raging murderer as a result of extensive pain – I knew, because I had had the 'pleasure' of experiencing it during my time in Greyback's pack. Then, it had been only the Wolfsbane Potion hastily smuggled into my water bowl before my change that had let me keep enough of my human mind to survive that night without having gone mad. Now, though, I knew there would be not even a spark of humanity remaining to prevent that. Was that Draco's plan? Did he want to get revenge on me for not letting him stay any longer?

On the other hand, while my brain filled with terror, a small part of my consciousness was almost happy about it and was eagerly anticipating whatever may come – as long as Draco was still there. He had not lied when he had told me that I would like what was about to come. Only later did I realise that it had been the drug (or was it a potion?) he had fed me that would make me like it, make me love every minute of it.

I felt cornered. The change was near, and I could feel it; it sang in my blood and enhanced my senses. I was so immersed in my dread about being powerless against this situation warring with the fervent anticipation and the desire growing in its wake, that I hadn't noticed when Draco began to speak again. His words were fading into the white noise filling my mind. I only came back to the real world when I felt a hand stroking down the length of my body.

"Draco," was my desperate last attempt at talking some sense into him, "the moon is going to be up any second now… Please, untie me and then get out of this room quickly! I don't know what could happen otherwise…"

His only answer to my plea was snickering – not one of the most pleasant noises I had ever heard coming from his mouth.

"Ah, but it seems, my dear Professor Lupin," he drawled into my ear in a mocking tone, emphasizing my old title, "that someone did not do his homework. I believe this someone deserves a detention for that transgression."

"Draco, please…" I started again, but he cut me short when he unexpectedly grabbed the back of my head and pushed it into my pillow roughly. My nose was pressed into the too soft fabric and my breath was cut off by the bed linen. He held down my head for what felt an eternity, and even though I tried to struggle, for some reason or another, my inhuman strength didn't prove enough to shake off his grip - I suspect because my subconscious did not want to shake it off, as an effect of the drugs.

"No, you listen to me," he spat, while I was slowly being suffocated by my own bedding. "I told you not to worry, but you must remain stubborn, and argue with me. If you'd have let me, I'd have already told you that the moon is already up."

I lifted my head in shock, as he let me go, to try to discern from his expression whether he was joking or not.

"I… I can't feel it…" I croaked, as I accidentally breathed in the saliva that had filled my mouth while I hadn't been able to swallow. "Is it the drug?" I asked, suddenly filled with hope that he had found the alternative solution, whose existence I hadn't even really believed in.

"No, it's not." He disabused me from my delusions with a sarcastic chuckle. "Sorry." But he did not sound sorry at all. He began lecturing me in a patronizing tone, and I couldn't decide whether it was deliberately exaggerated or just a failed imitation of an authority person he had once looked up to, like his father.

"If you'd only looked at the lunar calendar a bit closer, you'd know that tonight is a lunar eclipse. It started before moon rise and will last exactly one and a half hour, which will leave me enough time… if you'd just stop complaining. The potion should have kicked in already. I should have thought that your half-breed blood would fight it," he spat, annoyed.

"Ah, no matter. You are already at my mercy," he said, his voice having suddenly turned into cooing, which filled me with a curious heat, as if I was a dog that had just received praise from his master. I couldn't hold back the shivering, but at this point, I did not know whether it was due to being alarmed or pleased anymore. And I found that I'd started not to care either.

The mattress dipped and Draco stretched out next to me, the heat of his naked skin seeping into mine as he curled around my torso, as if he wanted to cuddle…

The illusion was promptly broken by the sharp pain caused by slightly jagged nails grown long biting into the skin of my back. I could feel heat accumulating in its wake, but I wasn't able to tell whether it was only the after-effect of the hurt or if he had broken the skin and drawn blood. My senses focussed solely on the instant pleasure that the pain invoked. As I am usually not keen on pain, I assume that the unaccustomed reaction was also an effect of his drugs.

"Yes, I am going to hurt you," Draco whispered into my ear again, as if answering my unvoiced question, "and you are going to like it. Isn't that fabulous?" Then he kneeled up and straddled my waist.

I knew he meant what he said, but even though my more basic instincts – the wolf that was steadily rising closer and closer to the surface – told me that I should try to flee, the drug-induced haze of happiness was telling me that this was exactly the right place for me to be, that the shackles on my wrists and ankles were good, and the pain that would come was going to be the most delicious experience of my life. My erect penis was insistently pressing into my abdomen. I think I was more turned on than ever before in my life.

"Draco…" I heard my voice moaning his name with urgency. I was begging for more, my initial intention to plead with him to put an end to this growing insanity long forgotten.

He leaned forward, pressing my shoulders into the pillows by shifting his weight to his arms. My face was, again, pushed into the bedding and I couldn’t breathe properly, but the starting panic only served to fuel the already burning arousal in me. I was almost on the verge of having an orgasm just from being strangled by him; and the shame over that reaction – biting into my flesh almost just as realistically as his nails had been just a few seconds ago – only served to kindle that fire.

"You like this?" he asked, but he was not really talking to me. His fingers ran gently down the line he had carved into my back earlier, like a mocking of real tenderness. Then, when the tickling sensation had just enough time to register, his hand abruptly changed direction and his nails ripped into my back again.

The sharp pain immediately invoked the same heady pleasure as before, so strongly that I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other started.

Perhaps there was no distinction between the two at all. The volcanic heat shot right into my loin, and from there it spread through my muscles like electric shockwaves, making my body convulse with ecstasy, and the sheets under me became wet with my release.

I think I had blacked out, because my next awareness of reality was when he grabbed the hair on the back of my head and pulled me up by it, so I could breathe again. The pain in my scalp was accentuated by the sudden sweetness of the air I had been deprived of. The sensation of suffocating had not only made me light-headed but, thanks to the drug, it had also prolonged the duration of my orgasm, since my muscles were still trembling and my senses were sharp with the increased sensitivity of the nerve endings. This time, I was sure that his nails had broken skin, because I could feel blood trickling down my sides. It was a curious, tickling feeling, its mildness standing in strong relief compared to the razor-sharp intensity of the hurt and the pleasure he had caused me.

"It's so much fun, having you at my mercy," he whispered into my ear. My back was still bent in a bow, my spine protesting against the unnatural angle it was forced into and my shoulders aching from the strain. How had he acquired this much strength? His lithe body didn’t seem to be capable of lifting my weight on its own accord. "But now, I think, it is my turn." His voice ringed in my ear as he dropped my limp body onto the pillows again.

I thought I knew what was coming: he would prepare me, perfunctorily, only so that he would be able to ease himself into my body without the uncomfortable tightness and dryness causing him pain. He liked to tear me up, since I healed quickly, but he didn’t think blood alone was a suitable lubricant.

The coldness of the apothecary gel on my skin was a sensation so far removed from my consciousness that the sudden invasion of two fingers stabbed roughly into my anus caused me to jerk with a new kind of pain – and the pleasure my drug-deceived mind derived from it. It pulled me back from the far-away, bleak place in my mind, where my previous orgasm had whisked me away to. Draco's slender, aristocratic digits opened up my sphincter mechanically, with a couple of economic movements, as if it were sacrilege to use them for such menial work, before he decided that I was ready and rose up from his straddling position.

He grabbed my hair again and yanked my head to the side, so my airway wouldn’t be blocked any longer, my limp muscles obeying the nonverbal command without resistance.

"You're good at this," he told me, while he guided his penis to my entrance and then penetrated me with a single thrust...

"It's really a shame that you feel the need to play house with your little half-blood wife and the useless half-breed she is going to pop out of her womb. I wonder, what she would say if she saw you like this?" he whispered into my ear – a new, humiliating sentence with each forceful push of his pelvis...

"Would she be disgusted...?"

The mattress' rusty springs were crying with the hard rhythm of his movements.

"Or aroused…?"

A grunt and a sniff.

"Would she want to do this to you as well…?"

His voice darkened.

"Or would she leave you for good…?"

"Draco!" I moaned with little self-control, initially to ask him to stop speaking about my family like that, but it turned into a noise of helpless pleasure. The pain – and even more, the humiliation – triggered another bout of arousal, and soon, I was hard again. Draco's violent thrusting sent my renewed erection rubbing against the coarse sheets, which were already wet and slippery with my previous release, and felt like the ultimate bliss on the over-stimulated underside of my glans.

"Look there." He grabbed my hair again. My follicles barely tingled from the rough handling, as they had already been desensitised by the previous abuse. He bent my neck at an impossible angle again, and stopped thrusting with his pelvis. He rubbed his cheek to mine as a pretence of gentleness, then pointed with his finger to a dark corner that was strangely alive with shadows.

"Can you see them there?" he asked; his voice, rough from exertion, sounded like a call from far away. "Your wife standing there, looking at you, holding her baby in her arms… What can you see on her face?"

And just like that, I suddenly saw what he meant. Nymphadora's figure stood there, unmoving, rocking my little son, who was also looking at me with huge baby-eyes. Her face was hard like stone, but her eyes shone with a glint of horror. I couldn’t tell whether her expression was that of pity or just simple disgust: seeing me lying, pliable, and letting my body be used and abused by someone whom she despised, even getting off on the pain and embarrassment…

And my son, he was just born, just a child, looking at me through shining blue eyes which reflected sadness and knowing, as if they belonged to an old man, not a newborn. I wanted to scream against the injustice and inhumanity of the whole situation. What was Nymphadora thinking? Allowing him to watch? What was Draco thinking? Why was he this cruel: to deliberately taint the innocence of a newborn child who did not even comprehend what he was seeing…?

I snapped out of my inner horror at the shock of hearing quiet laughter, trickling like the splashing of a pure mountain rivulet, coming from right next to my ear. It was coming from Draco's throat: this deceivingly innocent noise, which yanked me back to reality while supplying me with the illusion of imagining him as just another child whose innocence had become irrevocably tainted. It made me wonder whether my contribution to this taint was significant or just another drop in the ocean…

"You can actually see them, can't you?" Draco snickered into my ear. "Well, I guess, this concentration of opium would do that to you, especially if it's mixed with wormwood…"

That was when I realised that Nymphadora had only been an illusion, created by Draco's words and the drugs coursing through my veins. And our son… wasn’t even born yet. The resulting relief flushed my already precarious emotional state down the drain, and I burst out in tears of gratitude. For Draco, of course, it was no more than another source of amusement – a short lived one, as well - because he soon resumed his unrelenting pace, taking my body and – what felt like – my soul as well.

His grunts in my ears grew increasingly loud as his tempo quickened and his thrusts became even more forceful. It felt like he was opening up my insides, exposing my most inner core to the harshness of the outside world, while my tears kept falling, soaking my pillow. I did not try to stop them, just as I'd had no chance of preventing Draco from doing what he wanted to do to me to begin with, ever since I had taken that cursed bottle from his hand… or, more like ever since I had taken his hand in that alley and had become enchanted by the secrets shimmering in the depths of his stormy irises.

Finally, his tempo increased to a trembling staccato and then his body went rigid with his release; his seed flooding me felt like burning magma coating the torn membrane of my inner walls; and, apparently, it didn’t matter to the drug that I had just come minutes before, because the pain triggered another, shorter orgasm in me, almost dry but none the less intense.

My mind was blurred from the shock of so many intense sensations forced on my nerves in such a short time. I barely noticed as he disentangled himself from me and hastily cleaned himself.

He stepped in front of me; the nakedness of his body only served to emphasize his proud, aristocratic stance. He seemed to be hesitating, as if he didn't know whether I was worth the trouble of saying farewell to properly. Or perhaps he was just trying to assess whether I was in the condition to understand his words, I don't know.

"I'm not going to stay in this country," he told me finally, his voice rough but his face rigid, like stone. I told myself I was only imagining the wet glistening in his eyes. He certainly wouldn't be crying over having to leave me. "I have already bought my ticket to the next ship sailing to the continent. Wish me luck with my new life. I'm going to do the same for you. It was fun, you know…"

Then he crouched down and, licking his lips first, he pressed his mouth to mine in a lingering, chaste kiss that tasted like the end of everything that had ever connected us.

"Have a nice life," were his final words on his way out of the bedroom. His tone was strangely soft and contemplative.

I listened to the noises he made: the soft steps leading towards his room; the shuffling of hastily packing his meagre belongings; and then the racket of him running down the staircase. I heard the front door opening and closing. That was the last indication of Draco Malfoy ever having been a part of my life…

And then, only silence.

My musings were interrupted a few heartbeats later by the sharp realisation that the eclipse was going to end soon, and he had left me bound to my bedposts with iron wires…

I don't have any further memories about that night, nor the following two days, until Nymphadora found me, lying exhausted and still in the same position – the bindings hadn’t loosened a bit.

I was profoundly glad for the coppery blood that had, by then, saturated the sheets and hid most of the traces of my earlier activities with Draco. Not that she couldn’t guess.

She only stayed long enough to untie me with a spell, too disgusted to even touch me with her hands, then she packed her trunk and went back to her mother. I didn’t see her again until almost a year and a half later, on our son's first birthday.

She forgave me, eventually, but she was not willing to listen to my explanations and excuses. Her conditions for coming back to me were: no more drugs and no more male prostitutes. The first one was hard to meet, but by then, I, too saw the necessity of putting a stop to that insane and wholly ineffectual habit before it pushed me further into the addiction.

The latter I knew would never be an issue to begin with. Draco had been unique in that way. There could be no one else like him.

Fin